to the kids? That’s pretty much exactly what Mrs. Peck—this string-bean-thin college counselor who comes all the way from Orlando to get highlights done at Mom’s salon—sounds like to me. We’re at the dining room table (under the family portrait with Dad and his hands), and she’s yammering on and on. I can tell that she’s using words, some of which even seem vaguely familiar—“good,” “school,” “life,” and “plan”—but they don’t go together in any way that makes sense to me. It’s all just muffled trombone. “Waa wa wa wa wa, SATs in September,” she’s saying. “Waa wa wa wa, last chance.” Next to me on the table in his plastic crabitat, Pickles is lounging on the dollhouse couch. He pops out of his shell and gives Mrs. Peck a sideways glance (to be fair, his eyestalks kind of make all his glances seem sideways), and I’m convinced he’s sizing up this big gap between her front teeth, wondering if he could slip right through. “Waa wa wa probably state schools at this point, at least for now.”
