We also have cup-cakes for breakfast the next morning, because Mom and Dad are too busy fighting with Paris to stop us. “This is a great idea,” I say, selecting my fourth cupcake from the box—this one vanilla with lavender icing. “I agree,” Sofia says, although she’s only on her second. We are still in our pajamas; hers are cute and matching, blue with little suns all over them, while mine are a pair of flannel pants and a tank top. My bare feet swing against the bars of the tall stools around the kitchen island, where we are hiding from the hollering in the living room. “WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?” my dad shouts in the background. “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW THIS GUY!” “I know I love him!” Paris screams back. “Well, I hope you’re not expecting us to pay for this baloney!” Dad yells. “I’m not ASKING YOU TO!” Paris hollers. “We don’t need MONEY because we have LOVE!” “Does it have to be this summer?” Mom pleads. “You know your father and I have been planning a research trip to Costa Rica in July.”
