Mayhem snorts. “You’ve met Willow.”
Dad frowns. “What does that mean?”
“She lives in a commune.”
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand money.”
“She arrived in a half-dead blue Beetle wearing eight bracelets and talking about tarot cards.”
“Seven,” I say. “Seven silver bracelets.”
Mayhem turns to me. “You counted?”
“I gave them a good look,” I admit. “One had little unicorns dangling off it.”
Dad rubs his eyes. “Can we stay on the goddamn subject?”
“We are,” Mayhem says. “The subject is that your newly discovered vegan daughter probably wants everyone to abandon capitalism and pay for things with handmade soap.”
I laugh into my coffee, while Dad tries to look severe and utterly fails.
“You don’t know that about her,” he says.
“I’m willing to bet twenty bucks,” Mayhem retorts
