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flat face to blink at me with round yellow eyes. Then she saw Willow. The cat let out a loud hiss and leaped from Hannah’s arms, landing on the floor with her tail straight up and all of her fur standing on end.
    â€œWillow,” I said warningly.
    But it was too late. With an outraged yowl, Madonna turned and fled toward the kitchen. And Willow couldn’t help herself. She is a greyhound, after all. They’re genetically programmed to chase after small animals. Well, hunt small animals, actually, although I know that deep down in her heart, Willow is really nonviolent. Just maybe not when it comes to cats. Willow streaked off after Madonna in a blur of brindle. They skidded down the hall, around the corner, and out of sight.
    â€œMadonna!” Hannah cried.
    â€œWillow!” I yelled, and darted after my dog.
    There was a loud crash in the kitchen, another hiss, and then the sound of glass breaking. I rounded the corner and sprinted into the gourmet kitchen, with Hannah and Peyton right on my heels. When I saw what awaited us there, I came to an abrupt stop, staring at the scene before me.
    Madonna was sitting on the granite kitchen counter, looking pleased with herself as she twitched her fluffy white tail in the air. Willow was cowering on the slate-tiled floor, her face covered with strawberry jam, and surrounded by shards of glass that had clearly once been a jam jar. And there was jam everywhere—splattered on the cupboards, puddled on the counter, and a blob of jam was slowly oozing its way down the door of the stainless-steel refrigerator.
    â€œMadonna, are you okay?” Hannah exclaimed. She grabbed the cat, pulling Madonna to her chest. “Did that big, mean, awful dog hurt you?”
    I rolled my eyes at this. If anyone was hurt, it was obviously Willow, who was looking a little dazed. I wondered if the jam jar had fallen on her head. Willow extended a long pink tongue and licked at the jam dripping off her nose.
    â€œLook at this mess!” Peyton shrieked when she saw the splatters of strawberry jam on the cupboards and floor and refrigerator door. She spun around and, with her hands planted on her bony hips, glared at me. “Look what your filthy dog has done!”
    â€œWillow didn’t break the jar,” I protested. I wet a paper towel and used it to wipe Willow’s sticky face. She quivered with fear, glancing nervously up at Madonna. “The cat probably knocked it over when she jumped up on the counter.”
    â€œMadonna’s never broken anything before,” Hannah said, still cuddling Madonna. The cat was looking smugly pleased with herself.
    â€œFrom now on, the dog stays outside,” Peyton ruled.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œNo buts. Outside,” Peyton said. Her eyes glittered dangerously. “Hannah, once that beast is in the yard, please show Miranda up to the guest room.”
    Not my room, the guest room.
    â€œMiranda!” My dad walked into the kitchen, a huge smile on his face. He was already dressed for work. My dad was tall, with thinning dark hair and the same too-big nose I’d inherited from him. He’d lost weight since he’d married Peyton, and he’d traded in his Dockers and golf shirts for designer suits and silk ties. These changes made him feel even more like a stranger, and less like the dad I’d known growing up.
    â€œHi, Dad,” I said.
    â€œCome here and give me a hug,” Dad said, folding me into his arms and squeezing me tight. I stood there stiffly, not fighting him, but also not giving in. Just because I had to live there didn’t mean I’d forgotten that he’d practically ignored me for the past three years.
    â€œLet me look at you,” Dad said, holding me back, while he looked me up and down, just as Peyton had back in the hallway. But, unlike Peyton, my dad beamed at me. “Don’t you look pretty! And you’re getting so