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break up with her. After April’s mom died, though, the Cabots softened their stance. They didn’t accompany Charlie to the funeral, since they’d never met Kat or even April, but they did invite April to spend Thanksgiving with them just a few weeks later.
    April remembered how intimidated she’d been, not just by the Cabots’ towering Tudor-style home, but also by Judy Cabot’s forced smile and sharp gaze, which seemed to absorb and assess everything upon which it fell. Though Judy was coolly polite that day and Trip bordered on friendly, April sensed that if it weren’t for her dead mother, she wouldn’t have been invited.
    Once during the evening, when April was returning from a visit to the marble-tiled powder room, she overheard Judy say, “Charlie, you only need to set three wineglasses at the table. April is barely old enough to drive, let alone to drink.”
    “I don’t get why April’s age is such a big deal to you, Mom,” Charlie had said. “Dad is seven years older than you.”
    “That’s different. I didn’t have four or more years of medical school ahead of me when we started dating. And anyway, I was twenty-one when we met. April is seventeen.”
    I’ll be eighteen next week, April had wanted to say, but she didn’t want them to know she’d heard.
    As the weeks went by and the accident inched further into the past, the Cabots became less subtle about their objections to Charlie and April’s relationship—or Judy did, anyway, taking every opportunity she could to express her displeasure. Trip didn’t say much, not even when Charlie broke the news of the pregnancy and engagement to his parents that March. Judy had started crying at the dining room table, tears dripping down her tastefully made-up face and onto the grilled salmon on her plate.
    Mrs. Barrett, too, looked disappointed now as she shifted in her chair and asked April, “So other than the few hours a week when you’re in class and the time you spend studying, what else have you been doing? Do you have a job?”
    April looked at the hardwood floor. “No,” she muttered. She’d been living off the small stores of cash her mom had hidden around the house during her bouts of paranoid mania—behind the microwave, in the cookie jar, under the loose tile in the bathroom. April saved money by spending most of her time at home, watching reality TV and feeling sorry for herself. In fact, she’d been so lethargic and listless that she wondered if she was starting to show symptoms of her mom’s mental illness. Her mother had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder when she was in college, and the disease had a strong genetic component—a heritability rate of 71 percent, according to an article April had read. As she approached her twenties, she lived with the fear that she could develop it any day now.
    “Well, you’ll need to get a job, or an internship or something, ” said Mrs. Barrett. “It’s only May. We can’t have you just moping around until you start college in the fall. Speaking of which, when is this baby due?”
    “Labor Day. Ironic, isn’t it?” April let out a halfhearted laugh. “Can I delay starting college until the spring semester?”
    “I’m afraid not,” said Mrs. Barrett. “If you decide not to enroll in the fall, the committee will have to offer the scholarship to someone else.”
    “I guess I’ll need to find someone to watch the baby when I’m in class.” April figured Mrs. Barrett was probably right about getting a job or an internship. She needed something to get her out of this house and, if possible, keep her from going crazy.
    “Have you thought about what sort of summer job might interest you?” Mrs. Barrett asked.
    April played with a strand of hair. “Who’s going to hire a pregnant teenager?”
    “I’ll make some calls.” Mrs. Barrett got up and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’ve got a lot of connections in this city.”

Chapter 3
    INVENTORY ITEM : sari
    APPROXIMATE