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    Ben shrugged again. “He can try. I’m eighteen anyway, Beck. He can’t do shit but have me arrested.” He glanced at me, gesturing to me with the pipe; I shook my head, like I always did, and he took another long drag. “Why do you call him that?” he asked around his lungful of smoke.
    “Call who what?” I felt loose, and realized I was getting a slight contact high from the fumes.
    He blew out the smoke before answering. “Dad. You still call him ‘Father’ like we’re in the fucking eighteenth century or some shit.”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do.”
    Ben glanced at me in irritation, brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes with the end of the clear yellow plastic lighter. “I call bullshit on that. You’re a certifiable genius, Beck. You’ve got a reason for everything you do.”
    I sighed. “Fine. You want to know? I call him Father because it creates distance. He’s not Dad to me, much less Daddy or anything else. He’s my father, so that’s what I call him. It’s a formal word, and it connotes a formal relationship.”
    Ben laughed. “‘It connotes a formal relationship,’” he repeated, half-mocking. “Only you, Becca. Only you would say something like that. I just don’t get why you still put up with his crap. I stopped a long time ago.”
    “But you don’t care. I do. That’s the difference.”
    He glanced at me. “Meaning what? What don’t I care about?”
    “Yourself. The future. I have plans, and need Father’s money to get there. I can’t afford the universities I need if I’m going to get my doctorate.”
    “That’s shallow and short-sighted,” Ben said. “You could get scholarships. Take out loans. You don’t need his bullshit. He’s a fucking tyrant, a dictator. I hate his ass. Soon as I get a job and save enough for an apartment, I’m moving my ass out.”
    “It is not shallow or short-sighted,” I argued. “Do you have any clue how much it’s gonna cost to get my bachelors, masters, and doctorate? Depending on the university, hundreds of thousands of dollars. I’ll still have to take out loans, but with Father’s help, it’ll be manageable.”
    Ben just stared at me. “Listen to you. You skipped your childhood, I think. What sixteen-year-old is thinking about this stuff? Just be a kid, man. Sneak out. Make out with a guy behind the bleachers or some shit. Get into trouble and make me beat some dude’s ass for you. Quit being so goddamn serious all the time.” He took a long drag on his pipe and then leaned over and blew it straight into my face before I could roll away. “Smoke some pot and loosen up. We’re young. We’ve got time. Just chill and don’t be so serious.”
    I coughed and waved the smoke away. “Goddamn it, Ben. Don’t be an asshole. Now I’m going to get high. I tried it with you once, remember? I hated it.”
    Ben nodded, staring at the ceiling. “Oh, yeah. I remember now. You freaked the fuck out, thought Amma was going to come back from the dead and yell at us, even though Amma was alive and living in Beirut at the time.”
    I laughed. “You said yourself you thought it was laced with something.”
    He nodded again without looking at me, tamping down the ashes in the bowl with his thumb. “Yeah, dude, I remember. That shit was potent. You were so wasted I had to carry you up to your bed.”
    “I really hated that, Ben.” I snatched the pipe and lighter from him and shoved them in his cargo pocket. “I hate it now. I hate what it does to you. It messes with your moods, and you know it. The doctor said—”
    Ben stood up, suddenly angry. “I don’t give a fuck what the doctor said!” he yelled. “I hate all those stupid meds they want me to take. They make me feel like a freaking zombie, like I’m half-dead. I’m tired all the time, and I lose a ton of weight ’cause I can’t fucking eat. I hate it. You don’t know what it’s like. This stuff helps me more. Keeps me level, you know? When I get