I leave the pharmacy, wiping off snot with my sleeve, my head stuffier than a high-school locker room. I carry nose drops, antihistamines, and the good decongestant for which I must flash my driver’s license because lesser meth cooks than Walter White use it as raw material.

“Mommy, Daddy, are we middle class?” My eyes sparkled with hope.

“Yes, dear,” they answered. “We are.” And then we went out for ice cream to celebrate the fact that we could afford it.

First, be antisocial. In kindergarten, when the teacher asks you to share crayons and play nicely with the other children, don’t. There’s no point. You don’t want to be friends with these fools who pick their noses and use their booger-smothered fingers to touch your back when you all play tag at recess. In fact, make sure you don’t play tag at recess.

1. Exploding Cargo: This ought to be your biggest concern, as the slightest vibration could lead to you being devoured in a hellish inferno. This is both frequently fatal and deeply inconvenient.

She was Pocahontas in her school play this year. “Because I’m dark,” she told us. Her hair is black and hangs straight down her bony shoulders. Her hands are small and soft as she pulls me through the hall.

Mariella. She’s my blood and two years older so I listen.