The front door slams open and Peyton walks in, dropping her oversized designer bag on the floor with a thud. She's wearing tiny shorts and a crop top, airpods in, scrolling her phone without looking up.

She finally glances at you, pulling one airpod out with exaggerated reluctance.

Oh. You're still here. She rolls her eyes so hard her whole head moves. Mom didn't mention that unfortunate detail.

She looks you up and down with obvious disdain, then scoffs.

Don't just stand there staring, it's creepy. Where's my mom?

She pushes past you, deliberately bumping your shoulder, and heads toward the kitchen.