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stuffed
     with paprika and oregano.
    “Ivy!” my sister Rosie shouts. She jumps in front of the TV screen, distracting me
     from Enrique’s stuffing technique. Rosie is eight years old and in love with SpongeBob.
     “What are you doing?”
    I’m elbow deep in ground pork shoulder and shredded onion. “What does it look like
     I’m doing?”
    She peeks at the TV screen, where Enrique, also dubbed the Spicy Italian Chef (even
     though he’s from Argentina), is dressed in a bib apron and a pair of heart-patterned
     boxer shorts (his usual TV attire). Though I’m fairly certain his tanned, rippling
     muscles are part of the ensemble as well. Enrique’s explaining the merits of a chunkier
     sausage over a lengthier one (something about moisture retention), but I’m pretty
     sure the vast majority of female viewers—not to mention his growing number of male
     admirers—could care less.
    “He’s hot,” Rosie says. “But shouldn’t you be using a fork to mix that stuff?” She
     points her glue-encrusted fingers into my bowl, coming way too close for my culinary
     comfort.
    “Get out.” I swat at her. “Have you been eating glue again?” There are suspicious-looking
     globules stuck in the corners of her mouth.
    “I want a snack,” she says, avoiding my question. “And I also want you to read my
     tea leaves.” She takes a jar of dried mint from the spice rack and smacks it down
     on the counter.
    “I’m saving that for Willow’s stomach.”
    “Willow can spend the night doubled over in pain for all I care. She refuses to let
     me borrow her blush.” Rosie’s big brown eyes bulge out in annoyance—a teenager stuck
     in an eight-year-old’s body, Elmer’s glue included.
    “You’re too young for makeup. Go find something productive to do.” I flash her my
     porkified palms in an effort to repulse her, but the porkiness doesn’t seem to bother
     her one bit.
    Rosie starts singing extra loud— “tra la la” —and flailing her arms, trying to block the TV screen. Meanwhile, Willow, my twelve-year-old
     sister, comes rushing into the kitchen, saying there’s something in the living room
     that I just have to see.
    “I’m busy,” I tell her.
    “Well, get un busy,” Willow says. “Because Rain and Storm are at it again.”
    Rain and Storm are my ten-year-old twin brothers, and the reason that people take
     birth control. I can hear Rain’s menacing giggle from the living room. Meanwhile,
     it seems I’ve missed at least three of Enrique’s steps. He’s pouring a cup of red
     wine vinegar into a separate bowl, but I have absolutely no idea why.
    “Come on!” Willow shouts. “They’re going to mess up the drapes.”
    I grab a rag to wipe my hands, moving from behind the island. In doing so, I accidentally
     bump my bowl. It drops to the floor. Ground pork shoulder falls against the tile with
     a slimy thud.
    “Ewww,” Rosie squeals, nibbling glue residue from her fingers. “I’m not eating that.”
    I hurry into the living room, where Storm and Rain stand with their backs toward me,
     facing the bay window. “Prepare!” Storm orders.
    I hear an all-too-familiar zipping sound.
    “Aim!” Storm calls out.
    “Fire!” they both shout.
    It takes me a second to realize what they’re doing. Pee shoots out, hitting the two
     potted plants in the window, splashing against the soil, and spraying all over the
     window screens.
    “Go to your room!” I yell.
    “Well, you did tell us to water the plants…” Storm argues, still giggling.
    “Now!” My tone must scare them, because they do as they’re told.
    “Enrique’s all done,” Rosie says, from the kitchen. I can already hear the theme song
     to SpongeBob . “ Now can you get me a snack and read my tea leaves?”
    Most other eighteen-year-olds would probably hate my life. But I honestly don’t know
     what I’d do if it weren’t for the distraction of this household. I was placed with
     this family by protective services