Max: I can handle myself.
Max: Don’t you trust me?
Max: I don’t like the taste of alcohol.
Max: I am wise for my age.
Max: I haven’t screwed up in this arena. Not once.
Max: Can she talk?
Scott: She’s in a state.
Max: So can I go?
Scott: Let’s go over the ground rules one more time. And I’m driving you and picking you up exactly at your curfew. One mess up and you are done. Done, ya hear?
Max: Yup. Fine. Understood.
(Max and Scott walk out of the master bedroom where we’ve been holding the conference called, “Going To a Party.” I remain in the room, folding laundry.)
Max: I’m wondering whether she’ll ever be able to form words again.
Scott: Don’t be fresh. You’re the first kid. She has to get used to the idea.
Max: Three more kids to go.
Scott: Jesus. My life.