During the instrumental break, I ask, "Which house is hers?"

Thatcher turns the radio down and, pulling over, points to a house two doors down. "The one with the neat bushes outside."

Patti's front yard is huge, just like her house, which looks nearly identical to the one from Home Alone: Ginormous and made of brick, with black shutters and white window frames. The yard is framed with a low line of green hedge bushes, the only colorful bits of nature I've seen since the end of fall. Thatcher parks the car outside of her house, apparently behind Moth, because he gets out of the Jeep Wrangler in front of us once Thatcher puts his jalopy in park.

It's exactly 4:53 pm when I text my mom that I've made it safely, and put my phone back in my pocket.

"What up thespians?" Moth asks.

"Hey Moth," Thatcher replies.

"Is that your car?" I ask him.

"My sister and I share it, but yeah. It's nice, right?"

I nod. "Yeah, super nice."

I wouldn't mind driving in that car. It makes Thatcher's look like a literal death trap.

We walk up the pathway, all of us early for our dinner and rehearsal with the Weiners, until we reach the door. Moth is the one who rings the doorbell, and not even five seconds later, Patti opens the door with the biggest smile ever.

"Welcome to my house, everyone," she says. A strong smell of cooked meat leaks out of her house, even more welcoming than Patti's open arms. I feel a little nauseated by the smell. Gosh, I hope there are some vegetables for me to eat. I'm pretty hungry.

Patti's wearing her usual tights and dress ensemble, though it's definitely a different outfit than the one she wore to school earlier. Even her hair is different. All her curls and frizz have been tucked neatly into a bun and pressed back with a rhinestone-encrusted headband. Who knows? Maybe this is how rich people dress for dinner.

"You must be Patricia's friends," a woman whose hair is just as curly and frizzy and wild as her daughter's says.

"Yeah, Mrs. Weiner," Moth says. "It smells amazing in here."

"Brisket," she replies. Wooden stairs creak behind her, and Mrs. Weiner moves from the doorway so the three of us can see clearly into the house she gestures for us to enter.

Polished dark wood stretches from our gross snowy boots all the way back to an open kitchen with the fanciest looking kitchen island I've ever seen. It's the kind of kitchen island Mom says she wishes we had enough space for whenever she binge watches those off-brand home improvement shows on public access cable.

Then a man pops out from a room off to the right. This house has so many rooms. The man smiles--Patti's dad, I'm assuming--and the smile lifts his glasses off his face. He is short like Patti, but he has dark, smooth hair, combed to the side like you see dads wear their hair in sitcoms. In fact, he sort of looks like he was dressed entirely on a sitcom set. Checkered, short-sleeve button up shirt tucked into his brown leather belted khakis.

"Hello there, friends of Patti," Mr. Weiner says with a quick wave before shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Dad," Patti scolds him under her breath.

He shakes his head with a smile. "Right, so sorry. Dinner is on the table. Is everyone hungry?"

Moth chuckles. "Uh, yeah, of course," he says.

Mrs. Weiner takes our coats and Patti leads us back into the kitchen area where a long, dark wood table is set like something out of a magazine.

Every plate--each of which is so white and polished, it looks like ice--has another plate under it. I guess to make it look fancier or to catch food that falls? I don't know, but it looks super nice. The underneath plates and the cloth napkins (cloth... not paper) are all light blue and the table cloth is a lacey-looking white fabric. Two sleek silver candle sticks wait at the end of the table where Mrs. Weiner is sitting like it's no big deal that her house is straight out of a magazine, and on literal silver platters sit heaps of steaming food.

"Woah, this is super fancy," Moth says, since he has no filter. "You didn't want to go all out for us, Mrs. Weiner."

"What do you mean?" she asks with genuine confusion.

Mr. Weiner takes a seat beside his wife. "Every day together is an occasion, young man. This is what our meal together looks like every night."

Just for a moment, I have to resist the urge to take out my phone and snap a picture of this to Gina. She would die if she saw me with all of this stuff. But then I remember that we're done being friends, which makes keeping my phone in my pocket much easier.

Patti takes a seat on the other side of her mom so that the three Weiners are at one end of the table, and the three of their guests are at the other end. I sit carefully in the chair, half-afraid that if I touch something I'll ruin it and half-waiting for the three of the Weiners to burst out laughing and tell us to all run out of these strangers' home before we get caught in the middle of this great prank. But when the entire scene doesn't fall apart after I sit down and when the Mr. Weiner and Patti fan out their napkins on their laps, I realize that they for real are this rich and fancy. No wonder Patti dresses like she does every day if this is what family dinner is like at her house.

At my house, it's more like Mom and I at the table sometimes, and sometimes on the couch watching one of our favorite shows. I can't even imagine what it's like at the Gorsky house, and honestly, I'm not sure what Moth's parents are like. I'm pretty sure they're crazy rich too.

Mrs. Weiner holds her hands out to Mr. Weiner and Patti, and they take them without question. Mrs. Weiner takes a breath and closes her eyes, but then her face pinches with confusion. "Hon," she says to Mr. Weiner, opening her eyes, "should we explain what we're doing to Patti's friends?"

"Mom," Patti groans.

"No, I think it's important to share our culture with your friends," Mr. Weiner says. He turns to us. "As you probably know, Patricia is Jewish."

Patti hides her face in her hands. I'm not sure why she's so embarrassed by her parents or her culture or what.

"In Jewish culture," Mr. Weiner continues, "we say blessings before meals, just like how some of you may pray before a meal. However, because we are Jewish, we say our blessings in Hebrew. Patricia's mom is about to lead us in the prayers in Hebrew. First, we will say a prayer for the bread--well, for our brisket and potatoes--and then she will say a prayer for the wine, or in your case, for the water."

"Do they want juice?" Mrs. Weiner asks Patti.

"I don't know, Mom," Patti says behind her hands.

"Do you want juice like Patti?" Mrs. Weiner asks. She purses her lips in disappointment. "I can't serve you wine."

I smile. "Water is good."

"Yeah, I'm totally cool with water, no worries, Mrs. W," Moth replies.

Mrs. Weiner turns her focus to Thatcher and raises her brows. "Water is great, thank you," he says finally. I realize it's the first he's spoken since coming into the Weiner house. What is he thinking? There's no way he's shyer than I am, so something must be going through his head. Maybe something like, "I wonder how long it would take for someone to figure out I was living in this house." I smile at the thought.

"Okay, great," Mrs. Weiner says. "Then I'll go ahead with the blessings."

"Some families will wash their hands, too, before the blessings," Mr. Weiner explains, "but we don't typically do that. Only on holidays or Shabbat." He smiles.

Mrs. Weiner holds her hands out again and Mr. Weiner takes it. Patti sighs and takes her mom's other hand. "Baruch atah A-donay, Elo-heinu Melech Ha'Olam, hamotzilechem min haaretz, amen." Mrs. Weiner finishes.

They unlock hands and Moth mumbles, "Amen," beneath his breath to match the family.

Mrs. Weiner raises her glass of wine--which, by the looks of it, is actual crystal--and she recites a second prayer, "Baruch atah A-donay, Elo-heinu Melech Ha'Olam borei pri hagafen. Amen."

This time, we all say, "Amen," and then take a sip of whatever liquid we have in our glasses.

Mrs. Weiner stands up to serve each of us, dolloping a mound of mashed potatoes on each of our plates and then circling back around to serve us long, thin slices of brisket. She's halfway into her seat when she stops herself mid-air. "None of you are vegetarian, are you? I didn't even think of that."

"No, ma'am," Thatcher finally says.

"Not me, Mrs. W," Moth adds, his mouth already full of food, "I'm definitely carnivorous."

I barely manage to breathe through my discomfort. "I am. I'm so sorry."

Mrs. Weiner jolts out of her seat. "Not at all, hon. Let me get you a clean plate."

"Oh, you don't have to—," I start, but my plate's already gone.

"Yes, I do. We don't want any meat to touch your food. We respect all diets in this home."

She rushes into the kitchen part of the room and dumps the food from my plate into the trash. She places my plate into the sink and grabs a fresh one from the cabinet, which she only fills with potatoes.

"So sorry," she apologizes. "Next time you come over, I will be sure to have more options for you."

"It's really okay," I say. "Thank you though."

As we dive into the food, the only sounds I hear are those of silverware--made from real silver probably--scraping against plates and Moth chewing. My shoulders raise in discomfort from the silence.

"Patricia tells us that Grant O'Reilly will be coming back to the town to cast some high schoolers for his television show," Mr. Weiner says after we've all had sufficient time to get some food in us. "How do you kids feel about that?"

"C'mon, Dad, we're not kids," Patti says.

"You're right, I'm sorry," he replies with a few pats of his napkin against his lips. "How do you all feel about Grant O'Reilly coming back to do some casting? Excited? Nervous?" He rests his elbows on the table and points his face forward to wait for our replies.

"Oh man," Moth starts and then swallows what's left in his mouth. "I'm so pumped. How many people get this chance? This is such a sweet opportunity. I just hope I don't screw it all up, ya know?" He chuckles.

Mr. Weiner laughs politely. "I do. I do know. That must be scary. But I'm sure you will all do well. What about you, Janie? Are you excited?"

I swallow my most recent bite of mashed potatoes. "Yeah," I say. "But I don't think I will be picked."

He tilts his head. "Why not?"

I shrug. "I'm new to theater, so I'm not very good yet. Patti is way better," I say, shifting his focus to his daughter. He smiles at her.

"She has been working for a very long time to become a good actress. We've had her in classes since she was in preschool. You name it: ballet, tap, singing, acting. All of it. She is what they call a 'triple threat,'" he says.

"Dad," Patti says, blushing and turning away.

"No, it's true," Mrs. Weiner insists. "She is destined for great things, like her namesake Patti LuPone. We just love her, right, hon?"

"Oh yes," Mr. Weiner replies.

"We saw her on Broadway last... when was that, Patricia? Last spring?"

"Yeah, April."

"Right, last April. Oh my goodness, what an inspiration. Who knows? Maybe one day that will be you four up on the stages of Broadway and people back here in little old Riverside will sit around their tables and talk about how you all have inspired them."

Unlikely, I think, but I look up to see a little smile creep into Thatcher's lips.

"Man, that would be awesome," Moth says. "One day."

Yeah, one day, maybe. A girl could definitely dream. Until then, all we can do is work on that.