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Peik’s movements are lethargic even though his mind spins at warp speed. Always three mental steps ahead, by the time he enters a room he has assessed what will be asked of him and has already found a way out of doing it, usually by slipping off to his bedroom to mousterbate at his computer until food is served. I call this “the thinking man’s lazy.” I suspect he spends that room time Googling “how to torture younger siblings,” as he is definitely the family rabble-rouser. On the rare occasion when the house is at peace and all the other children are engaged in quiet activity, Peik will let out a rebel yell and run through the house with his pants around his ankles, distributing wedgies. This is the only time he moves his feet unasked. He also has an uncanny ability to push people’s buttons. Back when he was six, he taped fourteen-year-old Cleo’s zebra-striped bra and panties to the front door of our apartment building. In the middle of Manhattan. When she came home with a couple of friends she was so horrified she didn’t speak to Peik for—well, come to think of it, she still hasn’t spoken to him.

Sibling panty raids aside, I never would have pegged Peik to be a player by the tender age of thirteen. He comes from two long lines of late bloomers. I was too busy drawing or sewing to notice that there were boys in the room until I was seventeen, and the fact that I resembled Olive Oyl, complete with the disproportionally big feet, kept even the most desperate boys at bay. When I found Peter hiding behind a dusty piece of bachelor furniture, he was fifty years old and had never been married, the ultimate slow starter.

Of all the boys in the house, I’m not sure how Peik became the stud, enjoying his choice of available girls. If my six-year-old, Pierson, started chatting online with girls and setting up dates tomorrow I wouldn’t be surprised: at four years old, he announced, “My face is my fortune,” and carefully began choosing his school wardrobe. But Peik was a shy and apprehensive boy who refused to leave the safety of his stroller at the park. When he started pre-kindergarten, I had to sit in the school library every day well into January because he would cry if he realized I wasn’t on the premises. So how did he come to be the one roaming New York City streets with a girl on his arm? It can’t be his mastery of poetic language—Peik’s computer sits next to mine, so I have seen exactly how he lures in the next babe.

Peik: movee?

Girl: k

Peik: sat?

Girl: k

Peik: lol c u

No, it is certainly not his flowery prose that is charming the girls. Probably not his academic standing, either. While he is perfectly willing to study during school, his workday ends when the bell rings—an apathy reflected in his grades. Athletic prowess? Not so much—Peik’s the pasty-colored one with slumpy posture in the black skinny jeans, his fingers calloused from playing guitar. His handsome face? Yes, but only once he grows into those huge teeth and gets that hair out of his eyes. He does have a killer sense of humor, but I can’t imagine any teenaged girl finding wedgies or repeated “Death of Kenny” reenactments hilarious. Though Lord knows I think he’s wildly entertaining, so maybe a girl or two are on to something.

It’s not that I worry that anything untoward might happen. Manhattan is a great place to raise teens. This may seem like the big bad city, but it’s hard for kids to get into too much trouble here. They travel in packs, tend to hang out in public places, and, best of all, don’t drive. Believe me, Peik would much rather be in the suburbs where kids can have sex on the trampoline in the backyard after school.

I realize I’m showing all the signs of a mother lamenting the inevitable independence of her child, grieving the needy toddler so reliant on her. But I swear, I’m not. I have six children; I’ve been through this before with no problem. My daughter is twenty and has been away at college for three years now. There are