“Fish is gross,” I complain, kicking at the back of the driver’s seat. “Why can’t we go to the steakhouse?”
“It’s Sheila’s turn to pick the restaurant,” Mom says, putting up with my minor assault. “You picked last week.”
“Crab week, baby!” Sheila sings. It’s crab week at Red Lobster, and my sister is all about crab these days. It’s weird. She used to be like me and protest all seafood. She also used to let me into her room anytime, and now she keeps the door closed and yells at me to go away a lot. I don’t know what happens to a person when they turn twelve, but I don’t like it.
“They have chicken fingers,” Mom reminds me.
Ordering chicken fingers at Red Lobster is about as smart as ordering seafood from a hot dog cart.
“Ew.”
“You love chicken fingers,” Dad says.
“Not all chicken fingers are created equal,” I inform him.
“You should try the crab,” Sheila says. “It’s sooooo delicious.”
“Ew to the hundredth power.” I knock her elbow off the armrest between us. She shoves mine back, trying to take over. As usual, she wins.
Hmph. “I know! I’ll have the chocolate chip cookie and ice cream for dinner.” At least their desserts are good.
“Not likely, sir.” Mom glances at me in the rearview.
“Fine. I’ll have the shrimp,” I grumble, crossing my arms and shrinking against the car door.
“Looks like crab week has begun,” Dad quips from the front passenger seat.
Everybody laughs. Even me.