Ping. Ping.
Mom reached for her cell.
“Don’t do it,” I said, pointing a sweet-potato fry.
She pulled back her hand.
Mom, Red, and I were at the kitchen counter eating dinner in our usual spots—I was closest to the cabinets, Red was next to me, Mom was facing us.
Ping. Ping.
“Don’t do it, Rip’s Mom.” Red swiveled his stool. “The use of cell phones is strictly prohibited during meal time.”
Mom raised both hands.
That was the rule. Suzanne and Mom came up with it (along with like a gazillion other rules) when Red and I finally got cell phones last Christmas. During dinner, everyone’s phone goes in the metal pail at the end of the counter.
Suzanne and Mom have a much harder time with the rule than Red and I.
“What’s your avatar?” Mom asked Red.
“Don’t try to trick him,” I said to her.
“I’m not trying to trick anyone.”
“She’s trying to get you to look at your phone,” I said. “Don’t fall for it.”
Red swiveled faster. “My avatar is a Labrador retriever puppy.”
“Just like Rip’s.”
“Mason Irving has a boxer avatar.”
“A boxer puppy.” I took a bite of my turkey burger.
“Do you change your avatar as often as Rip does?” she asked.
“Red changes his avatar more than he changes his underwear!” I answered first.
Ping. Ping.
Mom leaned in and read her screen.
“No touching, Rip’s Mom.”
“Not touching,” she said. “Just looking.”
“That’s cheating,” I said. “That’s violating the spirit of the rule, and you know it.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to name your dog, Mason Irving?” Red asked.
Mom put down her burger. “You’re getting a dog?”
“No,” I said. “Red and I … We were talking the other day and…” I grabbed the last fry off his plate. “Thanks a lot, Red.” I popped it into my mouth. “If I get a dog, I’m giving it a basketball name.”
“A basketball name?” Mom tonged more fries out of the bowl and dropped them onto Red’s plate. “Like Shaq?”
“No!” we said at the same time.
I grabbed a handful of fries from the bowl. “Maybe I’ll name it Boogie.”
“Use the tongs,” Mom said.
“Or Magic.” I picked up a single fry with the tongs and put it in my mouth. “Like this?”
Mom glared.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be looking at me like that.”
“It’s … it’s nothing, Rip. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Ha!” I waved a fry. “I told you it wasn’t nothing.”
She faced Red. “What would you name your dog if you got one?”
“Oh, man!” Red grabbed the edge of the counter and swiveled faster. “If I got a dog … if I got a dog … that would be amazing. Amazing!”
“Slow down, Red,” Mom said.
Red stopped spinning but still held on to the counter. “If I got a dog, that would be … that would be the best thing ever!” He bounced on his stool. “I would name her … I would name her when I met her. She would tell me.”
“Tell you?” I poked his cheek with a fry. “You’re getting a talking dog?”
“No, Mason Irving.” He swatted my hand and squinched his face. “I would know when I met her.”
“Her.” I laughed. “Red’s getting a girl dog because he’s afraid a boy dog will pee all over him!”