7

I DECIDED I WANTED to skip school the next day too.

As Mom sat down at the dinner table, I made my case.

“Eric brought all my books home today,” I told her, “so I can miss tomorrow and still stay caught up on my homework.”

Mom said, “Sounds like a good discussion for the whole family.” Usually I’d be optimistic about this response. I was reasonably certain Dad would say the same thing he said that morning— “Fine by me”—and then it would be up to Mom to make the final decision. But for reasons I wasn’t going to explain to her, this time I wanted her to make her decision before Dad came upstairs.

I was about to continue to plead my case when Mom got up, opened the door, and said, “Jeff—dinner’s ready.”

Dad hollered back, “Thanks, Mary. Be there in a minute.”

Mom closed the door and sat down again. “It’s not like your father to be late for the family feast.”

 The last part, about this being a feast, was Mom’s sarcastic way of making fun of her own cooking. When I was six, I gave her an apron for Mother’s Day, and ever since she’s worn it right over her business clothes; the apron says Chef Mom in green puff paint, the words surrounded by several green circles with green dots in them that were meant to be either pepperoni pizzas or chocolate chip cookies. Mom liked to point to the apron and say, “Chef Mary’s my name and cooking’s my game.” 

Mom’s a businesswoman, a consultant or something, and every once in a while, when she was held up at a meeting, Dad would step in and make omelets or a frozen pizza. When I was younger she was actually gone quite a bit—she’d go to two- or three-day conferences in other states—but then she changed her position in the company so she could be around more. Most days of the week she prepared the meal, especially during football and basketball season. After having been at work all day, she usually didn’t have much time to make something fancy, so in an effort to “streamline the operation” (her words, not mine), she’d come up with a daily dinner schedule. Sundays we had chicken and instant rice, Mondays we had tacos, Tuesdays we had stir fry and instant rice, etc., etc. (We had a lot of instant rice.) Anytime Dad or I would try to compliment the food, Mom would say something like, “What can I say? I slaved away for hours.” Then she’d go to the pantry, grab a box of Oreos and say, “I even made dessert.”

This time, though, her comment about it not being like Dad to be late for the family feast wasn’t just a joke. The part about Dad was true. If he wasn’t at a game, Dad usually set the table.

“Plus,” I said, getting back to my skipping-school request before Mom’s patience ran out completely, “today I tried going up to my room and I fell. It hurt really bad.”

This wasn’t a lie, I told myself. I had gone up to my room, and I had fallen. The two events weren’t related, of course, but I didn’t technically say they were. Putting them in the same sentence isn’t the same as saying one caused the other.

Mom stood up and partially rotated to untie her apron and set it on the counter behind her. “Since when do we wear hats at the table?” she said.

I didn’t answer. The reason for the baseball cap was that I knew something she didn’t.

It wasn’t just Dad in the basement.

Kirsten was down there, too.

She’d continued shooting until Dad got home from football practice. Then the two of them went downstairs to study film from last year. I was still in my room at the time, but I heard them enter the house. Dad said something like, “I noticed this last weekend after you left, and I’ve been meaning to point it out to you . . .” Then I’d heard the door to the basement open and close.

They were already down there when Mom got home and started getting ready for dinner. I didn’t tell her about Kirsten because by then I’d decided that I wanted to skip school again and didn’t want to put her in a bad mood before asking. All these years of steering clear of the basement, and now Dad granted access to one of his players? There was no way Mom was going to like this.

So instead of mentioning Kirsten, I helped Mom set the table. I got the plates and glasses and silverware out. I folded the napkins. I dumped some shredded cheese in a bowl and put it on the table. I had the baseball cap on during all of this—there was no way I was letting Kirsten see three days’ worth of dirty hair—and Mom was in a good enough mood that she didn’t tell me to take it off. Or maybe she just assumed I’d take it off once dinner started. It was nothing new for Dad or me to be wearing a hat when we got back from a practice or a game, so maybe Mom thought I planned to get rid of it once we started eating.

“I don’t have any major homework or tests tomorrow,” I reassured her, “so I’ll be able to make up whatever I—”

Just then the door opened, and Dad came through, and Mom looked at her watch and said, “I guess my reputation as a chef preceded me. For a second there I thought you were boycotting my tacos.”

Kirsten stepped out from behind the door just as Mom finished her sentence.

“Hey, Mrs. Duncan,” Kirsten said. “Hey, Mike.”

I nodded and touched the bill of my cap, then felt like an idiot because only old people greet someone by touching the bill of their cap. Next, I’d be calling her “Ma’am.”

“Sorry to make you wait for dinner,” Kirsten said. “Coach Duncan was showing me some stuff to work on before the season.”

Mom didn’t say anything.

“I hope I didn’t ruin the food,” Kirsten said.

Mom still didn’t say anything.

“You’re fine,” Dad said. “Do you want to stay for dinner? Mary makes a mean taco.” 

“Oh, thanks,” Kirsten said, “but I better not. Mom will kill me if I miss dinner. I’m probably late already.”

To my surprise, Mom said, “Jeff, you can give her a ride, right? That way she won’t be late for her family’s dinner.”

Kirsten said thanks but no thanks. “Really, Mrs. Duncan. It’s fine.”

Mom insisted, though: “You shouldn’t keep your family waiting.”

So Kirsten said, “Thanks, Mrs. Duncan,” and “Seeya, Mike,” and she and Dad turned to go.

Mom and I listened to the garage door open and close. Then she went to the oven and removed the pan of taco shells. She brought the pan over to me and said, “Dig in.”

As I reached for a shell, she said, “If you want to stay home tomorrow, stay home tomorrow. I’m sure your father doesn’t care one way or the other.”

Then she grabbed my cap off my head and threw it like a Frisbee through the kitchen and over the living room couch.