"Houston--We Have A Problem"

Mr. McGee is all dressed up in his purple shirt and pants. This is expected as it is date night for him and my mother who has, gratefully, returned to biting her nails. Both move the chicken schnitzel and pasta on their plates in an effort to look like they are dining with the rest of us. But I can tell by the way Mr. McGee bounces his knee under the table that he can’t wait to take mom out. Mom has shockingly exchanged her t-shirt and overalls for a sweater dress. I imagine the two of them holding hands, waiting in line for movie tickets, and wait for my heart to hurt. But nothing happens. Even knowing that Ms. Krantz is coming over to watch us tonight sits in my heart okay.



Jack is bouncing up and down in his seat—a midget with ants in his pants. His eyes dart around the table at each of us, hungry for contact. But Meeka is busy, rightfully so, gobbling up her second piece of schnitzel and Seth is occupied with his usual habit of cutting food into baby-sized pieces. My mother and Mr. McGee are too aware of each other to notice Jack’s hyperactivity.


“Can I tell her mom? Can I tell Amelia now?” Jack whispers loud enough for all of Meadowview to hear.


“Tell me what?” I ask.


“Yes, you can tell her, Jack.” My mother’s face is suddenly flushed and she is focusing on her uneaten chicken. Something is wrong.


“What’s your favorite place in the whole wide world?” Jack asks me, his body twisting and squirming with pleasure.


“Houston?” I am afraid to breathe.


“Yes, yes, yes! We’re going to Houston, we’re going to Houston,” Jack sings, and flails his skinny arms like a wannabe rapper.


“Are you serious?” I ask my mother who is finally looking up at me.


“Completely,” she says with a smile. But it is her guilt smile, the one she uses when there’s a however just around the corner.


“Cool,” I say and notice that Seth is looking at me too. If there is a catch, Seth knows what it is. “What?”


“Nothing,” he shrugs and returns to his food.


“So we’re going to see Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Frank?” I ask before finishing the last of my lemonade.


“Yes—who wants dessert?” She is already standing up, removing the apple pie from the fridge.


“Oh, I do,” Meeka says with a mouthful of pasta. She turns to me with a look that reminds me of those people on TV who’ve just won the lottery. I don’t know whether to feel pity or happiness for her.


“What time is Bea getting here?” Mr. McGee asks. He is changing the subject just like my mother.


“Not for another hour,” she says, serving a large slice to Meeka.


“Thank you!”


“You’re welcome,” she winks.


“So you mean you made up with Grandma?” I ask.


“We were never fighting,” she coughs out a laugh. Her face looks like a tomato, ready to implode.