Sure, Mom said, dropping on her chair and dabbing her temples with a napkin. Whatever.
Just, whatever.
Mizuno and I were at the big football game last week, Eric said, taking a bite. It’s so great being in public together, even if no one knows. You know? Another bite. It’ll be better when we don’t have to hide.
Why isn’t it eating anything? Kinda rude, don’tja think? Annie was grinning, flecks of lettuce and crumbled beef lodged in her braces.
Mizuno doesn’t eat human food, Eric said, obviously. Don’t be an idiot.
Dad was already on his fourth taco, inhaling like a woodchipper and removed from the conversation, playback of Annie’s most recent school band abortion strategically filling his head like packing peanuts. Eric recounted sunny afternoons on the quad, drinking beer in subtle cans and baseballs tossed with abandon; evenings spent in his dorm, bad movies on Netflix and Chinese take-out, Mizuno keeping his hand warm through the cold winter months. Dad shoved the remnants of his seventh taco into his face-hole and stood, chair toppling behind him.
Outside. Now.
Eric paused, thought about resisting. Dad didn’t flinch.
Bring the mitt.
Mom sobbed.
Annie, get your mother off the floor, Dad ordered, dragging Eric outside. They halted on the lawn, Dad softening his grip but keeping him close.
What is this all about?
I love it, Eric said.
No, you don’t.
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