Dad calls me down for dinner. I’m too hungry to make a valid excuse for skipping, so I trudge back downstairs.
“That’s just ironic,” Peach is saying as I reappear in our dining room. She’s occupying Grams’s usual seat, which is weird, but I doubt she’s aware of it.
Saylor nods across from her. “More ironic than the Mall of America being owned by Canadians, which I told him—”
“Youtoldthe president of this company that his new mascot is ironic?” Peach interrupts, shocked.
Nonnie laughs, her gray curls shaking as she does. “While you were at it, did you alert him if his toupee was crooked?”
Saylor does not find this funny. I notice that he’s swapped his ribbed yoga tank and sweats for a clean yoga tank and sweats. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what he wore to the interview.
“If they wanted to hire me to rebrand the company, then they need to know that placing a chicken mascot on avegetarianproduct makes no sense.”
My dad brings the bowl of spaghetti into the dining room, and I slide into the only empty chair, across from him. “Saylor was going to OSU for graphic design,” he tells me. “A company wants to bring someone aboard who could help out with its new redesign.”
I heap a pile of spaghetti on my plate. I don’t know why he’s trying so hard to involve me in their lives when they aren’t going to be here long.
Saylor is still adamant about his case. “On what planet is it okay to put a chicken on a vegetarian patty box?”
Nonnie reaches for the noodles once I’m done. “Maybe it was a metaphor?”
“Consumers don’t tend to have deep, metaphorical thoughts when walking down the frozen food aisle.”
“Unless they’ve been smoking the Mary Jane,” Nonnie points out.
Peach leaps in to quickly get the conversation back on track. “So the interview was a bust?”
“Basically,” Saylor replies, looking down at the leather and beaded bracelets on his arms. There are so many that they practically reach his elbows.
“Hey,” my dad says in his best rally-the-troops voice. “You still have an SS today. You were offered the interview in the first place.”
“A what?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
My dad looks pleased with my interest in the matter. Which I’m not. The only thing I’m interested in is seeing them leave before Margaret finds out.
“Small Successes,” he explains. “Instead of dwelling on the negative, we’re encouraged to talk about any SS’s we experience each day.”
Oh. Right. Yet another takeaway from Sober Living.
Peach catches my eye from across the table. “Do you have an SS you want to share?”
Does getting through this dinner count?
“Uh,” I say. “No.”
“What about making it through your first day of eleventh grade?”
I cringe. Okay yeah, itiseleventh grade but nobody calls it that. It sounds so young. We’re juniors.
I grab a piece of garlic bread. “Sure.”
“I found some animal shelters who need extra help,” Nonnie replies.
“Excellent.” Dad passes me the marinara sauce. “You have to try this, Kira. It’s way better than my own recipe.”
I stubbornly drizzle the tiniest bit of sauce on my pasta. There’s nothing wrong with his recipe. It was perfectly fine before she showed up and changed it, but he watches in anticipation as I try a bite.
“Good,” I mumble, and I hate that it’s true.
