The house is tastefully old. Lots of hardwood and crown molding but modern. It’s homey, unlike the way my mother decorates. Jamal’s upstairs bedroom hasn’t changed much according to him, and I can picture him studying here until all hours of the night. There’s also a guest room that seems unused and lonely.
By the time we get back downstairs, his mom is setting the table.
“Mom, this isn’t a big deal. I told you that,” Jamal hisses.
“Who said it is?” she asks, placing a large bowl on the table.
“Then why aren’t we eating in the kitchen with the regular dishes?” he counters.
Jamal’s reaction gives away more than she does. If he hadn’t said anything, I never would’ve known the difference. My mother has several collections of bone china, and one of her platters costs more than all the Thomas’ dishes, table, and chairs.
“Where should I sit?” I ask to break the tension.
“Anywhere,” Kenya says at the same time Jamal points to the seat next to him and commands, “Here.”
I glance at my phone and see nothing from Sarah, so I pull out the chair next to Jamal. Normally, I’d defer to his mom, but Jamal’s anger is showing, andI want a front-row seat. Since he hides it from most people, it makes me feel special.
DeAndre serves us all ladles of a red seafood stew.
“If you’ve never had jambalaya, take a small bite first. It’s spicy,” Kenya advises.
I smirk and take a big spoonful. The rich flavors hit my tongue, but suddenly a burning sensation spreads through my sinuses, and my nose hair is on fire. “So good,” I say, trying not to cough or let tears run down my cheeks.
“White folk,” Jamal cackles, and when I face him, his twinkling eyes stop my heart.
“We don’t say things like that,” DeAndre admonishes.
“I can make you something else if you prefer.”
I’m glad my eyes are already watering because they’ll never know how deeply that statement hits me. I can’t remember my mother cooking for me.
“No, it’s really good, but I was overconfident with that bite.”
“This is an old family recipe, and Jamal loves it. Do you have family favorite dishes?” she asks.
I chew thoughtfully. At least, I hope that’s what it looks like. “We don’t have any family recipes that I know of. I ate whatever the boarding school and our cook served.”
“I’m sorry.” She pats my arm.
“Why are you sorry? He ate five-star food.” Jamal takes an extra-large bite and doesn’t flinch.
His mom tsks. “If you had the choice of a five-star restaurant or a home-cooked meal, what would you choose?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he says sheepishly.
“You haven’t learned your lesson yet.” She gives him side-eye.
“Kenya’s unofficial motto is ‘money can’t buy you happiness,’” his dad explains.
“Cheers to that.” I hold up my goblet of water, and they clink with me. “My mom always made sure I had butternut squash at Thanksgiving. She said itwould turn me into a pro hockey player.” I laugh. “I hated it at first, but now I love it,” I say, and feel silly for telling them that story.
“Thank you for joining us tonight, Theo. Jamal never brings friends over.” Kenya sounds sincere, and I instinctively sweep the room looking for a hidden camera. This has to be fake, some scripted routine for unsuspecting visitors. No family actually acts like this.
The discussion turns to the hockey season, and I breathe deeply. I can do this.
“There’s a pecan pie in the kitchen with your name on it,” Kenya says to Jamal as she takes my empty bowl.
“Did you—”
