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which I need for geometry. I go into Dad’s bedroom closet, where he crammed all the drawing supplies that used to be in his home office, behind our old kitchen. As soon as I pull the light cord, I see a stack of Mom’s nursing uniforms on a shelf, perfectly folded into neat Dad-squares, with one of her plastic name-tag pins resting on top. I decide to forget about homework. I chill out with Sir Ott on the couch and watch some America’s Funniest Home Videos instead. When Dad gets home, he looks worn out. We order from the bad pizza place with the yellowy cheese. I tell him I met a kid in the building, because I know it will make his day, and it does.
    The phone rings a few times, and Dad goes into his room to talk with the door closed. Maybe it’s another potential client.
    I leave Mom a note with the Scrabble tiles:
    WISH DEMARCOS DELIVERED
LOVE ME

Bittersweet
    Mom’s morning Scrabble note says:
    BEATS HOSPITAL FOOD
    The only good thing about when Mom works a double is that, along with the extra pay, she gets a two-hour card. A two-hour card is worth two hours of work—mostly she uses it to sleep in and start her morning shift two hours late, but sometimes she uses a two-hour card to leave work early and surprise me after school. She’ll be waiting right by the front doors, smiling away, and we’ll head over to Bennie’s before walking home. Bennie always makes a big deal out of Mom, pretending he’s in love with her. She reminds him of someone back in Egypt, he says, but he never tells who.
    First period. Science.
    We file in, Dallas and Carter walking close behind me.
    “Beep, beep, beep, beep,” Dallas says. “Beep-beep-beep-beep.”
    “What’s that noise?” Carter asks. “Dallas, is your freak alarm going off?”
    “Yeah, it’s going crazy. I wonder why. Oh, look, it’s just Georges.”
    They shove past me, laughing.
    Mr. Landau writes on the board:
Sweet
Salty
Sour
Bitter
    Then he turns around to face us. “There’s one more,” he says. “Does anyone know what it is?”
    No one does.
    Underneath Bitter , he writes:
Umami
    “You mama ,” Gabe says.
    Everyone cracks up. Especially Mandy.
    Mr. Landau looks at Gabe. “You know, someone makes that same comment almost every single year.” He sighs, like he’s really bored. “I just never know who it’ll be.”
    The class laughs even harder. Score one for Mr. Landau. He could teach Ms. Warner a thing or two. I wonder if they ever go out for coffee or anything.
    “Umami,” Mr. Landau says, “is often referred to as the fifth taste. Has anyone ever heard of it?”
    No one has.
    “Umami is a savory taste. Think of excellent Chinese food, a steak, or a perfectly ripe tomato.”
    At which point Mandy has to tell everyone for the hundredth time that ever since she saw her little brother throw up at DeMarco’s last summer, she can’t even think about eating anything with tomatoes.
    “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Mr. Landau tells her. He turns back to the board and numbers the tastes, one through five:
1. Sweet
2. Salty
3. Sour
4. Bitter
5. Umami
    “Everyone take out a clean piece of paper!”
    We get out paper and look at him. He makes us wait a few beats, and then he says, “What is the taste of human experience?”
    Oh, boy. The room is quiet.
    “Can a moment in time be sweet? Can a memory be bitter? I want each of you to spend the next twenty minutes writing about a memory that can be described using the metaphor of taste. Table One, you will write about a sweet memory. Table Two, a salty memory. And so on.”
    Every hand at Table Five immediately shoots into the air. Mr. Landau calls on Natasha.
    “An umami memory?” she asks.
    Mr. Landau tells her to think of umami as meaning “delicious.”
    Natasha nods and starts writing immediately.

    Table Six is just me and Bob English Who Draws. There is no sixth taste on the board. We look at each other. I know he won’t raise his hand, because he never does, and he knows I won’t