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were sick.” She’s standing in front of the curtain, looking it up and down as if she’s never seen a curtain not in front of a window before in her life. “You can never be sure they got it all, or the cause of it. It comes right back if you don’t take care of the cause of it. I hate to think of those three weeks you spent breathing it in. Is this your roommate’s?” Her fingernails touch the curtain.
    Behind us, the door swings open. Thank fucking God. We all turn.
    “Uh, sorry,” Derek says, half through the door, taken aback by all the eyes on him. “I forgot you were having company.”
    I make a quick introduction, and he says, “Nice to meet you,” shifting his toothpick. “I’m just gonna—” He points toward his end of the room.
    “Sure,” I say.
    “Nice to meet you, Derek,” my mother says.
    I close my eyes and hold my breath.
    “Are you a freshman too?” she asks.
    “Uh, no. I’m in my third year.”
    “Oh, how nice. What are you studying?”
    I clasp the door handle. “Um—if you want to get a table before it gets crowded… Saturdays at Tito’s can be kind of hectic.”
    “Chemistry,” Derek says, holding the curtain like he’s ready to escape behind it.
    “Chemistry! That must be interesting.”
    “Margaret,” my dad says. “Let’s go eat.”
    Derek and I trade a look of relief. I feel him—I don’t want to be interrogated by my mother either. She’s like a runaway train when she gets going, oblivious to all the flashing lights and people waving their arms.
    I suggest walking. It’s not any farther away than their car, but my mom wants to ride there, so we hike back to Johnson and drive the quarter mile to Tito’s. With traffic, it takes us at least as long as it would have to walk.
    “How are your grades?” my dad asks as he parks.
    “Fine. Astronomy’s tougher than I expected. Public Speaking’s easier.”
    “What do you give speeches on?” My mother turns in her seat.
    Foosball, I tell them. I’m giving an informative speech on foosball.
    “What ball?” she says.
    “Table soccer,” my dad says as he gets out of the car.
    “So you just talk about how to play it?” she asks.
    “How to play it better.”
    “And this is something,” my father says as we head to the restaurant, “that you have particular knowledge of?”
    Chuck introduced me to it—and took ten bucks off me the first time I’d played it. The day Skip offed himself, I’d been thinking about nothing but the chance of winning that money back. “They have a table in the student lounge,” I say. “But for the speech, I interviewed some of the guys who play it well.” That’s a lie. I’d watched some of the guys who play it well, looking for what they did and how I could use it against Chuck. If it involves dexterity and timing, it’s something I can pick up pretty easily. Unlike, say, astronomy.
    “That’s a good skill to develop,” my mom says. “Interviewing people.”
    When we’re seated, I leave my menu lying on the table. I just want a burger. My mother studies hers with her forehead creased. My dad takes a cursory look before setting it aside.
    “The interesting classes,” he says, with the sunlight coming through the window catching in the lenses of his glasses, making him look like there’s no one behind them, “will come later.”
    “I know.”
    “It’s just introductory stuff now, and getting your general education requirements out of the way. But pay attention to the introductory stuff. It builds a foundation.”
    “I know.”
    My mother orders a grilled chicken salad with iced tea, my father a sandwich.
    The question of my guitar sits at the top of my throat, ready to leap out, but I need the right moment. The one where their guards are down. The food comes. They clasp hands and reach for mine. Right. I’d forgotten about this already. I bow my head, thinking about how to ask for my guitar. What’s the path of least resistance?
    As my mother picks at her