January 18th: “So, tell me your High and tell me your Low,” Mom addressed the group. Per usual, she and my dad sat at opposite ends of our oak dining table. Catee sat to my right, closest to my dad. Nicole sat opposite us, more concentrated on Catee than her plate or anyone else at the table. Partially because she was a new face, but mostly because that’s what teenage girls are hard-wired to do: to read one another and to size them up as competition—even if they aren’t one, and even if it was only a non-threatening, family dinner. My dad, on the other hand, was focused more on the meal in front of him than anything else. And though he always had something to say, it was seldom spoken before his meal was completed. Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for us, his fork was more a steam shovel than a utensil: he always finished in half the time as anyone else, and there was seldom quiet from his end of the table. Nobody responded to Mom’s request. Nicole was distracted.
