Leila asked what I thought about English class and Mr. Jackson, but I didn’t want to say any of the things that popped into my head, about how weird it was to be in class with her and James again and how I spent the entire period remembering yesterday afternoon, so I shrugged and didn’t answer. Now, next to me, Leila’s just silently bolting down her chicken before she leaves for band rehearsal. While I speak, I keep my eyes on my food: a chicken drumstick with sauce and piles of rice and salad and snow peas. “I saw my mother’s doctor today,” I tell my plate. The pink and black triangles edging the white china look like teeth, and I imagine them opening up and talking back. Someone’s fork clangs loudly against a dish. When I look up, Uncle John meets my eyes, and I feel Leila looking at me from my right. Only Aunt Cynthia stares down at the table. I start talking again, wincing when my voice croaks.
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