The three of us had just sat down to start eating when the kitchen phone rang. We looked at each other. When Mom was here, she refused to let us answer the phone at dinnertime. It’s probably just a telemarketer, she would say. If it was a real person, then he or she should learn to respect our dinner hour! Did we really spend an entire hour eating dinner with her every night? I couldn’t remember. We always did start the meal at the same time, though—six thirty. These days we ate when Dad got home, sometimes at six, sometimes as late as seven forty-five. Dad said that since we were so unpredictable with our meal schedule, it didn’t seem fair to punish people who wanted to talk to us, so he always answered the phone. While Dad spoke quietly to the caller, Nate and I ate our spaghetti, not talking so we could eavesdrop. Finally Dad said, “I’ll put her on.” Then he handed me the phone. My heart bounced. Who could possibly be calling me? “Hello?” I asked. “Niecelet!” Aunt Shelby shouted.
