“For how long?”
“I don’t know.
Weeks.”
My mother whispered, “Ethan.”
It sounded less like anger than disbelief.
I wanted them to tell me I was not really like that.
They did not.
My father sat down.
“Does the school know?”
“People saw it.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
There it was—the instinct he had trained his entire career to have.
Who knew? What was documented? What could become public?
For the first time, I understood how easily I had learned to think the same way.
“Yes,” I said.
“The lunch monitor saw me today.
A lot of students did.”
My father rubbed his forehead.
“We’ll call the principal in the morning.”
“No.”
He looked up.
“No?”
“Not to make it disappear.”
His expression sharpened.
“I did not say that.”
“You were going to.”
The kitchen went silent.
My mother lowered her phone onto the counter.
“What do you want us to do?” she asked.
That question was harder than I expected.
“I don’t know.”
For once, I meant it.
“I just know I don’t want Dad’s name fixing what Dad’s name helped me think I could get away with.”
My father stared at me for several seconds.
Then he leaned back.
“Fine.”
The next morning, I went to school early.
I bought two breakfasts with my own cafeteria account and sat at the table where Lucas usually waited before first period.
When he walked in, he saw me and stopped.
His eyes moved to the extra tray.
“No,” he said.
I nodded.
“Okay.”
That surprised him more than an argument would have.
I pushed the tray away from his side and kept my hands in my lap.
“I heard your mom yesterday.”
His face changed.
“You followed me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Yes.”
He stared at me.
I had no defense ready.
Finally he said, “What did you hear?”
I looked down.
“That if I took your lunch again, you should give me half before I stole it.”
