Page 50 of Not Fooling Anyone

“Ooh, so secretive.”

“Mind yourself,” she warns, using her mom tone. “And grab a stack of plates and set the table.”

I open the cabinets, pulling out the set of Corelle she’s had since before I was born. “Is Brian coming?”

“No. He said he couldn’t make it. Your father’s working late too.”

Okay, so that means there’s five of us tonight.

I put out the plates on the table in the eat-in kitchen, grabbing silverware next, and top it off with napkins. Mom will nag if there are no napkins.

She slips on two oven mitts and opens the oven, pulling out a bubbling pan of lasagna, a gooey layer of melted cheese over the top. So that’s what smelled so good.

Oh, shit. That’s probably on theeat in moderationlist the doctor gave me, along with those Skittles from earlier. Rather than outright banning me from certain foods, they said I should only have a small portion and pair it with something that will keep my blood sugar levels from spiking too high. And looking around the kitchen, it looks like my best bet for that is… salad.

Seriously, who likes eating rabbit food?

“Dinner,” Mom calls out, her one and only prompt to get to the table. She gave up years ago trying to track us all down to eat together at the same time.

I settle in my usual spot by the bay window that overlooks the street, watching Mom as she carefully places the lasagna on a trivet, the large bowl of tossed salad next to it.

She serves herself the first piece, a longstanding rule to make sure she got enough food before the rest of us devoured it. After that, we go in ascending age order, Jacob going next since he’s the youngest, if only by ten minutes. It wouldn’t matter if we went descending, though. I’d still be stuck in the middle.

When it’s my turn, I attempt to calculate what amoderateportion is, erring on the side of caution. It looks awfully sad on the plate.

“There’s plenty more, Ethan,” Mom says, using tongs to scoop salad on her plate. “Scott can’t eat all that.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m going to have some salad with it.”

She drops the tongs, a loud clatter echoing in the now silent room as everyone stares at me.

“You’re what?” Jordan asks, theatrically sticking a finger in his ear as if he’s cleaning it to hear better.

“I’m having salad,” I mutter.

“But it has lettuce in it,” Jacob says.

“And vegetables,” Scott adds.

Yeah, don’t remind me.

Mom stands, rushing around the table to cradle my head. “Is it happening? Is my baby finally becoming an adult?”

Everyone snickers, and even I have to smile. “I’m not allowed to eat salad?”

“No,” they all say in unison.

Sure, it’s out of character, but not totally unreasonable. “I’m… training,” I tell them, making up something on the spot. “For an upcoming match. I have to clean up my diet to make weight.” Yeah, that makes sense. And is something I probably should be doing anyway.

Mom drops her hold on my head, pursing her lips. “I should have known it had to do with boxing.”

She’s made her disapproval of the sport clear since I started last year, citing statistics on injuries and concussion rates to me, but it’s not like she has a say in what I do.

“When’s your match?” Scott asks, finally serving himself a massive slice of lasagna. Lucky. “I’ll bet on you.”

“Don’t waste your money,” Jordan says. “There’s no way he’s good enough to beat anyone.”

I ignore his obvious attempt at riling me up.

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