whether they like you or are thinking about you. But it's exciting. You interpret everything as a sign. You analyze every move they make, everything they say, for clues to how they feel about you.'
She smiled sadly at him. 'Once they're caught, once you have them, you lose that. The magnifying glass is gone. You no longer pay so much attention to the little things they do, you start paying more attention to the text of their words than the subtext.' She patted his hand. 'I don't mean to say it's not good. It is good. But ... it's never the same.'
Dion stared at her. He had never heard his mom talk that way before, and for the first time he felt as though he partially understood the way she acted. He felt even guiltier for the name he had earlier called her, and he realized that he hadn't told Penelope that he loved his mom. He should have, he thought. He should have told her that.
'I'm hungry too,' April said, changing the subject. She stood up, turned on the table lamp to dispel the creeping shadows in the room. 'Let's eat.'
'What are we having?'
'Tacos.'
'All right.'
'I'll cook the meat and chop the vegetables. You go to the store and get the tortillas.'
He groaned. 'I'm tired. I have to study. I don't want to go-'
'Or we have egg sandwiches.'
He sighed, conceding defeat. 'Give me the keys and some cash.'
'I thought you'd see it my way.' She grabbed her purse from the table and took out her keys and wallet. She handed him two dollars. 'That should be enough.'
He walked outside to the car in the driveway.
She watched him get into the car and back up onto the street, feeling worried, apprehensive, and a little bit scared.
Penelope Daneam.
Somehow she wasn't surprised.
And that was the part that scared her.
Dinner that night was more silent than usual, the occasional conversation more stilted, more reserved, and Penelope could feel a Big Discussion coming on. She sat at her usual place between Mother Felice and Mother Sheila at the long dining room table, trying to eat her spaghetti without slurping, not wanting to disturb the quiet. Her palms were sweaty, her muscles tense, and she waited for that first innocent lead-in question that would broach the topic on everyone's mind.
Dion.
None of her mothers had said anything to her about Dion the first time he'd come over. At least not anything serious or substantial. They'd alluded to him playfully, indirectly, letting her know that they were glad she was finally showing some interest in boys, and she'd found during the succeeding days that she felt a lot less reticent in talking about school, a lot less defensive in regard to her social life. If he had been nothing else, he had served as a validation of her normalcy, tangible proof that, despite her own and her mothers' worst fears, she was not a complete social misfit.
But of course he was something more than that, and she knew that that was what her mothers now wanted to talk to her about.
She looked from Mother Margeaux chewing her food thoughtfully at the head of the table, to Mother Margaret, across from her. She wished her mothers would just come out and say whaj was on their minds instead of putting so much weight and pressure on everything, turning every minor concern into a major topic of discussion.
But this was their way. Just as the rigidity of the dining arrangements was their way, although to Penelope, her mothers'
insistence of formal dinners every evening had always been something which rang false. Even as a small child, it had always seemed to her that her mothers were feigning civility and sophistication for an audience that was not there, mimicking scenes they had seen in movies or on television. She would never admit it to anyone, but more than once, surrounded by her mothers, eating elaborately prepared meals off expensive imported china, she had been reminded of monkeys dressed in business suits, going through motions they did not understand. It was a harsh assessment and not entirely fair, but the analogy did not seem to her that far off base. There was something wild beneath the calm exterior of her mothers, a sense of something untamed struggling to get out of a package of politeness. Mother Margeaux in particular always seemed so controlled, so unemotional, but Penelope knew from experience that her outward display of rationality was just that: a display. When Mother Margeaux was angry or she drank too much, when she let herself go, the results were truly frightening.
Penelope never wanted to see any of her mothers when they were really drunk.
Finished with her food, she pushed her plate away and swallowed the last of her grape juice. She stood, bowed, and addressed her mothers. 'May I
be excused? I have a lot of homework tonight.'
'You may not,' Mother Margeaux said.
Penelope sat back down. In addition to its formality, dinner in their house was also uncomfortably ritualistic, and though she had lived with that every night of her life, it was still something that made her feel slightly uneasy. They dined at precisely seven-thirty every evening, and no matter what any of them were doing, they had to stop at seven, wash up, and change into a green dress. Her mother's dresses were all identical--simply designed full-length gowns--while hers was slightly different, not quiet as expensive. They began each dinner with a song, any song, which they took turns initiating. To leave the table after eating, each of them had to ask the permission of the others; if the decision was not unanimous, the person had to wait. Until she'd been in fifth grade and stayed overnight for the first time at a friends' house, she had thought all people ate this way. She had even begun to panic when she'd discovered that she'd forgotten to bring her green dinner dress to her friend's house. But after embarrassing herself by asking detailed questions of her friend's mother, she'd learned that not everyone ate dinner in such a ritualized manner, that in fact hardly anyone did. The knowledge had made her extremely uncomfortable.
She picked up her empty glass, poured the last few drops of grape juice onto her tongue. She fiddled with her fork.
It was Mother Felice who brought up the subject of Dion.
'So how's your boyfriend?' she asked casually.
'Dion?'
'Of course.'
'He's not my boyfriend.'
Her mother's next question died in her throat. She looked quickly around the table. There was silence.
'Penelope.' Mother Margeaux's voice was quiet, but it was strong.
Penelope looked toward the head of the table. Mother Margeaux dabbed at her lips with a napkin and replaced the napkin in her lap. In the warm low light of the dining room, her lips looked almost as dark as her hair. The whites of her eyes seemed large as she focused her intense gaze on Penelope.
'I thought you and Dion were dating,' Mother Margeaux said.
Penelope squirmed in her seat. 'Not exactly. Not yet.'
'Well, what exactly is your relationship?'
'Why do you want to know?'* Penelope felt herself reddening.
Mother Margeaux smiled. 'We do not disapprove of Dion. Nor do we disapprove of you going out on dates. We would simply like to know the status of your relationship. After all, we are your mothers.'
'I don't know,' Penelope admitted. 'I don't know what our relationship is.'
'Are you planning to go out sometime?'
'I told you, I don't know.'
'But you do like him?' Mother Felice asked.
'Yes!' She stood, exasperated, embarrassed. 'May I be excused? I really do have a lot of homework.'
'Yes, you may be excused.' Mother Margeaux looked around the table.
There were no objections.
