On Thursday night Mom made macaroni bake, the best thing she cooks. It's macaroni and cheese, plus sliced-up hot dogs and bell peppers, with bread crumbs baked on top. We used the nice plates, and Gloria lit a candle and set it on the built-in table, and we all sat down to eat.
Winter shuffled the noodles around on her plate, not saying anything, as usual, until she uncovered a bit of hot dog. Then she pushed her plate away, folded her arms, and said, "I'm a vegetarian."
Gloria dropped her fork. This was the first time Winter had spoken in front of Mom for nearly a month. Only Mom was unsurprised and kept eating like nothing weird was going on. All she said was, "Eat your food, Winter."
Winter pushed her plate farther across the table, knocking over the saltshaker. "I don't eat meat anymore. I find it vile."
"Well, that would have been nice to know an hour ago, when I was cooking it," Mom said. "And I don't recall anyone putting in a request for fancy tofu dogs when we still had money on the food card."
"I don't eat meat," Winter said again, and she crossed her arms.
Gloria grimaced, which she is very good at. Usually it's funny to see a frown stretch across her face, but this time no one laughed. "Well, then," she said to Mom, picking up her plate, "see you tomorrow, Carly." And she left.
Once the door closed, Mom said to Winter, "Fine. But I'm not going to see good food wasted in this house." She started picking out all the hot dog slices with her fingers and putting them on my plate, and even though I like hot dogs, my stomach cramped. I wondered why Winter hadn't told me anything about being a vegetarian.
Once Mom was finished, Winter took a bite of the macaroni noodles, letting some of the cheese drip off first. "Ugh. I can still taste the meat."
"Well, next time, Winter, I will know that I have to read your mind before I start dinner," Mom said, her eyes narrowing and shrinking to the size of raisins. "Besides, hot dogs aren't even real meat."
I almost choked on the hot dog I had just swallowed.
"I'm gonna eat some cottage cheese," Winter said, scooting past me. A few seconds later I heard her say, from the fridge, "Great. It's expired."
"It just expired yesterday," Mom said. "And it's not even really expired—that's just a best-by date. You'll be fine. I can't count the number of times I've fed you girls 'expired' cheese."
I almost choked on the macaroni I'd just swallowed.
Winter came back to the table juggling the tub of cottage cheese, a spoon, and a package of English muffins. I scooted over so she wouldn't have to climb over me, but that meant Winter and Mom were now sitting right across from each other. Aside from the crinkling of plastic coming from Winter opening up the muffins, and the clatter of Mom's fork against her plate, the trailer was silent.
"Um," I said, wanting to change the subject, and Mom and Winter both looked at me. "What does Dad do?"
Mom's eyes shrank even more. Talking about Dad is pretty much forbidden in the trailer. Or in front of Mom at all. Or even in front of Gloria, who will run and tell Mom instantly that her daughters are starting to get curious about their bloodline. "Don't call him Dad. If you have to call him anything, call him your … your genetic donor."
"What does our genetic donor do?" I asked, which made Winter snort.
Across the table, Mom's shoulders hunched and she shrank into herself. The angrier she is, the smaller she gets. "He doesn't do anything, Star. He isn't fit to be a father."
"I mean, what's his job?" I asked as Mom shrank down still farther in her seat. I'd probably gone too far now, but I'd been wondering about Dad even more since Winter told me about the line on the birthday card. "Where does he work?"
Winter jumped right in. "What's his favorite hobby? How much money does he make? How old is he?" We already knew the answer to the last one because Gloria let it slip once, but Mom had reached her shrinking limit. She grabbed all the food and plates from the table and threw them in the sink.
"Go to bed, both of you. If I hear one more word about that man, you'll both be grounded. GO!"
Winter left, her combat boots stomping along the linoleum. I got our toothbrushes and changed into my pajamas, and the whole time Mom hunched over the sink, staring at the dishes full of food. I wanted to tell her I was sorry for bringing up Dad, but I didn't want her getting any smaller than she already was.
Winter didn't answer when I said good night, which made it hard to fall asleep, knowing she was mad, too.
After a while, I heard Mom's footsteps creak across the trailer to her own bedroom. I stayed awake long after her light turned off, and long after her breathing slowed to a heavy wheeze. From the way Winter's mattress shifted above me, I knew I wasn't the only one awake.
