Chapter 1: Family Dinner - Teri

Thursday afternoon, two weeks after we got together, Dana and I were messing about in the den of my house. Technically, we called it “doing homework,” but we were pretty much just talking about science fiction—our favorite books and shows and movies, and also fanfiction. We were downstairs because Mother had made it clear that she and Father expected to never find me alone in my room with someone I’m dating, at least for now. Which meant, of course, Dana and I had smooched for a while on my bed, in that nebulous region between making out and light petting, but returned downstairs safely before the earliest anyone got off work or out of practice.

Which was smart, because Mother arrived home earlier than usual. She greeted us quickly before heading up to change.

Ten minutes later, I’d almost gotten to the point of showing Dana some of my Stargate fanfic when Mother came back into the den. “Dana?”

“Mm?” Dana rolled over on the carpet to look up at her, then sat up. “I’m sorry—yes, Ms Florez?”

“Could I have your mother’s phone number?”

Ooo-kay.

“Uh, sure,” Dana said, and pulled out her phone to look it up.

“And do either of you know the number of either of Mike’s parents?”

“It’s just his father,” I said. “Widowed, I think.”

Dana nodded, while tapping furiously with both thumbs. “I should have it, if I can find the text—ah, here.” She rattled off both numbers.

“Um,” I said, watching Mother write them down. “Why?”

“I’m inviting them to dinner Sunday,” Mother said placidly. To Dana, “I would be delighted if you and Mike came as well.”

I blinked. And me?

“Your attendance, of course, is not optional,” she informed me.

Was I that easy to read now? Or had she always been able to look right through me?

“I don’t believe we have any conflicts that night,” Dana said. “If Mom accepts, I would be delighted to come.”

Mother nodded, and went on her mysterious way.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I told Dana softly.

“Hmm. Well, Mom is interested in meeting you,” she said, “and your parents probably want to meet our boyfriend. I suspect this is just one step up from that.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“As long as there’s no mynocks stuck to the walls here, we should be fine. Nerve-wracked, perhaps, but we’ll survive.” Said perfectly calmly.

I stared at her. Finally, I said, “That has to be the stupidest Star Wars reference ever.” I mean, our house is not an asteroid, thank you very much.

Dana stuck out her tongue.

So of course I tickled her.

Sunday afternoon, Mother conscripted me into the kitchen to help cook dinner.

“Um,” I managed by way of protest. “I’m not, ah, very good—”

“And that, Teri, is exactly why,” she said firmly. “You need the practice. Also, given who we’re entertaining, something we serve should be your responsibility. Your work.”

Even though it was her idea to invite them in the first place. It was not like I had a choice, though. And, well, I probably should learn how to cook more than breakfast. It was only as we planned out the menu that I realized the effect was trying to impress potential future in-laws. Great—start dating at 15 and she’s all but counting out the grandchildren.

The menu itself was an interesting challenge. Sam and Ricky require a diet geared to active athletes (basketball+volleyball and football, if you must know), which I silently share because of weightlifting. Dana’s mother, however, was vegetarian (dairy was fine—I hastily confirmed this by texting Dana) and Mike’s father hated shellfish. Eventually we confirmed (and by “we” I mean “Mother with me pretending I had a clue”) her proposal of a veggie lasagna with whole-wheat noodles, chicken paella, and chicken breasts in a chipotle adobo, plus some steamed green vegetables and a large salad.

“Bread?” I asked.

“Taken care of.” Presumably something fresh from Catrina’s Bakery.

“Desert?”

Which got me a mild look. Oh, right—special occasions meant my great-grandmother’s special-recipe flan. “You made it last night?” I guessed. I’d been out with Mike.

“Good girl.”

We started the paella first. Mother took lead on that, explaining as she went, while I prepped ingredients—which took a while (long recipe is long). The lasagna, she turned over to me, while she started the chicken breasts. This was not a calm undertaking, though I did manage to not freak out and eventually stopped asking her about every single step. Eventually, all the noodle strips (man, those are funny-looking) were laid out and smothered in our largest glass baking dish.

When two those joined the paella in the oven, we had 45 minutes before dinner. Just enough time to finish cooking.

“You have fifteen minutes to shower and dress,” she informed me. “Then set the table.”

Urk. Right. Guests. Must look good for them. I started for the stairs, then stopped. “Should I put the table leaf in first?”

“Go!”

I got.

I managed it in twelve minutes. Cheated, of course: I dressed in the same outfit I used when I wanted to impress Dana and Mike on our first date together. No dithering. Can’t afford dithering.

Father had added the table leaf while I’d dolled up, giving us enough space to seat nine (with a chair left over), and Mother’d put out table cloth, napkins, dishes, and the nice stemware glasses on the sideboard. “Company silver,” she reminded me as she headed upstairs herself.

Right. Assuming I could find it. (One of the lower cabinets, maybe?)

When she returned, I was almost done setting the table—only the silverware to go (found inside the sideboard). She inspected my work so far, nodded, then frowned at the chair missing from the setting at the head of the table.

“Wheelchair,” I explained—so Mike would have the open doorway to the hall behind him.

“Ah. Good thinking.”

Which pleased me. Because, well, it was: after dating a paraplegic for only two weeks, I was still learning how to make accommodations. Seating arrangements had been one of my first lessons, though, and I was glad I remembered it. There’s so much to mess up, though. Why do people ever invite others over for dinner? Why do we eat together at all? Can I just melt down now?

“You and Dana should sit here,” Mother added, hands on the chairs to Mike’s left. To, what, make it obvious we’re all together? I couldn’t fathom why else—and wondered what Dana would make of it.

I nodded and started around the table with the salad forks, one per place.

“Teri—one thing. Do your brother and sister know who’s coming?”

I managed not to say ‘Who the f— heck cares?’ Or not out loud. “I have no idea.”

“You might want to consider that, under the circumstances, they will certainly find out who and why. Do you want to deal with their first reactions in front of guests?”

I grimaced. Sam probably had some measure of tact. Ricky, though? Especially if he didn’t know about me and Dana. I adjusted the last fork, straightening it beside the rolled napkin. “Yeah,” I finally admitted, and reached for the pile of knives.

Speaking of the devils, the front door clattered open and a basketball echoed in the front hall. As my older siblings passed the dining room, they stopped joking, and then stopped short—Ricky looking at the table, Sam at ... me? —no, at my dressing up.

“What’s going on?” Ricky asked.

“We’ve company for dinner,” Mother said. “So dress nicely. And quickly.”

“Who?” Sam asked.

Mother’s glance was my cue.

“My boyfriend and girlfriend, and their families,” I said, pushing past Ricky to get around the table.

“Oh.”

A beat.

“Wait, you have a—” they said together, then Ricky said, “—girlfriend?” as Sam said, “—boyfriend?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What boyfriend?” Sam said—but not to me—to Ricky. As if he’d know better?

“Mike Smith—two girls were teasing him about a rumor during homeroom.”

Mike’s in homeroom with my brother and never mentioned it? Not that I ever talk about my family, either. But still. I started circling with the spoons.

“What girlfriend?” Ricky asked Sam.

“Dana Partlow—that short girl in the Program assembly, remember? She’s been over a few times.”

In the all-school assembly at the start of the week, when they announced changes to the Naked In School Program—no small thanks to the experiences of Dana, Mike, and me, the first week of the year—Dana spoke for a few minutes about the volunteer student escorts she’s organized, to monitor Participants between periods to try to keep down the worst abuses, both explanation and recruitment drive. She managed the right balance between earnest and charismatic—pretty awesome, actually.

Sam looked at me, puzzled. “So, wait, you really aren’t a dyke?”

“No,” I said with exaggerated patience, “I’m just butch.” And bi, in case you hadn’t noticed.

“Oh.”

Ricky laughed. “Well that’s the truth.”

Sam did a double-take. “Wait—what?”

“Come on,” Ricky said, pulling her onward. “It’s shower time.”

Which, yeah—after shooting hoops, they were sweaty.

As they thumped up the stairs, Mother murmured, “Just goes to show how you children constantly surprise us.” She gestured with three fingers, shrugged a little, and headed into the kitchen.

Which, yeah—bafflement over my sexuality, but not a blink at the idea of my going out with two people at once, as a triad. Go fig. Of course, I was still trying to figure out what my parents thought about all this.

The doorbell rang—a few minutes early. Show-time anyway.

“Got it!” I called. I can deal with this, I told myself. I took a deep breath, then opened the front door.

Dana and her mother, the latter holding a wicker basket covered with a napkin.

“Come in,” I told them. “I’m Teri.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dana’s mother said, taking my hand. She was much older than I expected—well into her 50s, with brown hair gone half to gray, worn in a low pony-tail. Unlike her short daughter, she’s average height, not to mention quite thin.

Father appeared, followed after a moment by Mother, and Dana took over the introductions: “Manuel and Consuela Florez—my mother, Helen Hicks.”

Oh, right—after three marriages, she probably did have a different family name from her daughter.

As I closed the door, I caught a glimpse of Mike’s astonishingly ugly van cruise by, looking for parking. First things first, though—the birds in hand. Father took Dana’s mom into the living room, while Mother took her basket (bread? the front hall smelled of fresh baked yeast—yummier than Catrina’s) into the kitchen.

Dana stood beside me, looking up. I let out a breath and gave her a quick hug around the shoulders.

“You look more nervous than scared,” she said softly, holding my waist. The side of her breasts pressed against my belly.

“I love you too,” I said under my breath. She has a way of picking out those emotions you’d like to keep under wraps thank you very much.

She smiled, unrepentant. “Dinner will work out fine. Even if we want to sink through the floor a dozen times each. Mike here yet?”

As if dying of embarrassment was nothing to be afraid of. “It’s not dinner I’m worried about,” I grumped, “but me. And he should be at the front porch about now.”

I opened the door as Mike and his father turned up the walk to our house. Mike wore a navy button-down shirt and dark slacks, and was in his chair with vertical wheels—one of these days, I’ll remember to ask him how he chooses between that and the one with slanted wheels. But then, one day I’ll figure out how to not focus on the irrelevant details in the face of panic. At least I’d already met his father before, at their place. “Hi,” I said.

“Hello, Teri,” Mr. Smith said. “Dana.” He was carrying a tall gift-bag of—was that wine?

“Go on in,” I told him. “I’ll get Mike up.” I continued down the eight stairs of our front porch—this, I knew I could handle.

He blinked. “Are you sure... ?”

“We got it, Dad,” Mike told him. At my gesture, he grinned and turned around against the bottom step.

“Come on in,” Dana said behind me.

I made sure of my grip on the handles on the back of Mike’s wheelchair (maybe that’s why this chair?—I didn’t think the slanted wheels had handles) then pulled him up the first step without a problem—only to bump him against the next step.

“Agh, sorry.” The next step, I controlled a little better. “I figure with a little practice, Dana’s house shouldn’t be a problem as long as I’m with you.” Dana lives in a crazy multi-split-level ranch with steps between every room.

“Heh,” Mike said. “Excellent.”

At the top of the stairs, I pulled him all the way onto the flat and let go—Mike doesn’t like to be pushed any more than I would. Mr. Smith stared at me. Dana’s eyes crinkled with a suppressed grin.

“Yo, Dad—you always did tell me strong women are sexy,” Mike said, wheeling around for the door.

I’m not sure I wanted to know that.

I’d forgotten about the sill—it took a moment’s jiggering for him to get over it. “That’s the only bump on this floor,” I told him.

“No prob—whoa,” he said, looking around. “Nice place.”

We live in a real Victorian house—built by one of the owners of the original silver mine, the one that created this town, for a wife from out east. Hardwood floors, interesting ceilings and cornices, and a real attic bedroom all to myself. The frosted decorative glass in the front entrance works especially well with this.

Another round of introductions, as Matthew Smith (“Matt, please”), Helen Hicks, and my ‘rents sized each other up. I glanced at Dana and Mike, who both shrugged and followed them into the living room.

Nice to know someone wasn’t freaking out, I suppose. I followed.

“Don’t worry about them,” Mike said softly. Then he smirked. “Worry about your brother.”

“Gee,” I said. “Thanks. Not.”

He grinned.

“You behave yourself with Ricky, comprende?” I said sternly.

The glint in his eye as he nodded did not make me feel better.

“How long till dinner’s ready?” Dana asked, pulling out her phone.

Huh? I glanced at the clock. “Ten, maybe?”

She nodded. “Which is your house network? I want to show Mike your room.”

Which two statements probably made sense together in some weird alternate universe. I showed her, and Mike connected on his phone in turn. Thirty seconds later, they were skyping through the wifi: using his phone as a remote monitor for her camera.

Okay, brilliant thought—wish I’d thought of it, instead of him making do with the fixed view from my computer. But why did it have to be now?

A timer dinged in the kitchen.

“You stay here and hostess,” Dana said as she turned toward the stairs.

Um, wait. “Hang on,” I said. I started after her, but Mother tapped my arm as she passed me towards the kitchen.

“Come, Teri—help serve.”

Argh! Here not even five minutes and already Dana was spiraling out of control. I called after her up the stairs, “Come right back down—dinner’s coming out.”

“Got it!” I heard in echo—from up the stairs and in the living room. Fainter, “Hi, Ricky.”

Just—great. Fine. Whatever.

In the kitchen, Mother was adding some sort of topping to the chicken breasts. She pointed to the lasagna and paella, already out of the oven. “To the table. No, one at a time. And slowly. You are a mass of jitters.”

One at a time—right. And use both hands. Especially for the deep casserole dish for the paella. And pads. Hot dish is hot.

“Pitcher of tea in the fridge, corkscrew from the drawer,” she told me.

For the Smiths’ wine bottle, I realized. “Juice?”

“Ricky can serve himself, if he wants it.”

Heh. Right.

“Now call your siblings to dinner—quietly, if you can.”

I had no idea how to do that, not up a floor and through closed doors. Worse, Dana was in my room, two flights up. Though for her—

I leaned into the living room over Mike’s shoulder: he was looking though my bookshelves. Could be a worse invasion of privacy, I decided. “Dana, git yer butt down here—food’s on,” I whisper-hissed into the phone.

Next floor: I stretched up the stairs and called out, “Sam, Ricky—dinner!” Heard a vague call in response.

And finally ground floor: I re-entered the living room more naturally. “Dinner?”

“You sound uncertain,” Father said.

“Well, assuming we manage to assemble,” I managed to say. It even almost made sense.

He smiled. “True enough.”

Behind me, I heard Dana’s light footsteps skitter down the stairs. To Mike, I said softly, “Come in last—you’ll be in the doorway.” Then to Dana, nodding to our assigned seats, “Take the corner here—I’ll be beside you.”

As the three parents passed into the dining room, Mother called softly from the kitchen, “Teri.”

“Sí,” I said, and headed down the hall. Behind me, Ricky bounded downstairs with a final thump—I looked back in time to see him land right in front of Mike. Fortunately, both have fast reflexes and didn’t collide. Yay jocks for once?

Ricky looked down at my boyfriend a moment. Oh, surely he wasn’t going to pull—

“My little sister, huh?” he muttered.

—oh jeeze, yes: the protective older brother shtick.

“I think she’s shown she can defend herself,” Mike said, miming arm-wrestling.

Okay, plus two points for trusting my choices—minus several dozen for the reminder that I slammed down the hand of the captain of the wrestling team in the cafeteria, while naked no less.

“Teri!”

This time I couldn’t ignore Mother—I took the waiting basket of bread straight into the dining room, where seats were still being sorted out. As I set it on one of the few open spaces left on the table, I saw Sam arrive at the foot of the stairs, scowling at Mike even worse than Ricky had. Oh jeeze squared.

I slipped around Dana into the hallway.

“—dating outside your grade?” my sister was saying.

As if being a year apart was somehow scandalous.

“At this point,” Mike replied levelly, “I figure any dating I do will be the talk of the town.” To emphasize his point, he tapped a wheel with his knuckle.

“Sam—you’re in the far corner of the table,” I said by way of an interruption that approached the general vicinity of calm.

Sam looked at me sharply, glanced past me at Dana, who stepped up beside me, then back at me. She cocked a thumb at Mike. “This bozo isn’t two-timing you, is he?”

“No, we’re two-timing each other,” I said.

Puzzled look.

“Sam,” Mother called from the dining room—a call to take her seat. For all of us to.

When I turned, I realized all the adults were watching us. Great—so glad we could entertain you with our little soap-opera.

I managed to not collapse in my seat, but it was a near thing. Deflated a little, anyway—no more running around, at least till I had eaten something. Now there was only the ordeal of conversation while eating. Dana caught my hand under the table and gave it a squeeze. I squeezed back—quick comfort.

On my left was Mike’s dad, with Mother beyond him. On Mike’s right were Father, Dana’s mom (across from me), Ricky, and Sam. Three persons of interest, surrounded by their parents—this would be the getting to know who their children are dating part of this. The testing.

At least Mike and Dana were separated as far as possible from Sam and Ricky—insulated.

Father asked Mike, at the head of the table, to say grace. He agreed graciously (yeah, I know, but there’s no other word for it!) and went with something short and straight to the point.

During the mechanics of passing food and drinks (minors drank iced tea, the adults wine—except Ms Hicks, who also took tea), initial conversation was mostly establishing already-known demographics of the kids (Sam in 12th grade, Ricky and Mike in 11th, myself in 10th, and Dana in 9th) and that us three younger ones were not just all in algebra together (we initially got together as a study-group, which we keep up) but each shared another class (Dana and I chemistry, Mike and Dana history, me and Mike creative writing).

With food on plates, talk devolved into the sounds of eating and exclamations of delight. Both Dana’s mom and Mike’s dad praised Mother’s cooking. With reason—hey, I love chipotles—though Mother threw me off-balance again by insisting, “Teri did much of the work.”

‘Much’ being more than ‘nothing’ but quite a bit less than even ‘half.’ I managed to not say that only because my mouth was full of chicken.

Dana especially liked the lasagna. “Tasty—I love the oregano. Who made it?”

Okay, plus one point for mistaking my accidentally dumping in way too much for deliberate spicing—minus one for making me admit, “Ah, me.”

“Good job,” Father said.

“Recipe?” Mike asked.

“You’ll have to ask Mother for that,” I said.

On my other side, I heard Mr. Smith immediately do just that. I think that was intended as flattery.

Across from me, where Ricky had been talking animatedly at Ms Hicks for a while, I heard her say that no, she didn’t actually follow any sports. Judging my his expression, this was a new experience for him. Which just goes to show he doesn’t talk to me much.

Mr. Smith stepped in to ask Ricky and Sam about plans for life after athletics. I didn’t catch Ricky’s answer, but Sam said something about wanting to major in communications. Which, yeah, actually—she has the sleek brunette look that works for a sportscaster. Still an odd thought.