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Authors: Cassandra Dunn
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overall effect of the dinner plate, carrot bowl, and corn bowl was very Mickey Mouse. Head and ears. He smiled and looked up, at no one in particular.
âMickey Mouse,â he said. Abby sat across from him and Byron was to Mattâs left. They were inches from the Mickey Mouse design, but instead of looking at his arrangement, they turned toward each other. They were always doing that, pulling in toward one another like magnets, instead of seeing what was all around them. He pointed toward the plate and two bowls, but just then his extra salad bowl was lifted away.
âSorry, Matt,â Lana said, replacing the bowl with the corn plate. âI forgot.â
Mickey Mouse vanished, and the angles were thrown out of sync. He fixed it just as the napkin and silverware arrived, but they were the wrong fork and spoon. They were the narrow-handled smooth ones that he had a harder time holding on to. He needed the ones with the wide, flat handles, and the pretty flower design around the edges, for extra grip.
âOh,â Matt said, holding up the fork. âI canât. Not these. I need the other ones. The ones with the scalloping around the edges.â
âRight, sorry,â Lana said. She sighed, frustrated, and the feeling filled Mattâs chest as she took the fork and spoon and came back with the right ones. He wanted to keep things simple, to just have everything the same every day, but somehow that ended up making them harder. He didnât understand why.
Lana waited while the kids served themselves. Byron filled his plate in a messy heap, everything touching everything else, exactly the opposite of how Matt liked his food. Abby took a small scoopof corn, some salad, and a few slivers of halibut. Lana asked Abby if she wouldnât like more food, and Abby said no, as always. Matt wondered why Abby came to dinner at all, since she rarely ate anything. Then Lana started eating, too fast to taste her food. Lana was sad again, or maybe mad, Matt wasnât sure which, but her happiness was gone and her unhappy feelings filled Mattâs whole body until he could barely move. Then Abby asked for more water, and Byron told her to get it herself, and the tension in the room and in Mattâs body just got worse.
Dinners, which had always been a quiet time for Matt, were quiet no more. The kids talked at the same time, tonight about swimming and driving and movies and money, and they got louder and louder, talking over one another until the noise hurt Mattâs ears and muscles and bones. He covered his ears to make it stop. It was better with his hands dampening the noise except that he couldnât eat with his hands over his ears and he was hungry.
He decided to try again, but when he removed his hands the talking was even louder, now about driverâs training and an expensive soccer camp and getting jobs and swim team fees, and there was a scraping sound, the horrible screech of metal against ceramic as Byron separated bites of fish with the side of his fork. Matt raised his hands to his ears again.
An unexpected prod to Mattâs shoulder, not rough but a harsh jolt of unanticipated contact, nearly knocked him to the floor. It was Lana, smiling, holding an empty TV tray, nudging him with it. She gestured for him to put his food on it, but he still had no free hands, just the ones on his ears, which were busy keeping the noise out. She set the tray down, mouthed something he couldnât hear, and loaded up the tray for him. She pointed from the tray down the hall toward his room, as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra set of arms and could now carry the tray of food away from the noise while covering his ears to block out the noise. Matt stared at it, wondering how it had all gotten so complicated so fast. He just wanted dinner. The weird ground-turkey meatloaf he didnât care for, not on Mondays, but he refused to eat the halibut the rest of the family was eating, because Matt
âMickey Mouse,â he said. Abby sat across from him and Byron was to Mattâs left. They were inches from the Mickey Mouse design, but instead of looking at his arrangement, they turned toward each other. They were always doing that, pulling in toward one another like magnets, instead of seeing what was all around them. He pointed toward the plate and two bowls, but just then his extra salad bowl was lifted away.
âSorry, Matt,â Lana said, replacing the bowl with the corn plate. âI forgot.â
Mickey Mouse vanished, and the angles were thrown out of sync. He fixed it just as the napkin and silverware arrived, but they were the wrong fork and spoon. They were the narrow-handled smooth ones that he had a harder time holding on to. He needed the ones with the wide, flat handles, and the pretty flower design around the edges, for extra grip.
âOh,â Matt said, holding up the fork. âI canât. Not these. I need the other ones. The ones with the scalloping around the edges.â
âRight, sorry,â Lana said. She sighed, frustrated, and the feeling filled Mattâs chest as she took the fork and spoon and came back with the right ones. He wanted to keep things simple, to just have everything the same every day, but somehow that ended up making them harder. He didnât understand why.
Lana waited while the kids served themselves. Byron filled his plate in a messy heap, everything touching everything else, exactly the opposite of how Matt liked his food. Abby took a small scoopof corn, some salad, and a few slivers of halibut. Lana asked Abby if she wouldnât like more food, and Abby said no, as always. Matt wondered why Abby came to dinner at all, since she rarely ate anything. Then Lana started eating, too fast to taste her food. Lana was sad again, or maybe mad, Matt wasnât sure which, but her happiness was gone and her unhappy feelings filled Mattâs whole body until he could barely move. Then Abby asked for more water, and Byron told her to get it herself, and the tension in the room and in Mattâs body just got worse.
Dinners, which had always been a quiet time for Matt, were quiet no more. The kids talked at the same time, tonight about swimming and driving and movies and money, and they got louder and louder, talking over one another until the noise hurt Mattâs ears and muscles and bones. He covered his ears to make it stop. It was better with his hands dampening the noise except that he couldnât eat with his hands over his ears and he was hungry.
He decided to try again, but when he removed his hands the talking was even louder, now about driverâs training and an expensive soccer camp and getting jobs and swim team fees, and there was a scraping sound, the horrible screech of metal against ceramic as Byron separated bites of fish with the side of his fork. Matt raised his hands to his ears again.
An unexpected prod to Mattâs shoulder, not rough but a harsh jolt of unanticipated contact, nearly knocked him to the floor. It was Lana, smiling, holding an empty TV tray, nudging him with it. She gestured for him to put his food on it, but he still had no free hands, just the ones on his ears, which were busy keeping the noise out. She set the tray down, mouthed something he couldnât hear, and loaded up the tray for him. She pointed from the tray down the hall toward his room, as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra set of arms and could now carry the tray of food away from the noise while covering his ears to block out the noise. Matt stared at it, wondering how it had all gotten so complicated so fast. He just wanted dinner. The weird ground-turkey meatloaf he didnât care for, not on Mondays, but he refused to eat the halibut the rest of the family was eating, because Matt
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