“MEATLOAF AGAIN?”I stare at the grayish glob my mom has plopped next to my broccoli and corn.
“What do you mean? It’s been a whole week,” says my mom, continuing to serve the twins and herself.
Right. A whole week. Here’s the thing—my mom knows how to make seven meals. That’s it. That’s all. She keeps all seven recipes in a pink binder, each one labelled with a day of the week. Today is Meatloaf Monday. Again.
“I’m not really hungry,” I say, pushing my food back and forth on my plate.
“Me neither,” says Jeanie, pushing her plate away.
“Meatloaf’s gross,” says Georgie, not wanting to be left out.
My mom sighs.
“Malia,” she says, “you’re eleven. You should be setting an example for your brother and sister. Now please, just pick up your forks and eat.”
Normally, I would have. But maybe it was because Sam Carter said my hair was ugly, or because I got a C on my spelling test. Today I was feeling nasty.
“It’s just, it’s been Tuna Tuesdays and Spaghetti meal has to start with the same letter as a day of the week.”
