Dinner

Mom was not happy about me getting detention.  “Isn’t it bad enough to have one of you in trouble,” she wailed at us as we tried to eat warmed-over worm burgers.  “Why can’t you just behave?  Be more like Deirdre?”  She pointed at Deirdre, who was eating her wormless grass salad so virtuously that I could have sworn she had a halo. 

“That reminds me,” I said casually, “somebody wrote Meat is Murder—Eat Nothing With a Face! on the wall in the girls’ bathroom.  I wonder who that could have been?”

“Somebody with a conscience,” was Deirdre’s smug reply. 

“Mrs. Brownwing, Tark is feeding his worm burger to the cricket!” shrilled the tattlebug.

Mom got up, went into the bedroom and slammed the door so hard the table shook.

“What is wrong with you?” demanded my father, looking at all three of us as if we were backstreet honey dealers.  Which in Tark’s case wouldn’t be too far from the truth.  He got up and followed Mom.  I could hear their voices raised in argument behind the door.

“What’s their problem,” grumbled Tark as he fed the rest of his burger to Squeaker, our pet cricket.

“Mrs. Brownwing!  Mrs. Brownwing!” the tattlebug continued, although nobody was paying attention. 

What a day.