He stops dead in his tracks. “Yes, Mother Hubbard,” he says, turning to face me.

“Would you look and see if there’s a fax in there?”

He disappears and immediately returns, holding it between his teeth. “It looks like directions,” he says.

“Thanks. Now sit,” I say, taking the paper from his mouth.

“But I’ve got tons of homework and I need to clean my room.”

“I said sit. Your room was dirty yesterday, it can wait. And homework isn’t that important.”

“What?”

I knew this would get his attention. “I want to know what’s going on with you and Meagan.”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“I overheard something on the phone a while ago that didn’t sound like it was about nothing.”

“Oh, you mean about her maybe being pregnant?”

“That would be it.”

“She made it up.”

“What do you mean, ‘made it up’?”

“She was faking. Scheming. Trying to run a game on me.”

This is a relief, but something’s still not right about this whole thing. I have a sour taste in my mouth. “Okay, so, Mr. Sex Machine, she ‘faked it’ this time, but what about the next time you decide to get on top of her without a goddamn condom? What if it’s when you’re about to head off to Stanford or UCLA or US-fucking-C! Do you think she’ll fake it then?”

“Ma, settle down. It’s okay. I’m not seeing her at all anymore. Bet.”

“Bet, my ass. Don’t be so stupid, Dingus. Girls do this shit every day of the week. Back in the seventies and eighties . . .” And then he gets that “here-we-go-again” look on his face, but I really don’t care. “Look, this is the little game pretty girls played who didn’t have a future of their own mapped out. They’d get these jocks who were headed for the NBA or the NFL or the major leagues all strung out and so grateful to have them as trophies that they’d marry them, and these girls would be set up for life. The point I’m trying to make here Dingus is this: love who you want to and I don’t care what color she is really, but know that the ones who don’t have at least a two-point-seven grade point average—and aren’t thrilled about the idea of going to college—are the girls who usually have an agenda. They want to marry up and they want to marry well. But when and if they ever divorce you, it’s pretty much bankruptcy for you. So you won’t have too much left to offer the next wife and new batch of kids. It’ll be a struggle, even though you might be making millions. Get the picture?”

“I get it, Ma! Dag. I get it! Why don’t you take a chill pill?”

“I have taken a chill pill,” I say, not meaning to.

“Can I say something here to defend myself?” he asks, walking over and patting me on the head.

“I’m listening,” I say, trying to duck away from his hand.