He gets me a diet Coke and a beer for himself and we make our way towards a wooden table. I try not to let Mom get into my mind as we watch the game on a TV that hangs from the wall up by the ceiling. After a while my eyes wander and I notice a lady sitting at a table across from us eating her pizza. She is fat, like a Mexican mother, and it seems sad she should have to eat alone. She catches me looking at her and I look away, embarrassed for her, but a few minutes later her kids come up and sit across from her and she cuts them pieces and they start eating off folded paper napkins.

When our pizza comes Tomas cuts me a piece and folds it over the New York way, like he used to, and passes it over on a napkin. We lay out napkins on the wood instead of using plates because that is how we used to do it before Shakey’s started supplying dishes and utensils, back when we used to come with Mom. It steams in our faces and we eat the crisp slices on our napkins, though my fingertips can still feel the hot crust through the thin oily paper. The crust is warm and crisp in my mouth as I chew it and swallow. It makes me sicker that it tastes so good. I put my slice down and look up at him. Do you really think Mom didn’t cook us dinner?

He shrugs.

I told you. We’ll tell her we ate at a client’s.

Ever since I can remember, Mom has been making the dishes Dad’s mother used to cook, even when we were still living in the Philippines and she had not been to the States yet. Back in the barrio she used to cook a rice dish for her father and brother and something American for Dad. When he was around we ate whatever he did. We were always picking off other people’s plates, though, and you could get baked bananas and nuts on the streets and at the markets. Sometimes Tita tells Tomas he should get rid of his girlfriend, who does not get along with Mom, and find a wife who will want to live with her when she gets older, but he does not listen.

In the dark car he glances at me. Don’t worry so much, Junior. You can have it for lunch tomorrow.

When we get home the kitchen light is on—she is awake—and I keep behind him as we go up the walk. She is at the counter and the place smells like tomato sauce and baked cheese. The food has been left out. Obviously, she wants us to see it.

She doesn’t look at me.

Where have you guys been?

Just kicking about.

I made you dinner.