“I thought you hated that stuff,” I told him as I rubbed my eyes.

“Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

I sat down at the kitchen table and nodded.

“Sometimes I think I like this stuff better than your own grandmother’s sauce, and you better take that to the grave, Sweet Pea.”

He handed me a forkful and I took it, even though I’d brushed my teeth hours ago.

“I blame your mother.” Dad shook his head. “My mom was right. ‘That woman will ruin you,’ she said. I just didn’t think she’d ruin my refined taste buds.”

Oscar and I sit at the kitchen table with our chairs scooted close together while he calls his mom and holds the phone between for both of us to hear.

“Mama, Sweet Pea’s mom invited me to stay for dinner.”

“Not tonight, baby,” she says.

I can’t help but blurt, “Nooooooo,” and then clap my hand over my mouth as I remember Mrs. Rivera can hear me.

“Moooooom,” moans Oscar.

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. Your father came home early from work and has been working hard trying to figure out my directions for enchiladas for a nice family dinner. Sweet Pea, I love you, but I love the thought of not having to cook a family dinner even more.” She pauses. “And yes, I can hear you.”

“Hi, Mrs. Rivera,” I say, my voice slinking.

“I’ll be home soon,” Oscar says.

“Music to my ears,” she says, and hangs up.

Oscar shrugs. “I tried.”

“Maybe next time,” I say as he gathers up his stuff and heads out.

In the kitchen, Mom eyeballs the frozen lasagna as she pours hot water on it from the tap, trying to get it to defrost. “How is it that frozen lasagna takes over an hour to cook? Who wants to wait that long for dinner?” She turns the handle on the faucet. “What do you say we head to the mall to grab a bite to eat and then shop for your graduation dress?”

“I’d say, ‘Can we get a pretzel after dinner?’ and ‘Let me get my shoes.’”

We settle on tacos and elotes from Taco Regio and agree we’ll get cinnamon-sugar pretzels after dress shopping. Before we go, Mom wraps her soft brown waves into a low bun and puts on the white linen blazer she wore to work. Dad used to always poke fun at her for wearing her work clothes out around town, like she might be embarrassed if a client saw her without her usual blazer and bun—the true signs that she means business.

After dinner, on our way to Levine’s, Mom says, “I got an email from Coach Jeffers. He said you weren’t feeling well during PE. You look just fine to me.”

“It was just a short stomachache.”

With her eyes still on the road, she touches the back of her hand to my head. “Is it your lady time?” she asks, her voice low.

I roll my eyes. “Mom.”