She stopped making circles in the salt long enough to catch me rummaging at the bottom of the container in search of more limp fries. “What do you mean ‘nothing’? You must know something. His name? Where he lives? How long your mom knew him? Something?”

“Nope.” I shook my head. “I know absolutely nothing.” I started licking my fingertips. Long ago, I learned that my mother would reveal her secrets when she was ready. As a result, I stashed away my curiosity like a bill that wasn’t due to be paid and didn’t give it much more thought than that.

“Do you think he was a jerk? Like he was mean to her or something?”

I was about to share the one tiny shred of information I had managed to discover. I was going to tell her that my mother told me never to see or speak to my father, but before the words came out, the front door flew open and in walked Lavi’s brother.

At sixteen, Daryl was lean and compact. Even when he smiled, his face looked compressed, as though it was too painful for the muscles to move into position. He sauntered in and tossed his books onto the counter.

“Hey,” he said, clicking his head back once in acknowledgment of our presence.

“Hey,” responded Lavi.

Daryl’s hair was buzzed short, which made him look like he was on leave from the military, and the faded fatigues he wore added to the illusion. I didn’t know much more about him because most times he would go into his room and slam the door when he came home. He had Lavi’s coloring, but that was all. Everything else about him was the complete opposite. It was strange how two siblings could be so different. My mind wandered to thoughts of Franny, so I didn’t notice when Lavi’s mother walked in a few minutes later.

She was never home during Lavi and my french fry feasts, so this was the first time I had ever seen her. Her hair was curly like Lavi’s, but the color had faded and it looked dry and wiry. What were probably once pretty tendrils now poked out from her hairnet like stiffened old fingers. She worked at the diner in town and still had on her apron, which was splattered with pale orange grease stains. Her eyes were wild and round and she was trying to speak, but all that came up were sputters of bubbled saliva. She didn’t seem to realize I was even sitting there.

“How could you?” she wailed, sending sparks up my spine.

“Leave it alone, Ma,” Daryl said, walking behind the kitchen bar and rummaging in the cabinet underneath.

“But you promised me. You promised.” I watched as her face caved in and rage was replaced with despair. She began to sob and her shoulders shook as she cried into her hands.