Kathy stood behind the dining room door, forking cold Chef Boyardee ravioli from a can. The little pillows of dough were soft and the tomato sauce clung to the surfaces like cream. Dinner wasn’t coming up for half an hour, and Kathy was treating herself to a little snack beforehand. Kathy’s mother had decided it was important to experience food from foreign countries, so the first Friday of every month she’d try a new recipe. This she called “educating their pallets.” Last month she’d cooked this Chinese dish called Subgum Chicken Chow Mein that she served over English muffins with lots of soy sauce and crunchy brown noodle-things on top. In May she’d cooked Italian spaghetti, and in April she’d made a French dish called Beef Boigheenyawn, which to Kathy’s way of thinking was just like beef stew. Tonight they were having a Welch dish that Kathy herself had prepared under her mother’s watchful eye. First she’d opened a package of Kraft Old England American cheese slices that she melted in a double boiler with a can of evaporated milk. Then she’d stirred in Worcestershire sauce and half a teaspoon of dry mustard, and that was that. Oh, yum. She could hardly wait. The ravioli was just in case there wasn’t enough to go around.

The problem was that ever since the gym teacher, Miss Carrico, made that remark about Kathy’s losing thirty-five pounds, her mother had been keeping a close eye on her, serving her portions so small she left the table with a stomachache. The first time it happened Kathy thought she’d done it by mistake, but when she’d asked for a second helping, her parents had exchanged a look that made her cheeks burn. It was like they’d been discussing her behind her back and secretly agreed with the teacher, which didn’t seem fair.