“Well, do we consider the military wimpy or manly for taking this stance?” My father smiled even more. He loves this kind of conversation.

I hate it.

“The police call it ‘The Blue Wall,’” he continued. “The code of silence within the force. One cop never tells on another cop, no matter how corrupt or onerous he or she may be. It’s simply not done.”

I wondered if my father was telling me that I was being honorable—or the opposite. I tried to keep my foot from shaking impatiently, but when I held my foot still, my fingers started drumming.

Meanwhile, the tide continued. I felt my father’s words breeze past without ever touching me. He was talking about the idea of tattling, but it wasn’t about me or my situation in particular. It was, as always, nothing personal.

As he laughed at one of his own jokes, I finally interrupted to say, “Well, Dad, what do you think I should do?”

He raised his palms in a shrug. “Beats me, baby. But it’s a very interesting dilemma, I’ll give you that!”

I am a stick of dynamite
And I feel the end of my personal fuse
Drawing dangerously near.
Spark and sputtery
Bright string on fire!
Hot!
Twisting ash-worm eating toward
KA-BLAMMO!!

No! No explosion. No temper. Not here, not now. I tried hard to control my voice and said, “This interesting dilemma is my real life, you know.”

He blinked at me, blink, blink. “Yes, of course it is, baby. I know that.” Then he glanced down at the orange slice on my plate and said, “You going to eat that?”

*   *   *

When I got home, my mother asked what my father said about my cheating.

I shrugged.

“You didn’t tell him?” she asked.

“I told him,” I said. “And he thought it was interesting.”

Mom shrieked, “He what?” Then she made a beeline for the telephone to tell her girlfriends about my father’s latest blunder.

I went to my room.

Rob

So quiet, I wonder if I’m dead. Then recognize my room, my stuff. It’s light out, so why does the clock say eleven? Must’ve slept through to the next day. Sunday, right?

Pull on pants, unlock door, go downstairs. No one. Not even my kid brother. Turn into the kitchen—father sitting at the table. I think: Here goes.

He says, “Morning.”

I say, “Morning.” Look around for the trick, a hint of his mood. Nothing out of place or weird.

Get the box of cereal, milk. Pour myself a bowl. Shut the box right—fold the inner bag, put the tab in the slot. Put the milk carton back in the fridge. Go to the table, sit across from him. About to eat when I remember the napkin. Jump and almost topple my chair. Then sit with my napkin. Begin to eat.