Do you think JJ will hire a bodyguard to protect against future hugging? Keya’s not getting within two feet of her again.

Not sure Mom even noticed that she was both asking and answering her questions.

Zippo came out of the kitchen tying an apron around his waist. “Hey, so how’s my favorite TV celebrity?”

“He’s in the finals!” Mom said way too loud. Was “bravo for blandness” really something the entire Upper West Side needed to celebrate?

“Way to go.” Zippo gave me a thumbs-up. “The usual?”

I nodded. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t hungry. Plus, I was worried what would come out when I opened my mouth. I had that fizzy feeling I’d had that night at Nom Wah.

“You know what? I’ll have matzoh ball soup tonight too,” Mom said. “And a side of white fish. And an onion bagel.”

“Coming up.” Zippo noted the order, put the pen back behind his ear, and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I’m so excited for you,” Mom said.

And I could tell she really was, and it killed me, sitting there with her looking all proud and happy and clueless.

We’d all agreed not to tell Mom what we’d learned at El Mariachi. She would have felt awful, and it wouldn’t have changed anything. But I still couldn’t help blaming her for how everything had gone down. I’m not saying it was her fault that I cheated. That was all on me. But who knows what would have happened if I hadn’t gotten on the show because Mom was Chef JJ’s leech? Wouldn’t everything have been different?

Mom took out her phone, dialed, then held it to her ear.

“Hey, Walter, just checking in.” As she listened, the hand that wasn’t on the phone went to her mouth. “Okay, so I guess we just need to pull back to four mains. And cut the steak… I’ll think about it.” Tap. Tap-Tap. “We may not have a choice… Yup, the finals! I’ll tell him.” She looked at me and pumped a fist in the air. “All right. See you then.” She swiped the screen and put the phone on the table. “Walter says hello and congrats.”

“What else did he say?” Was she really going to have that conversation right in front of me and then pretend everything was great?

Tap-Tap. “Just some restaurant stuff.”

“Like what?” I swear I could feel my molecules zooming around faster and faster, bashing against my insides, looking for a way out.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you cutting the menu again?”

“Business is…” Tap. Tap. “We’re just experimenting. You know how I am.”

“Right, this is all just about how you are. Because everything is great, right?” In my lap, I squeezed my napkin into a tighter and tighter ball.

Tap-tap-tappity tap. Mom studied me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great, right?”

Zippo appeared and set the soups on the table. Each bowl held one enormous matzoh ball surrounded by a narrow moat of chicken broth.