I’m shocked you’re not writing me as a Teen Wolf-like hoop star, vamping out to dunk on everyone. Tearing off your dad’s head to use as a basketball.

Dad said, “There he is. Larry Bird.” (I groaned inwardly, and outwardly too.) “Let’s play a quick game. Come on, Patty, you too.”

Mom and I hemmed and hawed, suggesting HORSE instead, as she didn’t want to get sweaty, and that dinner was almost ready.

Mercy said, “Me and Mr. Barbara versus you two. One game to eleven. And we’re gonna win.” Dad gave her a high-five.

We played on that patch of lumpen, frost-heaved blacktop, where footing was dicey at best. Dad, instantly in coach mode, reminded us players to watch out for the tire ruts and other more random sink spots in the pavement. Also, you had to be careful driving to the hoop because the rim and backboard hung off an old dilapidated garage and the plywood-boarded-up doors bowed out at the bottom and nibbled at your ankles if you got too close. I was not athletic in the classical sense (or any of the senses) but I had a deadly outside shot thanks to countless hours spent shooting by myself. I scored our first five buckets in a blink with jumpers and quick two-dribble pull-ups over Dad. He and I were the same height, but my arms were longer so I could extend and shoot over him. He took it easy on me that afternoon, not bullying me down in the post like he normally would. When the double-teams started coming my way (highly illegal ones in which Dad or Mercy or both would grab my arm or shirt), I dished to Mom, who had starred for her high school team twenty years prior, and she didn’t miss from ten feet in.

I’ll admit that I was happy (shooting lights-out helped), until Mercy accepted a stay-for-dinner invite. Then it was back to doom. Doom, doom, doomy doom doom.

While Mercy was in the bathroom washing up, my parents barraged me with a lightning round of questions to field, deflect, and face-palm, most of which were variations on the are-you-taking-her-to-the-prom theme. Dinner was beefaroni; elbow pasta, ground beef, store-bought (usually Ragú) red sauce. A staple in the house because it was one of the few meals I would eat in large quantities. My mercurial eating habits were a main topic of discourse. Mom dutifully listed all the things I wouldn’t eat, her sharpness of tone increasing with each enumeration as though finally freeing herself of a crushing burden. My mortification is presented below as a French existential-hell play:

LE MANGEUR DIFFICILE

(or, The Picky Eater)

MOM: He won’t use ketchup—

MERCY: Ketchup, wow.

MOM: Mayo, mustard, relish—

MERCY: Yeah, the no-condiments thing. He says it’s why he never gets a burger when we go to Micky D’s. He always orders fries and chicken McNuggets.