The scene was weirdly dramatic. Like something out of Shakespeare. Dad waved a spatula in the air as he spoke, making him look like a swordsman, and Mom spoke with her hands so much, it looked like karate.

“I’m tired of eating your family’s lousy, tasteless recipes,” Dad said.

“Tasteless recipes? My grandmother’s rolling in her grave!”

“It’s from indigestion.”

She threw an artichoke at him, and he batted it away with the spatula.

I went to the refrigerator, took out a Coke, and then something very strange happened. I flashed to Howie and Ira playing “Three Fisted Fury,” ignoring the Schwa. Anger began to boil up inside me. Yeah, I could get in and out of that kitchen unnoticed, but suddenly I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to ever again. I had a right to be noticed.

“Excuse me,” I said, loudly. “If you two are just going to argue all night, I’ll cook dinner; otherwise we’ll all be rolling in our graves from parental starvation.”

“Don’t you open up a mout like that!” Mom said.

“Go back to the living room,” Dad said. “This isn’t your problem.”

“Bullpucky!” I said, which isn’t actually the word I used, but I’m in a much better mood now than I was then.

When she heard that, Mom drew in a breath kind of like the way the ocean sucks back before a tidal wave. “What did you say?!”

“I said it’s time to eat. If you wanna fight, why don’t you lose a few teeth and go on a daytime talk show?”

Mom glared at me, and crossed her arms. “Do you hear this?” she says to Dad. “Where do you learn this disrespect, huh?”

“You don’t learn disrespect,” I told her. “You’re born with it.”

“Just keep digging that hole deeper, Antsy,” Dad said. So now all their anger had turned away from each other and was aimed at me. There was awesome power in being the center of fury.

“You want to earn your dinner, smart mout?” Mom says. “You tell us—who makes a better fra diavolo sauce. Me or your father?”

It was a stupid question, because who really cared, and yet I knew the answer was critical. The old Antsy would have found some way to distract them from the argument and, failing that, would have said something to keep the peace, like “Mom’s is better with pasta, Dad’s is better with meat” or “Dad’s is spicier, but Mom’s is heartier.” An answer would have held everything together and would have eventually gotten things back to normal.