“We don’t need duct cleaning anyway,” Dad answers.

“No need to bother people at dinner,” Mom says. “Lots of jobs at the Donut Time. Shoulda seen the lineup of cars this afternoon. All those engines running.”

“People should just walk in. Have some real face time.” It looks like Dad is agreeing again. “Don’t need the internet for that.”

’Course, Dad recently argued with Mom that we should get internet in the house so I could do my homework better and he could job search from home.

Things are going so well. Still, I’m afraid Mom will launch into how his job hunting is going. So I try to change the topic. “This chicken is nice and moist.” I scoop the last bit from my plate into my mouth and then serve myself some more.

“Well, look at your appetite. Maybe you’re growing,” Dad says, reaching across the table to ruffle my hair.

I shrug my shoulders. “I wish.”

“Why don’t we have ice cream for dessert?” Mom says, patting my shoulder. She heads for the freezer and takes a container out.

Cold creamy food? Diesel paws at one of my knees.

Sorry! I look down at him. Dairy’s not good for dogs.

“Aroough!”

“We have this new flavour the shop is promoting. Coconut toffee crunch.” She scoops some out into two parfait dishes and I pass Dad one, along with a spoon. I take the other.

“You not having any, Adele?”

“I am trying to watch my figure,” Mom says.

“Why don’t you just let me do that?” Dad says. “From where I’m sitting, you’re looking pretty good.”

Mom blushes but doesn’t say anything.

“This flavour is yummy,” I tell her. I savour mine, allowing it to melt in my mouth and cool me down. I hit a toffee chunk and chew it a little before swallowing.

Dad nods. “Delicious. Here, try some of mine.” He leans toward Mom and offers her a spoonful.

She takes it.

“Good, right? You really not going to have some?”

She shakes her head.

He shakes his head, too, then crosses his arms and leans back in the chair. “Naomi, your mom told me you’ve bought yourself a new bathing suit.”

“I couldn’t help noticing the Bikini Island bag you carried into your room,” Mom explains.

“Bikini Island? Why don’t you model it for us?” Dad says, his voice a bit gravelly.

Oh, oh. That gravel tells me Dad doesn’t like the idea of a two-piece. “Let me just finish.” Delaying, I continue to eat slowly. Then I scrape at the last milky spots and lick the spoon. Absolutely nothing left. Both Mom and Dad sit, waiting and watching.

Finally, I head into my room, Diesel padding at my heels. He sprawls out across the floor as I empty my Bikini Island bag. The bill tumbles out, NO RETURN stamped across it in red. Not a big surprise. It’s kind of like underwear so close to your body. Who would want to wear a used swimsuit? I’m not taking it back anyway, I tell myself firmly. Bought it with my own money, after all. I take off all my clothes, step into the bright-red bottom and pull it up. This time I tie the top at the back first and then arrange the tiny triangles across my chest. It takes some fumbling to knot the string at the top of my neck — it needs to be tied pretty tight.