LITMIR.BIZ

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because you get Cs,” London replies smugly. “You’ll never be Curington’s valedictorian.”

      “That’s stupid,” Pumpkin squeals.

      “London and Nevaeh. Sweethearts,” Margaret cuts in calmly with her polite head tilt, “that’s a bad word for Pumpkin.”

      I look over at Pumpkin, whose mass of curly hair is approximately three times bigger than her head. The plate in front of her is plastic and instead of a fancy, gold-rimmed glass she’s got a Tinker Bell sippy cup, which she suddenly hurls through the air. I watch it soar before it splashes down into the pool. Man, that kid’s got an arm on her.

      “Yay! Fun!” Pumpkin claps.

      Anthony waves his hand at Margaret. “Don’t get it. Let her learn. You throw your cup, you don’t have anything to drink.”

      Margaret nods.

      “I’m grateful I might be valedictorian, too,” Nevaeh says. “In six years. When I graduate. That’s what I’m grateful for. I have faith.”

      Anthony rolls his eyes. “Heaven? What are you grateful for?”

      “I’m grateful our first scrimmage game is next Friday.”

      “Finally, right?” Nevaeh says. The twins bump fists across the table.

      “Sixth-grade basketball.” London rolls her eyes. “How droll.”

      “Tiffany, do you play ball?” Anthony asks. “I would imagine, with all that height.”

      “No. Not since I was four and had one of those plastic basketball hoops attached to the bathtub.”

      “Tiffany plays the guitar, Dad!” Nevaeh exclaims excitedly. “She brought a guitar case with an actual guitar inside.”

      Anthony’s brow furrows. “Well, that’s a shame about not playing basketball. With all that height? We gotta get you on the court. Basketball skills run in the Stone family.”

      A sport played by two teams with five players each on a rectangular court: how Wikipedia describes basketball.

      Something fun to watch or play: how most people describe basketball.

      Sweaty athletes exhausting themselves while running around and throwing an orange bouncy ball back and forth until a winner is declared and the madness ends: how I describe basketball.

      “You should see if you can try out for Curington’s team!” Nevaeh suggests. “Stone house rules say you gotta play a sport. Why not basketball?”

      “I have to play a sport?” Dread crawls up my spine. “Why?”

      Instead of answering my question, Anthony nods and says, “Good idea, Nevaeh.”

      “But, Dad,” London cuts in. “JV team is suspended this year for hazing. And varsity tryouts are over.”

      Anthony shrugs. “I’ll talk to Coach James. See what we can do. She’s a transfer. She deserves a shot.”

      I picture myself on the court, braids out, hair in a Buckwheat-style ’fro with tiny bald patches peeking through. Gripping the ball, running across the court in tears. The referee blowing his whistle at me. The other girls on the team hurling profanities my way. Crowd hissing and booing. Cheerleaders standing in disgust, arms folded, refusing to cheer.

      “Margaret, babe. What are you thankful for?” Anthony asks.

      “I’m thankful Pumpkin’s doing so well. Her behavior therapist thinks she might not even have the diagnosis by the time she’s ready for kindergarten.”

      “See, honey? I told you not to worry so much. It’s all about intervention with autism.”

      “Our hard work is paying off. Finally.” Margaret turns to Pumpkin. “And what are you thankful for, Pumpkin, my love?”

      “You thankful?” Pumpkin replies.

      “No, honey. I’m asking you. Tell us what you’re thankful for. Or maybe just something that makes you happy. What makes you happy?”

      Pumpkin grins and looks my way. “Hi. How you?”

      “Me? Oh... I’m...fine?”

      “Pumpkin, tell us what you’re thankful for,” Nevaeh insists.

      “I sick!” Pumpkin suddenly wails. “I hun-gee.”

      “So then you can be thankful for food,” Nevaeh says kindly. “Say you’re thankful for food so you don’t have to be hungry.”

      “No! I mad,” Pumpkin wails. “I so fus-tated!” She picks up her plastic plate and hurls it across the table, narrowly missing Anthony’s head. “I very not happy!”

      “Pumpkin!” Anthony bellows. “That is inappropriate behavior. You do not throw your plate!”

      An epic-size shriek escapes from Pumpkin’s tiny, little body. She kicks at the table. Beautiful, expensive dishes wobble dangerously as she thrashes about in her chair. “Leave me ’lone! I sad!”

      Margaret tosses Anthony a worried look. “I don’t think she gets thankful yet. It’s making her upset. Can we let this one go? Please?”

      “No,” Anthony replies sternly. “Bedtime. Take her now.”

      Pumpkin’s eyes fill with tears and she immediately calms down. “No! I so sorry. I so sorry, Daddy.”

      “Thank you for saying sorry, Pumpkin,” he replies. “But you still have to go to bed. Your behavior is very bad and Mommy and Daddy are very sad and frustrated.”

      “I am bad! I am bad girl!” She screams as Margaret rises and grabs the toddler in her arms as she flails about. “Bad behavior! Bad!”

      “Can we give her something to eat first?” Margaret shouts over Pumpkin’s screams, struggling to tame the redheaded beast of a child. “She hasn’t eaten since noon.”

      “Don’t care. She ain’t gonna starve,” Anthony declares with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Good night, Pumpkin. Everybody say good-night to your sister.”

      Nevaeh happily throws up the peace sign and Heaven and London mumble something that sounds similar to good night, but feels more like good riddance.

      “I apologize for Pumpkin’s behavior, Tiffany,” Margaret says without actually looking at me, and, with Pumpkin thrashing about in her arms, excuses herself. A moment later I can still hear Pumpkin shrieking from somewhere deep inside the house.

      Nevaeh whistles. “Get that kid a prescription. Stat.”

      “Can you get her a prescription?” Heaven adds. “She doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”

      “And Mom seems miserable,” London adds. “It’s not fair.”

      Nevaeh nods. “We need to take a family vote. Pumpkin’s out of control. She needs medication.”

      “She needs exactly what she’s getting,” Anthony states angrily. “Besides, no child of mine is going to be a victim of some whacked psychiatrist pushing pills.”

      I swallow nervously.

      “Now—I’m thankful for each and every one of you.” He smiles. It’s less of an I’m happy smile and more of an I’m done talking about this smile. “Let’s eat.”

      * * *

      “Babe, you outdid yourself this time.” Anthony exhales, pushing his empty plate away.

      “Yeah. That was good,” I add as everyone else gives their personal praise for Margaret’s meal.

      It actually wasn’t. There was a vegetable salad with some sort of brown tart dressing that gave me killer heartburn. Little brown pellets that everybody was calling keen-wah. I never had keen-wah before

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