He said it as if there was nothing to discuss.I blinked, the knife still in my hand. Dan looked from me to the girl, then back to me.
The girl kept her eyes fixed on the floor. Her sneakers were scuffed, and she clutched the straps of a faded purple backpack. I could see her ribs through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. She looked like she was disappearing into the floor.
“Um, hi.” I tried to sound welcoming, but my voice came out weak. “Grab a plate, honey.”
She hesitated. “Thanks,” she whispered, her voice barely audible across the table.
I watched her. She didn’t just eat, she rationed. A measured portion of rice, a piece of chicken, two carrots. She flinched at every clink of silverware or squeak of a chair, tense like a frightened animal.
Dan cleared his throat, adopting a conciliatory attitude. “So, Lizie, right? How long have you known Sam?”
She shrugged, still looking down. “Since last year.”
Sam interjected: “We do gymnastics together. Lizie’s the only one who can run a mile without complaining.”
This brought a small smile to Lizie’s face. She reached for water, her hands shaking. She drank, refilled the glass, and drank again.
I glanced at Sam. Her cheeks were flushed. She was watching me, almost daring me to react.
I looked at the food, then at the girls. I did the math again: less chicken, more rice, maybe no one would notice.
Dinner passed in silence. Dan tried to break the silence. “How’s algebra going, you two?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Dad. Nobody likes algebra, and nobody talks about algebra at the dinner table.”
Lizie’s voice was soft when she spoke. “I like it,” she said. “I like the patterns.”
