I ran home, half hoping that either Kristy or Stacey would call after me. But neither one did.

Chapter 2.

The last thing I wanted to do after our big fight was eat dinner with Dad, but he expects us to have a proper meal in the evening. Sometimes he fixes it, sometimes I do, but we always sit down in the kitchen and eat dinner at 6:30.

Luckily, Dad was still at work when I got home from Claudia's that night. I was crying, and in no mood to speak to anybody. I slammed angrily around the kitchen. I took a pan of leftover pot roast out of the refrigerator, slammed the fridge shut, stuck the pan in the oven, and slammed the oven shut. Then I got out plates and glasses, knives and forks, and slammed two cabinets and a drawer. I banged the things down on the table one at a time. Eight bangs.

Then I went upstairs to wash my face. By

the time Dad got home I looked a lot better and felt a little better.

"Mary Anne?" he called.

"Coming," I answered. I headed down the stairs, my hair neatly combed, my blouse tucked carefully into my skirt, my kneesocks pulled up and straightened. Dad says it's important to look nice at mealtime.

"Hi," I said.

"Hello, Mary Anne." He leaned over so I could kiss his cheek. "Is dinner started?"

"Yes." (Dad hates when people say yeah. He also hates shut up, hey, gross, retarded, and a long list of other words that creep into my vocabulary whenever I'm not around him.) "I'm heating up the pot roast."

"That's fine," said Dad. "Let's just toss a salad. That will make a nice dinner."

Dad and I got out lettuce, tomatoes, a cucumber, and some carrots. We chopped and tossed silently. In no time, a crisp salad was sitting in a glass bowl in the center of the kitchen table. My father took the pot roast out of the oven and served up two portions.