“If you give me the details of tonight’s incident, maybe I won’t have to ask your father about it,” Crawley said.

There was no sense in lying to Old Man Crawley. No sense sugarcoating it either, so I told it to him as plainly, and as simply, as I could. “I spilled some water, and plucked ice cubes off some woman’s plate, so my father had to give her a free meal. Then he sent me home.”

A long silence on the other end. I could hear dogs barking in the background, and then Crawley said, “I am amazed, Anthony, by your continuing ability to disappoint me.” And then he hung up without as much as a good-bye.

Mom came home at about ten that night, with Christina practically asleep in her arms. I knew Dad wouldn’t be home until past midnight. It was like that all the time, since he opened the restaurant. On this particular night, though, I didn’t mind.

My mom came into my room once she got Christina off to bed. ‛You gotta understand, Antsy, your father’s under a lot of pressure.”

’Yeah, well, he doesn’t have to take it out on me.”

“He doesn’t mean to.”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

She sat on the edge of my bed. “The restaurant’s not doing as well as he would like. Mr. Crawley keeps threatening to pull the plug.”

I sat up, and before she could launch into the Top Ten Reasons Why I Should Cut My Father Some Slack, I said, “I get it, okay? But just because I get it doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”

She patted my leg, then left, satisfied.

When Dad got home around midnight, he made a point to stop by my room. Even before he spoke, I could tell that Darth Menu had left the building.

“Things good?” he asked.

Since there was no short answer, I just said, “Things are things.”

“So,” he asked, with a crooked little smile. “Did you at least like the Garlique Yam Puree?”