Tonight the Streets Are Ours

So she spent some of her hard-earned tutoring money to buy the gold dress. She figured she would wear the one her mother made to some other event. Like the theater club’s annual masquerade ball. Or a church service. Until then, she hung it in her closet.

The next day was Saturday, and the dance. All the theater kids were getting ready at Kirsten’s house, which was always where they had big gatherings, because Kirsten’s place was huge, and her dad and stepmom didn’t really care what their kids’ friends got up to so long as nobody set their house on fire. Arden packed her stuff to take over there: makeup, curling iron, gold dress, high heels. She grabbed her car keys and headed downstairs.

“I’m leaving,” she said as she stopped by the kitchen.

Her mother and brother both ignored her. They were locked in battle across the kitchen table from each other. “You love macaroni,” her mother was saying, staring him down.

Arden’s eyes flicked to the tray of homemade macaroni and cheese sitting at Roman’s place. It smelled amazing. If she hadn’t known that Kirsten was ordering in pizza, she would have just eaten Roman’s dinner herself.

“Not anymore,” Roman said.

“Since when?” asked their mother.

He shrugged his skinny shoulders impatiently. “I don’t know. Since sometime.”

“You liked macaroni last week.”

“Well, I don’t anymore. Can I go watch my movie now?”

“No,” their mother said. “You have to eat dinner before you can watch.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Arden jumped in, cuffing him on the shoulder, “Mom says so.” In the years since Roman’s toddler-aged tantrums, he had stopped crying so often, but he had never gotten less finicky.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll eat.” He stood up, crossed to the cabinet, and pulled out a bag of Goldfish crackers. He stuck a handful in his mouth. “Okay?” he mumbled, his teeth gummy with orange gobs.

“Not okay,” Arden said. “That’s disgusting.”

“Not okay,” said their mom. “That’s not dinner. Sit down, Roman Huntley, and eat your macaroni and cheese.”

“But I don’t want it!” he cried. “You said I don’t have to eat anything I don’t want to eat! Are you going to force-feed me macaroni? What is this, prison?”

“I’m not force-feeding you anything!” Their mother threw her hands up. “I worked hard on that macaroni, Roman. I made a special trip to the grocery store just to get the sort of shells you like. I made the bread crumbs from scratch. All of that, just for you, Roman. Arden isn’t even joining us for dinner tonight, and I made poached salmon for us grown-ups. The macaroni exists for you. So please, at least try it.”

Arden stole a bite off his plate. “It’s delicious, Mom. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Roman crossed his arms. “You can’t psychology me into eating it.”

“Dennis!” their mother called.

“One second!” their father shouted back.

“Not ‘one second’—right now.”

Arden was impressed. Her mother sounded firm. Even her father must have heard something unusual in her tone, because he emerged from his study to ask, “What’s going on?”

“Your son won’t eat his dinner,” Arden’s mother explained, pointing to the offending meal.

“Roman, eat your dinner,” their dad said immediately. “It’s dinnertime.”

“You’re not eating dinner,” Roman retorted.

“I’m finishing up a big project. But once I’m done, I’m going to eat some of this tasty food that your mother cooked for us.”

“No, you’re not,” Roman said. “You’re going to eat poached salmon. I’m the only one who has to eat this macaroni. And I don’t like macaroni.”

“Oh.” Their father scratched his head. “I didn’t know you didn’t like macaroni.”

“None of us did,” contributed Arden.

“Do you want to just eat the salmon, too?” their father offered.

And even though Roman had a strict anti-seafood policy, he said, “Yeah!”

“Well, then.” Their father grinned and tousled his son’s hair. “Problem solved.”

“Problem not solved,” their mother snapped. “Dennis, please. Back me up here.”

“I’m leaving,” Arden tried again.