Denise said, “Fine. Entertain us.”
Emily looked at the boy, not at the mother. The distinction was small and absolute. Caleb’s throat moved. He pushed the worksheet an inch toward her, and the inch was courage. The printed sheet beneath the fries showed itself a little more, a corner of black type, a problem number, the dull authority of print that had not yet been earned. Emily did not reach for it. She set the coffee pot on the empty place where a third person might have sat, and the pot clicked once against the chrome, a tiny sound, and was still.
“You want me to?” she said.
Denise leaned back into the red vinyl. The vinyl received her with a sigh. Her amusement was open now, almost cheerful, the cheer of a person who believes the next minute will restore the proper order of the world and is willing to pay a minute for the pleasure of watching the restoration.
“I really do.”