But dinner was deathly silent. The only sound was the clatter of our forks on the plates as we ate. Then my mother quietly said, “Did you see the Brent boy? He has a lip ring now. I told you he was bad.” My lip quivered in slight anger from that statement.

“Uh-huh,” My father mindlessly said while reading the stock market section of the newspaper.

“Who?” I asked.

“No one Jameson. No one at all.” Mother responded. But I knew better. I turned my head slowly to face the door that was never unlocked, “What’s that door go to?” I asked. Father looked over the top of his newspaper to glance at Mother, who paused a moment before scolding, “Jameson, what’s with all these questions? You know what is and isn’t your business. And what that door leads to isn’t your business.” I stared at my almost empty plate before asking, “May I be excused?”

“Yes.”

I got up and tossed my dishes into the sink before bounding up the steps

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