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“You hear about Maya?” The boy, Ivan, speaks absently without looking up from his shepherd’s pie.
“Your friend Maya?” His mother, Karen, who made the shepherd’s pie, and from whom Ivan inherited his gaunt face and thick tawny hair, has a roster of her son’s school acquaintances memorized. “The one who smokes pot?”
She likes to keep track.
“The one you asked out?” Ivan’s father, Timothy, is a glass-blower by trade, and wonderfully oblivious to the true state of the world. He’s the source of his son’s poor eyesight and shuffling, uncertain gait.
“No.” Ivan stares his parents down across the table. “The one who attacked her sister.
Ashley heard it from Ron’s mom. b***h attacked her sister with a knife.”
“Don’t say b***h, Ivan.”
“Eat your shepherd’s pie, Ivan.”
“She
