We only ate at Outback Steakhouse on special occasions. Dad became a massive fan of the chain after they sponsored a reward challenge for his favorite show, CBS’ hit primetime reality TV competition, Survivor. Mom, a vegetarian who sometimes ate fish and on special occasions ate chicken, tolerated the chain’s fatty foods and wooden booths because she liked pretending our servers were her “mates” straight off their flights from Australia.

Outback’s overcrowded dining room smelled like charred meat. Dad, a stocky man in a sleeveless Detroit Lions hoodie, got someone to cover his second shift so he could attend what Mom kept calling my “once-in-a-lifetime” high school graduation dinner. Sitting beside Mom in the wooden booth across from me, he scratched his scraggly beard. Our identical tan skin, dark-brown eyes, and unruly black hair contrasted Mom’s red freckles and Irish paleness. Looking at him was like reading the back of a cigarette carton. Warning: keep eating like shit and watching TV all day, and this haggard asshole will soon be your reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Applying a fresh layer of strawberry ChapStick, Mom explained how her osteopath’s new lightworker healed her sinus infection using crystals and star seeds tailored to her astrological sign. “It’s all a conspiracy, Felix,” she said. “Those medical doctors don’t want you to get better; how else will they make money if we’re not sick all the time?”

I reminded myself some things weren’t worth getting into, then decided to get into them anyway. “You got better because colds take time to get over.”

Mom patted my wrist. “Look how red my stubborn Taurus is getting.”

My voice cracked. “I’m not red. All I’m saying is that stuff is dangerous. It’s not real, and you shouldn’t believe in it.”

Mom tucked her frizzy hair behind her tiny ears. “Exactly what a Taurus would say.”

Dad absentmindedly rubbed her shoulder as he checked his watch. We’d been waiting to eat for over an hour because he insisted we arrive thirty minutes before our reservation to avoid rush-hour traffic. When there’d last been a rush hour in Haven, our town of fewer than 10,000 people, I couldn’t say, but there was no reasoning with Dad about his schedule. Mom held her chin, staring at me like I was Jesus Christ resurrected. She’d spent two hours on her makeup before squeezing into her favorite black dress, which she hadn’t worn since my cousin’s wedding in ’07. “My special graduation boy,” she whispered, reaching over the table and rubbing my arm.

I yanked myself free. “We’re in public.”“Unbelievable,” Dad said, jerking his head toward the young waitress three tables to his left. I watched her make funny faces at a baby while handing its mother a Spicy Mango ’Rita. Her smushed face wasn’t doing her any favors. I wished she was hot: Dad had more patience around hot women.

Chewing the air like he was tasting the ambiance, Dad cursed the waitress under his breath. I kept my face neutral like he didn’t annoy the shit out of me, blaming myself for my inability to tolerate him for more than five minutes. The man never wanted kids, but he stuck with Mom after getting her pregnant because he thought raising me was the right thing to do. Occasionally, he tried to talk to me about sports, cars, and cute girls in my class, but I never took the bait. “Why can’t you like normal people things?” he asked after I told him cars were boring. I didn’t have a good answer.

He put his keychain on the table; it still carried the yellow beaded owl I made for him at summer camp when I was ten. I hated how much significance I gave that plastic owl, which he’d probably forgotten about years ago. Ask him about work; that’d be nice. He loves complaining about work. “It’s been ten minutes since the waitress looked over here. This is not the service I expect when I go to The Outback,” he said, clenching his jaw like he was trying to bite through his bottom gums. Mom pet his hair; she must’ve hit his sweet spot because he calmed down enough to resume studying his menu for the fourth time since we sat down. White scars from his days as a linebacker danced across his fat knuckles as he tapped the table. “If she thinks she can starve us out so we order more food, she’s in for a nice surprise,” he said. “We’re sticking to one Bloomin’ Onion no matter how long she takes. Everyone got that? Don’t hog the Bloomin’. We all got our order ready for when she gets here? Pat, they got those grilled shrimp on the barbie you like under the Aussie-Tizers.”

Mom lunged forward, grabbing my arm again and cutting off my circulation. “I thought your speech was stunning, Felix. Absolutely stunning! And the way the audience cheered; you made it rain on them like a U2 concert.” Were we at the same graduation? My valedictorian speech was a floundering disaster; I dropped my notecards and sweat through my gown in the first thirty seconds. I’d considered failing my last final so Stephanie Hall would be valedictorian, but Dad would never have let me hear the end of it. A son going to Northwestern doesn’t lose his valedictorian spot to Stephanie Hall. It was bad enough that I couldn’t dribble or throw a ball to save my life; my academics were all Dad had to brag about to the guys around his office at the water reclamation facility—a fancy name for where people clean shit.

“If I get a ribeye, it comes with some shrimp for you, Pat, so cancel that Aussie-Tizer,” Dad said, closing and re-opening his menu while shooting furious glances at our oblivious waitress. “This is ridiculous: she hasn’t looked our way once since she brought the bread. What am I? Fucking invisible?” I took a large bite of warm Honey Wheat Bushman Bread. Dad looked at me like eating at a time like this was offensive.

Mom blew her nose with Dad’s handkerchief, stuffing the moist cloth back into his shirt pocket. “And where’s James tonight?” she asked me. “You know he could’ve come with us, right? He’s your best friend, and it’s your special night. Do you not want him around us?”

I sucked on the one large ice cube left in my water glass. “I didn’t say that.”

Mom tilted her head. “You may as well have. You’re always at James’ house, and he never comes to see us. You make your father and I feel like we embarrass you. Doesn’t it feel like that, Rod?” Dad grunted, preoccupied with slapping the table every few seconds in a new effort to catch our waitress’ eye. Our silverware jumped as Mom lowered her voice, looking around the restaurant like she feared someone might hear her terrible secret. “Is it because you don’t think we know how to talk to Black people?”

I coughed up a piece of bread caught in my throat. “Mom! God no!”

Mom blew out a noisy breath. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll repeat it: I might not be Hispanic like you and your father, but I am sympathetic to minority cultures. We Irish people were slaves too, but you don’t see the government giving us a history month.”

“Isn’t March Irish-American Heritage Month?” I asked.

“Don’t get smart”

I shrugged, eager to move on, but Mom kept examining me. “You’re making way too big a deal out of nothing,” I said. “James couldn’t come to dinner because his graduation ceremony was after mine; I’ll see him tomorrow,” I repeated for the hundredth time that week. “There’s no conspiracy against you; text Tina and ask her.”

It’d been hard going to a different high school than James. To no one’s surprise, I made zero friends at Haven Prep. My school days were spent in the back of classrooms, where I tried not to draw attention to myself while re-reading my favorite books. Haven Prep was one of the top preparatory schools in the country. My academic scholarship there was supposed to change my life, and I guess it did, despite my best efforts to fuck it up. I constantly asked my parents if I could join James at Washington High, but the conversation was a non-starter for Dad, who worked double shifts to pay the half of my tuition my scholarship didn’t cover. Having graduated with a full ride to Northwestern, I begrudgingly had to accept that he was right to force me to stay. I might have (not likely) even thanked him if just once he admitted he sent me to a school where a kid with a Walmart backpack never stood a virgin’s chance in hell of fitting in.

Dad’s mouth foamed as the waitress served a table that was seated after us. “Hey! Waitress! Over here!” he shouted. Thirty eyes fell on us, but none of them belonged to our waitress. I sank so low half my face disappeared under the table. “Hey, Waitress, Waitress, Waitress!” Dad chanted, standing and clapping his hands like a heckling fan behind home plate at Comerica Park. Maybe people won’t know we’re related. I could slip someone a note that says I’m being human trafficked.

Mom dragged Dad back into their booth. “Can we not tonight, Rod? For once, can we not?”

Dad rested his hands behind his head, wetting his lips. “So, my one and only son, what’s the plan?” he asked. The question caught me off guard: Dad and I had talked about ‘The Plan’ since I was four, but it always ended with me getting into a prestigious university.

“Northwestern, obviously,” I said.

Dad shook his head like I uttered the dumbest response he’d ever heard. “It’s like half my life is spent talking to myself,” he said. “The point of Northwestern is to get a high-paying job so you can take care of your mom and me when we’re old. Why do you think I work myself to death to pay for your school and put a roof over your head?”

“Because I’m your kid?” I asked. Mom scrunched her face like I should try again. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. “You didn’t even go to college; you have no idea how hard it was to get into Northwestern.” Dad raised his eyebrows, daring me to get into a conversation on work ethic with a man who got four hours of sleep on a good night. I sighed. “I’m sorry; I thought Northwestern was what we’d been working toward.”

“Northwestern is in the fall,” Dad said. “What’re you doing all summer to advance yourself? I hope you’re not planning on playing footsie with your butt buddy from across the street for the next three months.”

“His name is James, and he’s not my butt buddy,” I snapped. I had a headache; tension raced down my neck, stretching over my hunched shoulder blades. Closing my eyes, I pinched the skin above my nose. I jump across the table and punch him in the face. His blood splatters all over the last piece of Honey Wheat Bushman Bread. The waitress leads the restaurant in a standing ovation. I opened my eyes.

“So?” Dad asked. “What’s your plan?”

Chilling and doing nothing with James was exactly what I wanted to do all summer, but there was no way I could say that and let Dad win. For most of my life I’d operated on the principle that there was nothing worse than letting my father win an argument, and I wasn’t going to give that up three months away from moving to Chicago and breaking free from him for good. I thought hard, remembering James’ complaint about not having money to take his latest fling, Hana Maeda, on a date. “Actually, James and I are applying for summer jobs,” I said so smugly you’d think I’d signed up to be an astronaut. “I think some experience will look good on my resume.”

Mom dropped her purse, abandoning her search for mints and clapping her hands like a trained seal. “A job? What a wonderful idea! I’m so excited for you, honey.”

Dad scratched his cleft chin. “It’s a plan,” he admitted, “but don’t miss a real job because James wants to work at an arcade.”

The waitress returned to our table, stopping Dad from grilling me further. “Sorry about the wait, folks; we’re short-staffed tonight. What can I get started for—”

Dad shot his hand in front of her face, jolting her back mid-sentence. “Manager,” he said. Not this again. I’m so hungry; can’t we eat? Is eating too much to ask for at a graduation dinner?

The waitress scratched her forehead with the back of her pen. Fluorescent lights illuminated sweat on the faint mustache above her espresso lipstick. “I’m sorry; I only caught about half that: bad ears,” she explained. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Dad’s voice dripped with condescension. “I need you to go to the back, grab your MAN-AG-ER, and bring him here A-S-A-P. Got it, sugar?”

I regretted not punching him in the face. To her credit, the waitress never lost her tobacco-stained smile. “Right away, sir,” she said, stuffing her notebook into her pocket and rushing toward the kitchen. She was sidetracked halfway to her destination by a chatty customer, who tossed a generous tip on his table. We’re never going to eat.

Dad didn’t notice our new delay: he was too busy glowing like an Olympian on a podium. “I’ll tell you one thing: she can kiss her tip goodbye.”

“She was awfully slow to take our order,” Mom agreed, offering us mints.

“She still hasn’t taken our order,” I clarified. “Not that she didn’t try.” No one bothered to hear me.

“Don’t forget, Felix, there are consequences for laziness,” Mom said.

“Damn straight,” Dad agreed. “We work as hard as anyone else here; shouldn’t we get fair treatment? You can’t let people walk all over you.” Which of our cargo-shorts-wearing dining companions Dad thought was getting special treatment was a mystery to me. I studied my parents’ bloated, wrinkled smiles. How did I come from these two?

“Guess I won’t eat now that they’re going to spit in our food,” I grumbled.

“Felix? What’s wrong?” Mom asked, checking my forehead’s temperature with the back of her hand.

“Nothing—stop touching me all the time.”

Dad punched his booth. “No, Mumbles McGee, what did you say? If you’re going to say something at a dinner that I’m paying for—at The Outback—then sit up like a man and say it with your chest.”

Silence fell over the table. Mom looked away, like her lack of eye contact absolved her from getting involved. I rolled up my sleeves, refusing to take my public flogging lying down. I’ve got plenty to say, asshole. Arguing had become our favorite pastime since I got into college, which was weird since Northwestern was the one thing Dad and I both always wanted for me. Adrenaline almost pushed me to madness, opening my mouth and starting World War III in the middle of an Outback Steakhouse. Then, I looked at Mom, holding back a tear in her best ’07 dress, and my words died in my throat. “Nothing, sir; I didn’t say anything,” I muttered. “It won’t happen again.”

The manager, an older woman with uneven bangs, came out a few minutes later. Dad complained until she comped our meal. I ordered a burger but lost my appetite before it arrived. Faking small talk to keep Mom happy, I picked at my fries until it was time to go home. Mom reminded me how proud she was of my “astonishing valedictorian speech” as we crossed the parking lot. “It was the proudest moment of my life, seeing you on that stage. And after all your shyness when you were little. It’s all gone now, huh? Look at you blossom!”

We climbed into Dad’s silver truck. Whistling, he cranked up country music and tapped his steering wheel. “Man, that was a good meal,” he whooped, rolling down his window and reversing out of the parking lot. “No one does it like The Outback.”