The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee by Barry Jonsberg

explain.
    â€œI’ve made dinner,” I said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œSo we could eat it.”
    â€œBut I’ve eaten. Spaghetti and meatballs. I left a covered plate for you in the microwave.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll put it in the fridge. Or maybe the trash. The food, not the microwave. Then you’ll eat
my
food.”
    â€œWhy?”
    The way this conversation was going, we’d be here at eleven o’clock with the jambalaya a blackened mess stuck to the bottom of the pot. I decided I would have to confide in him.
    â€œI’ve cooked a special meal for Mum,” I said. “To cheer her up. I bought all the ingredients and spent three hours cooking her favorite dish.” (I exaggerated slightly, but the situation called for it.) “I thought it would be nice if, for once, we ate together as a family. Please, Dad? Your computer isn’t going anywhere.”
As opposed to this family, which is disappearing down the toilet
, I thought. I was going to keep this to myself, but then reconsidered. “As opposed to this family, which is disappearing down the toilet,” I added.
    â€œYour mum’s in bed,” said Dad. “Does she know about this?”
    â€œNot exactly,” I replied.
    â€œNot exactly?”
    â€œWell, not even not approximately,” I confessed. “She has no idea. But I’m just about to wake her. It would be helpful if I could say we are both waiting around the dinner table.”
    â€œWe have a dinner table?”
    â€œIt is square, made of wood, and has chairs around it.”
    Dad pretended to think things over, but we both knew he didn’t have a choice. He sighed, clicked something on his computer, and put the headphones on the desk. He got to his feet with the air of someone wearied by life and burdened by worries. Dad is tall, thin, and permanently stooped, probably from spending his entire life leaning forward and peering at a computer screen. If he had a hooked nose he’d look
exactly
like a vulture, but he doesn’t, so he doesn’t.
    â€œI hope you can wake your mum,” he said. “She’s been very tired recently.”
    â€œI’ll manage,” I said. “Now, if you could just put this string of onions around your neck . . .”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œNo need to apologize.”
    â€œA string of onions?”
    â€œYes. And this beret on your head, preferably at a jaunty angle. Plus, it would be helpful if you could manage the majority of the dinner conversation in French.”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œThere you go again. Here is a list of French phrases, with indications of correct pronunciation. This should help you deal with most topics of conversation. Of course, it goes without saying that these should be accompanied with shrugs of the shoulder and the occasional ‘
Sacré bleu
.’ ”
    Dad seemed on the verge of making a remark (possibly to apologize once more), but thought better of it. He putthe string of onions round his neck (do you have any idea how difficult it is to thread onions together?) and glanced at the list I’d prepared at lunchtime with the help of the library’s English–French dictionary. I’d enjoyed that dictionary. It wasn’t as easy to understand as the English one, but much more romantic.
    Dad loped off to sit at the dinner table. I stirred the jambalaya, put the stereo on low, and went to knock on Mum’s bedroom door.
    It took time to rouse her, but eventually she sat up in bed with tousled hair and a matching expression.
    â€œWhat is it, Pumpkin?” she said.
    â€œ
Il est
dinnertime,
je pense
,” I replied. I’d looked up the French for “dinner,” but had forgotten it. (
Déjeuner
? Or was that lunch?) I had to accept that fluent French was beyond Dad and Mum and me and that the occasional English word would have to substitute.
    â€œI’m sorry?” she