Chapter 4: The Dinner Table Erupts

I thought my little cousin would, at worst, damage the tires or scratch the paint.

I figured he’d set off a few more fireworks, maybe scuff the bumper, nothing more. I hadn’t imagined anything truly catastrophic—just another story to roll my eyes at in the group chat.

I never imagined things would get so out of hand.

But when I saw that plume of smoke and heard the sirens in the distance, I realized this was next-level. I felt queasy, almost dizzy with dread.

I sat at the dining table, feeling a little nervous and helpless.

Back upstairs, I tried to act normal, but my fingers tapped anxiously on the table. The grown-ups’ voices blurred together, and I kept sneaking glances at the door, half-expecting the police to burst in at any second.

But after thinking it through, I realized this accident couldn’t be blamed on me, so I relaxed a bit.

I hadn’t handed my cousin the firecrackers or told him to torch someone’s car. It was his mess—and his parents’ problem. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever came next.

My parents had spent the whole morning preparing a feast. My mom brought out a plate of baked cod, smiling as she said dinner would be ready soon, then went back to the kitchen to prepare a fruit platter.

The table was crowded with mismatched plates, a half-empty bottle of Martinelli’s, and a lopsided gingerbread house my mom had made for the kids. The dining room smelled amazing—rosemary, butter, and just a hint of cinnamon from the apple pie cooling on the counter. Mom fussed over the plates, making sure everything looked perfect. She always went all out for the holidays, no matter what else was going on.

Uncle put down his phone, grabbed a chunk of fish with his fork, and noisily stuffed it into his mouth.

He didn’t even wait for everyone to sit—just went straight for the food, slurping and chewing with abandon. I winced, wishing I could remind him this wasn’t an all-you-can-eat buffet.

I frowned a little. Even though our families are close, they really don’t act like guests at all.

It wasn’t just the eating—it was the way they sprawled across the chairs, kicked off their shoes, and argued over who’d get the last breadstick. You’d think they’d been living here for years, not just visiting for the holidays.

Uncle is my dad’s biological brother, and according to local custom, no one should start eating until the eldest sits down.

We’re not super formal, but there’s an unspoken rule: you wait until everyone’s at the table—especially the hosts. My uncle just never seemed to care.

Uncle and aunt are both locals—they know the rules. But they still eat however they want, without any consideration.

They tore into the food like it was a backyard BBQ, piling their plates high and fighting over the last shrimp.

By the time my parents took off their aprons and sat down, the dishes were already picked over.

The baked cod was half gone, the mashed potatoes lumpy from being stirred too many times, and my favorite garlic knots had disappeared. My parents shot each other a look, but neither said a word.

Uncle and aunt clearly didn’t care about showing respect.

There wasn’t even a token “thank you” or “great job on dinner.” Just more chewing and the clatter of forks on plates. I felt a wave of embarrassment on my parents’ behalf.

"Our Mikey loves shrimp—come eat more."

Aunt leaned over, scooping every last garlic butter shrimp into Mikey’s bowl, like he was royalty. She cooed at him, ignoring the rest of us entirely.

My little cousin ate, his mouth glistening with oil, completely forgetting the disaster he’d just caused.

He was so focused on the shrimp, he didn’t notice the burned car, the worried looks, or the tension crackling in the air. It was like nothing had happened at all.

He shouted, "I want calamari too! It’s all mine!"

His voice was sharp and shrill, cutting through the chatter. He reached across the table, snatching the calamari platter as if he were a starving castaway.

He grabbed the plate of calamari and dumped it all into his bowl.

With one swift motion, he claimed the whole dish for himself, tentacles and all. I bit my tongue, not wanting to make a scene.

My dad smiled helplessly and said, "Hey, how can you eat so much? Your cousin likes it too—leave him some."

Dad tried to keep the mood light, his voice gentle. But you could hear the strain behind his words—a plea for a little common courtesy.

My little cousin snorted. "If I can’t eat it all, I’ll just toss it. I just don’t want him to get any."

He looked me dead in the eye as he said it, as if daring me to protest. The nerve of this kid never failed to amaze me.

My parents’ faces darkened. Uncle quickly tried to smooth things over.

The air thickened. Dad’s jaw tightened, Mom’s eyes narrowed. Uncle, sensing trouble, rushed in with a forced laugh, pretending it was all just a joke.

"Kids just say whatever comes to mind. Our Mikey is the most sensible—he’s just joking with his cousin. Right, Mikey? Come on, smile at your cousin."

Uncle nudged Mikey, trying to prompt a cheesy grin, but the kid just scowled and sulked deeper into his chair. It was a weak cover, and everyone knew it.

My little cousin pulled at his eyes, making a face and sticking his tongue out at me over and over.

He made sure I saw him, too—stretching his eyelids and waggling his tongue like a second grader looking for detention. Real mature.