Soda

Dinner is ready, and we wait together. Dad comes home, loud and brusque. He pokes his head into each room and addresses my brother and sister as comes through the house. I sit against her soft belly, curled into the curve of her legs. She is warm and safe, as always. I shout a hello, and Mom tells him what's for dinner. My Mom's soda sits on the end table beside me.

"Can I have a sip?" I ask. "Is it plain soda or the other stuff?"

"Sure, it's plain, honey," she answers in her sing song voice. Her muscles tense as I lean over and take the cup. As I bring it to my lips, I smell the metallic odor. I know before drinking that alcohol will roll unpleasantly over my tongue, hotly down my throat. I feel my Dad's attention on me, my mother's nervous chuckle.

"Yum," I say. It's how I learn to lie.