I speak only because no one else does. “Um, Naftoli? What do you mean, you’re ‘not going’?"
It was one of those awkward moments where I know the situation at hand has nothing to do with me, yet I also know that if I get up and leave, it would just make things worse.
I look at Naftoli, whose entire face is the color of beets.
I look at Mommy, who is clenching a dish towel between white fingers.
I’m not sure what color I am right now, but I’m leaning more toward Mommy.
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