Another quiet family dinner. Not a sound from any of us, only the scraping of silverware against fine china plates, or a slurp as we drink our milk. My dad is silent as well, he usually is, but he always finds a way to ruin the silence, every night. And I don’t think tonight is going to be any different.

"Excellent salad, Melissa! You really outdid yourself tonight!" He grins, overly happy, but shooting warning glances at me and Ariel to respond.

"Right girls?" He says strainedly, his voice grating slightly. Ariel grunts and starts playing with her food again. I wind my curly, chocolate brown hair around my finger and take a sip of my ice water.

My dad gives up and looks to Melissa, who is wearing a weak smile. More than ever lately, my step-mother has felt out of place in our family. She doesn’t say anything, but I know that’s how it is. There’s a bit of justice to the claim, too, but it’s mostly Ariel’s fault.

Dad slides a comforting hand over Melissa’s and pats her hand gently. She eases into a real smile and looks back at him gratefully. But it has not gone unnoticed by the rest of us. Dad and Melissa’s show of emotions have been strained lately, and there’s a good reason for it.

Upon seeing Dad’s hand clasping Melissa’s, her eyes flick to my dad’s face, then to her mother’s. We all watch as her eyes narrow, her short, wavy blonde hair falling into her face. She throws her napkin onto the table and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind herself. Melissa’s eyes start to water and my dad rubs her shoulder, murmuring to her that she shouldn’t worry. It’s almost amazing how much damage can be inflicted by a thirteen year old. But they don’t even realize how much damage they’ve inflicted upon her.

I pick up her plate as well as mine and push our chairs back in with my foot. I leave the dining room for the kitchen, letting our parents alone to talk amongst themselves.

I slide the dishes into the sink and flush it all down the disposal. I wash the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, but something out the window catches my eye. Grabbing a hand towel, I wipe my hands dry as I also stare out into our small backyard. Ariel is kicking the deck furiously, throwing plants, shovels, pots. They all smash against the concrete and some make it as far as the grass. Holding a heavy pot, she swivels around and sees me. I try and disappear from view, but she already knows I was watching her. Before her common sense can stop her, she hurls a heavy porcelain pot through our kitchen window, and glass and porcelain is sprayed throughout the room, most of it hitting me, though I shielded my face with my arms.

I heard chairs being knocked over in the dining room. They’re coming, of course. They know it’s happened again. But it’s not exactly Ariel’s fault.