"All right guys, what is it?"

Catherine's eyes shift from me to Raven as we sit opposite her by the kitchen table, picking at our vegetables and the oven fries. As little as the two of us usually communicate, today's silence is probably too heavy for her to miss.

"Come on, did you fight?" She puts her elbows on the table and props her chin on one hand, peering at our faces.

I concentrate on my plate. Somehow, it feels like this is Raven's question to answer. The two of us haven't really talked about what has happened, since there was barely enough time for him to get dressed and make himself presentable before Catherine got home, and I had to dispose of the bloodied towel and the rest of the evidence of our tumultuous afternoon. Frankly, I do not know where he will take this. Will he tell her what I did? But then he'll have to tell what he did as well.

"James?" she says.

I let out an unintelligible sound, my mouth so stuffed with food that I'm conveniently unable to answer. Also, I absolutely hate lying to her, and I'm bad at it, too.

She sighs. "Raven?"

"Yes, ma'am." This reply always pops out of him so dutifully it makes me wonder in which household he'd learned it.

"Did the two of you fight?"

"No, ma'am."

I throw a quick glance to see him looking in his plate. I'm not sure if I should be glad that he's not telling on me or bothered by how easily he lies.

"What's happened to your neck?" she says.

"This?" He touches the plaster and looks at her briefly. "Nothing. Cut myself while shaving."

"I didn't know you were shaving."

"I tried." He shrugs. "There's not much hair, but you know, one can try. I like it real smooth."

"I see," she says. "Did your friend come today to help you with math?"

I nearly choke on my mouthful, but Raven doesn’t skip a beat.

"Yes, ma'am. He's left shortly after James came home."

I allow myself a look at Catherine, and, finding her staring at me, nod my confirmation. Technically, there was someone who could be considered a friend of Raven's, and he did leave shortly—and hastily—after my arrival. I'm not lying. I'm just concealing a few details that could upset her. Nothing's wrong with that.

She shakes her head and leans back in her chair. "So, you're not telling me."

"There's nothing to tell." Raven puts his fork and knife down and pats his lips with a paper napkin. "We're cool." He glances at me, then gets up and picks up his plate. "It was delicious, ma'am. Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says. "I'm impressed how you always finish your vegetables."

"Oh, just a habit." He walks over and places the plate on top of the stack of dirty utensils towering in the sink. "When I was little, my grandma would literally stuff the broccoli in my mouth if I refused to finish it." He looks at us over his shoulder and smiles. "Luckily for me, she slipped in the bathroom and broke her leg, and that was the end of her babysitting career."

"I'm so against force feeding," Catherine says, and I suppress the urge to remind her of the dreadful tomatoes she keeps putting in my sandwiches. "But surely she would still babysit you every now and then after she got better?"

"Nope." He gives a one shoulder shrug. "She was mad at me. She thought I have purposely spilled the shampoo she had slipped on." He makes round eyes at Catherine. "Who would make such an accusation about a five year old kid, right?"

"Right," she says, and I must give her the credit of sounding a little doubtful. "So, you've spilled it by mistake?"

"I was just playing." He shrugs, turns to the sink, and opens the tap. Both I and Catherine stare at his back as he picks up the first plate, puts it under the stream of water, and reaches for the soap. We exchange glances, and she makes a gesture with her hand that probably mean 'I don’t know what's happening but don't scare him off".

He's still washing the dishes, humming some tune under his breath when I go up to my room.