I come out of my room. 

     My mom sets down the steamed dumplings and sweet Tanyuan on the dinner table. A metal hot pot full of vegetables and dry pork boils in the middle of the table, and I watch as the warm bubbles evaporate into the thick air of tension. 

     We take our places at the table: my mom, on the left, while my dad takes the chair to the right closest to the door, in case he needs to make a battle escape, and me, in the middle, stuck in between the queen and king of a chess game locked in stalemate. My dad makes the first move, playing me as the weak pawn—I get the rice and bring it over, almost as if to test mom's patience that night. 

      I take my place, stirring the dumplings and making sure the outings of the crest don't burst, and wait for it to cool. As I do, my dad reaches for the side dishes and accidently tips over the sauce, letting the dark liquid flood onto the white table cloth. I brace for impact. 

    "Ay-ah, why you always make such a mess?" 

    "Sorry, sorry." 

    She takes a bit of my dad's soup. "You put too much salt in this. Not healthy." My mom's critiques slide down her tongue like bitter honey dripping down from a soiled hive. 

    We continue to sit knee deep in silence. The faucet drips into the sink, each one reverberating around the room like a cymbal, yet nobody moves to stop it. The thick steam starts rising more from the pot and I move the vegetables around on my plate. 

   "We need to start thinking about retirement options," my dad exclaims through a mouthful of rice. Have you read through the required minimum distribution yet?" 

   "I haven't got to that." 

    "I thought I told you to read through it." 

    A slam on the table as I feel the vibration of the kitchen floor.  "I told you, I haven't done it yet."

   The steam suddenly stops rising from the pot, the bubbles in the soup fading out. There is no noise now.

   I focus on the wooden clock on the top wall. The more I stare, the more the minute hand seems to spin backwards. My books lay flat and still, with an unfinished equation dialed into the calculator, and I set my thoughts on my upcoming chemistry test. Nomenclature. Atoms. Stoichiometry equations that seem to be straightforward until you get stuck on a conversion step that catches you off guard, messing the whole problem up— just like the harmless silence that pervades our dinner table until somehow the quiet fidgeting and awkward clinking of chopsticks turns into reminisces of screaming voices and curse words echoing off of the walls of last Saturday morning's fight. Or was it Sunday? 

     "Could you pass me the fruit?" I ask no one in particular. A breeze of air rushes through the back window, followed by the sound of metal knives slicing through the crisp apple slices.

    "Mom?" 

    "What? Oh, sorry," her hand shakes as she fumbles for the glass bowl. She hands it to me, then continues staring down into her empty bowl like a seer trying to read tea leaves. I slowly plop the fruit into my mouth, remembering how the school counselor said something about if you chewed with caution you would enjoy the flavor more but all I taste are the acidic words of "just ignore them" and pitiful looks during Take-Your-Parents-To-School day. 

     "The stock market is really not doing too well," my dad tries after a while. "Too much investment." 

     More slices. 

     I'm past staring at the clock. Instead, I focus my gaze on the glass window beside it where the opened curtains of my neighbors reveal the bright light setting of an American couple— two daughters and one son who waves his race car above the mashed potatoes and green beans as his sisters  fight for the seat next to him. The man leans over and whispers something to the woman, and they throw their head back at the same time, laughing.  I notice their matching rings and interlocked pinkies, and how they all reach under the smooth table cloth and grasp hands, looking down onto their plates, their mouths moving up and down with conversation I doubt related to the Required Minimum Distribution. 

     "Done already?" my dad says, watching as my mom puts her dishes in the sink.

     "Yes." 

     "There's some dessert left." 

     She fumbles through the cabinets. "Tomorrow, you will pick her up from school. Don't forget to turn off the light, you always do that." She shuffles down the hall and shuts the door to her room. A few minutes later he sets his plates into the sink, muttering something about "never cleaning the dishes" and trudges downstairs to his cave. The battle is over. Once again, no one wins, and I am left to clean up the messy chessboard because no one knows how to play the game right. 

    I peer into the neighbor's house for a few moments longer, my hands subconsciously pulling me closer towards the window as I squint my eyes. But then the young boy points towards me as the mother whips her head around. I duck, snatching the blinds and pulling them back shut. I take the plates to the sink and wash them down, still feeling the burning of my cheeks as I remember to turn off the light.

    I retreat to my room.