At dinner tonight my Dad started the conversation with, "So what piece is our very own Vestal Virgin working on next?"

This is his idea of humor since our school newspaper is named The Oracle. In my opinion that's the real joke, because it's not as if any teenager can predict the future or is the augur of truth!

I stabbed my fork into the Martha Stewart inspired dinner that my mother had slaved over for half the day. "I've been tasked with covering the Prom."

My mother lit up. "Oh that should be a fun assignment! When do you want to go dress shopping?"

"I don't know that I'm actually going to go to it yet. I mean, for now I can just write about the build up to it, about the theme and what the Prom Committee has planned."

My face felt flush with embarrassment.

My younger brother picked up a dried cherry from his spinach salad and threw it at me. "Yeah she would need a date to go with anyway. And who would want to date her?"

I caught the cherry and popped it into my mouth."Talk to me about dating after your voice changes 8th Grader." Then I stuck my tongue out at him. Not exactly the epitome of maturity but the little jerk always drags me down to his level.

Our father, already onto the main course because he isn't a fan of "eating leaves and twigs" as he is apt to say, cleared his throat. We both looked at him and I noticed his face was almost as red as mine.

"Mikey that's not nice. Any boy would be lucky to date our Lucky."

Lucky is the nickname that my Dad prefers to call me ninety-nine percent of the time. And he's the only person that I let get away with using it. "Thanks Daddy!"

I turned to my Mom. "Speaking of boys, did a guy call for me at all today?"

Suddenly the room did feel much warmer than it should have for March, so I took off my cardigan.

My mother shrugged. "Not that I know of, but your brother did answer the phone earlier."

Michael smirked, "How much is it worth to you?"

I squinted my eyes at him. "How much is your life worth?"

Dad interrupted us. "Lucky, stop threatening your brother's life! Mikey, stop trying to blackmail your sister and give her the message."

Then Dad mopped his brow with his napkin. I knew he was peeved at my brother and me, but Dad looked a lot redder and sweatier than the moment required.

Michael sighed, resigned to do as he was told, "Fine. Some guy named Jason called to say you got the job and to come by tomorrow after school so he can train you. Which is a good thing because with a name like Lucky and a face like a dog I think you could use some training!"

"Michael John! That's quite enough out of you for one night! Leave the table and go straight to your room!" Mom yelled. (And she never yells, but I guess everyone was getting heated tonight.)

In my brain I was silently thanking the little pest though, in the hopes that his wisecrack would make my mother forget to give me the third degree over the job. But I didn't live up to my nickname.

"What is this about a job?" She drummed her Chanel Vamp polished nails on the table.

I was about to answer when my father interjected, "Um honey, what is on this chicken?"

Mom looked toward Dad, who wiped his dripping nose. Her eyes bugged out when she saw his clammy expression. "Oh my God Bob! Are you having a heart attack?!"

Dad laughed and cleared his throat again. "No Marianne! It's just the food. It's so spicy!" He slurped at his beer.

She furrowed her brow and looked down at her plate. "It's Moroccan chicken and couscous with harissa."

Both Mom and I filled our forks to try our first bites.

My mouth instantly felt like it was full of stinging fire ants. I tried to chew, hoping that masticating the chicken would negate the burn. But that was only like stepping on their nest. In other words, it was not smart! Because the demon spice that was in this recipe, was now completely pissed off and intent on revenge! My tongue felt as though it was swelling and my salivary glands began to work in overdrive as they desperately attempted to flush the offensive flavor away, which only spread the painful seasoning further around.

I knew couldn't swallow it. If this was what it was doing to my mouth I shuddered to think about what it would do to my bowels. I did not want to relive this pain from the other end tomorrow! I looked at my Mom with fear in my eyes to find that she was spitting her mouthful into a napkin. So I did the same.

"Holy fires of hell!" I coughed out as I reached for the milk carton. Foregoing a cup, I put the spout directly to my lips and gulped it down. When I took a breath, Mom grabbed it from my hand and did the same.

Then she looked at Dad and me, with tears in her eyes. "I don't understand why it's so hot. I followed the recipe Gloria gave me exactly the way she wrote it."

Mom disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared in the dining room holding an index card. She stared at it for a moment before she slapped her forehead and pointed at it. "I bet that this nine chile peppers was supposed to be four chile peppers. Gloria's handwriting is pretty awful."

She plopped into her chair and we all sat there silently for a minute before we started to crack up.

Dad collected himself first. "Ah well... we all make mistakes." Then he leaned over and kissed Mom before he added, "Let's leave Lucky be about the job. It's good for a kid to work. It builds character and she'll earn some money. If it ends up being a mistake then I'm sure she'll learn from it. Now somebody dish me up some of those leaves and twigs, while I go take an antacid or three."