Simone sat. Her father was at the table already with his coffee, in his work clothes but not his jacket. Micah was across from him in his pajamas, staring at his plate. Nobody had told him to get dressed yet. His eyes were swollen too.
Her mother set a plate of pancakes in front of Simone first. Then she seemed to catch herself, and stood for a second with the spatula, and then set the next plate in front of Micah, and Simone watched her hand go out toward the top of Micah's head, the way it always did, and stop, and come back.
Simone ate a pancake. It was good. She didn't say so.
"Micah," her father said.
Micah slid off his chair. He went to the counter and came back holding something in both hands, the way he'd held the juice cup in August, and set it on the table next to Simone's plate. It was a little pile of money. A five, five ones, and a handful of quarters. One of the ones had a smiley face drawn on George Washington in marker.
"That's eleven," Micah said, to the table. "From my jar. It's the seven from your closet. And four more." He looked at their father. Their father nodded. Micah looked back at the table. "Sorry I took your money. Sorry about the ball. I'm sorry I nodded."
It sounded rehearsed, because it was. Simone knew it was. She also saw that his ears had gone dark, the way they did when he was ashamed for real, and that he was holding on to the edge of the table with one hand.
She looked at the pile for a long moment. Then she took the five and two of the ones and left the rest.
"It was seven," she said.
Micah looked at the four ones and the quarters still lying there. He looked confused. He looked at their father again, as if their father might tell him whether this was good or bad, and their father didn't say anything, and finally Micah picked up the rest and held it against his pajama shirt and went back to his chair.
Simone put the seven dollars in the cat pouch. She did it at the table, with everyone watching, her backpack on her lap. She unzipped the front pocket, unzipped the pouch, put the bills in with the others and the sticky note, zipped the pouch, zipped the pocket. She did not take the note out to change the number. She would do that later, alone. One hundred and ninety-three. Need forty-seven.
Her mother watched her do it from the stove. Simone felt her watching.
When the pancakes were gone, her mother came and stood beside her chair. She didn't sit down. She stood the way people stand when they have practiced something in the mirror and aren't sure it will come out right.
"Simone," she said. "I was wrong yesterday."
Simone looked at her plate.