Free A Changed Man by Francine Prose Page A

what Meyer does. Even Danny has to admit that Meyer is trying to do good in the world and make a positive difference. But whenever Danny tries to tell his friends what the foundation’s about—sending aid to global trouble spots, keeping tabs on hate groups at home, getting guys sprung from jail—it sounds like such a downer, he’s sorry he brought it up.
    Mom says what Danny knew she’d say. “Where were you guys just now?”
    “Does it matter?” asks Danny.
    “Danny, sweetheart, I’ve told you. Don’t answer a question with a question.”
    “All right. We were out.” Danny wants to answer, to make this easy on her. But it’s as if he’s possessed by a demon insisting that his independence and self-respect depend on giving her maximum attitude and minimum information.
    “Out where?” Mom’s determined to drag out the Big Interrogation.
    “Mom, we were playing basketball in the grade-school yard.”
    “Thank you, Max,” says Mom. “Was that so hard?”
    “Whatever,” Danny says.
    “Anybody hungry?” says Mom.
    “Starved,” Max says.
    “I could eat,” says the Nazi.
    “Sure. I guess,” Danny says. “No Chinese.”
    “I was thinking Chinese,” Mom says.
    “We had it last night,” Danny points out. The most irritating thing is that she’s so nervous she forgot. You’d think the guy was a visiting rock star. It’s how she acts around Meyer. Even though his mom and dad fought a lot before the divorce, at least they were comfortable with each other. Like normal screwed-up grown-ups.
    “Then maybe we should go out…” Mom’s voice has that wispy tremble it gets when she can’t cope and makes Danny and Max decide.
    They’re certainly not going out. Danny would rather starve to death than run into someone he knows. By second period tomorrow it will be all over school that Danny was having dinner with a skinhead. By lunch they’ll be saying the guy is Danny’s mom’s new boyfriend.
    “Pizza,” says Max. “Call.”
    “Sure,” says Danny. “Why not?”
    “Will pizza be enough?”
    “Fine with me,” the Nazi says.
    “Simple!” Mom picks up the phone. “What about toppings? Anything you don’t eat?”
    “Nuts,” says Vincent. “Any kind of nuts. I’m fatally allergic. I wind up in the hospital. I nearly died several times.”
    “God,” says Mom. “How scary.”
    Danny says, “I guess that kind of rules out the peanut-butter pizza.”
    Suddenly, everyone’s staring at him. He should probably smile at Mom to show that he wasn’t making fun of the guest. But on the way to Mom’s face he gets sidelined by the hairy eyeball he’s getting from the Nazi, checking to see if he is making fun, because if he is, Vincent’s going to kick his ass. Is Mom picking up on this?
    Obviously Danny is goofing on the guy. What did the moron think they would order? Macadamia pizza? And why do they need to know about his loser allergy problems? Vincent narrows his eyes. Whatever passes between him and Danny is silent, scary, and over in a second, at the end of which Vincent chooses to believe that Danny is making a joke, but not a joke about him, and he laughs, a jagged dog-bark that makes Max flinch.
    Danny says, “Pepperoni,” his brother’s favorite. He hates pepperoni. So there’s usually a fight.
    “Danny!” says Mom. “How generous of you! Danny hates pepperoni.” As if the guy needs to know. She orders two large pies, one with pepperoni, one with mushrooms and green pepper. “Fifteen, twenty minutes,” she says, first triumphant, then defeated as she wonders: What will they do until the pizza arrives?
    Max saves the day. “Hey, Danny, want to watch TV?”
    “Okay,” says Mom. “But come upstairs the minute I call. Don’t let the pizza get cold.” Usually, she goes insane when he and Max get home and head straight for the TV. Danny grabs Max and fake-shoves him down the stairs to Dad’s room.
    They still call it Dad’s room even though it’s been years since Dad