The Fine Art of Truth or Dare (6 page)

I'm a garlic-and-spinach girl, myself, with the occasional and unbroadcasted craving for anchovies. Sadie had gone a little moon-eyed at the mention of meatballs, however, so I shrugged. “Whatever you want,” I told her.

She wandered over to the toppings station and checked it out as if it were a spread of diamonds at Tiffany. “Meatballs,” she said happily. “And onions and olives and extra cheese.”

“Done.” Within a minute, Dad had a pizza in the oven.

“Hey, was that for my table?” Leo came out of the back, carrying a dusty bottle of white wine, which he gave a quick swipe with a towel. “They wanted pepperoni.”

Dad was beaming. “You got someone to buy the Grizzo. Good boy!” He took the bottle from Leo and gave it a much more thorough cleaning. “This pizza's for the girls. They're starving. Your table won't know the difference between five minutes and ten.”

Leo shrugged. It was still early enough that everyone was calm and cheerful, and Sienna wasn't in the kitchen. “Hey, Sadie.”

Sadie hurriedly swallowed the little mozzarella ball Dad had slipped her. “Hi, Leo.” She coughed and blushed. It's a cute-boy thing.

“Say-dee.” Uncle Ricky lunged, waving a loaded and dripping fork in front of her. “My new ravioli. Taste!” She did, and chewed, slowly and thoughtfully.

“Mmm,” she said eventually. “It's really a unique combination. Um. Beef and rosemary and . . . blue cheese?” she guessed. Ricky beamed. “And something else . . . I just can't . . .”

“Pumpkin!” he crowed. “In a fig-and-wild-mushroom sauce. It's autumn ravioli. Move over Rocco DiSpirito!”

Sadie loves coming to the restaurant. From her point of view, I can understand why. Everyone is tickled to see her, and no one acts like her putting food in her mouth is anything other than a really really good thing.

She discreetly picked a woody bit of rosemary from her tongue. Dad clucked his. “Pumpkin ravioli,” he sighed. “Who's gonna order that here?” Still, it was up on the specials board. It's a deal they have, Dad and Ricky. Weird is okay, as long as it tastes good. If no one orders it, or anyone complains, it's gone for good. Or until
Top Chef
calls. So far, the system has worked. Smoked salmon pizza with cream cheese and capers became a menu staple and neighborhood fave. Manicotti stuffed with clams, asparagus, and roasted pears is never to be seen again. “Watch the rosemary twigs in the mix!” Dad called to Ricky, who scowled and waved him off, then promptly started sifting through the herbs for the next batch.

“Bella Sarah.”
It was Nonna's turn. She pinched Sadie's cheek, not too hard, then gave her a head-to-toe once-over. She sighed. “Your mama is a beautiful woman,” she said sadly, “but she has no idea how to help her beautiful daughter. Real food and none of this silly . . .” She flapped her hands, unable to even find a word for the disaster of a brown canvas jacket Sadie was wearing. It looked like a cross between a straitjacket and an army tent.

“
Sì, signora
.” Sadie has spent enough time with my grandmother to know the quickest and most useful response.

“And you”—Nonna turned her sharp eyes on me—“in those jeans. They look like they belong on Leonardo.”

“It's the style, Nonna. They're called ‘boyfriend' jeans.”

“Boyfriend.
Magari!
We should be so lucky.” She pinched my cheek, hard, her way of softening her words. “Too much salt!” she scolded Ricky, and went back to eviscerating chickens at her station.

Sadie and I stayed out of the way for the next five minutes, sneaking mozzarella and watching the action, such as it was. Sienna came in once for an antipasto plate and a glowering lipstick check. She clearly had a bee up her butt, but she wasn't talking, and I wasn't about to shatter the relative quiet by asking. She flounced out; Leo came back in, delighted to report that his table was chugging down the last bottle of the Grizzo, one of Ricky's less-successful wine purchases, with gusto.

“Farewell, horse piss!” he sang. Dad lifted a handful of shrimp shells in salute.

“Hey!” Ricky objected, but it was a halfhearted protest at best.

Dad pulled our pizza out of the oven, crisp and bubbling. Sadie looked ready to swoon. Even my mouth was watering. Waiting only long enough for him to slice and slide it onto a serving plate, we slipped into the office to eat in peace. Mom was hosting an open house in an old school building that had been converted into condos. “They just don't build them like this anymore!” I'd heard her begin her spiel to a potential buyer over the phone. “A classic in stone and steel, updated but not renovated into unrecognizability, for the modern city dweller.”

Meaning it was a big, ugly, old fortress that, no matter how much pale wood and copper was put in, would be freezing in winter, stifling in summer, and that even the grimmest of bureaucrats hadn't wanted to keep. The units wouldn't sell for six months, when the ticked-off developer would slash the price and sack the realty company.

We'd made it through half of the pizza when Sadie's phone squeaked, telling her she had a text message. She sighed and deliberately looked away from her bag. A text comes to an ordinary sixteen-year-old—lipsticks fly as she scrambles to get the phone out of her bag. But neither Frankie nor I has unlimited texting on our phones (“It was either live without bells and whistles or get a job,” he explained. “No-brainer. No bells.”), so when that sound sounds, Sadie knows it's one of her parents.

She set down her half-eaten slice—half sad, half guilty—wiped her hands, and dug out her phone. “Oh, fabulous,” she sighed again. “I'm being summoned. Dad's having dinner with Russell Tarrant at Le Bec Fin later and wants me there.”

Again—ordinary teen, the city's most famous restaurant, and two-time Oscar-winning actor? Back handsprings. Or at least a giddy rush to try on six different outfits and the latest vibrating mascara. Sadie looked like she'd just discovered the gym showers didn't have curtains.

“Sades, how does your dad know Russell Tarrant?” I asked. Her dad knows lots of name-in-the-news people, but they're usually not international celebrities who've recently been knighted by the Queen.

“Oh, they were roommates at Cambridge the year Dad spent in England.” She was eyeing the remains of the pizza with longing. I thought of dinner with a movie star with just a tiny bit of longing.

We both jumped a little as “I can't friggin'
believe
this!” thundered through the closed door. Sienna's voice has been known to cut through solid steel.

I'd been ignoring the slightly raised voices coming from the kitchen. It's not uncommon for a shouting match to break out on any night. It is almost guaranteed on nights when Tina is hosting and Sienna has to wait tables.

Tina was hosting. She's a thirty-five-year-old version of Sienna, only bottle blonde. Same blind-you lipstick, same taste in clothes, same complete disregard for anyone else's opinion on anything.

They hate each other.

“You hate me!” Sienna wailed.

It wasn't Tina's voice that snapped back, but Dad's. “Oh, no. I am not playing that game with you. Do you have any idea what a hundred pounds of filet is gonna cost me? And now you want
lobster
?”

“But it's my
wedding
! Daddy—”

“Don't you Daddy me, princess! I'm already five grand in the hole for the damned hotel, not to mention two for the dress, and every time I turn around, you and your mother have added a new guest, bridesmaid, or crustacean!”

First of all, Dad was yelling. Almost. Second, he was swearing. Even
damn
is fighting talk for him. I set down my pizza and debated the best route for a stealthy escape.

I'd seen the dress. Pretty, in a Disney-princess, twenty-yards-of-tulle, boobs-shaped-into-missiles sort of way. Sienna looked deliriously happy in it. She looked beautiful. The less said about the bridesmaids' dresses, I'd decided, on seeing the purple sateen, the better.

“No lobster!” he yelled.

There was a dramatic howl, followed by the bang of the back door. When I peeked out, it was like a photo. Everything was frozen. Dad was standing over the massive pasta pot, red-faced and scowling, wooden spoon brandished like a sword. Leo and Ricky had retreated to the doorway of the freezer. Nonna had her eyes turned heavenward, and Tina was halfway through the dining room door, smirking a little.

No one looked in the least concerned or embarrassed by the fact that Sienna's outburst could probably have been heard all the way out on the sidewalk. Our dramas all tend to play themselves out in the kitchen, occasionally to the amusement of the customers, most of whom have heard it all before. There's no such thing as privacy when you're a Marino. Not all that much in our little corner of Philadelphia, but none whatsoever in our family. When I got my first period, when I got into Willing, when Dieter dumped me for Feel-Me-Up Girl, that's where the news broke, because that's where everyone was.

Everything was still for an instant, then Dad sighed and lowered the spoon. Tina went back to the dining room, letting the doors swing to with a muffled thump behind her. Ricky went back to his herbs, and life went on.

“Ella, grab a shirt and apron,” Dad commanded, “and take your sister's last table. They're still waiting to order, and Leo can't handle any more.”

“Dad, no—”

“Ella, please.”

It wasn't really a request. When Marino's needs us, we chip in. I just hate when chipping involves waiting tables. I have to write down orders so I won't forget them, am scarily clumsy with hot plates, and, humiliatingly, have to get someone else to bring the wine or beer when customers order it, because I'm not eighteen, and it's illegal for underage me to serve alcohol.

“Can I help?” Sadie asked quietly. She meant it.

“God, no.” I handed her her bag and gave her a light shove toward the back door. “Save yourself. Go have escargots with Russell Tarrant.”

“No, really—”

“Go. We'll talk tomorrow.”

She went. I dragged myself across the office and pulled one of Leo's spare white button-downs from his cubby. He's not a big guy, but it was still large enough that I ended up leaving the buttons undone, then wrapping it around me and tying it in back. Efficient, but problematic. Even if I could button it up all the way, the collar wouldn't hide all of the scar. Worse than that, waiting tables necessitated a ponytail. No arguments. I'd tried before.

“I get it, I get it!” Dad had finally shouted me down. “But the health department doesn't know from vanity!”

I tied my hair, gypsy-style, on my right shoulder, and hoped the customers wouldn't be gawkers. They're usually not. In fact, ten minutes after ordering, I bet most diners couldn't pick their waiter out of a lineup. We're invisible. I'm used to it.

“Table three,” Leo said cheerfully as we passed in the kitchen doorway. “Better you than me. They stink of Mercedes leather.”

It's hardly unusual for Marino's to get people from Society Hill or Rittenhouse Square. A lot have even become regulars. We've been in ‘Best of Philly' twice in the last three years (“Best Eggplant Parm” two years ago, “Best Place to Eat While Channeling Tony Soprano” last year). You'd think Leo's animosity for waiting on rich Philadelphians would have been tempered somewhat by years of good tips. But the fact is that the only ones who tip lavishly are the ones trying to prove how egalitarian and generous they are: “Below South Street, Above South Street,” they seem to be saying; “What's the diff?” Plenty diff, actually, and they're inevitably the ones who make you jump through hoops, just to show how valuable their business is: no butter, fresher butter, vegetarian Bolognese, “Oh, you don't have Château du Cochon '63 . . . ?”

Of course, Sout' Philly Made Good is just as bad with the hoops, but loads better with the tips. The last time he came in with his brothers, Anna Lombardi's dad left Sienna $50 on a $120 bill. But he also had Nonna make his linguine fresh, almost right at the table, to make sure she didn't try to give him pasta from the afternoon batch.

The two people I could see clearly as I approached the table didn't look like they came to South Philly very often, certainly not for food. She looked like she didn't eat. She also looked vaguely familiar. Her husband had blindingly white teeth; she had brilliantly white-blonde hair. They had matching wristwatches that I was sure cost more than both our cars. Diner Number Three was obscured by the tall menu. All I could see was a pair of large hands. I set a basket of fresh bread within reach.

“Hi, welcome to Marino's,” I said in my best Isn't This Lovely? voice. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Diner Number Three emerged from behind the menu.
“Ella?”

9

THE APOLOGY

I was wearing no makeup and my brother's shirt.

“Alex. Hi.” It only came out slightly squeaky.

The woman's beautiful face broke into a smile, and suddenly, I knew exactly who she was: Karina Romanova, co-anchor of the Channel 4 Evening News. Seen smiling out of thousands of televisions and bus kiosk ads. Wife of Paul Bainbridge: current U.S. representative and senatorial hopeful. Mother of Alex.

“You know each other!” she said brightly, just enough Ukraine in her off-screen voice to make her sound sexy and a little exotic. “And we thought we were just choosing from ‘Best of Philly.'”

“I . . . ah . . . I didn't know.” Alex's eyes flicked from his own hands to my mostly hidden scar. I did my shoulder dip, so very automatic, wondering whether he could see my skin, and whether his parents could see my discomfort. After all, my last contact with Alex had been . . . strained.

I wondered what adjectives were sliding through his mind while his parents looked at him expectantly.
This is Ella. She's, um . . . well, weird, a social misfit, intrusive at best, and potentially stalker-psychotic.

But Willing boys are supposed to be ever so polite. And Alex, after all, was the poster child for the school.

“Mom, Dad, this is Ella . . .” He glanced at the menu, and I saw the little figurative lightbulb blink on. “Marino. She goes to Willing, too.”

His father, who, I noticed now, had Alex's eyes and jaw, thrust out a big hand. “Paul,” he said, waiting patiently for me to shift my order pad and pen so I could shake. “It is a very great pleasure to meet a Marino.”

As if he knows anything about us. As if we are important. For a second, I felt important, and understood exactly why he is going to win that Senate seat in two years. “Thank you. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Karina.” She wanted to shake, too. She had a decent grip, but her bones felt pin thin against mine. “So, how do you like Willing?”
Villink
. It sounded better that way. I am a
Villink
Girl.

“Love it,” I answered by habit. “I mean, it's Willing.”

“Mmm.” I wasn't sure she believed me, but then, I was pretty sure she didn't really care one way or the other.

“Good. Good.” Paul beamed at me. “Great school. Just great. Although, around exam times, you'd think we were sending our son to reform school from the way he moans and groans.”

I managed the expected chuckle and darted a glance at Alex. He didn't look particularly embarrassed by his dad's practiced joviality. I guess when said dad is jovial on a national scale, you wouldn't be. Alex still hadn't looked directly into my face.

“Do you live near here?” Karina asked.

“Next door.”

“Ah, so Willing is a neighborhood school. How convenient.”

Well, yes. Except not too many kids from the neighborhood get to take advantage of that convenience. Maybe they didn't know that, the senior Bainbridges. Maybe they genuinely thought that there was space and money and interest enough to bring lots of South Philly kids into the rarefied world of Willing. Either that, or they assumed we were all just one big happy Family (Soprano, Corleone, Scarfo . . .) down here, with lots of ill-gained money floating around. Or maybe they were just shinily polite.

I noticed that neither asked if Alex and I were friends. Most parents would. But not a reporter and a politician. They know every dangerous, loaded question in the book. Beyond that, I can't imagine it being more obvious that, no, Alex and I weren't friends.

I smiled. Politely. “So. Any drinks to get you started?”

Karina asked for sparkling water; Paul wanted a German beer to go with his Italian food. I wondered if I could get Leo to serve it without smirking. I turned to Alex. “A Coke. Please,” he added, looking past the tip of my nose.

“I think we should probably order.” Karina took a discreet peek at her watch. I readied my pad. “How is the special ravioli?”

“Delicious,” I lied automatically. Well, not lied, precisely. Sadie had seemed to like it.

“Mmm. Well. I think I'll have an
insalata mista
. Dressing on the side, please.” She did have the grace to look both regretful and slightly apologetic.

I turned to Alex's dad. “
I
will have the special ravioli,” he announced, handing over his menu with a flourish, “with the soup of the day.”

The soup of the day was curried carrot. Not exactly a Tony Soprano standby.

So here's something everyone should know about diners and Italian family restaurants. Order the obvious. On the rare occasion when Sadie, Frankie, and I forgo Chloe's for the South Street Diner, Sadie inevitably orders something that just shouldn't be on a diner menu. Osso bucco, sole almondine, sweetbreads. She's always disappointed. Me? Grilled cheese and tomato sandwich on wheat, side of fries, every time.

“How do you know what you'll like, if you won't even try?” Sadie scolds.

“Yes, Frances. Have some bread and jam” is Frankie's helpful refrain.

Truth
: I have seen sweetbreads in their natural state. Gimme bread and cheese any day.

Diner or Italian joint: Regulars have their faves; smart diners go for classic. People pleasers order the specials.

I turned to Alex.

“Minestrone. Please. And spaghetti carbonara.”

Smart boy. Smart boy who still hadn't looked me full in the face. Growing up in South Philly, it's no big deal, giving and taking orders from people you know. There could be any one of the Giordano kids behind the counter at the bakery; Mom's best friend from forever cuts our hair. The Ryans down the street handle all our insurance, and I buy way too much unnecessary stuff to camouflage the tampons when Sam Nguyen is manning the register at his parents' pharmacy.

I know there's a division north of South Street. Your friends are never, ever your servers. But then, Alex wasn't really my friend.

“On its way,” I said cheerfully. And went into the back, back to my family.

We keep the walls between us.

I gave the food order to Dad. I'd debated not saying anything, but couldn't. “Persons of interest,” I told him.

It's code. Police-speak for suspects; Marino for regulars, suspected restaurant critics, and anyone who might be in a position to help or hurt the restaurant's reputation. Everyone gets good food at Marino's; persons of interest get the best.

It galled me a little, giving Alex's family the designation. But I'm a pragmatist. A good word from Paul and Karina could bring in extra business. And the more extra business we get, the less money I'll have to beg, borrow, or steal for college.

“Who?” Dad asked as he scanned the order.

“Karina Romanova from Channel 4 and Congressman Bainbridge. With their son.”

He let out a low whistle. “Well, lah-dee-dah. Good for us.” Then, “You forget something here, hon? There's only two entrées.”

“She's skinny,” I explained, then, before Dad could give a familiar opinion on women who eat naked salads for dinner, I told Uncle Ricky, “The congressman ordered the ravioli.”

“Hot damn!” He grinned, actually rubbed his hands together, and swung into action. Flour flew.

“Heaven help us,” Dad muttered under his breath. “Now, you take an antipasto plate out to them, on the house—”

“Dad, no!”

“What? We can't let Whatshernameanova sit there with just a pile of lettuce. Trust me, she'll pick at a pepper, nibble some prosciut, and all will be well in the world.”

Not exactly. Karina wouldn't touch the platter, with its meat and cheese and oiled peppers; I knew that. And there it would be, sitting on the table in front of Philadelphia's Most Beautiful Family, like a gift from peasant to king. It's always a pig in fairy tales, hauled in from the grateful subject's backyard and trotted up the hill to become royal prosciutto.

“Dad . . .”

I closed my mouth. I couldn't say it. My dad's no peasant, and he's no brown-noser. He's a decent guy who thinks an empty stomach leads to an empty head. I watched as he deftly arranged the peppers, the anchovies, the mozzarella, creating a pretty mosaic on the plate.

As he added salami, I grabbed a chilled beer and a glass and waved them at Leo, who was on his way back to the dining room. “Can't,” he snapped. “Overloaded as is.” True enough. He had full plates halfway up both arms, and two more orders coming up. “Christ. Sienna and her f—”

“Leo!”

“
Scusi
, Nonna.” But he still managed to get a good, quiet curse or two out as he backed his way gingerly through the swinging door.

“Here. I got it.” Tina took the beer and glass from me. “Ya know them?”

I nodded.

“She looks like butter wouldn't melt. But her kid . . .” She pursed brilliantly pink lips. “All that and a bag of baked tofu chips?”

I had to smile a little at the image. “No. He's not . . . He doesn't act like . . .” I wasn't entirely sure why I was defending him. He hadn't exactly been the Prince Charming of Dinner Orders. Come to think of it, I couldn't completely vouch for Alex Bainbridge being Prince Charming of Anything. Except my own little
Villink
fantasy. “Maybe.”

“Cute, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” I have no idea what is was Tina saw in my face. Something. “Aw, sweetie.” She sighed. “Want me to shake up Daddy's beer a little?”

“No,” I answered, “but thanks for the offer.”

I got a drinks tray and added Karina's Pellegrino. The Coke dispenser spat pale brown liquid at me. Then it hissed. “And typical. Syrup's low. Will you tell them the Coke's on its way?”

“Sure thing.” Tina deftly lifted the tray onto her fingertips. She was a cocktail waitress at Delilah's before she got married. As a matter of fact, she met Ricky there. She won't talk about the job much at all, but she tells anyone who will listen that Ricky looked so uncomfortable when he came in with a bachelor party that she knew he had to be okay. I don't know whether the club had hired her for her agility, or whether she'd learned it there, but she could probably dodge a barrage of bullets while holding two loaded trays over her head. I drop dish towels. Which is why I'm rarely given anything weighty, hot, or valuable to carry.

Ordinarily, Dad would have reloaded the soda machine. I have to stand on a box, and the syrup is heavy. But he was in the walk-in, getting the special For Royalty Only pancetta from whatever crevice he hides it in. As I wrestled with the machine, trying to get the bag-in-a-box syrup locked into place, the door thumped again.

“Um . . . Excuse me?”

I very nearly slopped a gallon of Coke syrup over the floor. I did fall off my box, but at least I landed on my feet. Alex was standing in the doorway, half in and half out of the kitchen. He didn't see me. I crept back up onto my perch.

“Can I help you?” Ricky was closest. He had so much flour on him that his hair was gray.

“I . . . ah, wanted to talk to Ella.”

“You go on back out. I'll send—”

Tina, who apparently hadn't gone anywhere just yet, promptly smacked Ricky on the back of the head with her free hand.

“What?”
He didn't have a clue.

Tina did. She could probably hear my heart thundering from across the kitchen. “There she is,” she told Alex, pointing. Then she looked at me and jerked her chin toward the back door. “Go. I'll take the table.” She scooped up the antipasto and bumped her butt through the door, doing a quick, arms-raised, hips-pivoting cha-cha with Leo to avert a collision.

Tina can be a B–, and she's high maintenance in every possible way. She's also prone to asking questions like whether vegetarians can eat animal crackers. She actually once asked Frankie what Asians throw at weddings, since Americans throw rice. He said shredded math tests. I think she believed him. But she's surprisingly smart when it comes to people's complicated love lives (in the last six months, she's correctly predicted two marriages and three divorces among Marino's regulars), and is usually pretty nice to me.

I took the hint. I snapped the valve onto the syrup, pushed the button, and a minute later, had two glasses of Coke in hand. “Come on,” I told Alex, crossing the kitchen and pushing the screen door open. “It's cooler out here.”

He followed me out onto the stoop. Someone had swept; the little parking lot was free of leaves and the usual soggy take-out menus from the Thai restaurant up the street. There was a Porsche SUV squeezed in next to the Luccheses' Buick. I assumed it belonged to Alex's parents.

I sat all the way over to the right, so he had no choice but to sit to my left. He did. He was wearing the same green Lacoste from the disastrous declamation day. I could see a trail of bread crumbs running down the front. Nonna takes her
pane
seriously. She bakes it on a stone in the pizza oven and mists it while it's cooking, as if it were some sort of bizarre tropical fern. The result is pretty amazing. The crust shatters like glass, but the center is so soft you almost don't have to chew.

Alex folded himself up and rested his crossed arms on his knees. The stoop isn't very high. With his legs bent, his knees were almost even with his shoulders. He looked like a really beautiful human umbrella.

“You're not going to get in trouble for this, are you?” he asked.

“No.” I handed him his Coke and prayed silently that it wouldn't be flat. “I'm good for a few minutes.”

I had no idea what else to say. So I drank. A little sweet, but plenty fizzy. Like I thought I should probably be. Peppy. Perky. Civically minded and fond of pastels.

“I really didn't know this was your family's place,” he said after a minute. “It was
Philly
mag. The 'rents were looking for authentic Italian. They're big on authenticity.”