Questions I Want to Ask You

by Michelle Falkoff

  “Is that a thing?” I ask, and they all start laughing. What? No one I know is into that stuff. It could have been real.

  The line moves slowly, but the guys are easy to talk to, and I get to know them a little as we wait for a table. Devon wasn’t kidding about Parker and politics—apparently he’s Student Council president and planning to apply early to Georgetown to study political science so he can run for office one day. I was right that Devon isn’t a jock either; he’s about to leave for some pre-pre-med summer camp.

  “You mean you’re going to school in the summer?” I ask. “Voluntarily?”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Devon says. “It’s on a college campus. There’ll be classes and stuff, but also sessions on what colleges to apply for so I have the best shot at getting into a good med school. There will also be girls, and not a whole lot of supervision.” Devon is clearly at least as excited about the girls-and-no-supervision part as he is about the med-school-prep part.

  We finally get our table, and I scan the menu for something, anything other than pizza. The guys don’t need to look—they grab a waiter quick and ask for an extra-large clam pizza, which sounds beyond disgusting. “I’ll have a green salad, no cheese,” I say.

  The table falls silent.

  “Matt, did you not tell Pack where we are?” Parker asks. “This is Pepe’s Pizza. It’s famous. The clam pizza is even more famous. There are no options when you eat here. No salads.” He says the word like I ordered garbage dressed with poison. He’ll make a great politician, I think, visiting all those local joints that serve weird food, like loose-meat sandwiches and fried Twinkies.

  “Yeah, I’m sure putting clams on pizza is totally normal,” I say. “But I’m good with salad.” Please let it go, I think. I wish I had an easy way to change the subject, and I’m tempted to bring up that guy Aunt Reggie mentioned and tease Matt about it, but I don’t know whether he’s out to his friends, or whether that’s something they joke about.

  Devon shakes his head. “You have so much to learn, young Jedi. But fear you must not. Teach you we will.”

  Oh, lord, they’re into Star Wars. The guys eat their disgusting-looking clam pizza and I eat my sad, mediocre salad and wish I’d asked for chicken on it. They start talking about people at school, and I watch how they talk to one another, how comfortable they are. They’ve clearly known each other a long time, but they know more than just the facts. Me and the guys I hang with have the basics down, like whose parents are divorced and who drinks in the bathroom at school and thinks no one knows. But we don’t know each other like these guys do—they know each other’s whole lives, as Mia would say. They make some casual reference to Matt’s ex, so I know they talk about that part of his life too.

  On the surface, they don’t seem all that alike. I’d thought Matt was a typical jock, and Devon is a science nerd, while Parker’s one of the good kids—I bet he doesn’t party at all so no one has dirt on him when he runs for office. But as they talk, I can see the connections. Like how Devon’s not the only Star Wars fan—they make me watch the trailer for the new movie on Parker’s phone and obsessively break down everything they know about the movie from those few minutes of video. I’ve never really gotten into science fiction, though Dad made me watch all the original Star Wars movies way back.

  And I’ve read Matt all wrong. He might play baseball, but he’s not a jock. Not the way I think about jocks, anyway. I like his friends, and I like what the fact that they’re his friends says about him. What does hanging out with Mike and Sean and those guys say about me? Are they really my friends at all?

  The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes that they aren’t. Maddie’s my only real friend, the only person who knows me the way Devon and Parker obviously know Matt. And that’s my own fault, really. The guys tried to include me in stuff, but I wasn’t that into spending time with anyone but Maddie. And even if I had been, I can’t picture talking to them the way Matt and his friends talk. The fact that they’re not all that alike is part of what makes them all so interesting, both to me and, it seems, to each other. Maybe that’s why Matt’s not nearly as devastated by his breakup as I am about mine—he’s got people to help him through it, not just his parents.

  Maybe I need friends.

  I keep listening quietly. There’s not much for me to add when they’re mostly talking about their other friends, who I don’t know; the conversation soon turns to college, which is when things get a little awkward. When Matt tells Parker I graduated, he asks where I’m going to school in the fall.

  “He’s not,” Matt jumps in. “Can you believe it?”

  It’s like he told them I’m from another country, or even another planet, though with their Star Wars obsession they’d probably be less surprised if I turned out to be an alien. “It’s no big deal,” I say. “Lots of people I know aren’t going to college.” Which is true. Maddie is, sure, and Colin, yuck, but most of the guys aren’t.

  “I don’t know anyone who’s not going to college,” Devon says. “My parents would kill me if I even suggested it.”

  “Mine too,” Parker says. “You know what my parents are like. They need me to be ten times as good as everyone else or else they panic.”

  I can’t imagine having two parents, let alone two who put that kind of pressure on me. I bet Parker’s pressure is way more intense than Devon’s, too, though I know I can’t begin to know what his life is like. “Aunt Reggie and Uncle Mike seem pretty laid-back,” I say. “Do they ride you hard about college?”

  Matt looks puzzled. “I wouldn’t describe it like that. But there’s never been any question I was going. Getting out of New Haven is the only thing anyone talks about, and college has always been the way out.”

  “Why would you want to leave?” I ask. “You’re all so smart, and Yale is like right down the street. Isn’t it one of the best schools in the country?”

  “Yale’s a great school, but it’s practically in my backyard,” Devon says. “My parents would come by the dorm just to say hi. And what if I was—” He thrusts his hips back and forth under the table.

  “You’re such a pig, Devon,” Parker says. “No wonder you can’t get laid anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of New Haven. Hope band camp treats you better.”

  “It’s science camp, not band camp,” Devon protests, totally missing the joke.

  “Make sure he leaves the pie at home,” I say, and Parker high-fives me. It makes me feel like part of the group. I didn’t know how much I’d been missing, though what does it say that all these people I like feel the same way about getting out of New Haven that Maddie does about getting away from Brooksby? Have I been wrong about thinking it would be better for her to stay?

  What else have I been wrong about?

  16

  After lunch, Matt and I go pick Mia up at drama camp and then head back to the house. Aunt Reggie’s in the living room, looking through the photo album she showed me that morning. She glances up from it when we come in. “Pack, if you can stay a little longer, my parents would love to have us all over for dinner Thursday night.”

  That means I could drive home Friday, which would give me the weekend to get ready for work. Plenty of time. And I can’t miss a chance to meet the grandparents I only just found out I have.

  “Stay!” Mia yells. “Nonna and Poppa make great dinners.”

  “That would be terrific,” I say.

  “Wonderful. I’ll let them know. And don’t worry—there will be plenty that you can eat.”

  Matt gives me the side-eye, and I know he’s thinking about the pizza. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sits on the love seat across from Aunt Reggie. “We’re all here now,” he says. “Anything you want to talk to us about?”

  Aunt Reggie sighs and puts the photo album to the side. “Come sit, Mia.” She pats the space on the couch next to her. “Pack, you too.”

  I sit on her other side and settle in to listen to her explain the situation to Matt
and Mia. She tells basically the same story she told me, minus some details about my parents’ history and minus most of the stuff about drugs. I’ve already told Matt a little about that, so I hope he understands that she’s editing for Mia’s benefit. He seems to; he doesn’t interrupt, at least.

  It’s probably for the best she skipped the drugs, because the kidnapping is already a lot for Mia to handle. “What do you mean, she took Pack? She didn’t tell his dad?”

  Aunt Reggie shakes her head.

  “She can’t just do that,” Mia says. “That’s not right.”

  “No, it’s not,” Aunt Reggie says. “Do you understand why we don’t talk about her now?”

  “No,” Mia says. “She’s your sister. Even if she did a bad thing, you’re supposed to make up. Isn’t that what you always tell me and Matty?”

  Aunt Reggie looks down at the coffee table, where she’s placed the photo album. “You’re right,” she says quietly. “That is what we tell you two. And we mean it. We expect you kids to work to get along, even if it’s sometimes hard. But Mia, sometimes people do things that are so bad it’s hard to forgive them, even if they’re family. I know that’s a difficult thing, and that’s why we’ve never talked about it.”

  It’s starting to make sense to me, too. Mia, smart as she is, seems to understand rules better than exceptions. Matt gets it, though; I watch his face soften as he listens to Aunt Reggie, and I know there isn’t going to be any yelling.

  “I think you’re wrong,” Mia says. “I think she’s your sister and you should find her and talk to her and make everything better. I bet that’s what Pack wants, too.”

  Leave me out of it, I want to say, but that won’t help, and I want to be someone who helps. “I get why your mom doesn’t want to talk to my mom,” I say. “I’m not sure I want to either.”

  “How can you not want to talk to her?” Mia asks. “I can’t even imagine not having a mom. I know some people who don’t have dads, or whose dads don’t live with them, like Susie and Peter and . . .” She runs down a list of all the kids she knows whose parents are divorced or whose dads are otherwise gone, but apparently she’s never met anyone who doesn’t have a mom.

  Her question does bring me back to my own: Do I want to meet my mother? Getting to know the Lombardis has definitely made me excited about the idea of meeting more family; I’m super into meeting my grandparents, for sure. My mother’s a different story. First she didn’t exist, then the letter arrived and I started to think I might want to know her. My dad’s story made her sound awful; my aunt’s story somehow made her sound even worse. But even though Dad’s story is basically made up, while Aunt Reggie’s is real, there are still so many questions that only my mother can answer.

  Maybe I should meet her. She’s my mother, after all.

  Thankfully, I don’t have to make any decisions right away, except for whether it’s time to call my dad. He’s left a couple of messages that I’ve ignored so far, but I don’t want to have to lie to him on the phone. Instead, I send a text. Beach is great. Staying a little longer than I thought. See you over the weekend. I hope that will be enough to keep him at bay.

  The next day I do my morning workouts, hang out with Matt and his friends during the day and Mia in the afternoon, and sit around with the family over dinner and movies we watch on the big TV downstairs. It’s comfortable being around them, almost like I’ve known them for much longer than a couple of days.

  To get ready for the Thursday night dinner I shower and make myself as presentable as I can (which isn’t all that presentable, given that I only have a backpack full of stuff and it’s mostly workout clothes) so we can go to my grandparents’ house. It feels weird to even think it—“my grandparents,” as if they’re something I’ve always had.

  When I come downstairs in my cleanest track pants and T-shirt, Aunt Reggie gives me an up-and-down look and shakes her head. “Sorry, Pack, but I can’t have you meeting your grandparents for the first time looking like that.”

  I turn to see Matt already downstairs, wearing pressed khaki pants and a button-down shirt. “Oh. Um, I didn’t really bring anything else.”

  “You and Matty are about the same size. I’ll find you something of his.” She goes upstairs, and I’m not sure whether to follow her, so I hang with Matt.

  “Is that okay? Me wearing your stuff?”

  He laughs. “These aren’t exactly my most treasured possessions. Besides, as much as I hate to admit it, she’s right—Nonna and Poppa have a real thing about people dressing for dinner. No need to get you in trouble with them before they have a chance to get to know you.”

  “They sound kind of scary,” I say as Aunt Reggie comes back down, holding a pile of pants in one arm and a pile of shirts in the other. She dumps everything on the couch.

  “Pick one of each. Anything will do.” She looks down at my sneakers. “What size shoe?”

  “Ten,” I say.

  “That won’t work,” Matt says. “Unless he stuffs socks in mine.”

  “The sneakers aren’t the worst,” she says. “Better pick some black pants, though.”

  I’m wearing my usual Inov-8s, lightweight black sneakers with a little bit of white and red. They’re not as big as regular sneakers, but they won’t pass for dress shoes, either. I hope my grandparents won’t automatically hate me. I find a pair of pants that look like they’ll be long enough to cover the tops of the sneakers and choose a striped shirt that looks almost like Matt’s.

  I run upstairs to change, then come back down so Aunt Reggie can evaluate me. Oddly enough, I’m almost looking forward to it. The only person who ever notices what I’m wearing is Maddie. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Probably working at the restaurant where she waitresses—the night shift is busy, especially over the summer.

  “Not bad,” Aunt Reggie says. She glances over at Matt, and then at Uncle Mike, who came down while I was getting dressed. He’s wearing olive pants and a striped shirt. The three of us basically look the same. We definitely look related.

  Mia thumps downstairs in a denim skirt and a sweater and shirt that are the same color purple, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Uh-oh. “I don’t see why they get to wear pants and I don’t.”

  “Because you’re young and your grandparents are old and it’s much easier for you to do what makes them happy than it is to try and change them,” Aunt Reggie says. “Besides, you look adorable. And I’m wearing a dress, so we’re in the same boat.”

  Even I know the word “adorable” isn’t going to help matters any. And Aunt Reggie looks so comfortable and happy in her dress that there’s no way they’re sharing a boat. “You look really nice, Mia,” I say. “If Matt had a skirt, I’d wear one with you.”

  Her eyes widen. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Probably not,” I agree. “But it’s funny to think about, right?”

  She giggles. Uncle Mike watches our exchange with a smile. “We should get going, kids.”

  We all pile into their SUV. Mia sits between me and Matt in the back, and I listen as they fight about who gets to plug in their phone and play music. Finally, I say, “If you guys can’t choose, I will,” and grab the jack to plug in my phone. That’s how we end up listening to Chance the Rapper all the way to my grandparents’ house. I play the song about his grandma, which would have been even more fitting if it were Sunday, the day they usually have dinner. It’s still nice, all of us together, listening to something they’d never have heard if it wasn’t for me.

  My grandparents live on the edge of New Haven proper, where the houses are a little older and smaller and the cars aren’t quite as nice. It kind of reminds me of Brooksby. I hang back as everyone goes inside, waiting a minute before I meet these new people. The house is warm and smells incredible, all tomato sauce and garlic, and the scent only gets stronger as Aunt Reggie hustles me into the kitchen.

  I recognize my grandparents from the baptism pictures Aunt Reggie showed me—they’re older, ob
viously, but my grandmother still has dark hair like her daughters (dyed now, I imagine), and she’s still slim and elegant, dressed in a beautiful suit under an apron covered in tomato sauce. My grandfather has a little less hair than he had in the picture, and he stoops a bit so he’s even shorter than my grandmother; he’s standing next to her chopping vegetables, and they look like a team.

  “Pack, these are your grandparents,” Aunt Reggie says, after she’s kissed them both.

  “Nonna and Poppa,” my grandmother—Nonna—says. She quickly takes off the apron and places her hands on either side of my face. “Patrick. You’re all grown up.” She kisses each cheek and then hugs me. Big huggers, this family. But it’s kind of nice. “It’s wonderful to have you here, just wonderful. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this day. We’ve missed you so much.”

  I don’t know what to say to that; it’s not like I’ve missed them, since I didn’t know they existed. Although logically I should have—it’s not like I hatched out of thin air. Thankfully, I’m saved from having to reply by Poppa, who puts down the big knife he’s using to chop the veggies, wipes his hands on a towel, and comes over to me. He shakes my hand and pulls me in for a one-armed embrace—not a hug, exactly, and I think maybe my arm will get crushed between us. “My boy,” he says, then repeats it a couple of times. Looks like Nonna’s the chatty one.

  “We’re almost ready for dinner, Patrick,” Nonna says. “Why don’t you sit, have something to drink? Regina, you get him something.”

  I feel better about my nickname having no impact when I realize Aunt Reggie’s doesn’t either. Nonna definitely does things her way. Aunt Reggie goes right to the fridge to get me water. Everyone else is drinking fancy Italian sodas, but she knows I wouldn’t want one, even though we only talked about carbs, not sugar.

  The kitchen isn’t very big, but the dining room is, with an enormous table already covered with food—platters with slices of white cheese and salami and meats I don’t recognize, along with piles of roasted vegetables. Aunt Reggie sits on one side of me, with Matt on the other; Mia and Uncle Mike sit across, leaving the head and foot of the table for Nonna and Poppa. We’ve just settled in when Nonna and Poppa start bringing in more food—lasagna, chicken cacciatore, meatballs, a bowl of pasta covered in sauce. There’s way more stuff to eat than I expected, though Aunt Reggie whispers to me to avoid the meatballs—they’ve got bread crumbs in them. “Take some pasta and hide it under the sauce,” she adds. “Nonna makes it by hand.” I do as she says. I’ve never seen pasta like this before—each piece is like two long skinny tubes twisted together.