“That is such a wonderful idea, Jackie,” she says in her perpetually blissed-out, breathless way. I wonder if she talked like that before she and Stephen got together. “I had a big Sweet Sixteen party, and it was so lovely. There was a pink balloon tower and a disco ball.” She literally sighs as she remembers it, I am not kidding. “But no one in my family is a baker, so my mom just ordered one of those big tacky cakes from the grocery store. The cake decorators even spelled my name wrong. Your plan sounds so much more personal!”
We’re crimping the edges of our piecrusts now, and I’m glad to have something to focus on other than party talk. I’m using a fork like Mom told us to, but Theresa has given up and is basically just shaping her crust into the pan with her knuckles. Mom tries to show her how to rub a little water into the dough to fix all the holes and tears, but Theresa just grabs little pieces of dough and smooshes them over the problems.
“I loved my Sweet Sixteen.” Theresa sighs as she attempts to sloppily patch another hole. “I danced with Joe all night. I’m sure Mama and Nonna cooked up a storm for the party, but I don’t even remember the food. At the time it was the most romantic night of my life . . .” She actually starts humming that song from The Sound of Music about being sixteen going on seventeen.
Okay, hold up. I’m turning thirteen, not sixteen, and I’m definitely not looking for a magical night of romance. Unlike my two best friends, I don’t even have a crush! Suddenly everyone is reminiscing about their favorite birthday bashes—Errol’s sister had one, Henry’s cousin, even Dr. Wong has some stories about parties back in San Francisco. Lillian and Frankie shoot me sympathetic looks, but they’re as powerless as I am against the birthday brigade. . . .
At last there’s a distraction as Angelica carries Cole over to one of the giant refrigerators to get him some juice. While she’s pouring, he runs to our table and begs Mom for some dough (when she does bake, she always gives him some pieces to play with). My brother’s like a frisky puppy, and everyone seems to want to give him little scraps. Some he balls up in his hand, but he eats quite a bit of it too. I don’t blame him—raw dough is delicious, even though you’re not supposed to eat uncooked eggs and all that. Angelica stops to admire Lillian’s handiwork and then catches on to what everyone is talking about.
“A party? Que bueno! I just had the one son, but I always wanted to plan a quinceañera. . . . In Cuba we celebrate the girl’s fifteenth birthday, not the sixteenth, you know. It’s a night to remember, and I wished always to give one.” She scoops up Cole and spins him around like he’s Prince Charming, which makes him bubble with laughter as always. Chef steps around them as he circles the tables and pretends to look hurt.
“Sorry, Mami, that I was not a little girl for you. Maybe we can dress up Javi for his quinceañera and pretend? Ha!”
Okay, well at least now there’s officially someone in the room more horrified than I am. But why is Javier over there chuckling with Tristan instead of burying himself in his hoodie? Boy bonding? Where are my BFFs when I need them?
I spin around to find Lillian alternately obsessing over her perfect lattice and sneaking looks at Javier. At the graham-cracker table, Frankie’s pouring key-lime filling into the crust while Tristan holds the pan. She’s trying to gaze into his eyes, but he is more interested in scanning the table for crumbs and tossing them into his mouth. Meanwhile, Frankie’s not even using a spoon to scrape up the leftover filling, which is totally unlike her. Something is definitely up with Frankie.
Mom puts the last of our buttermilk pies into the big ovens, and when she turns around I see that she has a flour smudge on the tip of her nose. Before I can tell her, Chef Antonio swoops over and dusts it off with his oven mitt. They both laugh, but I’m not amused. First, the party I’m not in the least bit excited about takes over our Saturday cooking club, and now my mom and Chef are acting weird. The only good thing about this stupid not-mitzvah is that my parents are starting to like each other again. Our handsome, charming TV star Chef had better not get in the way. . . .
CHAPTER 11
Frankie
My dad sent me to the vegetable stand on Court Street to get a whole bunch of different-colored peppers and some onions. Of course, thanks to Chef Antonio and the cooking class, I now know that peppers are actually fruit, not veggies, but I’m not about to tell Mr. Pak that he should change the name of his stand. I love that Dad trusts me to pick out the best ones—he’s super choosy about his ingredients and usually spends way too much time studying, squeezing, and sniffing the merchandise at Mr. Pak’s. But today is Sunday and he’s trying to crank out a mess of dinners for the week, since he’ll be on duty at the firehouse until eight or nine almost every night. I like to go to the vegetable stand and do my best Joe Caputo impression, inspecting the vegetables for perfection. I like to think I can spot perfection pretty easily—it’s one of my talents.
My dad dedicating an entire day to cooking for the week spares us the ordeal of Mom making dinner. True fact: She’s not as bad as she used to be. But when you’re talking about my mom, that doesn’t mean much. The cooking class has helped a bit, I have to admit. Most things she tries these days are pretty much cooked all the way through—a big improvement—and she might not hurt herself every single time. Still, she’s not the greatest at following a recipe, she hasn’t exactly perfected her technique when it comes to slicing and dicing, and she’s not what you’d call “relaxed” in the kitchen—she bangs pots and pans and swears (under her breath), which makes it all the more difficult to enjoy the . . . somewhat edible . . . results. Soooo, we all do whatever we can to help Dad stockpile.
When my dad cooks, the house smells amazing, and he just totally gets into this zone. It sounds weird, but it’s actually a great time to talk to him because he’s so focused on what he’s doing, it’s like his mind is free to think about other things. So, on his marathon cooking days, I usually end up hanging out in the kitchen, playing sous-chef to Dad, and chatting about stuff. Today, however, I’m not feeling the urge to help him layer pasta or sauté onions and garlic or roast chickens. None of it sounds very appealing. Even picking and choosing the vegetables (or fruit, to be exact) like a judge on The Voice didn’t cheer me up. On my way home I trudge past all the same sturdy brownstones I’ve seen all my life, toward the spikes of the black iron fence in front of our house, and all of the bikes, scooters, and skateboards locked to its spindles. Stepping over huge muddy puddles left over from yesterday’s rain, I already know exactly what will happen when I open the door. The Goons will be crashing through the house, shaking the walls and floors with their stomping and bellowing (no matter how much Mom begs them to “use your inside voices”). Nicky will be playing Ancient Heroes without paying attention to where he’s going and will knock something over with a sword or a shield or, more likely, both. Our house, as usual, will be entirely feng shui free.
Still feeling weird, I take Dad his ingredients. He’s blasting some radio station that’s playing All Eighties Music All the Time and tries to get me to dance with him. Um, no. Not today. Nicky bursts in and says he needs aluminum foil to make silver wings for his shoes like the Greek god Hermes, so while Dad digs around for the foil, I decide to take cover in my room.
I race up the stairs but, of course, The Goons are blocking my way at the top, arguing over who gets control of the remote. As usual, some big game is happening somewhere, and one of them absolutely has to watch it, while the other one wants to play video games.
“Move it,” I say, trying to get around them as they shove each other. “Move your stupid fight off the stairs now. You goons are going to hurt somebody.”
“Yeah, right.” Leo chuckles to Joey without even looking at me. “Like falling down the stairs would even hurt you, Chubbers. You’d just bounce.”
Okay, fine, so I was a chunky baby and my “affectionate” family nickname was Chubbers. So what. That was a long time ago in a body far far away. I push through them, hoping maybe I’ll knock one of th
em down a step or two. But no, they don’t seem to notice. They storm off downstairs, continuing their stupid battle over the Golden Remote the entire time. I have no idea how my relatively normal mom (outside of the kitchen) and my nice-guy dad managed to produce such total idiots.
Mom calls to me. She’s in my parents’ bedroom folding laundry (pretty much a full-time job around here) and she smiles at me as I come in. “Hey, there. Aren’t you usually chopping and stirring and packing up a freezer full of dinners downstairs with Dad?”
I shrug as she continues matching up socks with a practiced eye. Who can tell the difference between all those Goon-size gym socks? Or those black, brown, and blue ones my dad always wears? My mom can.
“Why so glum, bella?” she asks, using the nickname I usually love. I shrug again and she comes over to squeeze my shoulder.
“Okay, okay. Are your brothers bothering you? You know they just live to tease, don’t pay them any attention.” I shake my head. For some reason I’m having trouble speaking up.
“Maybe just some Sunday blahs? Sundays can be so depressing, right? With everyone trying desperately to cram in the last precious seconds of the weekend before finishing homework and getting things organized for the week.” I don’t bother reminding her that with the exception of laundry and dinners, few things are ever “organized” in this house—on Sunday or any other day.
My mom keeps trying. “I know what will cheer you up. Tell me what to wear to my parent-teacher conferences next week. Help me dazzle the parents of my second graders in the way that only you can. I need all the help I can get . . . ” She keeps talking, but I’ve stopped listening. Usually this is the kind of thing I live for, telling people what to wear, coming up with the best possible combinations, putting outfits together.
I stand in front of my parents’ closet, crowded with their clothes, a bunch of Dad’s big bulky firemen uniforms hanging there like deflated men, and all sorts of old school projects of ours (an ancient papier-mâché Empire State building made by one Goon, an electrical circuit made by the other, my Terracotta Warrior from the China unit in third grade, and Nicky’s marble maze are all crammed into corners and onto shelves), and I realize this closet is like a time capsule version of my crazy family and our sprawling mess of a house. Now there’s no way I can focus. It doesn’t matter what skirt and cardigan combo I pick out for my mom—she’ll still be the same old easy-going Theresa, working mother of four, who chooses not to notice the chaos that surrounds her. She’ll never understand everything that’s wrong in my world. She just doesn’t get why for once I just want things to be calm and perfect. Perfectly calm.
“I can’t help,” I manage to say as I shake my head and race out the door.
“Francesca . . .” I hear as I run down the narrow hall. Not today, Mom, not today.
When I get to my room, I pull out my phone to call Liza. It’s a reflex, really—something happens to me and bam, I call her. But then I realize, nothing has happened. Nothing just happened that hasn’t happened a million times before. My dad is cooking. My brothers are fighting. My mom is minding her own business, folding laundry.
I throw myself onto the bed with its faded strawberry-pattern sheet set that I’ve had since I was eight and pull my pillows over my head. Something has got to change. And if my life isn’t going to change on its own, I need to make it change. I need to be the Frankie that has something new to say, someplace interesting to be, something important to be doing.
Whoa. I sit straight up, dropping my straw-berry-speckled pillow to the floor. The answer is so obvious: I need to be more like Lillian’s sister, Katie. Perfect Katie, who knows exactly who she is and where she’s going. There are flyers in the halls at school for track-team tryouts. I can learn how to run, and breathe, and be focused, just like her. It just takes willpower and practice.
And practice makes perfect!
CHAPTER 12
Liza
After a few amazingly springlike days, Mother Nature apparently remembered it’s still February (a.k.a. cold and damp), so we haven’t had lunch in the quad for ages. On Wednesdays I have PE right before lunch, which means I’m still changing out of my gym uniform when the bell rings. By the time I get to the cafeteria, Frankie and Lillian are already camped out at our usual table. Even from halfway across the room I can tell by the looks on their faces that they’re talking about Tristan and Javier. I’m glad the two of them are bonding over their cooking class crushes, but I hope we’re not going to spend the entire lunch period debating the relative cuteness of Tristan’s eyes or Javier’s smile.
“Liza!” Frankie chirps as I plop my gym bag down on one chair and my still-slightly-sweaty self on another. “Wasn’t it super cute when Tristan gave Cole a high five on Saturday?”
“Mmm,” I say with a nod, digging into my rice and beans (forty-five minutes of dodgeball and I am starving), “adorbs.”
Lillian grabs my wrist. “And don’t you think Javier makes the funniest expressions when Chef embarrasses him in class?”
“Yeah,” I say, hoping she’ll let go so I can take another bite. “He’s pretty hilarious.”
I guess my answers weren’t enthusiastic enough, because Frankie and Lillian go back to chatting with each other about the boys. I don’t mean to be unsupportive, but I have other things on my mind right now, like how to stop Nana from turning my birthday party into the social event of the year for the over-sixty crowd, and how to keep my mom and dad in this happy place so that maybe they’ll actually get back together again.
My container of rice and beans is already practically empty, but for some reason I’m still hungry. Lillian’s slurping up the last few noodles from her thermos, but there’s a delicious-looking stuffed shell in front of Frankie that she’s barely even touched. When she’s not going on about how great Tristan is, she’s nibbling on baby carrots and slices of cucumber—two things I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen in her lunch bag before.
“If you don’t stop talking and start eating, I’m going to steal that,” I say, pointing to the stuffed shell.
Frankie waves me off. “Go for it,” she says, sliding the container across the table. “I’m not really hungry. And this stuff is all there is to eat at my house. It’s like they’ve never heard of a balanced diet.”
“Seriously, Franks? You’re not going to start obsessing about dieting, are you?”
Frankie looks down at her carrots. “I’m just eating like I care about my body for a change, instead of just mindlessly shoveling it in like some people I live with. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“There is if you start sounding like my sister. And if it means you’re missing out on your dad’s amazing stuffed shell,” Lillian says, shrugging. “But more for us I guess.” She messily stabs a hunk with her chopstick and almost drops it right smack in the middle of her flawless cream-colored sweater.
“A little dose of your sister would work wonders at my house. But whatever—can we have a conversation about something else?” Frankie snaps, shoving her bag of veggies into her backpack.
“Um, yeah,” I say. “Totally. You guys have been blabbing away about the boys from cooking class for the past ten minutes.”
Frankie and Lillian look at each other and then back at me.
“Sorry, Liza,” Lillian says. “You must be sick of hearing about Tristan and Javier by now. I think even I’m a little sick of it.”
“A little,” I shrug.
“Me too. Forget them,” says Frankie. “Soooo, let’s talk about what’s going on in your life, Lize. How’s party planning? Has Nana Silver decided on normal boring paper invitations, or a giant billboard with your face lit up ten stories high in the middle of Times Square?”
Lillian laughs, but I practically have a heart attack.
“Promise me you won’t ever make that joke around Nana, Frankie. You’ll give her ideas.”
Frankie rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on, Liza. She’s not that bad.”
“I didn’
t think she would be,” I say, “but now I’m not so sure. She’s talking about hiring a personal shopper to put together the goodie bags.”
“Oooh, I love goodie bags,” Lillian says, clapping excitedly. “I mean, I love the idea of them. I’ve never actually gotten a real goodie bag—just the ones filled with junky plastic toys from little-kid birthday parties.”
Frankie leans forward, practically putting her elbow in her lunch.
“Liza and I got amazing goodie bags at this party for the tenth anniversary of her mom’s magazine. There were all kinds of makeup samples and hair stuff—there was even some sexy lacy underwear in every bag because one of the sponsors of the party was Victoria Secret or something. But her mom wouldn’t let us keep those, because we were only nine.”
“I would have been so embarrassed!” Lillian says, covering her mouth with her hand as if she could get in trouble for just thinking about it. Of course, with a mother as strict as hers, maybe she could.
“Not me,” says Frankie. “I wanted to keep them!”
“Well, there will not be underwear of any kind in the goodie bags at my birthday party,” I say firmly. “But it’s a total mystery to me what Nana’s personal shopper is going to come up with. The one thing I do know is that there’s basically a zero-percent chance anyone will ask for my opinion.”
“I hope there’s makeup,” says Lillian, less interested in my party angst than the possibility of high-quality loot. “Not that my mom will ever let me wear it.”
“She’ll let you wear a little to the party, won’t she?” Frankie asks. “Just lipstick, or some mascara? Just a tiny bit? Your eyes would really pop.”
“No way, she’s super strict about her No-Makeup-Until-You’re-Sixteen rule. But since it is such a fancy event, I really want to dress up, so maybe . . .”
The Icing on the Cake Page 6