The Icing on the Cake

by Deborah A. Levine

  Mom points to a big bowl of fruit and tells us to chop up whatever we like. Since we’re the final group, there are just a few apples and pears left, so we grab those and get started. When we’re finished slicing and dicing, we cook the fruit on the stove with a sprinkle of sugar and cinnamon and watch it soften. I tell Lillian about Frankie’s idea while we stir.

  “So, I’ll just remind my dad—over and over—about how great our normal family life used to be,” I explain. “And then at some point, he’ll suddenly realize all that he’s missing. Simple, yet elegant, right?” Lillian looks at Frankie and then back at me.

  “Yeah, definitely,” she says, sounding less than convinced. I was expecting her to be more positive about my plan, but I decide that it’s just that her family isn’t into “togetherness” the way Frankie’s is. I can’t exactly picture Dr. Wong, Lillian, Katie, and the other Dr. Wong all hanging out on a couch together watching TV—and they definitely don’t do pizza night.

  When our fruit is ready, we cut circles in our dough and plop the warm mush in the center. Some fruit oozes out of my pie when I fold over the edges, but I wipe it off with my finger and sneak a taste. Yum. Problem solved.

  Mom watches carefully as we fry our pies in vegetable oil, because it’s easy to get burned. Actually, the popping, sizzling oil does sting me a couple of times, but who cares? As I place my little pies on paper towels and watch the oil soak in, I picture making them for Dad as we enjoy a family breakfast. And that makes Nana Silver, the party, and a few pops of oil totally worth it.

  CHAPTER 19

  Liza

  “Should we feel guilty sitting here eating while Frankie’s out there running?” Lillian asks. We’re munching on the seriously delicious leftovers from whatever Dr. Wong made for dinner last night, and attempting to do our homework while Frankie is at the first official day of track team training. Apparently, before you even try out for the team, you have to do two whole weeks of training, which means that our Frankie-less afternoons have started even sooner than I expected.

  “Nope,” I say, spooning some wide, flat noodles onto my plate. “More for us.”

  I’m trying to be a supportive friend and “keep an open mind,” as my mom would say, about Frankie’s new obsession with track and raw vegetables. But it’s hard to watch your best friend suddenly morph into someone you don’t recognize.

  Lillian pours us each a glass of iced tea that’s been brewing on the counter. It tastes like flowers, in the absolute best way. “Do you think Frankie will make the team?”

  I shrug, smelling and tasting the incredible tea all at once. “You know Frankie—when she gets an idea into her head, she just goes for it.”

  “Yeah,” Lillian says with a sigh, “it would be nice if that were contagious.”

  I slurp down my final noodle and push my plate away. “Don’t tell me you wanted to join the track team too. I thought that was Katie’s deal.”

  “Ha! No way.” Lillian laughs. “But, I don’t know, I wish I could be more like Frankie around . . . you know . . .”

  “Boys? As in Tristan?”

  Lillian nods. “It’s like she’s not even nervous around him. And he’s in high school!”

  “But don’t you think Frankie sometimes acts, I don’t know, a little too confident around him?” I ask. “You know, talking to him nonstop, never taking a breath, hitting him on the shoulder whenever she says something funny . . .”

  “Maybe, but at least she doesn’t start blushing every time he’s even remotely nearby,” Lillian says, absently twirling a noodle around one of her chopsticks. “Do you think Javier even knows I exist?”

  “Of course, Lils!” I’m not sure I’ve ever called her Lils before, but I kind of like it. “Javier’s not exactly a major talker, but I’d say he definitely likes you at least as a friend.”

  “So what do I do if I want him to like me as more than a friend?”

  “I’m not really an expert, but I don’t think the Francesca Caputo method is the way to go with Javier. If you went full-Frankie on him, I’m pretty sure he’d spend the rest of our cooking classes hiding out in the corner with my brother.”

  Lillian and I both crack up at the thought of Javier dancing and playing patty-cake with Cole and Angelica. Of course, perfect Katie picks the exact moment when we’re laughing like dorks to float in through the kitchen door. She’s in her workout gear, as usual, chugging—in the most elegant way possible—from a bottle of spring water. For someone who plays three sports, you’d think she’d have discovered refillable water bottles by now. If she went to Clinton, I’d sign her up for the Green Club’s Reduce, Reuse, Recycle workshop ASAP.

  “Whew!” Katie sighs, tossing her empty bottle into the sink. “Today’s practice was killer. Coach Ryan was clearly in a mood.” I’ve heard from Lillian that Katie always carries on about the strictness of the high school coach. I guess she thinks it makes her accomplishments all the more superior. She looks from Lillian and me to the bowls of leftovers and our practically licked-clean plates.

  “You must be starving,” Lillian says, pushing the noodles across the table toward Katie. “There’s still a lot left—have some.”

  Katie shakes her head and flashes a big photo-worthy smile. “I can hold out until dinner, thanks. But I hope you two enjoyed your feast.”

  Lillian rolls her eyes. “It was just a snack—we’ve been working since we got home from school and you know dinner’s not till seven, at least. Just take some already.”

  “No time, Lillian. These books won’t crack themselves, as Mama likes to say. I’ll just grab a couple of grapes . . . unless you girls are still hungry. ”

  I give Lillian a look. If my mom were here, she’d say Katie’s “a piece of work,” just like Nana Silver. The thought of Nana and Katie together makes me laugh—if I end up inviting the entire Wong family to my not-mitzvah, I’ll definitely have to sit them at a table together so they can try to out-snob each other.

  Katie pulls one giant textbook after another out of her bag and piles them up on the table, just in case we’ve forgotten that she takes a hundred advanced classes. “Oh,” she says, when the pile is at least five books high, “I almost forgot—I saw your friend Frankie at the track. It looked like she was working really hard. I’m impressed.”

  I’d forgotten that the middle and high schools share a track. So of course Katie would see Frankie.

  “Today was the first day of preseason training. Do you think she’s good enough to make the team?” I ask, knowing that no matter what she says, part of me will be happy and the other part, well, not so much.

  “I didn’t spend my entire practice assessing the middle school hopefuls,” Katie says, taking the two biggest books off the pile and tucking them under her arm, “but I did notice her keeping up with the pack. That’s not an easy feat for someone who hasn’t been in training. And she seemed pretty determined, which is something coaches look for.”

  “That’s good,” I say, glancing at Lillian, “I guess.”

  Lillian shrugs. “Good for Frankie. Lonely for us.”

  With her free hand, Katie digs a doodle-free notebook out of her backpack. “You know, Lillian, it wouldn’t hurt you to try out for an athletic team too. It’s not like you have a packed schedule or anything.”

  “Actually,” Lillian says, “I just joined the Clinton Poster Club. So I’ll be pretty busy this spring.”

  “Right,” Katie says, giving us one of her half smiles. “Sounds exhausting.”

  With the bunch of grapes balanced delicately on her pile, Katie waltzes out of the room. Perfect is definitely not the word I’d use for her right now!

  CHAPTER 20

  Frankie

  What’s that expression about a body at rest staying at rest? Mom likes to say it when The Goons are parked, well, anywhere: their beds, the couch, the floor, the kitchen chairs. Sprawled out, legs and arms flopped all over the place, no sense that other people might need to get by or exist in the same spac
e, they do it all the time. As annoying as they are, crashing through the house leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, The Goons seem to irritate Mom more at the opposite end of their very limited spectrum—teenage boy limbs draped everywhere. So she claps at them in her second-grade teacher way, proclaiming something about bodies staying at rest and urging them to remove themselves promptly and go do “something productive.” Of course, I find them unbearable in either state, but that’s just me.

  Right now, my own body is screaming to be at rest. The first day of training for the track team was pretty killer and maybe not quite as cool as I thought it would be. I mean, since I’ve essentially been running since right after I learned to walk, honestly, how hard could it be? Instead, we do long laps where my lungs don’t ever fill with the necessary oxygen, and then short sprints where my legs never seem to extend far enough that my thighs will stop screaming in pain. I’m panting like Rocco on a hot day and my hair is everywhere I don’t want it to be—strands sticking to my neck, pasted to my cheeks, poking in my eyes—even though it started out crammed into a fat pink elastic. So much for my bouncy, effortless jog!

  I huff and puff all the way home and miraculously make it to my room without being assaulted by any member of my family. I can hear them, stomping around in the kitchen as Dad finishes dinner, yelling over one another to be heard, but somehow nobody notices me creeping in. Who am I kidding? I was hardly creeping, more like trudging or maybe even lumbering thanks to my total exhaustion. (Mr. Mac would be seriously impressed with my vocabulary. But do I even care anymore?) However you describe it, I’m safe in my own little space where I can relax for a second before I take off these sweaty clothes and get in the shower . . .

  BANG BANG BANG.

  The next thing I know, there’s an ear-splitting crashing noise and a blazing overhead light blasts into my eyes. Did I fall asleep? Nicky is standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips like a mini version of Mom.

  “Frankie! Mom says to come now. We’ve been calling you forever and she was starting to get worried that there was something wrong with you.” He peers at me from above, sizing me up. “Is there something wrong with you? You look weird.”

  “No,” I mumble, “I’m fine. Now get out.”

  “Mom, she’s okay,” he hollers, loud enough to be heard downstairs. “Except she’s all sweaty-looking and mean!”

  I hear my mom ask him if she needs to come up to check on me.

  I stagger up, not wanting her to think I’m sick. “I’m totally fine. And I’m not mean. You just have no business in my room, that’s all. Tell her I’m coming right now!”

  Nicky plows down the stairs ahead of me, while I follow slowly. I never fall asleep during the day, and I have no memory of deciding to take a nap, anyway. That just doesn’t happen to me. Maybe that is what people mean by power napping? Does Katie power nap? Is that how she crams so much into one day without getting wiped out? But I don’t feel “powerful” or even energized. I just feel disgusting.

  Of course, it’s a night when every single Caputo is home, so when I get to the table, all five of them look up at me. If I look even half as bad as I feel, I’m not a pretty sight. From the expressions on my family’s faces, they clearly agree. Oh well.

  “You okay, bella?” my mom asks. “You look tired.”

  Before I can answer, The Goons start snickering. “Stop it, boys,” Mom says. “Francesca is working very hard, give her a break.” I appreciate her effort, but my obnoxious brothers just keep making stupid comments about dangling a cannoli on a stick in front of my face when I’m running—like a tastier, more tempting carrot—or putting a plate of risotto at the finish line.

  “Cut it out now, boys,” Dad says in his I-mean-business voice, so The Goons just sort of shrug and start shoveling food onto their plates and then into their gaping mouths, pretty much simultaneously. Sometimes with the same fork. Revolting.

  As Dad passes the steaming pan to me, while still keeping an eye on the human garbage disposals, I have to admit: his lasagna looks amazing. Layers of pasta and slices of eggplant, chopped peppers, ground beef, tomato sauce, spices, and—of course—cheese. I would so love to slice off a piece as big as my plate and dive in. Instead, I force myself to focus on Katie and her discipline. Katie and her ambition to succeed. Katie and her fruit and tea and her perfect grades and her perfect track team medals. I can do that too, can’t I? I can be the Frankie who’s determined and centered and healthy, not the Frankie who’s driven by immediate gratification, no matter how much that gratification is smothered in melted cheese. I can be the Frankie who people like Katie and Tristan actually take seriously.

  Yep. That’s what I’m talking about. I can see it now. Dream it, be it.

  Taking just a sliver of lasagna, I reach for the spinach salad and pile my plate high with pine-nut sprinkled dark leafy greens—the healthiest kind, according to a nutrition book someone left on the bench in the locker room this afternoon. Spinach makes you strong, right? That’s what Popeye says, anyway, and with some of my dad’s homemade dressing, it’s actually quite tasty.

  Now that they’ve nearly finished with stuffing their faces, The Goons are taking turns imitating a supposedly certifiable chemistry teacher they both had, and Nicky is literally spitting out his food with hysterics. But do I throw a fit and tell them off? Do I roll my eyes and sigh at their stupidity? No, not this Frankie. Instead I’m determined to maintain my composure. Even my parents are laughing—but not me. I keep my head down and focus on my breathing until the Joey and Leo comedy routine ends.

  * * *

  With dinner finally over, the boys disappear as usual. Apparently, my Nonna had dropped off some amaretti cookies earlier today, and my brothers each grab a fistful before they take off.

  Since Dad cooks, Mom’s on cleanup. I start to help her clear the table, but she kisses my nose and waves me upstairs. “Go take a shower and get ready for school tomorrow. You need sleep, Francesca, you look wiped out.”

  Great. Even my mom thinks I look like crap. I follow her instructions, though. Once I’m clean and refreshed, I will be ready to take on my humanities homework—and maybe some extra credit math problems to get my grade up a bit more. After that, who knows? I might even memorize a few global capitals so I have a shot at making the Model UN in a couple of years, like Katie.

  Yes, I’m so totally going to do all of that—right after I spread out on my soft, warm, strawberry-covered comforter for a minute or two. Just a minute . . . or two . . .

  CHAPTER 21

  Liza

  I know it’s scientifically impossible and all that, but I could swear that time literally slows down at the end of eighth period, so that the last ten minutes actually take at least twenty. Even though humanities is one of my favorite classes, by the end of the period—which is also the end of the school day—I usually find myself watching those last endless minutes tick down until the bell rings.

  Not today though. For the first time all year—- maybe ever—I wish those clock hands would move even slower. After school Nana’s taking me shopping for a dress, and I’m dreading it even more than our tour of possible party spaces or our visit to the letterpress studio. Don’t get me wrong, I like going shopping (not as much as Frankie, but she’s obsessed), I just can’t imagine a dress existing in this universe that Nana Silver and I will agree on. The only good thing about this shopping trip is that Frankie and Lillian are coming along for moral support—and they’ve promised to come to my rescue if Nana tries to make me look like the newest Disney princess (even though a half-Jewish, half–African American princess would be pretty cool).

  When the bell finally rings, I take my time organizing my notebook and pause to redo my ponytail a few times while looking at my reflection in the window. I’m the last one out of the room, and when I get to my locker, Frankie and Lillian are already there waiting.

  “What took you so long?” Frankie asks. “I could have run around the track three
times by now.” Frankie’s skipping preseason track for this afternoon’s adventure, and this is at least the fifth time she’s brought it up since lunch. She actually jogged up and down the stairs between classes to make up for missing the workout.

  “I’m not exactly in a hurry to see myself in all those poofy, frilly dresses that Nana picks out,” I say. “Even I think running around the track sounds like the better option.”

  “Come on, Liza, it’ll be fun,” Lillian says. “If we were shopping with my grandmother, you’d end up with one of those old-fashioned high-necked Chinese dresses that practically choke you to death.”

  I grab my backpack and jacket and slam my locker shut. “I have a feeling I’d rather wear one of those than anything Nana’s got in mind.”

  “Where are we going, anyway?” Frankie asks as we head toward the main stairway.

  “I have no idea,” I say, “I was afraid to ask. Probably wherever Cinderella would shop if she lived in New York.”

  Outside, Nana is waiting for us in a taxi, right in front of school just like last time. As soon as she sees us, she makes the driver honk the horn, even though it’s the only taxi on the block and we’re already walking directly toward it. When the three of us reach the cab, Nana gets out and gives me a quick hug and kiss. Frankie leans in to hug her next, but Nana takes Frankie’s face in her hands instead.

  “Francesca,” she says, beaming at Frankie as if she’d just earned a scholarship to Harvard. “Look at you!” Nana lets go of Frankie’s cheeks and steps back a little, giving us all more space to admire her. “So tall! And that gorgeous Mediterranean skin.”

  Instead of turning as red as my grandmother’s lipstick, Frankie just smiles. She’s used to Nana and is great at talking to adults, period. “Hi, Mrs. Silver. It’s so nice to see you. I hope you don’t mind us tagging along.”