We bake the petit fours in rectangle pans so that when they come out, we can cut them into little cake fingers and ice them individually. Apparently, they are very big at weddings and high teas, so Margo is more than a little obsessed with them.
Now it’s time to make glazes for the pound cake (I do orange to match my orange cake. Plus I really like zesting!) and frosting for our layer cakes. Chef crammed so much into this last class that we’re all zipping around the room with no time to chat.
I catch Liza’s eye as she and Margo use pastry bags full of fluffy colored icing to add piping around their giant thirteen cake. I am sorry she hates this, but I’m getting really pumped up about the possibilities for her true party.
Tristan and Javier’s iPod looks more like a stone tablet from ancient times, but they seem okay with that. Frankie and I agree that they look even cuter than usual concentrating on guiding the icing onto the cake. Meanwhile Frankie’s mom squeezes the wrong end of her pastry tube and winds up with green icing exploding all over her face and hair. Even Frankie laughs as she helps Theresa clean herself off as best she can. “I always wanted some cool streaks in my hair!” Theresa chuckles, smoothing the green icing into her dark hair.
In the middle of everything, Angelica dances in from the back room spinning Cole around. They swoop over to Liza’s table and check out Margo’s idea of a birthday cake.
“Ah, Liza, mi chica, I feel so excited for your big party. Oooh, I remember when I had my quinceañera . . . I was such a wild girl, I just wanted to dance all night and eat everything in sight and it was just maravilloso. But then”—she clucks her tongue, looking at Chef—“I never got to plan another one.” Cole giggles and she gives him a squeeze. “But, ay Dios mio, it was a beautiful night. . . .”
Frankie and I look at each other, dusted with flour and sugar and sticky with batter. She grins her big Frankie grin. “We are so totally going to do this,” she whispers. “And I know who’s going to help us!”
CHAPTER 23
Liza
The doorbell rings just as I finish zipping up the frilly purple poof-fest Nana bought me for the party. Dad’s plane landed over an hour ago, but it can take forever to get from the airport in Queens to our neighborhood in Brooklyn. He texted me as soon as he landed, and I’ve been going over my plans for Operation: Family Reunion ever since. There’s no time to waste—Phase One kicks off tonight.
The dress is what Mr. Mac would call an “icebreaker.” As soon as my dad sees it, we’ll all start talking about how my grandmother is in full-on party control-freak mode and remembering other famous Nana moments. Then any weirdness or tension (a.k.a. “ice”) between him and Mom will melt away, and they’ll be on their way to getting back together.
Running in this dress is impossible so I speed-walk to the door. Mom is already on her way to answer it with Cole, who’s tugging her along by the hand, but she stops in her tracks when she sees what I’m wearing.
“What’s all this about, Liza Louise?” she asks, drawing a circle around me in the air with her free hand.
I shrug, but don’t actually answer. She’s seen the dress, of course, but I didn’t tell her I’d be giving my dad a sneak preview so soon. “Should we let Daddy in together, Coley?” I say, bending down as far as my fairy-princess gown will let me and hoisting my not-so-little brother into my arms.
Cole plays with the layer of fluffy fabric that wraps around my shoulders—“tulle,” Nicole called it—as I open the door. My dad has a big smile on his face when he sees us both. He leans in and gives me a kiss and then holds his arms out, and I pass him Cole. My brother releases his grip on the tulle and spreads his arms as wide as he can before practically jumping into my dad’s arms.
“Hey, big man, what’s happening?” Dad asks after he catches his breath.
Cole turns and points a chubby finger in my direction. “Liza gettin’ married!”
My dad and I crack up. My mom has been standing back by the sofa giving the three of us a few minutes alone together, but even she can’t help laughing. Who needs an icebreaker with a crazy toddler around? The four of us have been in the same room for less than five minutes, and my plan is already working!
Dad puts Cole down on the floor and does his best to stop giggling. “Really?” he says, pretending to take my brother seriously. “Well, then I’m glad I came!” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Lovely dress, Lize. When’s the wedding?”
I shrug his hand away and give him a sarcastic smile. “Ha-ha. This is Nana Silver’s idea of what’s ‘appropriate’ to wear to a thirteenth birthday party.” I step back and twirl around to show off the utter ridiculousness of the dress.
“Ah, that explains it,” Dad says, giving me my-little-girl-is-growing-up looks. “I realize it’s not your style, Liza Lou, but you really do look beautiful.”
“Dad!” I stomp, making it clear that I haven’t grown up all that much. “You’re not actually going to make me wear it, are you?”
My mom and dad exchange a look. I’m not sure what it means, but I decide to consider any kind of eye contact a good sign.
“I just got in, sweetheart. Your mom and I will discuss the dress later. Right now, I just want to spend some time with you and Cole and hopefully get some food.” He puts his hand on his stomach. “The only thing I’ve eaten since I left the West Coast was a bag of pretzels, and I’m starving!”
Since my dad just gave me the perfect lead-in to Phase Two of my plan, I decide to drop the dress thing for now.
“You know me, Dad. I’m always up for food.”
“That’s my girl,” he says. “Where should we eat? Sushi? Indian? Italian? I sure have missed our daddy-daughter pizza dinners at Nino’s.”
“Actually, I was thinking all four of us should go somewhere. I’m sure Cole wants to spend more time with you tonight, and Mom, too.” I catch my mom’s eye as I say that and see that she’s giving Dad another one of those looks.
For a minute no one says anything, and I realize this is definitely an “awkward moment.”
“It’s so sweet of you to think of us, honey,” my mom says at last, “but Cole’s had a long day, and he barely napped.”
“Ooh, yeah,” Dad says a little too quickly. “A sleepy Cole is a cranky Cole—not the ideal dinner companion.”
“I no need naps no more, Mama,” Cole says, stomping his foot just like I did a few minutes ago and tugging at my mom’s skirt.
Mom tousles his hair and gives one of his curls a little tug the way she does with my braids. “Oh yes, you do, Mister,” she says. “And I’m the one who has to deal with you when you don’t get enough rest. Let’s let Daddy and Liza have a nice dinner together and you can see him again first thing in the morning after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”
“Oh, come on, guys,” I say, not ready to let my plan completely self-destruct without a fight. “It’s only six thirty, and we’re talking about Nino’s, not the Four Seasons. No one’s going to mind if Cole’s a little grumpy.”
“I NOT GRUMPY!” Cole insists, stomping on the floor with both feet this time, and proving that exactly the opposite is true. Is he actually trying to mess up my plans to get our parents back together?
Dad puts his arm around my shoulder. “I was really hoping to spend some time just with you tonight, Lize. You’re the one who called me and asked me to come out early, remember? I want to hear all about Nana’s crazy ideas for the party and catch up on everything else that’s been going on with you.” He looks up at my mom and then back to me. “And there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about too.”
Okay, I’m confused. Mom and Dad have been acting like they don’t really want to see each other—at least tonight—but they keep giving each other these weird looks. And now Dad says he wants to talk to me about something—alone. That has to be another good sign, right? Maybe what my dad wants to talk about is that he and my mom actually are getting back together, and he wants me to be the first to know. That would
explain the weird looks, and the father-daughter dinner. I mean, when you think about it, what other reason could there be?
“Okay,” I say, “table for two it is.”
Dad squeezes my shoulders. “Thank you, sweetheart. That’s great news,” he says. “Now, how about we go get ourselves some pizza?”
“Sounds great,” I say. “But, um, I should probably change into something just a little bit less formal.”
My dad smiles. “Good idea. Nana Silver definitely would not approve if we accessorized your new dress with marinara sauce.”
CHAPTER 24
Liza
Nino’s is always crowded, but tonight it’s even more packed than usual. There’s a giant TV on one wall where most of the time they play old Italian movies with the sound off. Before the Big D (a.k.a. my parents’ divorce), we used to have dinner at Nino’s every Sunday night. While we ate our pizza, we’d watch the movie and make up what the different characters were saying (my English teacher, Ms. Bissessar, would call it “dialogue”). It didn’t matter if they were cowboys, old ladies, or little school girls, the characters would always be saying things like, “I love you more than mozzarella cheese,” and “You’re my spicy pepperoni”—even though no one in the movies was ever eating pizza. My dad and I thought our game was hilarious, and our pizza dinners often ended with me laughing so hard that I choked on my Coke (the one can I was allowed all week).
The only time the big TV at Nino’s isn’t showing old movies is when one of the Italian soccer teams is playing in a big match. Tonight is one of those times, which explains why the place is so crowded. Luckily, Tony D., one of the waiters who’s been working at Nino’s forever (there’s also a Tony R.), spots my dad and me in the crowd of people waiting to be seated. When he catches Dad’s eye, a big smile takes over Tony D.’s usually all-business face, and he waves us over. Everyone gives us looks as we squeeze through the mob waiting for tables, and I can tell they’re wondering what we did to get the celebrity treatment. I guess being a loyal customer for a decade has its perks, even if you move away and only come back to visit a couple of times a year.
Tony D. shows us to a table that has a great view of the TV. Dad likes soccer okay, but I can tell he’s as bummed as I am that there’s a game on instead of an old movie. We order our pizza—half pepperoni mushroom for me, half sausage and black olive for my dad—and a big Caesar salad to share. It might sound weird to get excited over a condiment, but the Caesar dressing at Nino’s is almost better than the pizza. They say the secret is in the anchovies—they use a special kind that they import from some tiny town in Italy where the owners grew up. When I was little, you couldn’t have bribed me with an unlimited supply of Barbies to even look at an actual anchovy, let alone eat one, but I would still happily scarf down a Nino’s Caesar salad.
“They treating you good out there in Hollywood?” Tony D. asks when he brings us our drinks. “Going to the beach every day and all that?”
Dad laughs. “Not quite, but I’m doing okay.” He looks at me. “I miss having pizza dates with my little girl, though.”
I smile, but I can feel myself blushing. My dad has gotten really mushy since the divorce. “I think he just misses the pizza,” I tell Tony D. “We had some when I was in LA, and it’s nowhere near as good as yours.”
“So true,” Dad says. “They don’t know how to make pizza on the West Coast. I like avocado as much as the next guy, but I don’t want it on my pizza.” He squeezes a slice of lemon into his iced tea and looks up at Tony D. “If you guys ever want to open a Nino’s II in LA, you’ve got a built-in loyal customer.”
Tony D. grins. “I’ll mention it to the boss. And I’ll go check on your order before you forget what it’s like to eat a real New York slice.” He scoops our straw wrappers off the table. “Avocados,” he mutters, shaking his head as he turns toward the kitchen.
“So tell me,” my dad half yells over the roar of the soccer fans on TV and in the restaurant (the Italian team must have just scored a goal), “I want to hear all about your crazy Nana.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s completely lost it, Dad.”
I tell him about how she hired a car to take us all over the city to check out “venues,” how she bossed around the really nice personal shopper at Bloomingdale’s, and how she rejected the only truly pretty dress I tried on.
“And she hired some old-school caterer even though Chef Antonio—he’s our cooking teacher—recommended a friend of his who does really fun, tasty party food, which is what I told Nana I wanted.” I’m the one yelling now, even though the soccer fans have settled down. I take a long sip of my Coke. “And you’ve seen the invitations and the dress.”
My dad runs his hand through his hair like he always does when he’s frustrated. He has really thick hair that’s just starting to get a little gray. Every time I see him, there are a few more gray hairs. He says he finally feels like a grown-up, because he’s always had a boyish face.
“I should have known better than to trust my mother to keep her bossy streak in check. It’s like asking her to suppress her entire personality.” He sighs. “But I’m here now and I’m going to try to fix things. I’ll call Nana tonight and insist that she meet me first thing tomorrow to go over all of the details. Maybe we can even exchange that dress.”
With Dad clearly feeling guilty, I decide this is an opportunity to put the next phase of my brilliant plan into action.
“Why don’t you come over to the apartment tomorrow and tell Nana to meet you there?” I suggest, in what I hope is a casual way. “We can all have brunch together, like in the old days.”
My dad scrunches up his eyebrows. “You mean with your mom there too? She’s been pretty clear about staying out of the party planning—remember? I don’t think she’ll want to be involved.”
“She’s making the desserts,” I remind him. “Really good stuff, the stuff I like. And I’m sure she’ll want to spend some time catching up with you.”
My dad is about to say something, when Tony D. comes to the table carrying our pizza and salad on a big tray. Like all the waiters at Nino’s, he makes a big production of slicing our pizza, and serves us each a giant helping of salad. Dad immediately picks up a slice and takes a bite, his face lighting up like he’s just tasted heaven. Tony D. nods his head and pats my dad on the shoulder, satisfied that the memory of Los Angeles pizza has successfully been erased from his taste buds, at least for the moment.
My dad wipes a blob of sauce off his chin and comes back to earth. “Sorry, Lize,” he says, jabbing his fork into the salad, “what were you saying?”
“I said you should come over tomorrow because Mom wants to see you too.”
He does the scrunched-up eyebrow thing again. “She told you that?”
I shrug. “Well, not exactly. But she doesn’t have to. Why wouldn’t she want to see you? You guys have been talking on the phone a lot, right?”
My dad takes a deep breath and puts down his fork. “I’m glad you asked me to come out here, Liza. Not just so I can help with Nana and the party, but because there’s something else I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
Something in my stomach drops, like it does when you’re about to go over the hill on a roller coaster. Is my dad actually about to tell me that he and my mom are getting back together? I hope I remembered to bring my phone so I can text Frankie and Lillian under the table the minute it happens.
I try to sound natural, even though I’m so excited I almost feel sick. “Okay, Dad,” I say, hoping I sound like it’s no big deal, “what’s up?”
“Well, I’ve gone out on a few dates since your mom and I got divorced, but I never met anyone I felt like I could be in a relationship with. You know what I mean?”
“Uh-huh.” Oh man, here it comes—the part where he says he’s realized that he’s still in love with Mom!
“Only now . . .” my dad picks up his pizza and puts it down again without taking a bite. It’s kind of cute that he�
�s so nervous to tell me about him and Mom.
“Only now I have met someone. We’ve been dating for a few months and things are getting serious, so I thought it was time to tell you. And hopefully next time you come out to visit, you can actually meet her in person.”
Um . . .
Now I really feel sick to my stomach. For a second I think I might actually throw up right here at the table, all over our pizza and Caesar salad, and, if I’m lucky, my dad. Instead, out of nowhere, I start to cry. I’ve never been a crier, but I’m really sobbing now—not just a few tears trickling down my cheeks, but big, loud, ugly sobs.
All of a sudden, something happens that happens all the time in movies, but never in real life. Just as I’m starting to cry, all around us everyone in the restaurant jumps out of their seats, screaming and cheering. The Italian team scored a goal. Luckily, everyone is so busy being excited that nobody notices the weird almost-teenage girl hunched over her barely eaten pizza, bawling like a baby.
My dad jumps up and comes over to my side of the table. He tries to slide in next to me in the booth, but I don’t let him. He tries to hug me, but I push him away.
“Liza, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d be so upset. I should have known this wasn’t a good time to tell you, with all the stress about Nana and the party.”
I wipe my eyes on a napkin and try to pull myself together. “It’s not that,” I say, unwilling to look my dad in the eye. “I’m not crying about the party.”
Dad tries again to squeeze in next to me. “Come on, Lize, let’s talk about this.” I scooch over the tiniest bit, giving him just enough room to get one thigh in the booth. He takes it.
“I’m really sorry, sweetie. I didn’t know the idea of me seeing someone would be so difficult for you.”
“But you’re supposed to be seeing Mom,” I croak into my napkin.
The Icing on the Cake Page 12