The Fine Art of Truth or Dare Page 8

  “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 an
d 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.”

  “‘The best place to eat while channeling Tony Soprano’?”

  He winced. “You make it sound so . . . cheesy.”

  “Yeah, well, what can we do? People like . . .” I stopped myself. People like you think we’re all tied to the Mob. “. . . the idea of old South Philly. The checkered tablecloths and rubber grapes. Men in hats. We have pictures like that from when my grandparents opened the restaurant.”

  “Ever had a hit here?”

  See?

  I sighed quietly. “Not in my lifetime.” Then, since I was feeling none too eloquent, and “What do you want, Alex?” was a little too Frankie and not at all Ella, I asked, “Shouldn’t your mom be in the studio or something?”

  “They’re sending her down to D.C. to interview the Russian president, so she’s not on tonight. If she’s home and Dad’s home and they don’t have an event, we go out to dinner.”

  “Happen often?”

  “Often enough. Once a month or so. They like to play happy families.”

  Oh, I was dying to ask, Aren’t you a happy family? I know, of course I know that money isn’t enough, but it has to help. I can’t remotely imagine how it’s possible to be unhappy on trips to Florence.

  “Is it just you?” I did ask. “No sibs?”

  “Just me. Public figures have to have at least one. It makes them look trustworthy.” He took a quick look at my face and laughed. “I’m kidding. Trust me, you can’t believe most of what I say.”

  I had absolutely no idea what to say to that.

  Truth: I want people to tell the truth.

  Truth: Yes, I am that naive.

  “Siblings are . . . complicated,” I said. “You met my sister.”

  “Not really. I heard your sister. I mean, I didn’t mean to listen, but it was kinda hard not to . . .”

  And there it was, suddenly, the elephant in the room. We both went completely quiet. Alex looked at his wrist, like he was checking the time. Only he wasn’t wearing a watch. Finally, he sighed.

  “Look. I’m . . . uh . . . When you told me you’d looked at my stuff. I didn’t . . . I shouldn’t have . . .”

  What is it about those two words—I’m sorry—that makes otherwise articulate guys into babbling idiots? I mean, I love you, I get. That’s a tough one, putting yourself so completely, nakedly out there. I haven’t ever said that to a guy. A guy other than Frankie or my dad, anyway. But I’m sorry? I say it twenty times a day. To Nonna, when I just can’t face a three-course breakfast at seven in the morning, to the half-dozen people I bump into on my frantic rush up those eight blocks to school. To Sadie, for having to copy her algebra hom
ework for, like, the thousandth time, because I didn’t get to mine.

  I’m still waiting for Leo to apologize for totaling my bike three years ago. I forgave him eventually. Riding a bike in the middle of the city is a little like playing Russian roulette with a bus. Still, it would have been nice to have gotten an I’m sorry instead of a litany of excuses. I figure I’ll be waiting forever.

  That said, I was ready to let Alex off the hook in, oh, about a second.

  “Yeah,” I said. Then, “I’m sorry I looked. Or saw, I guess. I didn’t go digging through your book. The pages fell out.”

  “Yeah. I kinda figured that might have been what happened.” He scuffed one heel against the cement. “The book fell out of my bag again. . . and, well . . .”

  And, well, there he was, forgiven.

  “Zippers,” I said. “One of mankind’s better inventions. Your bag has one; I’ve seen it.”

  “You see much, Grasshopper.”

  I blinked at him.

  “C’mon. Kung Fu?” He let go of his knees and sliced both hands through the air in a choppy spiral. “Shaolin monk fighting against injustice while searching for his long-lost brother in the Old West?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Sad. I bet you wouldn’t recognize ‘Live long and prosper,’ either.”

  “Nope.”

  “How did I know? My dad got me into seventies TV. It’s awfully brilliant. Or brilliantly awful, maybe.” He had relaxed and was looking monumentally pleased with seventies television or himself or something.

  You’re awfully beautiful, Alex Bainbridge.

  I managed to keep that one to myself, but . . . “You’re really good.” That one got away from me. “Your drawing, I mean.”

  He shrugged. “Not really. Besides, what difference does it make? It’s not like I’m going to do anything with it. What’s the point . . . ?” He winced. “Jeez, I’m sorry. You’re probably heading for MoMA via the Sorbonne and Bennington.”

  “NYU if I’m really really lucky.” I smiled, letting him off the hook. I still couldn’t quite wrap my head around the fact that I was bantering with Alex Bainbridge. “After that, not a clue. You?”