Mafia Girl Read Free Page A

poured down because on a day like that it made sense that the sun wouldn’t have the nerve to shine. The TV was off and he just sat there like the most alone person on earth, because I guess when you lose your mom you feel orphaned, even if you have a family of your own.
    Grandma Giulia was his conscience. She was the only one who could smack his head and tell him what to do and he would never contradict her.
    “Mama,” he might say, holding out a hand. But he’d never go further than that, which is something because my dad has a temper and, believe me, if he gets pushed, you do not want to be there.
    So when I sat next to him and told him my secret plan he looked up and smiled, then kissed the palm of my hand like a blessing. I held hands with him for I don’t know how long, hoping that from then on he’d think more about the future than the past and not look so small and sad anymore. When his cell rang, I got up, sure he’d want to take the call, but he didn’t even look to see who it was.
    Now that I’ve told him, I try to ace every paper and exam because no matter what anyone says about us and how stupid our lives can be, I’ll tell you something you should never forget: our family has brains.
    “Keep Saturday night open,” Ro says when we talk on the phone after school. “We’re having a birthday party for Dante.”
    Ever since Ro’s older brother Dante and I made out in the upstairs bathroom when I was ten, he’s had a major crush on me. It happened at one of their family’s annual July Fourth barbecues where my dad and Ro’s dad—who owns the best pastry shop in Little Italy—wear stupid aprons with sayings like “I’m the Grillfather” and take turns cooking. My parents love Dante, which doesn’t help. He worships my dad and is a masterful suck-up who leaves gifts for me and for them for every occasion, from birthdays to Groundhog Day. Designer scarves, Tiffany rings, Vuitton bags, Prada wallets, cashmere hoodies, sports tickets, and anything else major-league expensive that “fell off a truck,” but whatever. It’s the thought that counts, right?
    So when Saturday night rolls around after about eighteen courses of manicotti, lasagna, grilled salmon, filet mignon, roast chicken, calamari, clams oreganata, sautéed spinach, escarole, zabaglione, fifty kinds of cookies, and Ro’s mom saying for the twentieth time, “why don’t you kids ever eat anything?”—Ro and I and Dante and his friend Marco and some guy I never met before who they call Little Paulie, who’s about six-five, and some skanky girl named Viv with pink hair who is getting on my nerves because of her gluten-free diet thing, go down to Ro’s basement. After fighting for about an hour over which movie to watch and Dante finally grabbing his baseball bat and holding it over his head and threatening to smash the fifty-five-inch Sony TV he just got if “you all don’t just shut up and stop arguing ,” we do finally and watch The Fighter , which is amazing. Dante sits close to me and I can tell he’s wasted because he’s whispering to me over and over again, “you’re so beautiful, Gia,” and “it gives me a hard-on just to look at you in that sweater.”
    “Please shut up,” I tell him so I can watch the movie. But instead he starts to massage my neck, which is all it takes for me to fall into a sex trance, fantasizing that it’s Officer Hottie instead of Dante. Then again, Officer Hottie isn’t here and Dante is and what the hell because he does have good hands. And then like a slut I turn to him and we start making out even though I know that’s the last thing I should be doing because tomorrow he’ll probably steal a diamond ring and ask my dad if he can marry me.
    But I can’t worry about that right now so I don’t. I pretend I’m into him and living for the moment, which is one way to justify being a slut. But it is his birthday and maybe he does deserve more than just a Loro Piana cashmere turtleneck