one who bloodied Joey Bonofiglio’s nose when he called me “fish lips” in the fifth grade, the brainiac who let me copy his chemistry homework our entire sophomore year, the sweetheart who took me to prom and later accompanied me to Daria’s wedding and every other event that required a date. Matteo Silvano Cusumano is my plus-one, times a hundred. Nobody could hope for a better friend. And that’s exactly how I want to keep it.
“Can you drop me at Daria’s, please?”
“No time for a beer?”
“It’s book club tonight, remember?”
“Right. All the more reason for alcohol.”
I shoot him a look. Matt isn’t a fan of Daria. “A raving bitch,” he once dubbed her, before I called him out on it. Nobody talks about my sister like that.
The truck slows to a stop in front of her house. “Thanks for the ride, MC.”
“What time does this shindig end? I’ll pick you up.”
“It’s okay.” I open the door. “I can walk home.”
“Seriously. It’ll be the highlight of my night.”
His eyes are as tender as a lover’s. I cringe, hating the awkward moments that seem to be creeping into our conversations more and more frequently. Our relationship shifted last May, when Matt broke up with Leah, his girlfriend of eight months. It’s always easier when Matt’s in a relationship. But our friendship reached an unspoken tipping point last month, when we attended his best friend’s wedding. Afterward, when we were walking through the parking lot, still howling over the father-of-the-groom’s attempt to moonwalk, Matt grabbed hold of my hand. Naturally, I let out a crack of laughter, slugged him in the arm, and stuffed my hand into my coat pocket. Matt and I hug. Sometimes I kiss his cheek. We high-five and fist-bump. We don’t hold hands. Ever. But I hurt his feelings and I feel awful, and there’s no way to apologize without bringing up the mortifying event—or worse, having to talk about “us.” So I pretend it didn’t happen.
I step out of the truck. “You’re pathetic, Cusumano. Thanks anyway. Really.”
I wave good-bye and turn up the sidewalk to the 1940s row house Donnie and Daria bought after Donnie’s dad passed. Their plan was that Donnie, who lays brick and claims to know a “shitload” about construction, would fix up the dated interior. Two years later, aside from a coat of paint in the bathroom and new carpet in the girls’ room, the place still looks like a set from I Love Lucy. It’s retrocool, I tell Daria. A classic.
Laughter rises from the backyard. I round the corner and step up to the chain-link fence, where my nieces are practicing gymnastics in a yard not much bigger than a collapsed refrigerator box. Already they’re so different, Natalie and Mimi, the firstborn daughter and the second. Just as my great-great-great-great-great-great-aunt Filomena predicted when she cast the Fontana Second-Daughter Curse—not that I believe the old myth.
I watch as nine-year-old Natalie does a perfect handspring. She lifts her arms triumphantly, then brushes back loose strands of shiny brown hair from her angelic face. Today, my sister has styled it into a French braid, entwined with a pretty red ribbon. Her turquoise leggings show off her lean, muscular frame, and she’s wearing a T-shirt that says Future President, which might actually be true.
“And that’s the way you do a handspring,” she tells Mimi. Yup, the girl is as self-assured and borderline bossy as a young Hillary Clinton.
Seven-year-old Mimi gazes at her big sister with awe. As usual, Mimi looks a bit rumpled today. She’s wearing a wrinkled, hand-me-down dress that hangs from her bony frame. Her long legs are grass stained and her toenails, unlike her sister’s purple ones, are bare. Her dark hair is clipped short, slashing twenty minutes of bickering from their morning ritual, according to my sister.
“Auntie Em!” Mimi cries when she sees me. She runs full force to me, her arms outstretched. I place the cake on the lawn and squat down, pulling her into my arms.
“Hey, sweet pea!” I close my eyes and breathe in her slightly sour smell. “How are my girls?” I rise and open my arms to Natalie. “Nice handspring, kiddo.”
She gives me a quick hug. “Thanks.”
“Swing me!” Mimi says.
I smile and tousle her hair. “Just once. I’m helping your mom get ready for book club.”
I take her hands and turn in fast, tight circles. Mimi, airborne, screams with laughter. I’m laughing, too. Somewhere behind us, the back door opens.
“Em? What are you doing?”
I slow to a dizzying