Gates girls had fathers who drove white Cadillacs or black Lincoln Continentals with tinted glass and air conditioning instead of station wagons you could stretch out in while dangling your feet from the open back window. Gates girls had refrigerators whose pungent smells of pecorino romano and spicy salamis and fat juicy olives from the Italian import store by the railroad tracks made you want to do the tarantella when you opened the door, instead of boring plastic packets of odorless chipped turkey and ham and American cheese that were euthanasia to any taste buds worthy of the name. Gates girls feasted on manicotti stuffed with ricotta or thick squares of baked lasagna for Sunday dinner, followed by fragrant cannolis filled with sweet cream and candied fruit, instead of plain old spaghetti with meatballs, and a dessert of bread pudding made with stale crusts and a handful of raisins. Gates girls’ living rooms floated on clouds of plush, wall-to-wall carpeting as immaculate as the freshly fallen snow, whose spotlessness was exalted by the glittering light dripping from sparkling chandeliers, and preserved by unconditional respect of the rule that no one should tread upon it in shoes, not even the fathers. The walls of Gates living rooms were embellished with gilded mirrors and murals of Mount Vesuvius standing watch over fringed velvet sofas with plastic covers, which were reserved exclusively for the well-behaved bottoms of grown-ups. The privileged guests of Gates living rooms were offered strong coffee in tiny china cups, and sweet liqueurs in crystal glasses poured from dusty bottles of Strega and Amaretto di Saronno which sat upon silver trays with lace doilies on faux marble coffee tables.
The unlived-in living rooms of Gates girls had little in common with the living room of 75 Chestnut Crest in Chili. There the couch, crumb-filled and stained, despite the protection afforded by the flimsy throw which tended to slip from the cushions, was the center of relaxation which Capotostis of all ages, shapes, and degrees of cleanliness shared with whatever four-legged companions roamed the premises in search of affection. Fighting for a place on the room’s only sofa was prone to cause the toppling of wobbly end tables and the consequent spilling of brimming ashtrays and glasses of milk onto the downtrodden carpeting of an indeterminable color and odor achieved through the blending of sundry organic substances including but not limited to the lingering residue of cat pee, dog poop and puke of both animal and human origin.
Gates girls got their hair cut by real hairdressers, not by their mothers; they had professional manicures and wore makeup to cover their pimples. Gates girls with flat chests (though they were rare) had mothers who bought them padded bras. Some Gates girls were cheerleaders whose boyfriends were on the football team and whose families went to all the games and then to Pizza Hut together, where they actually sat at a table to eat the pizza instead of taking it away. Others had boyfriends who gave them hickeys, and wore leather jackets no matter how hot or cold it was and drove to school on motorcycles or in souped-up Chevys.
Iris had been to the homes of a few Gates girls since her high school debut the previous year, but was somewhat put off by the overpowering degree of Italo in their Americanism; after all, Iris was also half Whitacre, the descendant of a mysterious blend of Celts, which infused her bloodline with a good dose of contradiction. As for her Italian side, her resentment of generalizations spurred Iris to speculate as to the possible differences between the Abruzzo region her Capotosti grandparents had come from, whose descendants attended the annual Scurcolanese picnic way over in Irondequoit Park with the extended families of all the paesans, and the places where the majority of the Gates families had originated. Consulting the world atlas at the school library, she was surprised to find that Abruzzo was smack dab in the center of Italy, close to Rome on its western border, and reaching to the Adriatic sea on the east. And it had lots of mountains, including the highest in the Appenine chain.
Although Grandma Capotosti had worn black ever since the death of her daughter Teresa, and had wailed like a banshee at the funeral of her husband Anselmo, (which Iris thought odd, having never witnessed a real conversation between the two, let alone any gestures of affection), she seemed different from the Italian grandmothers of Gates, who spent their days making tomato sauce and Italian cookies, and moaned uncontrollably whenever there was a chance to suffer, whether it be caused by the death of a distant relative, or the lack of appetite of a child (including those who were now grown men, whom the mammas continued calling “figlio mio”). Grandma Capotosti had never seemed to attach such importance to food, and although Iris could see how much pain she was in by the way she bit her lip and clenched the hand rests of her rocking chair, she always bore her suffering with dignity until it was taken away from her, together with her gangrenous limbs, in the operating room of a hospital, where she died one Fourth of July, right on the eighty-eighth anniversary of her birth on an Abruzzese hilltop.
When Iris asked acquaintances about their families’ origins, they all responded “Napoletano” or “Siciliano.” Her childhood companion Rita Esposito was a mixture of both; she, too, lived in Gates now. But Rita had grown up a city girl, and was possibly too old and definitely too uninterested to be transformed into a Gates girl. In fact, she despised Gates and was as much of a loner at the high school as Iris, but sadly, she and Iris had different schedules and lived miles apart, so they rarely saw each other. During Study Hall period, Iris often found herself the unwitting center of a spontaneously formed cluster which included a few other girls who were not considered stylish enough to be “in,” or smart enough to be “brains,” or athletic enough to be “jockettes,” or sexy enough to be “sluts,” or pretty enough to be “cock-teasers.” (Iris was not one hundred percent sure what that meant, but had a fairly good idea).
One day, looking around at the girls seated at her study table, she was disconcerted by the realization that she seemed to attract only the physical misfits. One girl suffered from a form of stuttering so severe that the entire right side of her face contorted with spasms whenever she opened her mouth to speak, though that certainly did not dissuade her from jumping enthusiastically into any conversation, which exasperated Iris, who did not have the heart to interrupt her. Another was devastated by a chronic skin disease that covered her doughy, shapeless body with angry pustules and flaky scales; she had taken to sitting across from Iris in the cafeteria, and Iris could tell by the resigned way in which she gazed at her from rheumy, red-rimmed eyes, that she was monitoring Iris’s level of disgust, biding her time until Iris moved away from her, which of course she didn’t. Iris withered under the disapproving stares she got from some of the people she may have hoped to be friends with, but who would not venture into the territory inhabited by these castaways.
Veronica Rizzo was far from being a misfit. She smoked. She had a boyfriend. One day she even gave Iris a half-used tube of frosted pink lipstick when Iris admired the way her lips shimmered, as if they were just begging to be kissed. She was cool and self-confident; she was popular and pretty, in a Gates sort of way. She talked to Iris. But one thing Veronica Rizzo was not was intelligent. And one thing she did not do was study.
“Now girls. I think you both know why I wanted to talk to you,” began Miss Timpani. She looked from one to the other. “Iris? Veronica?”
All the bags of ice cubes in the freezer at Star Market would not be enough to alleviate the burning Iris felt in her cheeks. She was too embarrassed to speak, but seconds later found herself fighting off an urge to laugh. Iris had never really looked at Miss Timpani, and had certainly never seen her this close up. She was struck by how much her face resembled a pig’s: the dark beady eyes, the little black breathing holes at the end of her upturned snout, the fleshy pink cheeks and smooth, pointed ears (didn’t some people eat sows’ ears?). She imagined a pineapple stuffed in her mouth, like the suckling pig she had seen the waiters serve on a huge platter at The Luau where Iris had finally been taken by Auntie Rosa to celebrate her sixteenth birthday.
“Here I have two test papers,” Miss Timpani began, waving one in each hand. “
Both have been graded with a score of one hundred percent. Which would be praiseworthy, were it not for the uncanny coincidence that the wording of the answers is one hundred percent identical. One of these papers will receive an A and the other will receive an F. This time I will allow you two girls decide who gets the A. Next time you both get an F. You are dismissed.”
Out in the hallway, Veronica’s boyfriend Al was hovering impatiently, his black leather jacket slung over his shoulder, a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the short sleeve of his T-shirt.
“Shit. If I get an F, I’ll never be able to bring my average up,” Veronica said to Iris, as Al placed an arm possessively around her shoulders. “For you, it would be a breeze.” Veronica batted her caked eyelashes at Iris, then turned them on Al, who tightened his vise-like hold around her neck, looking more like he wanted to strangle or wrestle with Veronica than hug her.
“Are you crazy?” Iris asked, the embarrassment of being confronted by Miss Timpani turning to anger. “I can’t have an F on my record! I’ve never gotten anything below a B. I’m going to college, you know, not beauty school! I knew I shouldn’t have let you talk me into it. You’re not even smart enough to know how to copy!”
“Don’t be such a drag, Iris! If you take the heat for this, we’ll get you invited to the party at the Mancusos’ on Saturday. Gino’s parents are gonna be out of town. Or are you gonna be too busy with your freak-show girlfriends?”
Gino was a dark, curly-haired senior whom Iris thought extremely handsome, and so obviously did the string of shapely girlfriends with whom she saw him parade down the corridors. She knew he was out of her league, but she instantly imagined him pumping her a beer from a keg, offering it to her with a mischievous smile, she pretending to like its taste just to please him. The fantasy fled in a flash as she remembered that she and Lily were planning to spend the evening with Frank and Salvatore Domino, the two brothers whose ages corresponded precisely with their own, whom they had met at Uncle Alfred’s new guitar studio, in the new basement of Auntie Rosa’s new suburban townhouse. The Dominos had a basement in their Gates house, too, and a very nice one it was, furnished and complete with anything a teenager could desire: a TV, a stereo, a couple of electric guitars hooked up to an amp, a drum set, a pool table, and a wet bar with a fridge full of soda pop. And that most rare commodity of all, privacy. Their parents felt the boys should have a space of their own in which to entertain friends, and never barged in with the excuse of looking for a tool or checking the furnace, which left the boys free to make out in comfort of their own home – too free, for Iris’s taste. The two couples of siblings had been officially going out with each other since one Saturday afternoon, when the brothers had arranged to have Mrs. Domino drop the four of them off to hang out at the new shopping center. Rolling Ridge was the first plaza of its kind in the area, only they didn’t call it a plaza - they called it a mall. All the best department stores were there, together with restaurants, and places to buy ice cream and soft pretzels, and an amusement arcade with pinball machines and air hockey tables. A beautiful fountain sat at one end of the mall, and a full-fledged merry-go-round at the other. The best feature of the mall was that it was all enclosed under one big roof, so you could go hang out there even when it snowed or rained or was really hot. You could forget about the weather; it didn’t make any difference at all.
Perhaps it was because she had gotten herself so worked up about the date, or perhaps it was the overpowering scents of Brut cologne coming from the boys and Sweet Honesty from the girls that were to blame. But as soon as Mrs. Domino pulled the Cadillac over to the curb to let them out, Lily dashed off behind the bushes to puke. Sal had been nice about it, he had wanted to hold her hand anyway as they strolled through the mall, and kiss her goodbye when they parted. That had been a month ago, and Lily told her he had already progressed as far as feeling up her boobs, but only from the outside, and that was plenty far enough for her.
Iris liked Frank, and the fact that he played the guitar, but had been immediately disappointed by the sloppiness of their first kiss, though she would no more admit it to Lily, than she would to herself at first. Iris was certainly no expert on the matter, but knew what felt good and what didn't. Hoping Frank’s skills would improve over time as he became more comfortable with her, she always made an effort to wipe off the spittle and force an encouraging smile at the end of a kiss. That had been her tactic until the day she finally realized that Frank’s oral secretions seemed to increase in direct proportion with his self-confidence, which increased each time she smiled. Buoyed by what he must have perceived as Iris’s expressions of approval, or worse yet, desire, Frank’s spongy lips spread open even more greedily, his wet tongue dripped even more copiously as he slathered her face with saliva. Iris grew increasingly annoyed with the way Frank’s effusions left her face all chafed and red, the way his wire-rimmed glasses butted frames with her own when he thrust himself at her, the way the sickening scent of Brut lingered on her skin. Despite this unpleasant sensation that was swiftly degenerating into revulsion, she did not have the nerve to break up with Frank for one reason: she did not want to be responsible for ruining the foursome. It just did not seem loyal to Lily.
The sense of entrapment that assailed her every time she thought about the Domino brothers situation, combined with irritation at Veronica’s derogatory comments about her friends, aroused in Iris the dormant anger that gripped her so strongly she thought she would choke whenever she was party to an injustice. She would not, under any circumstances, take an F she did not deserve; not for Veronica, not for anyone.
“You know what I think, Veronica?” she blurted out with such uncharacteristic vehemence that Veronica abruptly stopped snapping her gum, backed away a few paces, and stood with her mouth agape. “I think I don’t care about going to that party. And I think Gino doesn’t even know you exist. And I think I don’t even care whether you pass or flunk. Find yourself somebody else to copy from!”
“Hey, cool it, Iris!” Al said, sticking his face in front of hers.
“And those girls are not freaks, they’re my friends!”
“You’ll be sorry!” Veronica hissed, clawing at the air with blood red nails, as Al gripped her wrists.
“Tight-ass,” he said to Iris, then tugged at Veronica’s arm. “Come on, babe, let’s go for a toke.” Dragging Veronica away, he flipped Iris the bird over his shoulder. Veronica’s head spun around, accusations of betrayal glinting in her eyes like shards of steel, as she called out, “Bitch!”
Telling herself she couldn’t care less about Veronica, but still shaken by the embarrassing incident, Iris glanced at the Timex she had received from Auntie Rosa and Uncle Alfred for her confirmation. Her Women in Contemporary Society class was due to start in exactly three minutes; she would have to hurry if she wanted to pick up her books first. As she approached her locker, she spotted a red flower hanging from the grey metal door. It was one of those carnations that were being sold to raise money for the school play.
“A flower for my flower!” Frank Domino pounced upon her as soon as the carnation was in her hands, slathering her face with saliva, promising to drown her with kisses on the coming Saturday, before running off. Iris shuddered at the thought, and rushed to her class, arriving just as the bell rang, hoping Ms. Shue would take her mind off how much she hated high school.
20. Lily
During freshman year of high school, Lily and Kiki were inseparable, and Kiki helped Lily make the leap from Sacred Family where she shared a single classroom with twenty other children, to Gates-Chili High School, where hundreds of underclassmen fought to make it through the maze of hallways, each one rushing, pushing, and shoving as they were herded from room to room, sometimes having to run from one end of the school to the other in the ten minutes that were allocated for changing classes. Stopping at your locker to get books, and visiting the Girls’ Room had to be carefully planned.
Lily had heard the stories of high school from
Iris, but since Iris worked at McDonald’s in the mornings, Lily had to find another way to learn the ropes. Sal was more than willing to walk her to her classes, but he also wanted to share her locker, citing that was what boyfriends and girlfriends did in high school. Thrilled at the idea that she finally had this little corner of the world all to herself, Lily was not about to share it with anyone. She opted to end the relationship rather than let him keep his Brut-infused biology book on her beautiful empty shelf. Sal was her first “real” boyfriend, and she was thrilled to have someone to spend her Saturday nights with, and happy to have a reason to dash to the ringing phone in the evenings. But after endless phone conversations and countless weekends making out in his basement, Lily had grown bored of Sal. He was nice enough, and he was a really good kisser, but he wanted to spend all of his free time with Lily and it irritated her than he never seemed to have anything better to do.
Kiki had spent a good portion of her summer taking private voice and drama classes from Mr. Howell, the drama coach and musical program director. Kiki knew her way around, and she helped Lily by teaching her about the shortcut through the courtyard, and giving her tips on which bathrooms had the best mirrors. Kiki also took Lily to her first musical. The Gates-Chili production of Hello Dolly captured Lily’s imagination so completely that when she got home, she rifled through the record cabinet and discovered a jacketless scratched up copy of the Timeless Show Tunes album which was buried beneath Whipped Cream and Other Favorites by Herb Alpert and His Tijuana Brass Band. Lily played the album incessantly until she knew every song by heart. When auditions for Oklahoma! were announced, she was the first one to sign up. Her afternoons were spent in the sunroom singing along with the soundtrack, which she borrowed from the library and renewed so many times that the librarian made her leave it on the shelf for a week in case someone else was waiting for the chance to check it out.
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