All right, so maybe I don’t actually smell that chilidog, but my stomach is growling like I can. Before making a beeline for the closet, I should have grabbed some biscotti from the kitchen table even if Aunt Rosalie was the one who baked them. Her cookies are bricks, but I’m so hungry a brick is better than no brick. Nonni’s boyfriend, Mr. Schimlitz, would disagree. That is, if he were alive to agree. (Another story.)
I dip under the window, take the three steps to my bedroom door, and open it a crack, listening for Vincent. The problem is, I can’t tell if Big Foot is on the move because somebody in the house just cranked up Frank Sinatra loud enough for Nonni’s twin sisters to hear two houses away, and those two blew out their eardrums thirty years ago listening to Springsteen.
Frank Sinatra is the person who sings “New York, New York” after a Yankees game. (Not for real, of course. He’s as dead as all my poppies and Mr. Schimlitz.) Nonni has a photograph of him hanging on the wall in the upstairs hallway, along with one President Eisenhower, two Ronald Reagans, four Joe DiMaggios, a velvet Elvis, my three dead great-grandfathers, and Arthur Schimlitz. (Poppi Two is the one with the eyepatch.)
“Whoa! Hey! Ow!”
My bedroom door bangs me square on the nose.
“Frankie! What are you doing up here?”
No. Frankie Domenico in my room? In this house? Never. Even if he figured a way to get in here (and I wouldn’t put that past him), he’d never make it beyond the first step, creaking or no creaking. Nonni doesn’t allow Jeffrey up here, and he’s been my best friend since day one, when the Levandowskis moved next door eight years ago.
This Frankie is my cat. Named after not you-know-who but the singing dead one.
“Come over here, Anchovy Breath.”
I pick him up before he starts scratching the carpet. Those sharp little front claws have already shredded a bare spot on the other side of my bed. I’ve been covering it up with a wastepaper basket. So far Aunt Rosalie and Mom, who take turns on the did-you-make-your-bed check, haven’t noticed my carpet going bald or asked what a waste can is doing in the middle of the room. I’m hoping they think I’ve become suddenly neat-obsessed or practicing creative interior decorating for extremely small rooms.
I check in the mirror for a ballooning nose (which thankfully isn’t), and the little whisker face nuzzles me under my chin. I sit down on the bed, Frankie cradled under one arm, his sandpaper tongue licking my wrist. I give him a little smooch behind his left ear, the one that got personal with the Popoviches’ dog, Boomer, right before I found him last November. In this neighborhood it’s no secret, that mutt is one mean pooch. I’ve seen what his teeth do to a soccer ball. Serious deflation. He’s also a rude sniffer, if you know what I mean.
When I found this little guy, he was fur and bones, standing in garbage juice behind one of the trash cans on the side of our garage. He smelled worse than he looked, shaking and shivering so much, his stripes moved like hologram stickers on my first grade notebook.
Even though from the time I was four Nonni has always said “NO STRAY CATS IN THIS HOUSE—AND I MEAN EVAH!” no way was I leaving him outside, chewed and shivering. (Besides, technically he was more kitten than cat.) Mom’s expert first aid, because she’s the best ER nurse at the medical center, got the ear back in shape. Best she could, anyway, without gluing on the missing fur. That part of Frankie had already made its way through Boomer’s digestive tract and was no doubt stinking up a patch of grass that passes for a front lawn on our block. Or more likely, plopped on somebody’s sidewalk. (The Popoviches don’t scoop.)
Six baths and half a bottle of Dawn dish detergent later, Frankie finally didn’t smell too bad. After a couple of weeks Nonni even got to like him. (Although she still pushed him off her Barcalounger and made me promise in front of Jesus on the cross above her bed that I would clean the litter box every day without fail.) I promised, even though I will never ever like cleaning kitty poop. But I do love Frankie—the cat, of course.
“Isn’t that right, Mr. Sardine Man? You were there when Vincent asked me to help him make his dumb videos, weren’t you? You know how this whole big mess started, don’t you?”
I turn him over and rub his now fat, furry stomach. (He really likes to chow down on Nonni’s linguini.) He makes with the sleepy eyes and turns on the purr machine, which has one loud motor.
“Frankie, you remember what I told Vincent, don’t you? You remember, right, Frankie? . . . Frankie? Uh, that’s your cue to agree with me, Fuzz Face.”
I stop the belly massage and we go eye to eye.
“What? You’re not saying what happened is my fault, are you? . . . Are you?”
“Meow.”
Besides breath that needs more than a few Tic Tacs, this cat obviously lacks a good memory.
Seven Months Ago
I was minding my own business . . .
It was spring break at Merciful Sisters.
I was hanging around downstairs in our basement, waiting for Jeffrey to come back from his ten thirty orthodontist appointment. We had plans: Day Two of March Madness Monopoly Marathon. We’ve been having the tournament every year since we were seven. He’s the ship. I’m the shoe. He’s the banker. I hold the properties. And we do put money in Free Parking. Some people say that isn’t playing by the rules, but Jeffrey and I call it winning the lottery. Same as Grandpop did two years ago when he hit the five-hundred-dollar jackpot with a scratch-off ticket.
It’s a good deal for Jeffrey, because he always buys Mediterranean and Baltic. Seriously, who buys those purples? No way is he ever going to win collecting four dollars. It’s a mystery how Jeffrey lacks basic Monopoly killer strategy, because when it comes to everything else, especially anything on a computer, Boy Genius is like my aunt says, amahzzing. (He got a full scholarship to Saint Peter’s Prep.)
However, just because Jeffrey is way smart didn’t mean I was going to let him pass Go and collect two hundred dollars without a fight. As soon as those rubber bands were adjusted, it was game on over at his house, and my plan was to show no mercy.
I finished my chores, which since I was old enough to hold a dust rag are Windexing everything that needs a wipe of ammonia. That’s plenty, since most of the furniture in the upstairs living room is slipcovered in plastic and everybody in this house is big on disinfectant.
Mom was doing a double shift at the hospital, and Aunt Rosalie had driven Nonni for her monthly “hot-cha-cha” manicure over at Josephine’s. (Her “signature color” is baby pink.) I was home alone, except for Uncle Babe.
As usual, he was in the jalousie porch, the little room off the upstairs parlor. That’s where he watches TV, the one with the rabbit-ears antenna. The old set doesn’t get many channels, but when Uncle Babe bends one ear to the right and hangs a piece of aluminum foil on the other, his favorite Popeye cartoons come in all the way from Philadelphia. Most times the picture has a little “snow,” but my uncle doesn’t mind. He likes winter.
The basement was quiet except for a load of bath towels thumping through the washing machine spin cycle. I turned on the Game Show Network and stretched out on the couch all cozy under Aunt Rosalie’s crocheted zigzag afghan, smelling like “outdoor meadow” with a hint of lemon. While I was dusting the coffee table, I figured I’d spritz myself with some of that Pledge, too. (If you ask me, it smells better than Aunt Rosalie’s perfume.)
I had already polished off a strawberry jelly sandwich and was doing serious damage to a bag of Cheddar Jalapeño Cheetos, my favorite breakfast when nobody is around to stop me, while Frankie (not him) and I played along with the contestants on Match Game.
“Dumb Dora is so dumb she _____ the coffee.”
The idea of this show is to fill in the blank with a funny answer, so I said “fried,” which was near brilliant, because I got five matches and was going for the Big Money Bonus Round. The emcee holding the skinny microphone had just spun the Star Wheel when I heard Vincent and his big feet coming down the cellar stairs and throug
h the kitchen. As he cleared the corner by the refrigerator, I could see he was wearing sunglasses, even though there was no sun, Grandpop’s old houndstooth fedora, and a three-day stubble. He was also carrying the video camera Aunt KiKi had bought him when he started film school last September.
“Uh, Vincent, would you move out of the way there, please? You’re blocking Charles Nelson Reilly. I’m about to win mucho dinero.”
“How can you watch this? It’s from a zillion years ago.”
“Not a zillion. Hey, don’t sit next to me! Now look what you did—you made Frankie run under the recliner. Oooh—quick!—check out that guy with the mustache and sideburns: he’s wearing Uncle Babe’s orange plaid jacket!”
“Quit being a couch potato and hand over the remote. Enough of 1974.”
“It’s Match Game 75.”
We played keep-away. Vincent always wins. (No fair. His arms are longer.) He clicked, the TV went black, and I never found out if I matched Chuck and won the big money.
Vincent slipped one stem of his sunglasses down the neck of his black sweatshirt and shook his head. “You’re getting time-warped watching this stuff.”
“You live next door my whole life, and now you think I’m warped? My brain is buckled more than the linoleum floor. I’m the only person in this house besides Mom under seventy-three years old. I don’t even have to read a history book. I hear everything firsthand. Did you know in 1933 a roll of toilet paper cost four cents?”
“Well, there’s a fascinating insignificant detail for you. I’ll make a note of that.”
“I’ve got another one—ketchup wasn’t even a dime. A whole bottle.”
“Stop with the grocery list, sit up, and ditch the blanket. Look at yourself—covered up to your chin like Aunt Rosalie.”
“I’m comfy.”
“Comfy. What are you, seventy-five? Next I’ll find you knitting one of these things.”
“It’s not knitting. Crochet. You use one hook, not two needles.”
“You are scaring me. Give me this blanket.”
“Afghan.”
He tugged. I tugged. But Vincent won the battle and tossed it to the other side of the couch.
“Shorts?” he said, tapping my bare knees. “What are you doing wearing shorts in March?”
“Nonni turned up the furnace to ‘roast.’ When I woke up this morning, I thought I was in Florida.”
Vincent laughed. “Perfect. See, that’s exactly what I’m looking for.”
“What do you mean, what you’re looking for? Uh-oh. You’re after something.”
“Listen to suspicious you. I’m just looking for a little help, that’s all.”
Vincent was suddenly sounding like he could sweeten the coffee Aunt Rosalie brews, which should have warned me that nothing good was coming from whatever he wanted: In a blindfold taste test between my aunt’s coffee and mud, mud wins every time.
“Come on, Isabella. Help me.”
I popped a Cheeto into my mouth. “Sorry. Can’t. Busy.”
“You’re not busy.”
“Am.”
“Not.”
“Am. Monopoly with Jeffrey as soon as he comes home—so goodbye.”
“Hey! Stop blocking my lens with those orange cheesy fingers!” He dropped the camera to one hip and got all sugary again. “Come on. What do you say? I really need you, Isabella. I want an A in my film course this semester. Help me out here, huh?”
I mussed my hair, lifted my chin, and threw my head back. “But how can I rhally, rhally help you, Vincenzo, dahling,” I said in a deep, low voice. “I’m not an ahck-triss like Ahhnt KiKi.”
He laughed. “Pretty good. You almost sound just like her.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Yes I do,” I said, playfully swatting his arm. “Let me pretend I’m Aunt KiKi. I can do it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said with another chuckle. “Look, I want you to be you. No acting. Especially not like Aunt KiKi.”
Nobody acts or sounds like Aunt KiKi.
Even KiKi didn’t act and sound like KiKi until after waiting tables and doing bit parts on Off-Broadway for years and years, she landed the role of Contessa Francesca Monchetti on the soap opera Search for Truth, Lies and Love.
As I was barely three at the time and spending afternoons in playpen captivity facing the TV, I watched the show every day with Grandma, Aunt Rosalie, and Nonni. Never missed an episode, even when I was long past the sippy cup and finally sprung from the pen. Actually, I followed the plot way better than they could. By the time I turned seven it was my job to fill them in on what was happening when they couldn’t figure it out themselves, which was most of the time, as The Contessa had a very complicated story line (including more dead husbands than my great-grandmother).
She also had a long-lost daughter and a long-lost son; tumbled down a flight of stairs and woke up from a coma believing she was an opera star; was poisoned with espresso by the evil Baron Cieri and her even more evil twin sister, who were planning to steal her fashion empire; and time-traveled back to 1915 and sank with the Lusitania.
Believe me, it wasn’t easy explaining to Nonni why there weren’t actually two KiKis or how she came back from the dead. (She had already made funeral arrangements.)
The show made my aunt kind of famous. (Not red-carpet famous, although she has one in her apartment, where she practices walking just in case that ever happens.) And even though the show was canceled three years ago, she still receives lots of fan mail—bags and bags.
The thing is, those letters aren’t addressed to KiKi Caruso, but to “The Contessa.” My aunt calls them her “most devoted fans.” The “intensely devoted” ones have even made what Aunt KiKi calls “worship websites.” Those fans believe Francesca Monchetti is not a character on a soap opera but an actual real person. Which is why when anyone comes up to my aunt, even in a restaurant ladies’ room while she’s washing her hands, and says, “Aren’t you Francesca Monchetti?” Aunt KiKi reaches for a marker (she keeps one handy for just such occasions), pulls a paper towel from the dispenser, and signs “Contessa.”
“Remember, dahling,” she always tells me, “never intentionally destroy the reality of devoted fans.”
I batted my eyes. “So tell me again, Vincenzo, dahling, why don’t you want me to act like Ahhnt KiKi?”
Vincent panned the room with the camera and caught Frankie sneaking out from under the recliner and making a dash for the furnace.
“I told you. I want you to be you.”
“Me, is boring. I’m a couch potato, remember? And besides, I think I’m getting a pimple right here,” I said, pointing to my chin. “I don’t want people seeing me with my very first zit.”
“That’s not a pimple, you little goof—it’s jelly. And what people? I told you, this is a project for my film course. The only person ever seeing this mockumentary is my professor.”
“Mock-u-what? I don’t get it.”
“You don’t have to get it. Just be my adult in the room.”
“I’m eleven.”
“That’s the point. You’re my voice of reason. Or will be—after I edit. You won’t believe the footage I got yesterday at my house. Grandma comes down for breakfast and starts arguing with Grandpop about who put the spoon in the fork drawer. Grandpop tells her he never uses a spoon. And says it while eating Cheerios. Grandma then dumps all the silverware from the kitchen drawer into the garbage. Including the drawer. Golden. Absolutely golden.”
“Uh-huh.” I yawned and plumped up one of Aunt Rosalie’s crocheted pillows. “Spoon. Fork drawer. Garbage. What else have you got? ‘Who squeezed the toothpaste tube in the middle?’ ‘Where did you put the TV Guide?’”
“Are you helping me or not?”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, reaching into the bottom of the bag and snagging another Cheeto.
Before I had a chance to crunch, Vincent grabbed my arm and pulled me off the couch. “I knew y
ou wouldn’t let me down. Come on. Let’s film Uncle Babe. I’ll follow you upstairs. Point out anything interesting along the way.”
“Interesting? Vincent. Hello. This is Nonni’s house.”
“See? What you said—how you said it? Attitude. That’s exactly what I’m looking for. And I love that eyebrow thing you do. Totally works.”
“I do an eyebrow thing?”
Must have inherited that from Aunt KiKi. She always lifted one eyebrow as the camera zoomed in for a close-up right before the commercial break.
Since I was still waiting around for Jeffrey, and Vincent promised nobody was ever seeing these stupid videos but his professor, I wiped the jelly off my chin and let him follow me around the house. Vincent filmed. I pointed. Made comments. Did the eyebrow thing. I also negotiated one sweet deal: I help him with his videos and he’s on the hook for an open tab at Holsten’s. That place has the best burgers and homemade ice cream for miles around. I always order the double cheese with a side of rings and a pineapple shake. Jeffrey orders his double with cheese fries and gets a sundae with four scoops any flavor, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream.
Grandpop would say Jeffrey and I came way out ahead on that deal.
11:31 a.m.
Scene 9/TAKE 1
Attic Bedroom
“You don’t remember any of that, Sardine Breath, because you bailed and high-tailed it under the furnace.”
Frankie looks at me and yawns.
“Guess somebody is also forgetting who saved a certain cat from getting tossed out the door when he crawled out looking more gray than orange and got a bath before Nonni caught sight of him.”
Frankie wets his whiskers and starts pawing his face clean.
“Look, Frankie . . . I was only trying to help Vincent get an A. How did I know when we filmed those dopey things in March that six months later he was going decide to upload, download, and unload everything on YouTube? Without even telling me!
Isabella for Real Page 2
