The Fine Art of Truth or Dare

by Melissa Jensen

  Sadie, Frankie, and I would do what we did nearly every weekend: Java Company for coffee and bagels. Maybe Chloe’s. Head House Books. Deconstructing Frankie’s last date with him, when he had one. Sunday at the art museum if I could drag one or both of them with me. Otherwise, we’d just sklathe in front of one of the Winslows’ numerous plasma screens.

  “Have you even heard of the Razor Apples?” I asked.

  Neither had. “Rag & Bone, however . . .” Frankie sighed. “Ah, what fabulous damage I could do with Rich and Clueless Daddy’s platinum card.”

  I tend not to think about it too much, the music we’ve never heard of, clothes we can’t afford. Frankie likes the odd sarcastic aside, but I know it goes deeper than that. I know his dream castle includes a walk-in closet with floor-to-ceiling sweater shelves. Sadie keeps her mouth shut. She isn’t overly concerned with either, but knows better than to say anything. There’s little in life quite so obnoxious as hearing “God, I couldn’t care less what I put on!” from a girl wearing four-hundred-dollar shoes and a Cartier watch.

  “Anyone want to go to South Street?” she asked as we hit the pavement. “I would kill for a slice at Lorenzo’s.”

  Sadie’s mother was in St. Bart’s for another ten days. Sadie was staying with her dad, who, between work and an endless string of much younger girlfriends, rarely got home before eleven. His usual method of feeding his daughter during these visits is to leave twenty-dollar bills and take-out menus scattered over the otherwise unused kitchen counter. Her mother, after every trip, goes on a weeklong rant about how each time Sadie stays with her dad, she gains five pounds. This time, Mr. Winslow had persuaded whatever stick insect he was dating at the moment to stock the freezer.

  “It was only one pound last time,” Sadie grumbled. “And I lost it in three days. I’ve been subsisting on Lean Cuisine grilled chicken for two weeks now. I need pizza.”

  I would have gone, but I was broke. And as happy as Sadie always is to pay, I really really hate letting her do it.

  Frankie answered before I could. “Can’t. It’s a family-dinner night. Mom’s making chap chae, and she will go ballistic if I’m not there.”

  Frankie’s mom is big on family dinners, even if she can only get both her sons in one place once or twice a week. It’s not that Frankie and Daniel don’t like each other; they do. It’s just that their lives are so completely different. Frankie has Willing and me and Sadie and his string of pretty boys. Daniel goes to a public high school, hangs out in parts of the city I’ve never even been to, and has . . . well, I’m never sure what he has beyond tattoos and some dodgy friends.

  Sadie looked hopeful, but we all knew no invitation was forthcoming. Frankie’s mom is a seriously private person; they’re a private family. I’ve been to their apartment only once. It’s really small, scarily clean, and the room that Frankie and Daniel share smelled like a taxi. “Disgusting, I know,” Frankie muttered, wrinkling his nose. I wouldn’t have said anything. “Dan smokes; Mom yells. Then she sprays.” We left soon after and went to Chloe’s.

  Family dinners for us happen exactly twice a year: Thanksgiving and Christmas. Every other day, Marino’s is open, and most of the family is there, together, serving dinner to other people’s families. Our two holiday family get-togethers inevitably involve many assorted Marinos and Palladinettis eating way too much, and at least three good screaming matches, which aren’t necessarily angry. With Thanksgiving approaching, I quietly hoped this would finally be the year I wouldn’t find myself at the children’s table.

  Sadie spent last Christmas at an Ayurvedic spa with her mother, who gave her a gym membership and a diamond Om pendant.

  “We had lentils for two” was all Sadie needed to say beyond that.

  I took pity on her now. “Come with me. I’m sure Dad will make you a pizza.”

  Not that I was in any great hurry to go home. Wedding plans had gone into overdrive in the past week, along with the drama. I’d taken to waving through the back door of the restaurant before fleeing home to PB&J and silence.

  We stayed at school long enough for me to conjugate, excruciatingly slowly, many irregular French verbs and a few regular ones (Elle a le cafard . . .), for Sadie to do her math homework, and for Frankie and me to copy most of it. By the time Saddie and I got to my street, the air was cold and pizza was very appealing.

  For a change, everything at Marino’s seemed remarkably peaceful. As always, the kitchen greeted Sadie with delight. “Serafina!” Dad shouted, his pet name for her that makes her giggle. He was chopping a huge pile of garlic with a careless speed that always makes my fingers tense up. I could see a row of dough balls resting on the counter behind him, one already flattened into a disk.

  “You’re in luck,” I told her. Then, to my father, “Sadie needs pizza. They’re starving her at her place.”

  “Criminal.” He scowled and chopped harder. “Gotta feed the young brain. So, what appeals, ladies? Sausage and mushroom? Meatballs? Peppers? The works?”

  I’m a garlic-and-spinach girl, myself, with the occasional and unbroadcasted craving for anchovies. Sadie had gone a little moon-eyed at the mention of meatballs, however, so I shrugged. “Whatever you want,” I told her.

  She wandered over to the toppings station and checked it out as if it were a spread of diamonds at Tiffany. “Meatballs,” she said happily. “And onions and olives and extra cheese.”

  “Done.” Within a minute, Dad had a pizza in the oven.

  “Hey, was that for my table?” Leo came out of the back, carrying a dusty bottle of white wine, which he gave a quick swipe with a towel. “They wanted pepperoni.”

  Dad was beaming. “You got someone to buy the Grizzo. Good boy!” He took the bottle from Leo and gave it a much more thorough cleaning. “This pizza’s for the girls. They’re starving. Your table won’t know the difference between five minutes and ten.”

  Leo shrugged. It was still early enough that everyone was calm and cheerful, and Sienna wasn’t in the kitchen. “Hey, Sadie.”

  Sadie hurriedly swallowed the little mozzarella ball Dad had slipped her. “Hi, Leo.” She coughed and blushed. It’s a cute-boy thing.

  “Say-dee.” Uncle Ricky lunged, waving a loaded and dripping fork in front of her. “My new ravioli. Taste!” She did, and chewed, slowly and thoughtfully.

  “Mmm,” she said eventually. “It’s really a unique combination. Um. Beef and rosemary and . . . blue cheese?” she guessed. Ricky beamed. “And something else . . . I just can’t . . .”

  “Pumpkin!” he crowed. “In a fig-and-wild-mushroom sauce. It’s autumn ravioli. Move over Rocco DiSpirito!”

  Sadie loves coming to the restaurant. From her point of view, I can understand why. Everyone is tickled to see her, and no one acts like her putting food in her mouth is anything other than a really really good thing.

  She discreetly picked a woody bit of rosemary from her tongue. Dad clucked his. “Pumpkin ravioli,” he sighed. “Who’s gonna order that here?” Still, it was up on the specials board. It’s a deal they have, Dad and Ricky. Weird is okay, as long as it tastes good. If no one orders it, or anyone complains, it’s gone for good. Or until Top Chef calls. So far, the system has worked. Smoked salmon pizza with cream cheese and capers became a menu staple and neighborhood fave. Manicotti stuffed with clams, asparagus, and roasted pears is never to be seen again. “Watch the rosemary twigs in the mix!” Dad called to Ricky, who scowled and waved him off, then promptly started sifting through the herbs for the next batch.

  “Bella Sarah.” It was Nonna’s turn. She pinched Sadie’s cheek, not too hard, then gave her a head-to-toe once-over. She sighed. “Your mama is a beautiful woman,” she said sadly, “but she has no idea how to help her beautiful daughter. Real food and none of this silly . . .” She flapped her hands, unable to even find a word for the disaster of a brown canvas jacket Sadie was wearing. It looked like a cross between a straitjacket and an army tent.

  “Sì, signora.” Sadie has s
pent enough time with my grandmother to know the quickest and most useful response.

  “And you”—Nonna turned her sharp eyes on me—“in those jeans. They look like they belong on Leonardo.”

  “It’s the style, Nonna. They’re called ‘boyfriend’ jeans.”

  “Boyfriend. Magari! We should be so lucky.” She pinched my cheek, hard, her way of softening her words. “Too much salt!” she scolded Ricky, and went back to eviscerating chickens at her station.

  Sadie and I stayed out of the way for the next five minutes, sneaking mozzarella and watching the action, such as it was. Sienna came in once for an antipasto plate and a glowering lipstick check. She clearly had a bee up her butt, but she wasn’t talking, and I wasn’t about to shatter the relative quiet by asking. She flounced out; Leo came back in, delighted to report that his table was chugging down the last bottle of the Grizzo, one of Ricky’s less-successful wine purchases, with gusto.

  “Farewell, horse piss!” he sang. Dad lifted a handful of shrimp shells in salute.

  “Hey!” Ricky objected, but it was a halfhearted protest at best.

  Dad pulled our pizza out of the oven, crisp and bubbling. Sadie looked ready to swoon. Even my mouth was watering. Waiting only long enough for him to slice and slide it onto a serving plate, we slipped into the office to eat in peace. Mom was hosting an open house in an old school building that had been converted into condos. “They just don’t build them like this anymore!” I’d heard her begin her spiel to a potential buyer over the phone. “A classic in stone and steel, updated but not renovated into unrecognizability, for the modern city dweller.”

  Meaning it was a big, ugly, old fortress that, no matter how much pale wood and copper was put in, would be freezing in winter, stifling in summer, and that even the grimmest of bureaucrats hadn’t wanted to keep. The units wouldn’t sell for six months, when the ticked-off developer would slash the price and sack the realty company.

  We’d made it through half of the pizza when Sadie’s phone squeaked, telling her she had a text message. She sighed and deliberately looked away from her bag. A text comes to an ordinary sixteen-year-old—lipsticks fly as she scrambles to get the phone out of her bag. But neither Frankie nor I has unlimited texting on our phones (“It was either live without bells and whistles or get a job,” he explained. “No-brainer. No bells.”), so when that sound sounds, Sadie knows it’s one of her parents.

  She set down her half-eaten slice—half sad, half guilty—wiped her hands, and dug out her phone. “Oh, fabulous,” she sighed again. “I’m being summoned. Dad’s having dinner with Russell Tarrant at Le Bec Fin later and wants me there.”

  Again—ordinary teen, the city’s most famous restaurant, and two-time Oscar-winning actor? Back handsprings. Or at least a giddy rush to try on six different outfits and the latest vibrating mascara. Sadie looked like she’d just discovered the gym showers didn’t have curtains.

  “Sades, how does your dad know Russell Tarrant?” I asked. Her dad knows lots of name-in-the-news people, but they’re usually not international celebrities who’ve recently been knighted by the Queen.

  “Oh, they were roommates at Cambridge the year Dad spent in England.” She was eyeing the remains of the pizza with longing. I thought of dinner with a movie star with just a tiny bit of longing.

  We both jumped a little as “I can’t friggin’ believe this!” thundered through the closed door. Sienna’s voice has been known to cut through solid steel.

  I’d been ignoring the slightly raised voices coming from the kitchen. It’s not uncommon for a shouting match to break out on any night. It is almost guaranteed on nights when Tina is hosting and Sienna has to wait tables.

  Tina was hosting. She’s a thirty-five-year-old version of Sienna, only bottle blonde. Same blind-you lipstick, same taste in clothes, same complete disregard for anyone else’s opinion on anything.

  They hate each other.

  “You hate me!” Sienna wailed.

  It wasn’t Tina’s voice that snapped back, but Dad’s. “Oh, no. I am not playing that game with you. Do you have any idea what a hundred pounds of filet is gonna cost me? And now you want lobster?”

  “But it’s my wedding! Daddy—”

  “Don’t you Daddy me, princess! I’m already five grand in the hole for the damned hotel, not to mention two for the dress, and every time I turn around, you and your mother have added a new guest, bridesmaid, or crustacean!”

  First of all, Dad was yelling. Almost. Second, he was swearing. Even damn is fighting talk for him. I set down my pizza and debated the best route for a stealthy escape.

  I’d seen the dress. Pretty, in a Disney-princess, twenty-yards-of-tulle, boobs-shaped-into-missiles sort of way. Sienna looked deliriously happy in it. She looked beautiful. The less said about the bridesmaids’ dresses, I’d decided, on seeing the purple sateen, the better.

  “No lobster!” he yelled.

  There was a dramatic howl, followed by the bang of the back door. When I peeked out, it was like a photo. Everything was frozen. Dad was standing over the massive pasta pot, red-faced and scowling, wooden spoon brandished like a sword. Leo and Ricky had retreated to the doorway of the freezer. Nonna had her eyes turned heavenward, and Tina was halfway through the dining room door, smirking a little.

  No one looked in the least concerned or embarrassed by the fact that Sienna’s outburst could probably have been heard all the way out on the sidewalk. Our dramas all tend to play themselves out in the kitchen, occasionally to the amusement of the customers, most of whom have heard it all before. There’s no such thing as privacy when you’re a Marino. Not all that much in our little corner of Philadelphia, but none whatsoever in our family. When I got my first period, when I got into Willing, when Dieter dumped me for Feel-Me-Up Girl, that’s where the news broke, because that’s where everyone was.

  Everything was still for an instant, then Dad sighed and lowered the spoon. Tina went back to the dining room, letting the doors swing to with a muffled thump behind her. Ricky went back to his herbs, and life went on.

  “Ella, grab a shirt and apron,” Dad commanded, “and take your sister’s last table. They’re still waiting to order, and Leo can’t handle any more.”

  “Dad, no—”

  “Ella, please.”

  It wasn’t really a request. When Marino’s needs us, we chip in. I just hate when chipping involves waiting tables. I have to write down orders so I won’t forget them, am scarily clumsy with hot plates, and, humiliatingly, have to get someone else to bring the wine or beer when customers order it, because I’m not eighteen, and it’s illegal for underage me to serve alcohol.

  “Can I help?” Sadie asked quietly. She meant it.

  “God, no.” I handed her her bag and gave her a light shove toward the back door. “Save yourself. Go have escargots with Russell Tarrant.”

  “No, really—”

  “Go. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  She went. I dragged myself across the office and pulled one of Leo’s spare white button-downs from his cubby. He’s not a big guy, but it was still large enough that I ended up leaving the buttons undone, then wrapping it around me and tying it in back. Efficient, but problematic. Even if I could button it up all the way, the collar wouldn’t hide all of the scar. Worse than that, waiting tables necessitated a ponytail. No arguments. I’d tried before.

  “I get it, I get it!” Dad had finally shouted me down. “But the health department doesn’t know from vanity!”

  I tied my hair, gypsy-style, on my right shoulder, and hoped the customers wouldn’t be gawkers. They’re usually not. In fact, ten minutes after ordering, I bet most diners couldn’t pick their waiter out of a lineup. We’re invisible. I’m used to it.

  “Table three,” Leo said cheerfully as we passed in the kitchen doorway. “Better you than me. They stink of Mercedes leather.”

  It’s hardly unusual for Marino’s to get people from Society Hill or Rittenhouse Square. A lot have even be
come regulars. We’ve been in ‘Best of Philly’ twice in the last three years (“Best Eggplant Parm” two years ago, “Best Place to Eat While Channeling Tony Soprano” last year). You’d think Leo’s animosity for waiting on rich Philadelphians would have been tempered somewhat by years of good tips. But the fact is that the only ones who tip lavishly are the ones trying to prove how egalitarian and generous they are: “Below South Street, Above South Street,” they seem to be saying; “What’s the diff?” Plenty diff, actually, and they’re inevitably the ones who make you jump through hoops, just to show how valuable their business is: no butter, fresher butter, vegetarian Bolognese, “Oh, you don’t have Château du Cochon ’63 . . . ?”

  Of course, Sout’ Philly Made Good is just as bad with the hoops, but loads better with the tips. The last time he came in with his brothers, Anna Lombardi’s dad left Sienna $50 on a $120 bill. But he also had Nonna make his linguine fresh, almost right at the table, to make sure she didn’t try to give him pasta from the afternoon batch.

  The two people I could see clearly as I approached the table didn’t look like they came to South Philly very often, certainly not for food. She looked like she didn’t eat. She also looked vaguely familiar. Her husband had blindingly white teeth; she had brilliantly white-blonde hair. They had matching wristwatches that I was sure cost more than both our cars. Diner Number Three was obscured by the tall menu. All I could see was a pair of large hands. I set a basket of fresh bread within reach.

  “Hi, welcome to Marino’s,” I said in my best Isn’t This Lovely? voice. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Diner Number Three emerged from behind the menu. “Ella?”

  9

  THE APOLOGY

  I was wearing no makeup and my brother’s shirt.

  “Alex. Hi.” It only came out slightly squeaky.

  The woman’s beautiful face broke into a smile, and suddenly, I knew exactly who she was: Karina Romanova, co-anchor of the Channel 4 Evening News. Seen smiling out of thousands of televisions and bus kiosk ads. Wife of Paul Bainbridge: current U.S. representative and senatorial hopeful. Mother of Alex.