The Fine Art of Truth or Dare

by Melissa Jensen

  “Okay. So, here’s the thing. Amanda and I have just been split for a few days. Everyone thinks it’s temporary . . .”

  Maybe if he hadn’t paused to take an audible breath, we wouldn’t have heard it. But as it was, the creak from the floor outside my half-open door came in loud and clear. Alex shot up like he’d been poked with a sharp stick. I crossed the room in a single breath and jerked open the door.

  Nonna, halfway past my room and clearly heading for the stairs, looked like something out of a cartoon. Her shoulders were hunched, she had one foot lifted off the floor, and she was cringing. “Oh, Fiorella. I am sorry!”

  In an alternate universe, another Ella was frantically reassuring her shrieking grandmother that nothing had happened, she had not endangered her immortal soul, and it would be a very good thing, please, if Poppa’s revolver went back into its dusty case.

  In this one, Nonna had a gun forefinger to her own temple. She popped her thumb and rolled her eyes.

  Not knowing what else to do, I stepped aside. “Um . . . Nonna, this is Alex Bainbridge. Alex, this is my grandmother . . .”

  He was already across the room, hand extended. “Buongiorno, Signora Marino. Piacere di conosceria.”

  She responded with a delighted cackle and a torrent of Italian. I caught “welcome” and “sausage.” Of course, I might have been wrong about both. Alex listened attentively, then gave her a crooked smile. “Scusi, signora. I don’t speak Italian. Well, much, anyway. I just practiced a couple of phrases for . . . um . . . practice.”

  “Ah”— Nonna reached up to pinch Alex’s cheek, not too hard—“it doesn’t matter. You have me at buongiorno. Now, come, come.”

  We went, Nonna leading the way, through the house, across the yard, and into the restaurant kitchen. Mom’s car wasn’t in the lot. I figured she’d left to sulk over lobsters or shoes. Monday is always a slow night. Leo was cleaning the espresso machine and cursing under his breath. It’s the only thing he hates more than waiting tables with Sienna. He didn’t even look up when we came in.

  At his station, Ricky was up to his elbows in ground sausage meat. He tossed Alex a friendly “Hey, kid,” and went back to it.

  “This is Alex,” I told anyone who cared. “From Willing.”

  Dad was still holding the big knife. He gave Alex a very long look. Then he set down the knife, wiped his hands on his apron, and extended one. “Ronnie Marino.”

  Alex almost leaped forward to take it. “Alex Bainbridge.” He gave a tiny wince, and I figured Dad had squeezed.

  “Yeah. The congressman’s kid. I remember.”

  I didn’t think they’d crossed paths that night. But Dad doesn’t forget much that happens in his restaurant.

  “We had an amazing dinner,” Alex told him. Just as I started to worry that he might launch into just the sort of flattery that doesn’t work on my dad, his face got a slightly goofy look and he announced, “I’ve dreamed about that antipasto plate.”

  And that was that.

  “You hungry?” Dad asked.

  “Starving,” Alex answered.

  “Good.” Dad scooped up the knife again. “Ella, find out what the young gentleman would like to eat, and all will be well in the world.”

  “Sit!” Nonna commanded, pushing Alex from behind. All that was visible of her was a flash of black skirt behind his knees.

  “Purple beet ravioli,” Uncle Ricky announced to the room, “stuffed with sausage, dried apricots, and Asiago cheese.”

  “Try,” Nonna commanded, one hand in the middle of Alex’s chest now to make him sit on one of the stainless stools, the other reaching for a crostini. She makes them every afternoon out of yesterday’s ciabatta bread, and varies the topping. This one looked suspiciously like anchovy paste, mashed beans, and garlic. Yummy, but not the first thing I would hand a guest.

  He took it.

  “So, you a ravioli man?” Ricky asked.

  “Um, yeah, sure,” Alex answered around a mouthful of very crunchy toast and the hand he’d lifted to prevent crumb spray. “Yours sounds really . . . good.”

  “Not good, my friend. To die for. A classic in the making. So, you ever watch Top Chef . . . ?”

  Tina stuck her head through the dining room doors. “Yo, Leo, you got a table! Put your rear in gear.” She spied Alex. “Hey. Whaddya know.” Her eyes settled on me for a second. “Bag o’ chips?” she asked me. I shrugged. “Whatever. Leo!”

  He jogged across the floor, shaking coffee grinds off his hands.

  “Hey!” Dad snapped. “I just mopped.”

  Leo grabbed a dish towel and peered past Tina’s tower of curls. “It’s the Nguyens,” he hissed at her. “They’ve been here every friggin’ Monday for ten years, like family. You couldn’t just ask them what they want to eat?”

  Tina shrugged and examined a scarlet nail. “Not my job, sweetie.”

  Leo stomped off to get a fresh apron. Tina went back into the dining room. Ten seconds later, we could hear her laughing with the Nguyens, who invariably ordered Caesar salads and linguine alle vongole. There was a loud clatter as Dad tipped a bunch of clams into a skillet. It was followed by a clang and a hiss. I spun back toward Nonna.

  “Aiee! San Lorenzo.” She was hopping in place, one hand cupped in the other. “So stupid.”

  Dad was already halfway across the kitchen. “Mama, you okay?”

  She waved him off with her elbow. “Sì, sì. I grab a hot pot. You go back to your vongole. You”—she called to me—“go get me some ice in a towel and honey. Presto! Ah, so stupido . . .”

  I froze. I’d never seen Nonna so much as stub her toe in the kitchen, let alone burn herself. Suddenly, I was remembering the urn and the yelling and the searing, screaming pain . . .

  “Fiorella!” Nonna’s voice cut through the memory. I had my left hand clamped to my shoulder. She was waving both of her hands at me. “I am fine, piccola. Look.” One palm might have been a little pink; that was all I could see. I let out my breath in a shaky whoosh. “Ice, now. And the honey.”

  I darted a glance at Alex. He’d frozen, midchew, and was watching the scene, a little wide-eyed. I gave him a smile that was probably more of a grimace and headed for the storeroom. Even though I was calm, it took me way too long to find the honey. Someone had put it on the highest shelf, behind a gallon jar of olives. I ended up going up the stepladder two separate times.

  When I got back to the kitchen, my heart nearly stopped. Dad was leaning across the stainless worktable, over a pile of shrimp, almost right in Alex’s face. He was holding a new knife, this one small and very sharp. “You got that, kid, or should I say it again?” he was demanding.

  Alex looked more nervous than I’d ever seen him. But only for a second. Then his face hardened, and he slapped both palms flat on the table. “I’ve got it,” he said. He shoved up his sleeves and reached for the knife. Moments later, he was deveining shrimp with a lot of enthusiasm and a little skill.

  Dad turned and caught me gaping. He tilted his head in obvious warning. Raw, icky, slippery: This was the task he’d given the boy I brought into his kitchen, and I was not to interfere.

  Poor Alex. He was being tested for a position he didn’t even want.

  I handed Nonna the ice and set the honey in front of her. She’d already collected a couple of clean dish towels and a butter knife.

  “Do you want me to walk you over to the house?” I asked.

  “No, no. I put this on my hand, and it will all be fine.” She actually slathered honey over her palm, then settled the towel-wrapped ice over it. “Your young man will do the shrimp. You go do the linen. The boys will do the rest.” The boys, forty-three and forty-eight respectively, were moving a little faster than usual, but everything was back to calm and cheerful.

  Alex looked up from his shrimp. “My mom used to do that, put honey on me when I got little scrapes. She said it prevents infection.”

  “Did it work?” I asked.

  Alex grinned. “Who knows.
She usually started with Neosporin.”

  “Leo!” Dad yelled. “These salads aren’t going to serve themselves! Oh, hi, Huong.” Mrs. Nguyen was halfway into the kitchen. “Ah! Not a chance. You go sit down, ma’am, and wait for the waiter. Leo!”

  Mrs. Nguyen waved and left; Leo came in, scooped up the salads, and followed. Ten seconds later, we could hear them all laughing. Another family came in, another order. Then another, and another, and the night was on. It got busy, especially for a Monday. Tina condescended to serve a few orders—and take the tips that came later. I folded napkins and bused tables and checked in on Alex when I could. Ricky and Dad did what they did. Nonna supervised from a high stool. Alex went from deveining shrimp to cleaning mushrooms.

  Poor guy. They were really giving him the dirty work.

  He didn’t complain, of course. More than that, he was kinda terrific with my family. He was a very good sport when his proud allergy recitation got loud laughter and no sympathy. Apparently, he’d been telling people he was allergic to the kind of nuts that don’t have anything to do with food. Apparently, his mother didn’t read the English–Italian translation quite carefully enough. Nonna, determined to rectify the situation, gave him the Italian word for everything in the entire kitchen. He repeated them cheerfully. He argued with Ricky over the Phillies’ lousy season and agreed with Dad that the Eagles looked good for the Super Bowl.

  He ate whatever anyone put in front of him. Including the, yes, bagna cauda, whose primary ingredients are anchovies, garlic, and sardines, and some purple ravioli. Dad smacked Leo on the back of the head when he laughed. Leo gave Alex half a loaf of Nonna’s pane right out of the oven.

  Sitting next to him, having my second bowl of soup of the day, and, yes, bagna cauda on pane, I didn’t want the night to end. Simple as that. Because, if one ignored the fact that we were in the middle of a loud kitchen, surrounded by my family, that we were both wearing stained aprons and he smelled like shrimp, it could almost be a date.

  At least surrounded and stinky and stuffing his face with warm bread, Alex couldn’t dump me. Or whatever a guy does with a girl he isn’t dating. Lets her down easy, I guess, if he’s a nice guy.

  At ten fifteen, the last customers left. Dad, always a step ahead, had seven little chocolate budinos—little puddings—baking in the oven. We ate them with the strawberry candy Mrs. Nguyen left for us.

  Dad wouldn’t let Alex help with the cleanup. Alex tried to refuse the money Dad pushed on him. “Don’t you insult me!” Dad snapped. “This is a family business!” Alex missed the smile; he was busy trying to get the folded bills into his pocket. “Now, you go home to your family before they think you’ve run off to join a circus. You”—pointing to me—“go to bed. You’re sick. Remember?”

  Of course I’d forgotten. I gave a small cough. He rolled his eyes and waved me off.

  I moved a lot more slowly as Alex went out of my day than I had when he came into it. I figured he had some things to say that I didn’t want to hear, and I tried to think of any way I could ask him just not to talk, please, without sounding sullen or slightly insane.

  I walked him out to his car. Mr. Greco had gone up a ladder and loosened the lightbulb in the streetlamp again. He complains that it shines right into his bedroom. So he disables the light, PECO sends a crew to fix it, and it all begins again. It’s been going on for years. The Grecos are nice people, especially Mrs. Greco. If she’s home when the electric guys arrive, she takes them coffee and doughnuts.

  Alex unlocked the car and opened the door. “Well, good night,” he said cheerfully. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “Oh. Right.” I took a half step back toward the house. “You’re welcome.”

  “Ella.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  PECO hadn’t come yet, so it was pretty dark where we were standing. I don’t know how his hand found mine so fast, but one second I was thinking about how much I didn’t want to say good night, and the next I was up against his chest, standing on my toes with my feet between his.

  “Is this okay?” he asked, his breath chocolaty and warm against my forehead.

  “Yeah,” I answered, my own breath coming in quick little jumps. “Yeah.”

  “Good. I have something I have to tell you.”

  I waited.

  “I hate that Klimt painting,” he said. “I really hate it.”

  Then he was folding me into his coat and his face was right above mine, and there was only one kiss that mattered.

  27

  THE LIE

  I didn’t want to play. Frankie was in a mood for some reason, and when Frankie is in a mood, he can be a little mean. Sadie, on the other hand, was glowing slightly, and she hadn’t even hit the Chloe’s stage yet. She’d had a second date with Jared the night before. It had gone well.

  I took a quick look at my phone. No message, but I didn’t really expect one. My plans were already made. What I really needed was to see the time: 8:37.

  “Why don’t you just go already?” Frankie said snarkily. “We don’t want to hold you up.”

  “I have plenty of time.” I’d told them that I had to be home, that wedding plans were beginning to go into overdrive. Both statements were true, to a point. It was pretty much all wedding all the time these days. But the real truth there was that I stayed out of the way as much as possible. My shiny purple bridesmaid’s dress and shoes fit, I knew the church drill, and I really didn’t care what ultimately would be on the menu.

  But I did have to go home. Alex was picking me up there.

  For two weeks now, we’d been meeting when we could. Which, tragically, had been all of four short times: three at his house, once at mine, for a small amount of French before a lot of kissing. We’d had one furtive little interlude in an empty music room at school, but I’d been too nervous to really get into that one. At home, we were entwined, fingers and lips. At school, we barely spoke. It was still too new, too strange, maybe, to make public. I was still convinced that I was going to wake up, or walk out of a bathroom, or look up from my homework to discover I’d imagined the whole thing.

  “Sades,” I said, pointing a pepperoncini I probably wouldn’t eat. “Truth or Dare.”

  “Truth. I’m eating.” She and Frankie were. I wasn’t, not really. Alex had said something about food, so I’d been moving my salad around my plate.

  “Okay.” It had to be a good one, something she would really want to share with her two best friends. It had to be a good one to make up for the fact that I was keeping some big secrets from my two best friends for the past two weeks. “Five years from today. Where, exactly, do you want to be?”

  Her eyes lit up. Sadie loves that kind of question. “Ooh. Wow. Let me think. December, getting close to Christmas. I’ll be twenty-one . . .”

  “Passed out under the tree with a fifth of Jack, half a 7-Eleven rotisserie chicken, and a cat who poops in your shoes.” Frankie returned our startled glances with his lizard look. “Oh, wait. That’s me. Sorry.”

  I opted to ignore him. “Five years to the day, Sadie.”

  She glanced quickly between Frankie and me. “Do we need a time-out here?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Carry on.”

  “Okay. Five years. I will be in New York visiting the pair of you because, while NYU is fab, I will be halfway through my final year of classics at Cambridge, trying to decide whether I want to be a psychologist or a pastry chef. You,” she said sternly to Frankie, “will be drinking appropriate amounts of champagne with your boyfriend, a six-three blond from Helsinki who happens to design for Tory Burch. Ah! Don’t say anything. It’s my future. You can choose a different designer when it’s your go. I want the Tory freebies.” She turned to me. “We will be sipping said champagne in the middle of the Gagosian Gallery, because it is the opening night of your first solo exhibit. At which everything will sell.”

  She punctuated the sentence by poking the air with a speared black olive
.

  “I love you,” I told her. Then, “But that wasn’t really about you.”

  “Oh, but it was,” she disagreed, going back to her salad. “It’s exactly where I want to be. Although”—she grinned over a tomato wedge—“I might have the next David Beckham in tow.”

  “The next David Beckham is a five-foot-tall Welshman named Madog Cadwalader. He has extra teeth and bow legs.”

  “Really?” Sadie asked.

  Frankie snorted. “No. Not really.”

  “What is up with you tonight?” I demanded before I could stop myself.

  He turned, very slowly, to face me. “Not a thing, as it happens. Why don’t you tell us what’s up with you? Hmm?”

  “This isn’t about me.”

  “No?” Frankie tapped his fingers on the table. “Well, something about you is not quite right these days, Marino. And it’s not just me who’s noticed. Sadie?”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t know . . . yeah . . . maybe . . .”

  “So, what is it?” Frankie demanded. “You’re not eating, you’ve cut more classes in the last month than in the last two years, and you haven’t mentioned Edward Willing in three weeks.”

  “You hate when I talk about—”

  “Three weeks, madam. And that’s only as long as I’ve been keeping track. It’s weird, and we’re worried. Sadie?”

  Sadie was twisting pleats into her sweater. It was blue, narrow, and new to her wardrobe. It was obviously also not one of her mother’s picks. “Um . . . yeah. Maybe a little.”

  “See?” Frankie gestured toward Sadie with both hands. “She’s completely distraught.”

  “Frankie.” I wanted to reach across the table and touch him, but didn’t. I didn’t think I could take it if he pulled away. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. For a second, he looked exactly like Daniel: cynical, bored, and liable to bite. “Well, that’s funny,” he drawled. “I think you’re lying through your teeth.”

  My stomach clenched. “Why?”