“I have no idea what that means.” She laughs again.
“Could we be real friends?” The words feel silly coming out of my mouth. Like I’m a character on Sesame Street talking to one of the colorful monster puppets instead of the world’s most famous pop star. “Because,” I add softly, “I don’t want us to be enemies.”
“Then stay away from Zeppelin.”
Wait. What? “I’m sorry?”
She places a perfectly manicured hand on her hip. “I dunno what’s going on between you two, but he’s been acting mad weird since you showed up.”
“I just met him. How could anything be going on?”
“I dunno. You tell me.”
“There’s not,” I state firmly. “I swear.”
“Good. Because there is something going on with us. Me and him.”
There is? What about Lorin? And... “What about Ava?”
“Who the hell is Ava?”
I shake my head. I really should mind my own business. Zeppelin’s harem is not my concern. “Nothing. Never mind.” I plaster a smile onto my face, even though it feels like Cinny stabbed me in the heart with her Zeppelin confession. “I promise there is nothing going on between me and Zeppelin.”
“I believe you, Jerzie.” She extends her arms. “Hug.”
She’s pretty much the last person I wanna hug. Ever. But she leans forward to hug me anyway.
“Who says warring families don’t know how to get along? Right, Jerzie?”
“Right,” I reply softly. “Who says?”
“Wherefore Art Thou Romeo?”
“Here you are, madam.” Aunt Karla places my cell in my hands. “Rashmi gave it to me when I got here to pick you up.”
I lift it to my lips, kiss it, and say in my best Sméagol imitation, “My preciousss.”
“You do know studies show cell phones to be dirtier than public urinals, right?” Aunt Karla steps onto Forty-Second Street, raising her arm to hail a cab.
“We’re taking a cab? How come?”
A yellow taxi quickly pulls to the side and stops in front of us. Aunt Karla yanks open the door and motions for me to step inside.
“Gotta make a quick run to a store in Bay Ridge. The subway would take forever.”
I climb into the cab and slide all the way over so that Aunt Karla can climb in, too. I click on my seat belt as she gives the older male driver an address. He types it into his GPS and pulls into heavy traffic.
“Sorry I gotta drag you along, little niece. But this is exactly why I need help with you this summer. When Judas gets here, you won’t have to tag along for this kinda stuff.”
“It’s cool. I don’t mind. Not like I have anything better to do. All good.”
She pulls her seat belt over her shoulder. “Tell me about rehearsal. I wanna hear every detail.”
I tell her most of the details. About how good Damon and Angel Aguilar are as Mauricio and Tyree. Or Mercutio and Tybalt.
“Angel won the National Slam Poetry contest last year. He was so good today. The rap battle between him and Damon? Omigosh. This musical is gonna win sooo many Tonys. Oh, and Robbie treated the whole cast to ice cream sandwiches from Big Gay Ice Cream right before we finished for the day.”
“Yeah, Nigel brought me one when he saw me waiting for you. So good.” Aunt Karla grabs her cell phone from her purse.
“He did?” I grin. “Did he put a dollop of vanilla on your nose?” I bop her on the nose.
“Oh, you got jokes?” Aunt Karla laughs. “You just worry about Vampire Diaries. How’s he?”
“Who?”
“You know. Zeppelin? Did you guys record another kiss?” Aunt Karla teases as we bump along in traffic, horns outside blaring, car and truck engines roaring. “Still think you’ve fallen in love at first sight, Juliet?”
“I told you that wasn’t about me!” Except it was. “I didn’t even talk to him.” Only I did.
“As cute as he is? I bet all the girls want him.”
“Not all the girls.” I lean my head back and stare out the window. “It’s ridiculous how people get so excited over someone because they’re attractive. I’ve never had a boyfriend before. But when I get one, I wanna make sure he’s smart. I don’t care what he looks like.”
“How noble of you,” Aunt Karla chides. “I know a one-toothed cyclops genius, if you want his number.”
“He sounds perfect. Have him call me.”
She laughs. “So Zeppelin didn’t even talk to you? After that steamy kiss y’all had? And then you went to his show. Wait.” She turns to me. “How was that? You never gave me the details.”
“He likes Cinny, okay? They’re dating.”
“Cinny is not dating Zeppelin.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because I would imagine Cinny to be dating a version of herself. A famous narcissist. Plus, I’ve seen the way that boy looks at you. He likes you.”
“Well, you’re wrong. She told me today that they’re a thing and warned me that I need to stay away from her man or else.”
Aunt Karla twists in her seat so she’s facing me. “And what did you say?”
“Nothing really. I just assured her I’ll stay in my lane and nothing’s going on.”
“Good for you, Jerzie Jhames! You really are trying to be sensible. I woulda told her to go straight to hell. But that’s just me.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “You’re a Shakespearean tragedy waiting to happen.”
Her phone buzzes in her lap, and she stares down at the screen and quickly jumps on the call. A few seconds later she’s yapping away about data entry and low product quotients and blah blah blah.
I focus on my own cell, happy to have the Zeppelin conversation cut short. I study my screen. I’ve missed quite a few texts and phone calls from it being quarantined all day. Judas. Riley. Mom. Dad. A bunch of kids from show choir have sent me happy summer texts. And like seven of my theater friends have sent me text freak-outs about my new internet fame. I click my Instagram icon. One point one million followers? Holy geez. Should I post something? Do a live? What do you say when 1.1 million people are listening?
A new text comes through as I contemplate. It’s from MyRomeo. Huh?
Who is that?
MyRomeo: You left so fast. Didn’t get to say goodbye.
I stare at the message, remembering Zeppelin was the one who programmed his own number into my phone. Did he seriously save himself as MyRomeo? I glance at Aunt Karla. She’s still yapping away on her work call. My hands are shaking a bit, but I manage a text back:
Me: Romeo? Thought you drank a vial of poison.
MyRomeo: We’re back from the dead, remember?
I smile at the messages. Then quickly remember I’m cavorting with the enemy from the house of Montague!
Me: Phone’s about to die. I’ll see you tomorrow! Bye!
I click the side button to lock my screen and stuff my fully charged cell into my bag.
* * *
It’s well over an hour since I last texted Zeppelin. Maybe he got the hint, because he hasn’t texted back. Good. It’s for the best.
The taxi pulls up in front of a small boutique on a busy street in Bay Ridge. We both push open our doors and step outside. I stretch my legs on the sidewalk, checking out the evening view as Aunt Karla hands the driver a wad of cash through the window. Even though Bay Ridge is Brooklyn, it’s a section of Brooklyn I’ve actually never been to before. I can see a massive bridge that stretches over the bay. Lots of cute shops, restaurants, too.
“You wanna come in with me? You can find a spot in the back of the boutique and relax while I take my meeting with the owner.”
Across the street, I notice a tiny little Italian restaurant and bakery called Belle Torte. They have a sign outside: Homemade Gelato! Fresh Every
Day!
Yum. “I’ll head over there.” I point.
She turns. “Jerzie Jhames. More ice cream?”
“No, no,” I lie. “Gonna sit and relax. You know, have a coffee. Scroll through the Gram. My one point one million followers await me.” I pop an imaginary collar.
“Sounds good.” Aunt Karla laughs. “I’ll join you when I’m done.”
“Cool.”
I wait for a few cars to pass, then race across the street. When I push into the tiny, dimly lit restaurant, I see it’s got a cool vintage vibe, with red leather booths and white tablecloths. There’s a chalkboard sign at the hostess podium that says Seat Yourself! It’s mostly empty in here, so I slide into a booth near the front. A waitress approaches. Short hair cut into a bob with blunt bangs. Bright blue eyes that strike me as familiar. Do I know her?
“Hi. Welcome to Belle Torte.”
“Hey. How’s it going? Uh...” I stare at the menu on the table. “Can I get a slice of your chocolate truffle cake? And a scoop of vanilla gelato? And a scoop of strawberry? And a scoop of chocolate?” I hand the menu to her. “And one of your amaretti cookies?”
“An order is two.” She takes the menu. “It’s cheaper that way.”
Cheaper is good. Since Mom and Dad are making me put most of my Roman and Jewel money in a CD that I can’t touch until I turn eighteen, leaving me only a small allowance to get by on. “That’s fine. I’ll take two then. Oh!” I grab the menu back out of her hands. “Sorry.” I study it for a second. “And one zeppole. Did I say that right?”
She smiles. “You said ze-pole. It’s ze-po-lee.”
“Ze-po-lee,” I repeat.
“Yes. Very good! The zeppole, they come in an order of two as well. Is that okay?”
“That’s maybe more than I want but...” I study the menu. “Yeah, sure. And can I have pistachios on the chocolate ice-cream?”
“Not pi-stash-yo. Say pi-stah-kio.”
“Pi-stah-kio?”
“Molto bene! You learn quick. And yes. You may. Anything for you.” She stuffs her notepad into her smock and reaches out to retrieve the menu.
“Can I keep it? If you don’t mind. My aunt might join me later.”
“Of course you can. Girls with big appetites. I love it.” She heads off toward the back of the store.
I’ve been so consumed with all this Broadway drama in the house of Montague and Capulet that I haven’t been eating. I swear I could eat everything in here. I inhale. The scent. It must be what Roald Dahl imagined Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory would smell like.
A man with a beautiful Italian accent is chatting loudly in the back of the restaurant. “Luciano!” He laughs heartily. “Stop checking on us. We are fine.”
“I can’t help it,” someone else says.
Do my ears deceive me? I spin around. Holy cannoli. The “someone else” is Zeppelin. I twist back around and slide down into the booth seat so that I’m almost under the table. Please don’t let him see me!
“Go home. Rest. I insist. We don’t need help,” the man says.
“Fine,” Zeppelin replies. “Tomorrow?”
“No. Go play. Do what young boys do. You’ll give yourself high blood pressure.” The man laughs again. “Luciano, stop worrying so much.”
“I’ll check in tomorrow. You know I will.”
I use the menu to hide my face as I hunker down. Zeppelin walks past me, and thankfully, I go unnoticed. I peek over the top of the menu. It’s definitely him. He’s holding his motorcycle helmet as he pushes through the front door.
His name is Luciano? After he’s disappeared down the street, I twist around again. The waitress with the bright eyes is counting money at the register.
“Excuse me?” I say. “Miss?”
She stuffs money into her smock as she makes her way to my table. “Yes?” she says. “Sorry, I was just about to check on your order.”
“Oh, no worries. I. Uh. Had a question about that guy who was just in here?”
“Oh?” She eyes me suspiciously. “What’s your question?”
“I thought his name was Zeppelin.”
“Ahh.” She smiles, softening. “You know Zeppelin?”
“Yeah. We sorta work together.”
“In the show? How nice!”
“Yeah. But I heard that guy call him Luciano?”
“Okay...don’t tell him I told you this. But when he was a kid, he would eat the zeppole like a cow.” She laughs. “Always with zeppole in his sticky little hands. So we started calling him Zeppolini. Somehow, over the years, it became Zeppelin. He says it’s after the band.” Even though she rolls her eyes, I can tell she has nothing but love for Zeppelin. “We all know it’s because of his love for fried dough.” She laughs. “He’s my cousin.”
Ahh. Now I see why her eyes look familiar.
“He’s a lot like his mom. My aunt. Francesca Ricci. Google her. You’ll see. Most beautiful voice you ever heard.”
“I just so happen to be fluent in Google.” I hold up my phone and grin, then type the name into a YouTube search. The first link features a photo of a woman with the same eyes as Zeppelin and the waitress. A rare beauty with thick waves of long black hair and lustrous ivory skin. No wonder Zeppelin’s so pretty.
“That’s her! That’s my aunt.” She slides into the booth and sits across from me. “Press the link,” she says excitedly.
I do. The video features only the audio of an aria from The Barber of Seville. I sit, enraptured as I listen. “Wow,” I breathe. “Her tops notes are effortless.” I tap the screen to stop the audio. “I swear I’ve never heard ‘Una voce poco fa’ sound so perfect.”
“You like opera?” Her blue eyes shine as bright as Zeppelin’s.
“Sure. Some operas are pretty dope. Especially The Barber of Seville.”
“Fantastico! You know, Zeppelin won’t admit it, but I think performing is his way of staying close to his mom. You know?”
“Well, she’s my new favorite for sure.”
She smiles warmly. “I’m Marta by the way. What’s your name? I’ll tell him I saw you.”
Oh, God. Do I really want Zeppelin to know I was here? “It’s Patti. Patti...LuPone.”
“Patti LuPone?” She gives me a curious look.
I swallow nervously. “He’s probably mentioned me.”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Maybe. Okay, Patti LuPone. So nice meeting you.”
“You, too, Marta.”
* * *
Nothing wrong with a little white lie. Okay, it’s a blatant lie. But I can’t have Zeppelin knowing I stumbled upon his family in Bay Ridge. So surreal. I whip out my phone and Google Francesca Ricci as Marta heads to the back of the restaurant.
This time, a Wikipedia link pops up on my screen. I click the link and scroll quickly through all the information. I cover my mouth with my hand.
After a boating accident in Florence, Francesca Ricci was grievously injured and could no longer perform. She later drowned herself in the Arno.
No. Zeppelin’s mom died by suicide? That’s devastating. Poor Zeppelin.
Speaking of the man formerly known as such. I Google the name Luciano Ricci. I have...hits?
Luciano Ricci has an Instagram, a Facebook, Twitter, too. He is on social media! I check out the Instagram account first, scrolling through all the photos. He looks a lot younger in these pics. Some of them look like they’re from photo shoots. Him with his shirt off. Him on a runway. There’s a video. I click the button to activate the sound.
“Paris is cold.” Zeppelin is speaking directly into the camera he’s holding. “I’m not sure why anybody would say this is the lover’s capital of the world, cuz mostly I wanna stay in the hotel, crank up the heat, and drink hot tea.”
I hear a girl laughing off camera. “You sound like an old lady, Lucio.�
�
He looks at the camera. “In Paris, I am an old lady.” He widens his eyes dramatically. “Somebody take me to Hawaii.”
He looks young in the video. I’d say he was fourteen or fifteen. Paris at fifteen years old? I hit the back arrow and continue scrolling through his pics, noting all the different locations. Rome, Milan, Prague, London. Wow. Zeppelin’s a world traveler. Was Cinny telling me to stay away even necessary? I’m way out of my league with this guy.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, look up, and...oh shit... I am looking into the face of little Luciano himself.
“Hello, stalker,” he says.
“Pronounce It Faithfully”
I fumble with my phone, pushing the side button to lock the screen. “Zeppelin?”
He slides into the booth, directly across from me, folding his hands and placing them gently on the white tablecloth. “Please. Don’t let me interrupt your stalking.”
“I’m not stalking you.”
“Oh? You live in Bay Ridge?”
“No. I’m here with my aunt. She’s across the street working. And.” Ugh. How can I make this okay? This must look so bad. To add to my woes, Marta has now shown up with my food. All my food. Why did I order so much food?!
“I thought you left,” she says to Zeppelin, setting down the ice cream first. Then the cookies. The donuts. And finally the giant slice of cake.
Zeppelin eyes the smorgasbord of treats. “Are you expecting the rest of the cast?”
“Funny you should come back, Lucio,” Marta says. “Patti LuPone was asking about you. She said you guys work together.”
Zeppelin’s eyes grow wide. “Patti LuPone?”
Oh no. This has gone from bad to worse.
She speaks to Zeppelin. “Come la conosci?”
“Non si chiama, Patti LuPone.” He looks at me and shakes his head. “Dio Santo.”
“Chi è Patti Lupone?” Marta asks wide-eyed.
“Un’attrice molto famosa. Evita. Les Misérables. Sweeney Todd.”
Roman and Jewel Page 12
