Isabella for Real Page 11
Oakleigh pushes her glasses up her nose. “Jeffrey called yesterday afternoon and told me the whole story, and then I told Anisha and Emory.”
Emory shifts her weight from one foot to the other, arms folded, waiting for me to say more.
“I’m glad he talked to you. I wanted him to talk to you. All along—since day one, I really did want you to know the truth about everything and who I really was . . . but, I guess you could say I got a little . . . sidetracked.”
“Sidetracked?” says Emory.
“Seriously, Isabella?” says Anisha.
“Completely off the track is more like it,” adds Oakleigh.
I swallow hard. “Yeah, that excuse does sound pretty lame, doesn’t it?” I put my shaking hands behind my back and clear my throat. “Since yesterday all I’ve been doing is thinking about how a person explains to her three new best friends why she is a fibber, faker, and big phony.”
“And?” says Emory.
“I haven’t come up with anything good yet—not that there is anything good to come up with. . . except . . . sorry. I’m sorry. I am. I’m really sorry for letting you think I was somebody I’m not. And that’s the truth.”
The four of us stand facing one another for what feels like forever, not saying anything.
“We’ve been thinking too,” Emory says, staring at her shoes.
“Actually, it wasn’t all your fault,” says Anisha.
“Especially since we got that rumor way wrong in the first place,” Oakleigh says.
I swallow hard. “Thanks, but I went along with it.” I take a deep breath. “So now you know everything there is to know. I’m plain old Isabella Antonelli from Belleville, New Jersey. My mom is not a countess; we don’t live in a fancy New York penthouse, or a villa in Italy, or fly around the world in a private jet. Hey, I don’t even have a bicycle—and Jeffrey will back me up on that one.” I take a another deep breath. “I’m just me.”
“Me is good,” Emory says.
“We like that me. I mean, you,” says Oakleigh.
“You do?”
Anisha smiles. “Girl, don’t you know? You had us at eggplant.”
8:28 a.m.
Scene 44/TAKE 3
Group hugs are good.
Two Months Later, Friday, 7:35 p.m.
Scene 45/TAKE 1
Nonni’s Basement Kitchen
As Grandpop likes to always say when he takes me to Yankee Stadium, the place is packed.
And all decorated, too.
Aunt Rosalie dragged out her Christmas decorations and strung white lights across the ceiling in the basement. Even the Volkswagen furnace is lit up. (It looks good when it twinkles.)
Uncle Babe, wearing his orange plaid sport coat, is making like Dancing with the Stars with Mrs. Kostopoulos. Vincent’s parents, Aunt Lucy and Uncle Jimmy, are doing their own imitation too as Aunt Rosalie’s playlist of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons blares throughout the house. Even my grandparents are dancing. Arguing with every step, but dancing cheek to cheek.
Auntie Ella has sprinkled glitter on her spiked hair—“It’s festive!”—and is leaving a sparkling trail of red and green everywhere she walks.
“Somebody needs to follow her with a broom!” says Aunt Minnie with a chuckle.
Ella shakes her head. “I say sweep tomorrow—sparkle tonight!”
Anisha holds up her phone to take a picture of Jeffrey, Oakleigh, and Emory and is photo-bombed by Frankie. (That would be the cat.)
My mom even looks glamorous. She’s actually wearing pointy-toed high heels and a black minidress that I have never seen hanging in her closet. Who knew she had such good-looking legs under those baggy hospital scrubs? No alabaster doorknobs on her.
“Toast! Raise your glasses, my dahlings!” Aunt KiKi says as everyone gathers around the kitchen table and Grandpop drains a second bottle of Asti Spumante. “To my amahzzing filmmaker nephew, Vincent, and my equally amahzzzzzzing and talented niece, Isabella! Congratulations! Ratings on the first show are in! It’s a hit! Bravo! Brava!”
“Cin cin!” everyone shouts, clinking a hodgepodge of glasses from Flintstones and Archie jelly jars to Aunt KiKi’s pink crystal champagne flutes she brought from her apartment especially for the occasion.
“WAIT! STOP!” Aunt KiKi suddenly shouts. “Pop”—she says, pointing to my grandfather before anyone takes a sip—“You did fill Isabella’s and her friends’ glasses with juice, non hai fatto?”
Grandpop holds up the empty bottles of white grape juice and Pellegrino. “You can take that one to the bank!”
“Eat! Eat, everybody!” Nonni shouts as she nudges Aunt Rosalie out of her way and puts a second platter of eggplant and antipasti on the table. She wipes her hands on her apron, then hurries to the stove, where she drops fistfuls of spaghetti into two pots of boiling salted water.
“Mangia!” Aunt Minnie orders everyone, holding a stack of plates as her cat-eye glasses fog up from the wafting steam from the cooking pasta.
“Mmmm, I love this,” Emory says, taking another bite of pink meat, which is rolled up tighter than one of Uncle Jimmy’s cigars. “What is this called again?”
I laugh. “Bologna with Q-Tips!”
“Mortadella,” Aunt Minnie says, handing Emory a plate filled with rolled provolone, prosciutto, and capicola ham. “The comedian over there,” she says, nodding at me. “Eat. Eat, skinny little girl!” she orders Emory. “You’re a toothpick like Isabella.”
Auntie Ella whispers in my ear, “Minnie’s gravy is in the front pot, and her eggplant is in the green dish. The red one has Constanza’s.” She stands back and winks. “Just so you know.”
“Hey!” shouts Bobby Kostopoulos, standing near the foot of the stairs. “Look who’s finally here! Kid! You’re late! Where you been?” he says as you-know-who comes strolling down the stairs into the basement. “Look at him, will ya? All spiffed up in that jacket and tie! Underrated, this boy!” Bobby grabs Frankie in a hug with his own bright pink sport-coated big bear of an arm. “Underrated.”
Frankie looks at me from across the crowded room and grins that dumb dimpled-chin grin.
Emory whispers, “You’ve got to admit it, Isabella. He is cute.”
I roll my eyes and bite into a piece of provolone.
“Too bad about that election,” Jeffrey says, handing Oakleigh one of Aunt Minnie’s chopped olive bruschetta.
She shrugs. “It’s closer than we’ve ever come to beating Jenna before. Isabella only lost by seventeen votes.”
Emory bites the top off a breadstick. “That last-minute campaign promise about no tests on Fridays is what did us in.”
“That and that last batch of lollipops Jenna and her crew gave out on Election Day,” adds Anisha.
I lift my Pebbles glass and take a sip of sparkling grape juice. “Next year,” I say as the bubbles make me burp, “we’ll really give her an Eggplant War. I’ve been thinking . . .”
“Uh-oh,” says Jeffrey. “That’s dangerous.”
“No, no, listen,” I say as they laugh. “Not only should we use Nonni’s and Aunt Minnie’s eggplant parmigiana recipes, but Anisha can make her grandmother’s eggplant curry, and Oakleigh’s mom can teach us how to make her famous eggplant Szechwan style.”
“What about me?” Emory asks.
“You’re the French expert. Ratatouille, of course!”
We clink glasses. “To future Eggplant Wars!”
“Attention, my dahlings! Attention!” Aunt KiKi taps a spoon on her pink glass. She flips one end of her long pink shawl over one shoulder. “Our star filmmaker is making a speech!”
Grandpop drags a chrome-legged kitchen chair from against the wall, and everyone applauds as Vincent, camera in hand, steps up on the red-cushioned seat.
“Thank you. Thank you, everybody! If it weren’t for all of you, I wouldn’t be here!” We all laugh when Nonni takes a bow. “I want to say thanks again to all of you for being . . . well, you! And I especially want to give a bi
g thanks to my cousin Isabella—the best little sister I never had! Oh, and the next time I make you famous, I’ll give you a heads-up!”
You-know-who gives out a big whoop somewhere over by the furnace, and I feel my face turning as red as Aunt Minnie’s roasted peppers.
“And yes, watch out! I’m filming tonight,” Vincent says, holding the camera above his head. “But I promise—the footage is only available for private family screenings!”
“Or not!” I call out, and everyone laughs again.
“Me first, my dahling,” says KiKi, making one of her usual dramatic poses as Vincent gets off the chair. “Left profile! Left profile. It’s my better side.”
“Vincenzo! Get a shot of my legs!” calls out Auntie Ella as she hikes her skirt above her knees.
“MOVE! EVERYBODY AWAY FROM THE SINK!” Nonni shouts, potholder mitts grabbing both handles of the biggest pot we have in the house. “I’M DRAINING MACARONI!”
Boiling water swishes through Nonni’s colander, and the room quickly steams up, as Frankie Valli sings, “You’re just too good to be true . . . Can’t take my eyes off of you . . .”
Suddenly everyone becomes quiet.
Uncle Babe slaps his forehead. “Well, blow me down!”
“Madon!” cries Aunt Minnie.
Aunt KiKi gasps. “Amahzzing!”
“Mother of Mercy! I’m making my shocked face!” cries Auntie Ella, her jaw dropping.
“What’s going on?” Emory whispers as all eyes stare at the person who just came down the stairs. She pokes my ribs. “Isabella, who is that?”
The dark-haired, handsome man walks slowly toward my mother. He stops in front of her. They stare at each other, and then his arms slowly go around her waist, and he pulls her close. Whoa. Am I actually watching my mother get kissed? Double whoa. My mother is kissing back! It’s like something from Search for Truth, Lies and Love!
Emory pokes me again. “Wow! Who is he?”
“I have no idea,” I say, trying to catch my breath as Vincent focuses the camera in their direction and starts filming. “But I . . . I think. . . No. Can’t be. Not possible. Is it? . . . Vincent?” I say, tugging his arm as he zooms in on the lip-lock. “Is that my . . . father? What’s happening?”
“Season Two, kiddo . . . and we are rolling.”
FADE OUT
MiddleGradeMania.com
About the Author
MARGIE PALATINI is a Jersey Girl who knows her chili dogs, Sinatra, soaps, and Four Seasons. She also cooks up an awesome eggplant parmigiana and clams with linguini. (Pump gas? Fuhgeddabout it. No clue.) She is the author of over three dozen award-winning picture books, including Piggie Pie!, Bedhead, and Sweet Tooth, as well as the middle grade novel Geek Chic. She can be found off Exit 14A on the Turnpike.
Learn more at www.margiepalatini.com
About the Illustrator
LEUYEN PHAM is illustrator of over eighty books for children, including the New York Times bestsellers The Princess in Black by Shannon and Dean Hale, Freckleface Strawberry by Julianne Moore, and Grace for President by Kelly DiPucchio. She is the author and illustrator of A Piece of Cake, No Such Thing as Little, and Big Sister, Little Sister. LeUyen lives with her husband and young sons in California.
Learn more at www.leuyenpham.com