Isabella for Real Page 5

  Like Aunt KiKi said, “Reality is nothing but perception, dahling. Go with the flow.”

  So, I was . . . flowing.

  Anisha peered into the container. “May I have a taste?”

  “Me too?” chimed in Oakleigh.

  “Make it three,” said Emory, spoon already in her hand.

  “Mmmm. This is delicious,” Anisha said licking the back of her fork tines before passing the container on to Oakleigh, who eagerly dug in and helped herself to a generous serving.

  “Yum,” said Emory after getting her chance for a taste. “This eggplant parm is way better than anything my family gets from our take-out place.”

  I leaned back in the chair, folded my arms, and smiled. If there was one thing I knew about, it was eggplant. I grew up listening to Nonni rattle off the recipe a million times as she tried to teach Aunt Rosalie how to cook.

  “See, the whole secret is cutting the eggplant paper thin. I’m talking transparent here. Then you dip the slices into some egg wash, followed by breadcrumbs—make sure you season that with lots of cheese and parsley, then sauté in small batches in extra virgin olive oil. Remember, don’t have the oil too hot, or else you’re gonna end up with a frying pan of black eggplant and a kitchen full of smoke. And don’t even bother if you’re not making your own marinara. Oh—important tip—whatever you do—no rubbery mozzarella like the pizza joints use. It’s way better when you forget the moozt altogether and just go with Parmigiano-Reggiano all the way. The good stuff you grate yourself.”

  Oakleigh laughed. “Listen to you. You sound like a short-order cook.”

  Emory dropped her napkin on the table. “Big phony!”

  My heart jumped into my throat, and that eggplant I had just swallowed felt like it was abruptly changing course and not far behind.

  “Ffffffffff . . . ony?” I said as Emory looked in my direction with cold, narrowing eyes.

  “Phony,” she repeated.

  Something told me that “snowball” was about to go splat.

  I slowly lifted my butt off the chair and got ready to make a quick exit from Fortier—and back to Belleville. I just hoped Aunt KiKi was going to be able to get a refund on that big-bucks tuition check.

  “Will you look at that big phony Jenna Colson sitting over there at the corner table. All smiles. Waving at the four of us, so sweet and friendly.”

  “Huh? Jenna Colson?” My rear end touched down with a soft landing on the seat of the chair and I took a breath, relieved it wasn’t my name uttered through those gritted teeth.

  “Wh-wh-why do you call her a phony, Emory?”

  “Because, that girl is a person who pretends to be your friend, but it’s all a big act.”

  “B-b-big . . . act?” I stuttered, my rear automatically lifting again off the chair.

  “You have no idea, Isabella,” said Oakleigh. “Jenna has spent every year at Fortier conning people into thinking she’s a certain type of person when she’s totally the opposite.”

  “But we’ve got her number,” added Emory. “Those days of fooling us are over. We’re not falling for that again.”

  “Wha-what did she do?” I said, reaching for my water bottle as my mouth began to feel like it was stuffed with cotton.

  “What did she do? She pretended to help Anisha with a history project, but she was really after information to sabotage her during student council election!”

  “We were both running for treasurer,” Anisha said. “At the end of our debate she accused me of being dishonest! Me! As if I would lie about not returning a library book!”

  “She was brutal. Turned the election upside down,” said Oakleigh.

  “I don’t know why we were surprised,” said Emory, still glaring at the corner table. “Two years ago, she accused Sally Bernstein of using her sister Shani’s math homework. That’s how Jenna ended up winning fourth grade representative.”

  “She cornered me yesterday by my locker,” Oakleigh said, looking over her shoulder and giving Jenna a little wave. “She told me she’s running for Student Council president this year.”

  “Oh, great,” groaned Emory, putting both elbows on the table and cupping her face in her hands.

  Anisha turned to me and sighed. “Besides digging up dirt, Jenna also influences votes around here with candy.”

  “Candy?”

  “Her parents own the biggest candy store in the city. Her mom supplies pink licorice, and Jenna sways the masses.”

  Oakleigh tapped her bottom teeth with one stem of her glasses, and looked up to the ceiling. “If only we could think of a way to beat her.”

  “To beat Jenna Colson,” said Anisha, “you to have to be a person in this school with a clean slate and no baggage.”

  “That’s it!” said Oakleigh.

  “What’s it?” asked Anisha.

  “We put up a candidate who doesn’t have baggage.”

  Anisha grinned. “I like it. We take away her ammunition. No bullets!”

  “Okay, you two. I admit that sounds like a good idea,” said Emory. “But who do we nominate?”

  Oakleigh leaned back and folded her arms. “I don’t know about you girls, but I’m thinking we have the perfect candidate sitting right here at this table.”

  “Me?” I said, spraying that last gulp of water across the table. “Whoa-whoa-whoa-wait a second!” I sputtered nervously. I grabbed napkins and mopped myself—and the tablecloth. “Me? Me is not a good idea.”

  “It’s a great idea,” said Emory. “You not only have a clean slate here at Fortier—it’s totally blank. We can create an entire persona!”

  I was pretty maxed out on “personas” right now. Not to mention what sort of deep sewer sludge I’d be falling into if anybody—especially Jenna Colson—found out about the real me. Living a double life was just a little bit juicier than an overdue library book.

  “Don’t worry,” Emory whispered, leaning closer. “We won’t give away your ‘real’ identity, of course.”

  “Of course not,” assured Oakleigh.

  “But . . . I don’t have any experience being a class president. None. Zero.”

  “Who needs experience?” said Emory. “This is school, Isabella. On-the-job training. And you have the three best campaign managers: un, deux, trois.”

  “Revenge against Jenna will be sweet,” Anisha said with a broad smile. “Let her taste the fuzzy end of her own lollipops for a change.”

  Emory sighed. “It’s too bad we can’t tell everyone who you really are, Isabella.”

  “What?” My head jerked more than when Aunt Rosalie stops short at a red light.

  “I’m just saying you’d win by a landslide if everyone knew you were royalty.”

  “Oh . . . yeah . . . royalty. But, uh . . . you promised not to blow my cover, remember? You won’t put my picture in front of a castle in England or anything like that, right?”

  “Castle? You have a castle? We thought your mother has a villa in Italy?”

  “EMORY! Shhhhh!” said Anisha. “You weren’t supposed to mention Italy!”

  Oakleigh grabbed my arm. “Sorry, Isabella. We weren’t being nosy—really we weren’t. We were just being—”

  “Curious,” interrupted Anisha, finishing the sentence. “We Googled.”

  (I reminded myself to breathe.) “G-G-G-Googled?”

  “Promise, you won’t be angry—but we sort of . . . well . . . researched your mom on my laptop. We typed in C – O – N – T – E – S – S —and before we hit the key for A, there she was—Contessa Francesca Monchetti.”

  The eggplant I had swallowed a while back finally reached my stomach, and I had the feeling it wasn’t too happy being down there. In fact, it was giving all kinds of signs it was planning a quick exit. (And I wasn’t too sure if the route was up . . . or down.)

  “Egad, girl—her fashion salon in Milan is gorgeous!”

  “And your New York penthouse with those windows overlooking Central Park is fabulous!” cooed Emory. �
�I love, love, love her black and white bedroom—I want to redecorate mine exactly like that—only with polka dots. And the pink living room is unbelievably awesome.”

  “Immensely awesome,” agreed Anisha with a nod.

  “I wish we had a silk couch in our living room,” sighed Oakleigh. “Ours doesn’t curve at all and it’s boring brown washable suede. My mom says my little sister is going through a dangerous phase right now with peanut butter and jelly.”

  I didn’t need the super brain of Jeffrey Levandowski to figure out they were describing the set on Search for Truth, Lies and Love. I knew every lavender pillow, pink vase, and silver-framed fake photograph in that entire make-believe apartment. I also didn’t need Jeffrey to know that the website the girls were talking about was made by one of Aunt KiKi’s “intensely devoted fans.” Must have been a good one, too, because they all sounded like they believed that everything they saw and read on that site was real.

  (My only hope right now was that they never got to the part where she time traveled. That one was difficult enough to explain to Nonni, but I was figuring impossible when it came to Emory, Oakleigh, and Anisha.)

  Emory inched her chair closer to mine and held my hand. “Oh gosh, Isabella! How awful that your mother had no idea where you were for all those years and years.”

  “And the sad irony is you were living right in her own house, passed off as the housekeeper’s grandchild!” Oakleigh said, teary-eyed.

  Anisha gasped. “Oh lordy—was the housekeeper Rosie?”

  Emory sighed. “It’s all so tragique.”

  I gulped. (The “snowball” was running amok.)

  “Um, this might be a good time to tell you about—”

  “Your brother?” interrupted Oakleigh.

  “Huh?”

  “The website said his whereabouts were a mystery for years before you all were finally reunited.”

  “Oh. Right. My brother. Him. He . . . Him. Yes. It’s complicated. Very complicated.”

  Anisha gave a sympathetic nod. “How utterly painful.”

  Actually, the search for her missing children was one of Aunt KiKi’s favorite story lines. (Next to having amnesia. Twice.) She got to cry buckets and was nominated for her one and only Daytime Emmy.

  “It’s difficult to talk about, all right. In fact, a lot of it . . . I forget.”

  “Bad memories. We understand,” she said, patting my hand.

  Oakleigh nodded. “Especially since your father the secret government agent disappeared when you were born and has never been seen again.”

  Emory sighed. “Si tragique!”

  “Dad?” I gulped. Whoa. Forgot all about that story line. “Uh, yeah, that was trajeek, all right. Very trajeek. I really can’t talk about it . . . because, well, you know . . . top secret and all. Really and truly, I don’t have any idea what happened to . . . Dad.”

  Which was the only absolute truth coming out of my mouth right now. I didn’t know anything about my father, except for that half-torn photograph in Aunt Minnie’s dining room. Nobody in my whole family, including Mom, ever mentioned his name. Whenever I asked any questions about him, Mom would change the subject and give me a bowl of pistachio ice cream. Finally I stopped asking—and not just because I hate pistachio ice cream. Mom was eating my share and stretching out her hospital scrubs big-time.

  “Is that why the contessa flies to Italy every weekend?” asked Emory. “Is your villa filled with happy memories?”

  “Is it exquisitely beautiful?” Anisha asked. “What does it look like?”

  “Um . . . look like?” My hands were sweating. Brain was racing.

  “Yes, please, Isabella,” agreed Emory. “Tell us all about it.”

  “Well . . . actually . . . it’s sort of simple. More like farmhouse, really. Lots of rolling hills. Tall, dark green cypress trees. Poppies. Purple lavender.”

  Emory sighed. “Sounds like a painting.”

  “Uh. Yeah. Just like a painting.”

  12:25 p.m.

  Scene 21/TAKE 1

  Aunt Minnie and Auntie Ella’s Living Room

  “You listening to me, Isabella?”

  “Huh? Oh, yes. Good playlist, Auntie Ella. I like that hip-hop you got on there.”

  “I hip and hop. Hey, Minnie!” Ella calls again from the couch. “Where are you? We’re starving here! Our girl looks like she’s going to faint!” She reaches over and strokes my hair. “I used to have brown hair like yours. I don’t remember exactly when I had it, but I had it. At least I think I had it. Who knows how these roots started out? I’ve been bleaching since before Pearl Harbor.”

  Ella lifts the corner of my mouth with a push of her thumb. “Smile. Don’t think about all that tumulto on the street. Noise. More noise. Police cars. News trucks. Hot dog trucks. That balloon guy—who’s pretty good by the way. Probably a thief with what he’s charging, but . . . eh. Let him make a few bucks, right?

  “Everyone is crazy about those videos. I’ve seen the episodes with me fifteen times already. Cosima, Mrs. Kostopoulos to you, called last night interrupting Jeopardy! —as if something is so important. She tells me she watched the videos on her son Bobby’s flaptop. I could hear from her voice she’s a sour pickle because her thirty-five-year-old son who does who-knows-what inside that garage down the street is not as talented as our Vincent.”

  “I saw her this morning from my bedroom window.”

  “Was she wearing those binoculars wrapped around her neck? Always with binoculars; bird watcher, she calls herself. Birds she’s watching? Pfft. Hey, how about you and me watching that episode in the backyard under the big umbrella? ‘The Contest,’ Vincent calls it. Not a good title if you ask me. What contest? Who in this family has better legs than me? Minnie’s ankles are cantaloupes. Some days they could be in a fruit stand. And anybody with one good eye, even poor half-blind Phil, your Poppi Two, rest in peace, knows my legs are better than Constanza’s bony pins any day of the week.

  “Our own mother said Constanza’s knees were two alabaster doorknobs—maniglie delle porte d’alabastro —or something like that. I forget. Who can remember so long ago? And in Italian yet. We watch on my cell phone right here. See? I’m connected, sweetie. Got me a poker game on it too. Better than playing slots in Atlantic City like your grandfather. I don’t lose money and don’t lose time sitting on a bus that doesn’t let you smoke for two and a half hours . . . that is, if I still smoked—which of course I do not.”

  She reaches into the pocket of her jiggling leopard hoodie and with the phone comes a crushed pack of Marlboro Lights.

  “Auntie Ella!”

  “Mother of Mercy! What are those things doing in there?” She makes her eyes all big and innocent and lifts her shoulders. “I’m shocked. Shocked, I tell you! See? This is my shocked face.”

  She opens her mouth wide and drops her jaw.

  “Auntie Ella.”

  She puts a finger to her lips. “Don’t worry. It’s okay. I don’t remember where I put the lighter, and Minnie doesn’t keep matches in the house since I almost set fire to the wing chair.” She pushes the pack in between the couch cushions. “I tell you, Isabella,” she says, changing the subject, “when you say that funny line, I forget what it is, but it was funny . . . I almost you-know-what in my pants!”

  “Ella!” says Minnie, walking slowly into the room holding a tray of sandwiches, a small platter of eggplant, and three glasses of Pellegrino.

  “But—I didn’t. Hear that in your good ear?”

  “Never mind your pants. Or what you do in them. It’s lunchtime. Eat your sandwich and eggplant. You too, Isabella. And remember, both of you, chew carefully. Don’t choke.”

  “That’s right. No choking like poor Arthur Schimlitz. For years I warned that man to stay clear of Rosalie’s biscotti,” Ella says, picking up her sandwich. “You just be careful swallowing, too, Isabella. We don’t know the Heinie maneuver in this house.”

  Minnie looks to the ceiling and clasps her hands. �
��Give me strength.”

  I reach for my plate with the sandwich and olives and lift a wedge of eggplant from the platter with the pie server lying on the tray. I stare at the square of stacked breaded eggplant surrounded by a small pool of oozing marinara and bubbled Parmigiano-Reggiano crusted to a light brown. How could anything that delicious get somebody into so much trouble?

  I sigh.

  Not a big sigh.

  Just a regular old ordinary sigh.

  I cut into the eggplant layers, lift the fork, and open my mouth.

  My eyes meet Aunt Minnie’s, then Ella’s.

  I know that look.

  It was the same one they both gave me when I was four and they caught me pocketing the quarter Nonni handed me for the offering basket at Sunday Mass.

  Unfortunately, the sigh has them thinking.

  I didn’t plan either of them doing that.

  12:31 p.m.

  Scene 22/TAKE 1

  “What’s with all the sighing?” asks Auntie Ella, spitting an olive pit onto her plate.

  “What?”

  “Sighing. Like this: Aaaaaaaaaah,” she says, mimicking me.

  Minnie reaches over the coffee table and hands her sister a napkin. Ella wipes the roasted red pepper oil dribbling down her chin.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like the sandwich? Eggplant?”

  “I love the sandwich.” I take a bite and talk as I chew. “Delicious. Artichokes. Roasted pepper. Provolone. Mor­tadella. Yum. And eggplant, too. Love eggplant.”

  Minnie tears off a piece of roll. Her teeth are not as good as Ella’s. “So? If everything is delicious, how come the sighing?”

  I swallow. Clear my throat. Twice. “No reason. Just sighing, that’s all. I guess I’m . . . tired?” I say, taking another bite. “But hungry! Mmm. Good sandwich. Good eggplant.”

  Minnie nods to her sister. “Hear her, Ella? Good sandwich, she says. Good eggplant.”

  Ella leans her elbow on the arm of the couch and starts tapping her chin with her finger. “Uh-huh. I’m looking how you are looking and hearing what I am hearing. I’m putting three and three together . . .”