The Icing on the Cake (15 page)

I huff and puff all the way home and miraculously make it to my room without being assaulted by any member of my family. I can hear them, stomping around in the kitchen as Dad finishes dinner, yelling over one another to be heard, but somehow nobody notices me creeping in. Who am I kidding? I was hardly creeping, more like
trudging
or maybe even
lumbering
thanks to my total exhaustion. (Mr. Mac would be seriously impressed with my vocabulary. But do I even care anymore?) However you describe it, I'm safe in my own little space where I can relax for a second before I take off these sweaty clothes and get in the shower . . .

BANG BANG BANG.

The next thing I know, there's an ear-splitting crashing noise and a blazing overhead light blasts into my eyes. Did I fall asleep? Nicky is standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips like a mini version of Mom.

“Frankie! Mom says to come now. We've been calling you forever and she was starting to get worried that there was something wrong with you.” He peers at me from above, sizing me up. “Is there something wrong with you? You look weird.”

“No,” I mumble, “I'm fine. Now get out.”

“Mom, she's okay,” he hollers, loud enough to be heard downstairs. “Except she's all sweaty-looking and mean!”

I hear my mom ask him if she needs to come up to check on me.

I stagger up, not wanting her to think I'm sick. “I'm totally fine. And I'm not mean. You just have no business in my room, that's all. Tell her I'm coming right now!”

Nicky plows down the stairs ahead of me, while I follow slowly. I never fall asleep during the day, and I have no memory of deciding to take a nap, anyway. That just doesn't happen to me. Maybe that is what people mean by power napping? Does Katie power
nap? Is that how she crams so much into one day without getting wiped out? But I don't feel “powerful” or even energized. I just feel disgusting.

Of course, it's a night when every single Caputo is home, so when I get to the table, all five of them look up at me. If I look even half as bad as I feel, I'm not a pretty sight. From the expressions on my family's faces, they clearly agree. Oh well.

“You okay, bella?” my mom asks. “You look tired.”

Before I can answer, The Goons start snickering. “Stop it, boys,” Mom says. “Francesca is working very hard, give her a break.” I appreciate her effort, but my obnoxious brothers just keep making stupid comments about dangling a cannoli on a stick in front of my face when I'm running—like a tastier, more tempting carrot—or putting a plate of risotto at the finish line.

“Cut it out now, boys,” Dad says in his I-mean-business voice, so The Goons just sort of shrug and start shoveling food onto their plates and then into their gaping mouths, pretty much simultaneously.
Sometimes with the same fork. Revolting.

As Dad passes the steaming pan to me, while still keeping an eye on the human garbage disposals, I have to admit: his lasagna looks amazing. Layers of pasta and slices of eggplant, chopped peppers, ground beef, tomato sauce, spices, and—of course—cheese. I would so love to slice off a piece as big as my plate and dive in. Instead, I force myself to focus on Katie and her discipline. Katie and her ambition to succeed. Katie and her fruit and tea and her perfect grades and her perfect track team medals. I can do that too, can't I? I can be the Frankie who's determined and centered and healthy, not the Frankie who's driven by immediate gratification, no matter how much that gratification is smothered in melted cheese. I can be the Frankie who people like Katie and Tristan actually take seriously.

Yep. That's what I'm talking about. I can see it now. Dream it, be it.

Taking just a sliver of lasagna, I reach for the
spinach salad and pile my plate high with pine-nut sprinkled dark leafy greens—the healthiest kind, according to a nutrition book someone left on the bench in the locker room this afternoon. Spinach makes you strong, right? That's what Popeye says, anyway, and with some of my dad's homemade dressing, it's actually quite tasty.

Now that they've nearly finished with stuffing their faces, The Goons are taking turns imitating a supposedly certifiable chemistry teacher they both had, and Nicky is literally spitting out his food with hysterics. But do I throw a fit and tell them off? Do I roll my eyes and sigh at their stupidity? No, not this Frankie. Instead I'm determined to maintain my composure. Even my parents are laughing—but not me. I keep my head down and focus on my breathing until the Joey and Leo comedy routine ends.

*  *  *

With dinner finally over, the boys disappear as usual. Apparently, my Nonna had dropped off some
amaretti cookies earlier today, and my brothers each grab a fistful before they take off.

Since Dad cooks, Mom's on cleanup. I start to help her clear the table, but she kisses my nose and waves me upstairs. “Go take a shower and get ready for school tomorrow. You need sleep, Francesca, you look wiped out.”

Great. Even my mom thinks I look like crap. I follow her instructions, though. Once I'm clean and refreshed, I will be ready to take on my humanities homework—and maybe some extra credit math problems to get my grade up a bit more. After that, who knows? I might even memorize a few global capitals so I have a shot at making the Model UN in a couple of years, like Katie.

Yes, I'm so totally going to do all of that—right after I spread out on my soft, warm, strawberry-covered comforter for a minute or two. Just a minute . . . or two . . .

I know it's scientifically impossible and all that, but I could swear that time literally slows down at the end of eighth period, so that the last ten minutes actually take at least twenty. Even though humanities is one of my favorite classes, by the end of the period—which is also the end of the school day—I usually find myself watching those last endless minutes tick down until the bell rings.

Not today though. For the first time all year—-
maybe ever—I wish those clock hands would move even slower. After school Nana's taking me shopping for a dress, and I'm dreading it even more than our tour of possible party spaces or our visit to the letterpress studio. Don't get me wrong, I like going shopping (not as much as Frankie, but she's obsessed), I just can't imagine a dress existing in this universe that Nana Silver and I will agree on. The only good thing about this shopping trip is that Frankie and Lillian are coming along for moral support—and they've promised to come to my rescue if Nana tries to make me look like the newest Disney princess (even though a half-Jewish, half–African American princess would be pretty cool).

When the bell
finally
rings, I take my time organizing my notebook and pause to redo my ponytail a few times while looking at my reflection in the window. I'm the last one out of the room, and when I get to my locker, Frankie and Lillian are already there waiting.

“What took you so long?” Frankie asks. “I could have run around the track three times by now.” Frankie's skipping preseason track for this afternoon's adventure, and this is at least the fifth time she's brought it up since lunch. She actually jogged up and down the stairs between classes to make up for missing the workout.

“I'm not exactly in a hurry to see myself in all those poofy, frilly dresses that Nana picks out,” I say. “Even
I
think running around the track sounds like the better option.”

“Come on, Liza, it'll be fun,” Lillian says. “If we were shopping with my grandmother, you'd end up with one of those old-fashioned high-necked Chinese dresses that practically choke you to death.”

I grab my backpack and jacket and slam my locker shut. “I have a feeling I'd rather wear one of those than anything Nana's got in mind.”

“Where are we going, anyway?” Frankie asks as we head toward the main stairway.

“I have no idea,” I say, “I was afraid to ask. Probably wherever Cinderella would shop if she lived in New York.”

Outside, Nana is waiting for us in a taxi, right in front of school just like last time. As soon as she sees us, she makes the driver honk the horn, even though it's the only taxi on the block and we're already walking directly toward it. When the three of us reach the cab, Nana gets out and gives me a quick hug and kiss. Frankie leans in to hug her next, but Nana takes Frankie's face in her hands instead.

“Francesca,” she says, beaming at Frankie as if she'd just earned a scholarship to Harvard. “Look at you!” Nana lets go of Frankie's cheeks and steps back a little, giving us all more space to admire her. “So tall! And that gorgeous Mediterranean skin.”

Instead of turning as red as my grandmother's lipstick, Frankie just smiles. She's used to Nana and is great at talking to adults, period. “Hi, Mrs. Silver. It's so nice to see you. I hope you don't mind us tagging along.”

Nana waves Frankie's politeness away like it's a pesky fly. “Please, Francesca, call me Adele. I've known you since you were this high.” She reaches her hand down to just above her knee, which is an exaggeration, but I'm not about to call her on it.

“And who is this lovely young lady?” Nana asks, turning to Lillian.

“This is Lillian, Nana,” I say, putting my arm around Lillian's shoulders. “She moved here from San Francisco in September—but Frankie and I have no idea how we ever survived without her.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Silver,” Lillian says, holding her hand out in this very stiff and formal way.

Instead of shaking, Nana pulls Lillian in for a hug and an air-kiss. “It's Adele to you, too, sweetheart. Look at that glossy hair and delicate bone structure. Fabulous! My goodness. Well, welcome to the East Coast.”

Lillian's family doesn't do a lot of hugging, and the way she talks about her other relatives, I get the
feeling they don't either. From the look on Lillian's face right now, I'm guessing she's never met anyone like Nana Silver before.

“So, girls, now that we're all old friends, how about we get this show on the road and do some shopping?” Nana says, ushering the three of us into the back of the taxi and settling herself into the passenger's seat.

“To Bloomingdale's!” she tells the driver a little too loudly, and then gives him specific instructions about what bridge to take and which avenues will have the least amount of traffic at this hour. I'm sure my grandmother isn't the first micromanaging passenger the guy has ever had to deal with, but I can't help feeling a little sorry for him anyway.

“She's like a real New Yorker!” Lillian whispers into my ear excitedly as the taxi finally pulls away from school.

That's one way of putting it
, I think, as Nana compares our taxi driver's GPS directions with the
ones on her phone. (When did she learn how to use the map app, anyway?)

*  *  *

When I was younger, I used to love going to Bloomingdale's. My mom hates department stores in general, so we'd only go around the holidays or before special occasions, like my cousin Emma's wedding or Cole's baby naming, which made the place feel sort of magical. Bloomingdale's is always crowded with tourists, and just passing by the perfume section can give you an instant headache, but making the trip into Manhattan to try on pretty clothes once or twice a year was something I looked forward to anyway.

Until now, that is. Even though it's barely March, all of the “nice” dresses in the juniors department have been moved into a special area called Prom Night. When we got off the escalator and Nana brought us here, Frankie, Lillian, and I all looked at each other and I knew we were thinking the same thing.

“No way, Nana, I am
not
getting a prom dress!” I
practically shouted. But the next thing I know, here I am, in a flowery-smelling, peach-colored dressing room, trying on floor-length gowns that are supposed to be worn by actual teenagers to the fanciest event of the year.

Apparently, my grandmother trusts a professional opinion over ours. She's booked a personal shopper to help us find a dress—and not even the same one who's doing the goodie bags. Nicole, our “PS,” as she calls herself, keeps telling me how adorable I am and how “delicious” I'm going to look at the party. She could be right—every dress she brings in makes me look like I'm wearing a wedding cake, or the toppings on an ice cream sundae.

Not surprisingly, the poofiest and laciest dresses Nicole shows us are the ones Nana likes best. The more I look like I'm an overgrown four-year-old on my way to a ballet recital, the happier she is. If Frankie and Lillian thought I exaggerated about Nana's taste in party dresses before, I can tell that they're getting the picture now.

While Nana zips me into a shiny tube of lavender satin with a giant cloudlike tutu at the bottom, Frankie whispers something in Nicole's ear and the two of them leave the dressing room together. When they come back, Nicole is carrying a dark-blue dress that's simple, pretty, and entirely poof-less. It's the kind of dress my mom used to wear to magazine parties, when she still went out and did glamorous things like that. It's perfect—and of course Nana hates it.