The Icing on the Cake (18 page)

“They treating you good out there in Hollywood?” Tony D. asks when he brings us our drinks.
“Going to the beach every day and all that?”

Dad laughs. “Not quite, but I'm doing okay.” He looks at me. “I miss having pizza dates with my little girl, though.”

I smile, but I can feel myself blushing. My dad has gotten really mushy since the divorce. “I think he just misses the pizza,” I tell Tony D. “We had some when I was in LA, and it's nowhere near as good as yours.”

“So true,” Dad says. “They don't know how to make pizza on the West Coast. I like avocado as much as the next guy, but I don't want it on my pizza.” He squeezes a slice of lemon into his iced tea and looks up at Tony D. “If you guys ever want to open a Nino's II in LA, you've got a built-in loyal customer.”

Tony D. grins. “I'll mention it to the boss. And I'll go check on your order before you forget what it's like to eat a real New York slice.” He scoops our straw wrappers off the table. “Avocados,” he mutters, shaking his head as he turns toward the kitchen.

“So tell me,” my dad half yells over the roar of the
soccer fans on TV and in the restaurant (the Italian team must have just scored a goal), “I want to hear all about your crazy Nana.”

I roll my eyes. “She's completely lost it, Dad.”

I tell him about how she hired a car to take us all over the city to check out “venues,” how she bossed around the really nice personal shopper at Bloomingdale's, and how she rejected the only truly pretty dress I tried on.

“And she hired some old-school caterer even though Chef Antonio—he's our cooking teacher—recommended a friend of his who does really fun, tasty party food, which is what I told Nana I wanted.” I'm the one yelling now, even though the soccer fans have settled down. I take a long sip of my Coke. “And you've seen the invitations and the dress.”

My dad runs his hand through his hair like he always does when he's frustrated. He has really thick hair that's just starting to get a little gray. Every time I see him, there are a few more gray hairs. He says he
finally feels like a grown-up, because he's always had a boyish face.

“I should have known better than to trust my mother to keep her bossy streak in check. It's like asking her to suppress her entire personality.” He sighs. “But I'm here now and I'm going to try to fix things. I'll call Nana tonight and insist that she meet me first thing tomorrow to go over all of the details. Maybe we can even exchange that dress.”

With Dad clearly feeling guilty, I decide this is an opportunity to put the next phase of my brilliant plan into action.

“Why don't you come over to the apartment tomorrow and tell Nana to meet you there?” I suggest, in what I hope is a casual way. “We can all have brunch together, like in the old days.”

My dad scrunches up his eyebrows. “You mean with your mom there too? She's been pretty clear about staying out of the party planning—remember? I don't think she'll want to be involved.”

“She's making the desserts,” I remind him. “Really good stuff, the stuff I like. And I'm sure she'll want to spend some time catching up with you.”

My dad is about to say something, when Tony D. comes to the table carrying our pizza and salad on a big tray. Like all the waiters at Nino's, he makes a big production of slicing our pizza, and serves us each a giant helping of salad. Dad immediately picks up a slice and takes a bite, his face lighting up like he's just tasted heaven. Tony D. nods his head and pats my dad on the shoulder, satisfied that the memory of Los Angeles pizza has successfully been erased from his taste buds, at least for the moment.

My dad wipes a blob of sauce off his chin and comes back to earth. “Sorry, Lize,” he says, jabbing his fork into the salad, “what were you saying?”

“I said you should come over tomorrow because Mom wants to see you too.”

He does the scrunched-up eyebrow thing again. “She told you that?”

I shrug. “Well, not exactly. But she doesn't have to. Why wouldn't she want to see you? You guys have been talking on the phone a lot, right?”

My dad takes a deep breath and puts down his fork. “I'm glad you asked me to come out here, Liza. Not just so I can help with Nana and the party, but because there's something else I've been wanting to talk to you about.”

Something in my stomach drops, like it does when you're about to go over the hill on a roller coaster. Is my dad actually about to tell me that he and my mom are getting back together? I hope I remembered to bring my phone so I can text Frankie and Lillian under the table the minute it happens.

I try to sound natural, even though I'm so excited I almost feel sick. “Okay, Dad,” I say, hoping I sound like it's no big deal, “what's up?”

“Well, I've gone out on a few dates since your mom and I got divorced, but I never met anyone I
felt like I could be in a relationship with. You know what I mean?”

“Uh-huh.” Oh man, here it comes—the part where he says he's realized that he's still in love with Mom!

“Only now . . .” my dad picks up his pizza and puts it down again without taking a bite. It's kind of cute that he's so nervous to tell me about him and Mom.

“Only now I have met someone. We've been dating for a few months and things are getting serious, so I thought it was time to tell you. And hopefully next time you come out to visit, you can actually meet her in person.”

Um . . .

Now I really feel sick to my stomach. For a second I think I might actually throw up right here at the table, all over our pizza and Caesar salad, and, if I'm lucky, my dad. Instead, out of nowhere, I start to cry. I've never been a crier, but I'm really sobbing now—not just a few tears trickling down my cheeks, but big, loud, ugly sobs.

All of a sudden, something happens that happens all the time in movies, but never in real life. Just as I'm starting to cry, all around us everyone in the restaurant jumps out of their seats, screaming and cheering. The Italian team scored a goal. Luckily, everyone is so busy being excited that nobody notices the weird almost-teenage girl hunched over her barely eaten pizza, bawling like a baby.

My dad jumps up and comes over to my side of the table. He tries to slide in next to me in the booth, but I don't let him. He tries to hug me, but I push him away.

“Liza, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you'd be so upset. I should have known this wasn't a good time to tell you, with all the stress about Nana and the party.”

I wipe my eyes on a napkin and try to pull myself together. “It's not that,” I say, unwilling to look my dad in the eye. “I'm not crying about the party.”

Dad tries again to squeeze in next to me. “Come on, Lize, let's talk about this.” I scooch over the tiniest
bit, giving him just enough room to get one thigh in the booth. He takes it.

“I'm really sorry, sweetie. I didn't know the idea of me seeing someone would be so difficult for you.”

“But you're supposed to be seeing Mom,” I croak into my napkin.

“What?” Dad tucks my braids and a few curls behind my ear so he can see my face. I bury it deeper in the napkin. “What do you mean, Lize?”

I take a deep breath, but I still don't look at him. “You and Mom have been talking on the phone so much lately—and she's laughing and smiling more than she has in ages. I thought you guys were falling back in love, and that if you came out early and we did things as a family like we used to, you'd get back together.”

My dad takes my hand. I try to pull it away but he holds on. “I'm glad your mom is smiling and laughing more than she has in a while, Liza,” he says. “She deserves to be happy—but I can't take credit for that.”

I peek up from my napkin. He's not saying what I hoped he would, but I want to hear more.

Dad squeezes my hand. “I want you to know that I do still love your mom, and I imagine that I always will. But I'm not
in
love with her anymore. I think that part is over. And I'm pretty confident she feels the same way.”

I try not to let the tears that leap into my eyes roll down my face anymore. It's easier if I cover them back up with the napkin. “Does Mom know? About your relationship, I mean?”

My dad nods. “She does, Lize. I told her about a month ago.”

Somehow I still can't put the pieces together. If my mom knew he was seeing someone, why did she act all smiley and cheerful when they talked on the phone?

“Do you think there's even a tiny possibility that you'll ever fall back in love with each other?” I ask. For some reason, I just need to know.

My dad shrugs. “There's always a possibility, Liza
Lou. ‘Ever' is a long time, and who knows what will happen? But I don't want you to think that if you just try hard enough, we'll magically be a perfect family again. For one thing, we were never a perfect family. We might have looked like one on the outside, and tried to act like one for a little while after Cole was born, but your mom and I knew things were far from perfect on the inside.”

Neither of us says anything for a while after that.

Finally, I pull my hand away. “So are things
perfect
with this person you're talking about?” I ask. “Are you in love?” I'm already dreading his answer.

“Her name is Helen. And no, it's not perfect. I wouldn't say we're in love—not yet anyway. But I would like you to meet her.” My dad smiles, looking hopeful. “What do you think?”

I close my eyes. “I don't know,” I say. “I don't really want to think about it right now. Ten minutes ago I thought we were going to have a totally different conversation.”

“That's fair,” Dad says. “Ten minutes ago I thought you asked me to come out early because Nana's been driving you crazy and making a mess of the party. Not because you thought you could kick-start a romance between me and your mom.”

Even though I still feel awful, for some reason I chuckle a little. “Well, Nana
is
driving me crazy.”

“Well, then, as long as I'm here, why don't you let her drive me crazy instead?”

I smile, in spite of everything, and finally look my dad in the eye. He pulls my head into his shoulder for an awkward side-by-side hug. I move over a little more so he can put both of his legs on the seat.

Tony D. comes to the table, and without saying a word he boxes up our barely-eaten pizza and pours our salad into a take-out container. He leaves the check and gives my dad a quick nod, which is his way of saying good-bye without disturbing our father-daughter moment. Unlike Nana Silver, I'm sure my dad is going to leave him a big tip.

I had a bad feeling when I woke up this morning. Really bad. It didn't help that one Goon was bellowing at the other Goon about a missing sneaker, but that was just the beginning.

The track tryouts on Monday are a bit of a blur, but once the relief of finishing them evaporated, the worry settled in to stay. I wasn't the worst one out there, but I definitely wasn't the best, either. For some reason, I couldn't summon any energy, any “pep,” as
my mom would say. I tried really hard, pushed as much as I could, even though it felt like I was running through quicksand. It wasn't even remotely fun. I think I did my best, though, and maybe that will be enough. I mean, it
usually
is.

The results are being posted right now—so I'm on my way to check out the bulletin board outside the gym before meeting Liza and Lillian for lunch. Then I can let them know the good news (I hope) while we're eating. Maybe they'll stop giving those looks to each other when I mention track. They think I don't notice, but I do. Liza's just longing for the old days when I hung out with her every day and complained about homework and goofed around. To be honest, I kind of miss those days too, but if Katie can push herself, I can too.

The list is already up. I can't see it yet, but the crowd of other would-be track stars is a dead giveaway. Positive thinking, right? Dream it, be it, and all that.

Monica Langley is pumping her fist in the air. “YES!”

Guess she made it. But so what? She was really impressive at the tryouts, but just because she breezed past me a few times doesn't mean I didn't make it too.

“Good luck, Frankie.” Monica smiles (or is that a smirk?) as she turns around. Forget positive thinking. I've hated Monica Langley since she locked me in a bathroom stall in kindergarten, and there's no question that was a smirk.

Luckily, I just have to get to the top of the
C
s for Caputo, so this shouldn't take long. Okay, so Bacon, Beunosante, Bosolet, Carter, Cassina . . . Wait. Must have missed it.

Or not.

My ears are ringing with all the noise from the crowded hallway. Maybe it's under
F
for Francesca? But no.