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Conor
THE biggest challenge of your life then, lol
Nate
Anyway, this whole thing wasn’t easy to arrange, dork. You better return the favor
Me
Whenever you two are ready to commit, I’ll be there rolling down the carpet
Conor
K, put it on your calendar
See ya tomorrow where I’ll crush you in the skills
Nate
No, I’ll crush both of you
Me
In your dreams. Buh bye
LUZ
Sitting crammed between my mom and Max’s mom wasn’t in my bingo card for today. I lean as far back as the seat allows, but there’s no avoiding the flying hands of an animated Venezuelan matriarch on one side or the Italian matriarch on the other. The first time I realized people in both cultures speak with their full bodies was funny—until one of Max’s little nieces caught me in the chin. That’s what I’m trying to prevent here.
“Whew,” I whisper once I evade my own mother’s paw.
“And that’s why we put butter on it,” she finishes with a harrumph and an upward tilt of her nose.
“I’m telling you,” Mrs. Cassiano says while throwing her hands in the air, “olive oil is so much better.”
From the front seats, Dad and Mr. Cassiano exchange what sound more like grunts than conversation. Mr. Cassiano drives all of us in one of the restaurant’s vans toward Madison Square Garden, where this year’s All-Star Game is being held. And let me tell you, an elderly Italian man with some eyesight issues driving through the streets of the Big Apple is shaving off years off my life.
As if on cue, we get jostled to the side when he swerves to avoid a taxi. I’m trying to recall how our parents hijacked Max’s and my plan of treating today as a date night, but I can’t. I only found out this morning when Mrs. Cassiano called and said, “We’re on our way to pick you up for the game.” And hung up.
Of course, my callbacks went ignored. So there goes my date with Max.
When we finally make it to a parking spot unscathed—except for the allegedly accidental smacks I got, and the weird ringing in my ear after someone blew their horn at us—I almost drop to my knees to kiss the ground.
It’s still early enough that we don’t have to wrestle throngs of people for the right to take space, so at least there’s that. The Cassianos are as familiar with the layout as I am. We kinda compete over who has seen more of Max’s games live, so they lead the way.
Side note: I’m winning. And that’s even excluding the college games they missed. They just can’t compete with a girlfriend who lives in the same city as their son when they live the next state over.
“Anyone want anything from concessions?” I ask once we’ve cleared the ticket check.
“Oh, we’ll help you.” My mom nudges the other woman. “Won’t we, Alessandra?”
“Yes, of course.” She clears her throat. “It’ll all be too much for a single person.”
“Okay, thanks.” I narrow my eyes slightly. Why do they both look so sweaty and jittery? Mom keeps wringing her hands, and Mrs. Cassiano has cleared her throat three times since we walked into the building. Turning to the men, I find them to be the complete opposite. A pair of marble statues straight out of a museum.
What in the what?
“I guess you two should go find our seats, then. Want anything from concessions?”
