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Too soon, I find my beat-up pickup truck in the dorm’s parking lot. The fenders are rusty on the edges, and she looks slightly unhinged, like her latest owner. This truck used to be Dad’s, back when he needed to pick up crates of fresh vegetables from local markets. Since he now gets them delivered to the restaurant, the black 1989 Dodge Ram became mine.
The door hinges squeak as I open it. A puff of dust flies up as I dump my sports bag on the passenger seat. The whole frame sags when I climb into the driver’s seat. I close the door, and the bang echoes around the empty cabin.
I lower my forehead to the steering wheel and stay there for a moment. Eighteen minutes. That’s how long it takes to drive home. I need the rest of the half hour for myself.
Tomorrow I’ll be okay. I’ll focus the entire day on the game. Then on Sunday, I’ll study my cheeks off. And when Monday comes, and I see Tinker Bell in class again, I’ll…
Have to figure that out on the fly.
Sighing, I turn on the truck. The radio plays some classic Bon Jovi, and I leave it. I have no willpower to wrangle the stubborn piece of crap that only dials every two stations and only takes cassettes. At least there’s a silver lining. My mom’s food is the best this town has to offer.
I sing along in a deadpan to the part about being halfway there, despite only leaving the parking lot.
This town is fairly small. The only outsiders are the college kids who come from all over the world to get the best education. But once you leave the college area, it’s pretty clear the rest of the town has nothing to show for it. A few businesses, some shops, a street with restaurants smack in the city center. That’s where I head.
Romano’s is my family’s restaurant. It’s the best Italian food in town. Even though my family originally hails from Palermo, but whatever. Americans wouldn’t have recognized the name of our hometown, so Romano’s it was.
Being a Friday night, the place is packed with customers, and I have to park a block away. The weather is starting to cool down at this time of year. The night breeze helps me chill my steaming head just a bit.
I walk into the chaos of the restaurant, ready to face whatever this will turn into. Lily, wife to my second brother, Alessandro, is the first one to spot me. She stops in the middle of taking a table’s order and screams toward the kitchen.
“Alessandra, Massimo is here!”
Half of the customers turn to look at me—the half unused to all the shouting that happens in this place.
Mom barges out of the kitchen, the revolving doors banging against the wall. Her hair’s in a tight bun, always, and covered with a net. The apron tied around her waist is pristine.
Alessandra Cassiano has zero tolerance for imperfection, which is why I’ve always been such a problem.
“Sit down.” Her command is all the greeting I get.
A table for two by the register is already set up with a water pitcher, plates and silverware, and a basket of bread with olive oil and Parmigiano-Reggiano. My grumbling stomach will not say no to that, so I sit down.
“Your father’s out doing a delivery,” she says, hovering by the table. There’s a crease between her eyebrows as she looks down at me. “You’re in the bone, ragazzo. Are you skipping your meals?”
I mumble. “Pretty sure I’ve been eating more than usual.”
But also working out like a machine.
“Alessandro,” Mom calls out to my second brother, who must be in the kitchen. “Is the lasagna ready?”
“Almost!” he shouts back.
Mom turns around and heads back in, grumbling in colorful Italian.
I don’t even know why they bother putting on music in the background. Between a staff where every person has megaphones for lungs and loud chatter from the customers, it’s impossible to relax in this place.
“You really do look scrawny,” Lily says while she walks by. Also her form of greeting.
My family’s love language is food. And thinly veiled insults.
I tear a chunk of bread, dip it in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and sprinkle it with cheese. It tastes like a little piece of heaven in the middle of this hell day.
The banging doors tell me Mom’s coming back out. A moment later, a steaming plate of lasagna is set in front of me. She always makes me the same, thinking it’s my favorite. In fact, it’s Alessio’s, my third brother. I’m a simple spaghetti and meatballs kind of guy.
To my surprise, she sits across from me. I freeze on my way to taking the first bite. Mom looks like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Very unlike her.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
