Mafia Girl Page 7

  I don’t know where things are going to end up so I pull my hand away and lean against him and he feels warm and solid. I run the tip of my shoe up and down his calf and then wait, but he still doesn’t do anything except open his clenched fist and press his opened hand against the tabletop. And I watch and wonder what that hand would feel like…if it were touching me.

  He licks his lips. “You don’t even know me,” he says finally.

  “What do I need to know?”

  He squints and looks at me to see if I’m serious, and then his face softens and he smiles his smirky cop smile. “I never met anyone like you.”

  I give him back a smirky smile.

  Out of nowhere, because I can’t think of something to say, and even though this place looks more Chinese than Italian, I tell him about Simone Martini. And he looks at me and listens and smiles and says, “yeah, I read about him.”

  “Have you been to Italy?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  “Do you want to go?”

  “Yeah, maybe, who knows?”

  Then I go on about Petrarch who he says he remembers from school, even though I don’t believe him. “He was infatuated with a girl named Laura from the first moment he saw her in church,” I say. “But she was married and never got involved with him, but still he wrote poems to her and was obsessed with her.”

  He nods, smiling.

  Then I’m thinking that he is probably thinking that I’m trying to send him a subliminal message about crushes and lust and unfulfilled hookups and maybe like he should make a move or else. So I just stop. Mid-sentence. And look him in the eyes, and I start to ache inside.

  It feels like we are on top of Mt. Vesuvius with smoke and molten lava erupting around us. I slide my fingers around his forearm again, squeezing it slightly. The touch has this visceral effect on both of us. He swallows and, God, it’s just his arm. All I can think of is that I want him to kiss me.

  “Can we go?” I say softly.

  “Yeah, I’ll take you home.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Michael.”

  “I know.” His eyes don’t leave mine.

  I want you to kiss me. But he doesn’t. He looks away abruptly then reaches for his wallet and pays the check.

  We go outside and walk past small boutiques with handmade peasant dresses and clowny platform heels, a cigar store with a wooden Indian outside, and then a sexy underwear boutique with panties without crotches and I start to laugh and can’t stop and he starts to laugh too, but not as much, and I bump against him and hook my arm through his, which feels like the most natural thing to do.

  And then the only thing I’m feeling aside from bone-crushing lust is a growing sadness because the end of the night is getting closer and I look up at the sky and ask for help because I want to just stop time and make this night go on forever.

  FOURTEEN

  We’re nowhere near where he lives, even though he doesn’t know that I know where he lives, and no, he is not coming back to my house in Little Italy for a Limoncello. And no, he is not even setting foot on the street because the rows of brownstones have eyes and ears.

  There is a limit to how many blocks you can walk, especially in my shoes. And anyway, Michael is probably horny and feeling guilty and conflicted in his cop role, but more than that, scared shitless because I’m seventeen, not to mention the don’s daughter. So, as usual, is the deck stacked here? He wants to put me in a cab then head to a bar to get wasted I guess, not that he says any of that.

  “It’s late. You have to go home, Gia,” he says. “You have school tomorrow, right?”

  “Shut up, Michael,” I whisper, staring at his beautiful face.

  We pass the dark entrance to a low, seedy apartment building and no one is around, so I go over and try the door. It’s stuck at first but then it opens, and he stands there watching me, not sure what I’m doing. I grab his arm and pull him in after me and then lean into him and press my lips against his and start kissing him. He tries to turn away at first, but not really. Then he can’t not respond because he’s so into me too. And for the first time, he kisses me back hard and then harder and rakes his hands through my hair and pulls me against him and everything around us dissolves and our tongues are deep in each other’s mouths. And I don’t even have words to say how that feels because suddenly every cell in my body is exploding with longing and I’m so overcome that I can barely stand. We’re in each other’s clothes and his skin is so hot, his shoulders and back so hard and strong and he smells like lemony soap. And he’s inside my bra and touching me lightly and I can’t bear it. We’re maybe twenty seconds from the point of tearing each other apart and getting down on the floor, until, that is, an old guy with white whiskers and a cane comes tap, tap, tapping his way down the stairs to go out and sees us in heat and waves the cane around wildly in the air and yells in a loud, crazy voice like a psycho.

  “If you don’t get the fuck out of here right now, I’m going to call the cops!”

  We catch our ragged breaths and start to laugh so hard I double over, a victim of pain and sexual wreckage. All Michael does is stop and close his eyes and mutter “shit” and wait and breathe heavy, and finally he looks at me and whispers, “let’s go.” He takes my hand and we push through the door and he slips an arm around my waist and we walk fast down the street like we’re in a hurry to go someplace. Only we’re not going anywhere. When we get a few blocks away he stops and holds me against him for a few seconds and then he shakes his head and kisses me again before he turns away and finds me a cab, and without a word everything that started is over.

  And I’m not sure what happened. Or didn’t.

  What I do know is that I’m back in a taxi going to Little Italy. The night is over. It’s past the time I promised my mom I’d get home.

  But my head isn’t with me. It’s still with Michael, replaying the kiss and the feel of him against me. But more than that, everything I imagined to be true might even be, though no actual words confirmed that.

  He didn’t ask me out. Or say he’d call. Or give me his number.

  Still.

  FIFTEEN

  When I wake up the next morning with only Michael on my mind, I know something is different. I get anxious because there is something to worry about. But for about fifteen seconds I can’t remember exactly what, which reminds me of when my grandma had cancer and she said that in her sleep she forgot all about having cancer and she’d wake up feeling fine but then when she remembered again, she felt like she was slammed on the head with a brick as the misery flooded back.

  I’m being a drama queen, I know, but that’s a little bit how I feel with the debate just hours away. So I skip breakfast because I have no appetite, and after a shower, I stare into my closet, deciding my move with the clothes and the subliminal message and all. And it’s either super slut to stick it to them or Miss Conservative to play their game, not that I have too many things in the second category.

  I end up somewhere in between, a pencil skirt and flat suede boots and a white cashmere cardigan, which I’m sure no one will realize would cost $800 in the store, but not to Dante, which is fine, because—really—screw what Christy and Georgina and everyone else knows about me or not because I love to beat them at their designer games.

  When we go into the auditorium first period, I’m a zombie staring into space. They make the announcements about upcoming events like the canned food drive for Thanksgiving when we’re supposed to help the hungry by bringing in real food like chicken noodle soup that you can eat from the can hot or cold or say tuna or salmon or sardines. But instead a lot of people cop out and empty their pantries of the stuff they wonder why they ever bought in the first place, like enchilada sauce or meat gravy or what have you, and that is cheap and uncharitable.

  Then Mr. Wright steps up to the stage. “As you know, the election is in less than two weeks, and today is our presidential debate, so now I’d like to have the candidates please take their sea
ts onstage.”

  My heart tries to kick open my chest and escape. Never mind that Clive has prepped me to death, right now I can’t remember a single question he asked me, not to mention the answers I’m supposed to give.

  After a round of applause, everyone turns to look at us. I walk up the aisle toward the stage, then—whomp—out of nowhere, a backpack slides into the aisle, and my toe catches on a shoulder strap. I hear a laugh. I manage to steady myself and then stop and stare down the aisle briefly. Every pair of eyes is staring forward.

  Without exhaling, I keep going, aware that my head is now starting to throb. I take a seat in front of one of the three microphones and immediately pull the bottle of Voss water closer, even though the shape annoys me because it looks like shampoo.

  “A committee of three teachers has gone through the two hundred questions that students have submitted,” Mr. Wright says, “and picked out the ten that best reflect the myriad issues facing our student body.” He clears his throat. “They will be asking the candidates these questions, and the candidates will each have a maximum of two minutes for each response.”

  I look over at Jordan Hassel, who is wearing a navy blazer and a blue oxford shirt with a tie with little squiggly things on it like snakes or snails or something, and he looks so psyched that I think he’s on uppers. Brandy Tewl is licking her thin lips again and again and sliding her ring back and forth over her knuckle like an idiot.

  Mrs. Collins, one of the English teachers, steps up to the mike that they’ve set up to the side of the stage, and after tapping and tapping and tapping it to test whether it’s working, which it obviously is, she says, “Can everyone hear me? Can everyone hear me?” And after just a few kids bother to lazily answer yeeees, Mrs. Collins puts on her reading glasses and says, “What will you bring to the job of president of the Morgan School?

  We all look at each other waiting and then Mrs. Collins realizes she was supposed to say who was to go first and finally she says, “Brandy, why don’t you start?”

  “I would bring energy and vision and a strong interest in making our school even greater than it is,” Brandy says.

  Lame, but everyone applauds. Then Mrs. Collins points to Jordan.

  “I’ve led the basketball team for two seasons and have a proven leadership record in tennis and ice hockey too,” he says. “So I know about leadership qualities and hard work and bringing a winning spirit to getting an important job done.”

  Applause by his jock entourage for another meaningless answer. I look out at the audience, and Clive is sitting in the front row looking as if he is about to stand up and help me form the words when it’s my turn to answer. His eyes are positively moist because he’s hanging on every syllable of every answer. And we went over this question, we did, I now remember, but that doesn’t mean I plan to answer it the way we rehearsed it, which I know will make him nuts, but I don’t care.

  “Gia?” Mrs. Collins says.

  I sit there for a moment and then clear my throat and look out at the audience.

  “I’ve never been the president of anything. I don’t play on a team like Jordan or run track or whatever…” I stop and wait. I can feel the level of tension in the room rising because everyone is wondering if I am going to go on or fade away like a loser. I clear my throat again and pull the mike closer.

  “But I don’t think that should stop me because I think what you need most to lead a school like Morgan is toughness and a belief in yourself so that you can accomplish whatever you commit to. And if nothing else, people who know me know that when there’s something I believe in, I am single-minded and don’t get sidetracked and I don’t give up—at least not without a fight. So if you elect me president and put your trust in me and hope to see real change in this school, I will be your voice and your advocate and I will help empower the student body.”

  Applause breaks out and Clive and Ro and Candy look ready to jump to their feet.

  They move on to more questions about experience and goals and whatever, and if you ask me afterward what they were I don’t think I could remember one of them. All I know is I hear applause after I speak and I manage to get through it, and as it all goes down, I’m aware of time slipping by because I become fixated on the black metal hands of the clock making tiny, skittish leaps as they edge closer and closer to 9:50 when it would all be over and I can resume breathing.

  “Our time has run out,” I hear Mrs. Collins say finally. “So I’d like to thank all the candidates for their answers and wish them good luck.”

  My heart slows as kids are getting out of their seats and talking and slinging backpacks over their shoulders. But then from the back of the auditorium, someone yells out a question.

  “I’d really like to know how Gia can sit in front of us and run for president of our school when we all know that her dad is a crime boss and a murderer, which I think is disgusting. Who does she think she is running for president of this school or anything else?”

  Silence spreads through the room and all motion abruptly stops as if an evil magician sprayed paralyzing gas into the auditorium. The teachers jump to their feet embarrassed, abruptly motioning to the kids to get going because first period is over, but Mr. Wright makes a megaphone with his hands:

  “The debate is over,” he shouts. “That was inappropriate and out of line.” He turns to the boy in the back, pointing an accusatory finger. “You see me in my office right now, young man.”

  But everyone is dumbstruck, and no one moves.

  I sit there as if I’ve been bludgeoned, waiting to see the blood that’s now roiling in my veins start to flow out of me as every pair of eyes in the audience stares at me.

  The voice. I know the voice, but I can’t place it. Someone I know from a class or—? Whatever. How could I possibly think it wouldn’t come up? How did I dare to run for school president? Did I really think I’d be safe just because the questions were screened ahead of time? The don’s daughter. No one will ever let me forget where I come from or who I am or the stereotype I’m saddled with for life.

  It might as well be tattooed on my forehead. That’s my entire identity. I am toxic. A wave of nausea washes over me, followed by a pressure in my ears, which makes all the murmuring that follows mix into a widening hum of white sound that seems to grow louder and louder, filling my head so full it makes me insane.

  And the entire school is still looking at me.

  Staring.

  Waiting.

  Do I answer?

  Get to my feet and storm out?

  Curse them out?

  Or announce that I changed my mind and am not running for president anymore and am withdrawing, effective immediately?

  What I want to do is race out the door and never come back. I hate these people, I do. And they hate me and blame me, and why did I ever want to come to this stinking, horrible, pretentious school?

  Then I think of my dad and his stoicism, especially when he’s in front of a sea of TV cameras and reporters yelling out embarrassing questions at him. He raises his chin and stands tall and maintains his dignity, staying totally composed no matter what. He never caves. Never.

  I. Can. Do. That. Too.

  Get to your feet, Gia, a voice in my head screams. I look out and see Clive. He’s about to cry. I give him the slightest nod.

  I will not crumble.

  They will not intimidate me.

  My family does not do that.

  No matter what.

  “I don’t know who asked the question,” I say, drumming my fingers as I look around the auditorium and manage to get my quivering body on my feet, going for a cool, practiced calm.

  “Because whoever asked the question obviously didn’t have the balls to come forward and walk up to the microphone and identify himself first or follow the protocol and submit his question ahead of time. But never mind protocol right now, that’s not what’s important. There’s something I’d like to say to that, something I’d like to tell every one of you.
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  “If you don’t think I should be president, then don’t vote for me. Vote for Jordan or vote for Brandy because you know who you’ll be getting. If you’re afraid of me and my family and who you think I am and what you imagine I represent and could bring to this school, then don’t vote for me, steer clear of me, and vote for Jordan or Brandy.

  “But if you think for yourself and give people the benefit of the doubt, then maybe you should consider voting for someone who might bring some fresh thinking and real change to this school. But what’s more important is to follow your heart and do what you think is right because that’s the way I live and that’s exactly why I’m running for president.”

  Clive stands up and starts clapping loudly. A moment later Ro joins him, then so does Candy, and then other kids join in from different parts of the auditorium and there’s almost a hard, deliberate rhythm going. I push back my chair, nearly knocking it over, and walk down the steps from the stage and stride up the aisle.

  What I don’t do is run, even though what I want more than anything else right then is to be free of this school and everyone in it and back in Dante’s car. Only this time I’d be driving it, flooring the gas, and flying up the Henry Hudson as fast as a 911 Porsche could carry me.

  SIXTEEN

  Clive finds me after the assembly and throws his arms around me. “Oh my God, Gia, that was a grand slam, a fucking grand slam.”

  I don’t remember ever hearing him curse before, so this is progress. “I wanted to wring his neck.”

  “Wentworth is a pig,” he says. “I hope he gets expelled.”

  “Expelled? They’ll probably add his name to the top of the slate.”

  I try to leave before lunch, but Clive heads me off at the door and won’t let go of my hand.

  “You can’t leave, Gia, you can’t,” he says, “because then they win. You have to stand up to them and not cave. You know that. ”