The Fine Art of Truth or Dare (10 page)

14

THE QUESTION

Chloe's was crowded, even for a Saturday. Sadie and I had to settle for a table near the back. We knew Frankie would complain, but there wasn't much we could do about it.

“Fried cheese,” Sadie said, not even bothering with the menu. “Moussaka, tiramisu, and something with lots and lots of olives.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Today,” she informed me, “I have eaten a cup of miso soup and three sheets of toasted seaweed.” Her mother was back. “She weighed me.”

“Oh, Sades.”

“She actually made me stand on the scale in her bathroom. After she'd been on it.”

Mrs. Winslow has one of those scales you see in doctors' offices, with the slidy metal bars. It gets you right to the ounce. And doesn't go back to zero unless you make it.

“Oh, Sadie,” I said again.

“Guess.”

“No, I wouldn't—”

“Not me, you doof.
Her.
”

I didn't want to do that, either. “Um. One twenty-five . . . ?”

Sadie snorted. “As if.”

It's rare to see her upset like this. When Sadie goes all hard-edged and humorless, it's serious. I never know quite what to say to make anything better, let alone everything. That's her domain.

Thank God Frankie arrived just then, paper bag from the repair counter in hand. He dropped into his chair with a sniff. “You couldn't have gotten a table all the way out in the alley?” He hadn't seen Sadie's face. Momentary blissful ignorance. He pulled a pair of vintage wingtips out of the bag and examined one heel closely. “He's good,” he announced after a minute. “Schizophrenic, but good, our friend Stavros.”

Stavros was, at the moment, somewhere in the recesses of the building, cooking. When at Chloe's, I tend to avoid thinking about the fact that the hands making my souvlaki and
tsatsiki
have spent at least part of the day holding the bottoms of other people's shoes. When neither of us said anything, Frankie looked up. And sighed. “Right.” In the smoothest of moves, he stowed the shoes under the table and folded his hands on top. “Who?”

I tilted my head toward Sadie.

“Guess how much my mother weighs,” she challenged him.

He didn't miss a beat. “Your mother is a cow. A skinny cow, to be sure, but a cow nonetheless.”

That earned him the ghost of a smile. “One-seventeen,” Sadie said sadly. “Soaking wet. I could still see her footprints from when she got out of the shower.”

Frankie looked to me. “Weight check,” I mouthed.

“Ah. Well, shall we send her an anonymous note that Marino here weighs fifteen pounds less than that?”

“Ella is five-one. My mother is five-seven.”

She had us there.

“She told me I look like a potato.”

“That,” Frankie snapped, “might just be unforgivable.”

“It's true.”

“It's not!” We didn't jinx-dibs each other; it wasn't the moment. Beyond the fact that, in her shapeless canvas jacket, Sadie actually did look a little like a potato, we were both hating her mother pretty fiercely just then. Frankie leaned forward and pancaked her hands between his. “Truth or Dare?”

“Frankie—”

“Truth or Dare?” he repeated, a command we knew Sadie would no way disobey.

“Truth.”

“Okay. Who died and made your mother arbiter of anything that has to do with anything?”

“What?” She blinked at him. “What kind of truth is that?”

“An important one.” He tugged until they were nearly nose to nose. “Seriously. Much as it pains me to say it, your mother has pretty crap taste in . . .” He let go of Sadie's hands to tick the items off his fingers, right in front of her face. “Gifts, men, clothing, men, music, men, food, and constructive criticism. All the things that matter. Fiorella?”

“You're perfect,” I told Sadie, and meant it.

She snorted again. Frankie snorted back. “Fine,” he said. “You might never take our word for it. But let's get one thing clear, shall we? Your mother's current stud has badly capped teeth, a weave, and a spray-on tan.”

“He does not!”

“He does. Which tells us everything we need to know about her taste and your eyesight. Hence . . . Fiorella?”

“You're perfect,” I said.

Sadie shook her head, but she was smiling. “You're nuts.”

“Whatever.” Frankie flagged down the original Chloe, Stavros's daughter. She favors black lipstick and spikes, hates waiting tables, and is getting her PhD in infectious diseases. I try not to think about that when she is handing me food. “Order for the table, Miss Winslow.”

“Moussaka,” Sadie said almost immediately. Then, a little sadly, “No. Wait. Chicken kebabs. Falafel. And a Greek salad.” She paused, opened and shut her mouth, then added, “Extra feta.”

“You go, girl.” Chloe signaled her approval with a raised fist, and stomped off toward the kitchen.

Sadie sighed and propped her chin on her hand. Her hair slid forward over her face. Mrs. Winslow's return had precipitated a trip to Alphonse. “So why is it all about food?” she demanded. To me, “Your family is constantly trying to feed you. Mine starves me. Your mother,” to Frankie, “gives every family dinner the importance of Thanksgiving. All about food, food, food.”

“But it's not,” I disagreed, trying not to regret the loss of the moussaka. “Food is just a convenient tool.”

“Convenient tool.” Frankie was eyeing me with barely veiled amusement. “Do tell.”

“Look. The thing about food is that we can't live without it. Right? I mean, barring a life on an IV drip, we have to
eat
.”

“I wish I didn't,” Sadie sighed. “Every day, I wish I could just say no. Admit I am powerless, abstain, and be thin one day at a time.”

I reached over to squeeze her hand. “Oh, Sades. I think you say no way more often than you should anyway. Because your parents tell you to. Because magazines tell you to. Because it's all about love or money.”

“Okay, Fiorella. Have you been drinking?” Frankie demanded.

“Love or money,” I insisted. “Everything is about love or money. Magazines? All about spending money. Shampoo. Cars. Size-two dresses. And Sadie said it: my family, yours . . . I mean, Marino's isn't really about food; it's about money. Right? And Frankie's mom is all about making her kids stay still so she can love them.”

“I'm intrigued.” Frankie folded his arms
à la
Tim Gunn. “I can't wait till you explain how Sadie's Joan Crawford of a mother fits into that tidy little equation.”

“If food is love, I'm screwed,” Sadie agreed.

“Too rich or too thin.” I sighed. “Someone famous said that. You can never be too rich or too thin.”

“The Duchess of Windsor.” Frankie tilted his head thoughtfully. “You might be onto something. The English king gave up the throne to be with her. Skinny bitch. A lot like your mother there, Sadie.”

“So you're saying my mother thinks no one will love me if I'm not skinny?”

“Nope.” He put his hand over mine over hers. “Not really. She can't imagine how anyone would love
her
if she weren't.”

Sadie gave us both affectionate if exasperated glances. “You're insane. Love or money. Nothing's that simple.”

Sure it is.

“So, Fiorella the Wise. Home Truth time.” This is Frankie's variation on Truth or Dare where he gets to ask and answer. Sadie and I have never been quite as enamored of Home Truths as he is. “Ready?”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly. Better to just get it over with.

“So, if it's all love or money, which is Alex Bainbridge?”

I blinked at him. “What?”

“He's a turd, Ella. He looked right through you like you were a ghost, but you still have a thing for him.”

“I do n—”

“Don't even. You've gone through the whole week watching for him. So what is it? I would really like to know. Love or money?”

“I have not been watching for him!” I snapped. Oh, but I had, in every hallway, at lunch, when I took my seat at the edge of English class. “And if I have, it's just so I can look away first.”

Frankie rolled his eyes. “Shall I get you a pail of water?”

“Why?”

“Your pants are on fire.”

I actually looked down at my lap. “Oh, very funny.” I shot Sadie a look when she giggled.

“Listen, Liar Liar, you promised. Enough with Alex Bainbridge.”

Home truths are not meant to be comfortable, I know. Frankie knows it, too, and for a teeny tiny second, I hated him just a teeny tiny bit for knowing just where to stick the pin.

I glared at him. “How did this go from being about Sadie to an assault on my honesty? Huh?”

He shrugged. “I love you, Fiorella. We ain't got no money, honey, but we got love.”

I've never been able to hate Frankie for more than a second at a time.

“Christ. Who died?”

We all jumped a little. Daniel Hobbes was there beside the table, looming over us, and no one had seen him arrive. Sadie promptly went wide-eyed and still. Frankie grinned. “What are you doing here?”

With that same feline grace that awes me in Frankie, Daniel snagged a chair and slid into it, all without looking like he'd moved a muscle. “Ax got busted, and without our guitarist, there is no session. I was on my way home and figured you'd be here. Seemed as good a place to eat as any, although the company might leave something to be desired. You are one sorry-ass-looking trio.”

“Who asked you?” Frankie shot back. “You can take your uninvited and sorrier-ass face and stuff it elsewhere.”

It can be dizzying, this insult-as-affection that Frankie and Daniel fling at each other. In the eight or so times I've been in Daniel's presence, I've heard him say maybe two nice things to his brother. But it never occurred to me for a second that they weren't a fierce, unbreakable, and completely united unit.

People just assume they are identical twins. “It's the eyes,” Frankie says snarkily. Okay, so beyond the fact that he's convinced the non-Asian world thinks one epicanthic fold is just like the next, the differences are more subtle than not. Or would be, if it weren't for ink and accessories. They have the same killer cheekbones and thick, slippery black hair that requires impressive amounts of gel to look Hollywood, the same sculpted mouth. Daniel is taller, but Frankie likes gel, so he adds a good two inches in hair. Frankie looks like he might break your heart a little. Daniel looks like he might rip it from your chest, still beating, and bite it.

“So who do you have to do around here to get a beer?'” The words were still hanging over his head like a cartoon bubble when Chloe appeared. Our food was nowhere to be seen. She actually batted her spider-leg eyelashes at him. “Whatever's local and on tap,” he ordered.

I saw her hesitate, take a step back and then forward again. It was a dance I'd seen waitresses do with Daniel before. To card or not to card; was it worth risking his disapproval? Or, in this case, Stavros's liquor license?

I watched the silent battle in awe. Daniel waited patiently, giving Chloe a half smile that was less a friendly expression than a display of his incisors, which are slightly longer than the teeth on either side. It makes him look even more feline than he already does.

“Oh, go ahead. Card him,” Frankie said wearily. “He doesn't mind.”

“No, no. That's okay. I'll be right back . . .” And she was gone.

Daniel bared more tooth. “Nice, bro.”

“What? You're disgustingly proud of that ID.”

Daniel laughed. “I am,” he agreed. “I totally am.”

He shoved up his sleeves, displaying several thin leather bracelets and the red-and-black tip of a dragon tail just above his right elbow. I've never actually seen the head. It's on Daniel's back, Frankie told us once, between his shoulder blades. “So, my children, what is up?”

“We're trying to figure out how to get a soul-sucking, male lower life-form out of Ella's head,” Frankie explained.

“Kill him,” Daniel said casually. “Unless there's a symbiotic thing going on and Ella would have to die, too. That would be a shame.”

Here's the thing about Daniel. He has always scared me a little. I don't bother going through the scar-hiding motions; I'm convinced he can see right through clothing. Not that he leers. He's not a leerer. He has two facial expressions: cold and amused. He also has a second tattoo, on the inside of his left wrist, that looks exactly like how I would expect a gang mark to look. Frankie has never said a word about that tat. Or much about his brother's friends. Who have names like Ax and spend time in police custody.

Here's another thing about Daniel. He completely fascinates Sadie. She was leaning forward, mouth open a little, watching every move he made.

Chloe was back with his beer in a blink. He accepted it with a slow, wider smile that had her looking a little dazed as she wove away between the tables. He took a long swallow and shook his head. “Man. This place.”

Onstage, a skinny girl in what looked like a real mink jacket was crooning her way through “Hey There Delilah.”

“Nice gate, Ella.”

I looked back at Daniel. He waved toward my lap.

“Oh.” I draw on my jeans when I don't have paper. My bus had gotten stuck behind a trash truck, right in front of a seriously old churchyard. “Thanks.” I wasn't sure how I felt about Daniel staring at my thigh, even if he had recognized the sketch for what it was.

“Here.” Suddenly, he had a booted foot on the rung of my chair, legs spread, one pressed against mine. “Draw something.”

“Oh, please,” Frankie muttered from his other side.

I shook my head. “I don't have a pen.”

Sadie promptly disappeared beneath the table. I could hear the clank of Marc Jacobs chain handles and had a feeling in a second she would be asking, “Blue ink or black?”