“You and Mamma are her accomplices. You never tell her no; she wins every battle.”
“Okay, maybe so.”
“Well then, please don’t fuel her emancipation any further. So who is this little Casanova?” I ask, nodding toward the boy with Linda.
“Tommaso Ghirardi.”
“Oh, he’s one of the boys who came to our house.”
“Cute, huh? Seems like a heartthrob.”
“People who know they’re beautiful always leave a trail of destruction behind them.” I know this firsthand, because someone like that screwed me over too. “I have to go over there.”
“Come on, let her have a little fun tonight. Linda’s always hunched over her books. Don’t interfere now that she’s acting like a thirteen-year-old for once, or she’ll forever be known as the girl who got scolded by her mother at a party. Her social life is already tumbleweeds; she doesn’t need to be officially branded as a loser.”
I point my finger at her threateningly. “If anything happens, it’s on you, just so you know.”
“Good evening, ladies,” Michael greets us, gliding up to the counter with an annoyingly jovial smile. “Might I trouble you for a glass of wine?”
“I’m doing the nonalcoholic drinks,” explains my sister. “Elisa’s doing the wines and spirits.”
“Tell Michael he has to get a receipt from the register first,” I tell Giada, even though he can hear me very well. We haven’t spoken since the morning I caught him with his two fuck buddies.
“Brilliant,” he replies triumphantly. “Giada, could you tell Elisa I already have a receipt?” And for emphasis he waves the small piece of paper in the air. “A glass of Vernaccia, please.”
“Giada,” I call to her again. “Tell Michael we’re out of Vernaccia.”
She looks at me, confused. “But ... but you’re two meters away from him.”
He cuts me off. “Giada, tell Elisa I’m fine with any white she has left. I trust her taste.”
“Giada, tell him he shouldn’t trust me, and he’s lucky if he gets a glass of dish soap.”
“Oh, guys, cool it! I don’t know what I ended up in the middle of, but I want no part of it. Sort it out for yourselves,” Giada blurts out, moving out of our line of fire.
“Not serving me wine won’t make me go away. I could stand here all night,” he exclaims, crossing his arms resolutely.
I rudely fill a plastic cup with hot, flatpignoletto, which has been open since six, and slam it down in front of him. “Here.”
Instead of telling me it’s disgusting, he sips it as if it were nectar from the gods. “Delicious,” he says defiantly.
We stare at each other in silence as Pompilia, dressed in a purple leopard-print Lycra dress, takes the stage for her performance.
“I’m singing ‘Kobra,’ by Donatella Rettore. Michael? Is Michael here? Does anyone know where Michael is?”
With feline reflexes, he leaps over the counter and crouches under it. “Michael? I saw you earlier. Where are you?”
The opportunity is too good to pass up, so I stick my fingers in my mouth and let out a whistle that silences the square. “He’s here, Pompilia,” I shout. Michael has no escape and is forced to reveal himself as he throws me a vindictive look. But for now, we are one-nil.
“Michael, I dedicate this song to you!” She struts over to the counter like a femme fatale, stands on it, and starts singing, imitating the singer’s moves in one of history’s cringiest performances.
She seizes Michael by his shirt collar and rubs herself against him as if he were a stripper’s pole. Stiff with embarrassment, he mouths to me: “You’ll pay for this.”
“Thank you, Belvedere!” Pompilia shouts when the song ends, like a consummate pop star. The audience applauds more out of duty than pleasure, and Michael, more relaxed now, puts his mouth close to my ear.
“I hope you had your fun, because now I’m going to have mine.”
“Next up,” announces Vanni, in his black sequin jacket, “is our English friend, Michael D’Arcy, singing ‘Fiumi di Parole,’ by Jalisse!”
