Читать книгу The Crepe Makers' Bond - Julie Crabtree - Страница 13

It’s a Mafia Thing

Nicki has a cell phone, but she is only allowed to use it for emergencies. Over the summer, on at least two occasions, M and I have seen Nicki pretend to be doing something, like going to the bathroom, when she is actually using the “emergency” phone. I asked her straight-out once who she was calling, and she snapped and said she was checking on her brother. But why would she sneak away to call her parents about her brother? I’d started to push her on it, but the look in her eyes stopped me. Nicki seems shy and gentle, but she can get crazy angry. It flashes in her eyes and you just know not to cross her. It only happens once in awhile, but lately it usually involves her phone.

This is why I am cautious about asking her to use it now. I form prayer hands and ask Nicki, “Can I use your phone to call my mom really quick? I need to figure out this mess, and you know M and I don’t have cell phones.”

Nicki shakes her head. “Sorry, Air, but this isn’t really an emergency . . .”

M interrupts her, “God, Nicki, it might be. We don’t know if maybe something did happen to Mr. Solomon.”

Nicki shrugs, looking a little apologetic, and says, “Obviously it is just a weird misunderstanding. I would let you call, Ariel, but my parents monitor the minutes. You know how strict they are, they would take it away if they thought I was letting my friends use it.”

I drop my hands and sigh. That phone will only see action if something is on fire or someone is bleeding. She is so responsible, I swear. Then again, it seems like she must have quite a few “emergencies” lately, the way we have seen her talking hurriedly between classes and by the bathroom during study hall.

There is no point arguing with her anymore. She is not going to bend. We decide I will have to ask to use the office phone.

I give Nicki a look and get up. “I guess you guys will have to get to your next class, so see ya.”

“Don’t be mad, Ariel.” Nicki is looking down as she speaks, twirling her hair.

“We could go with you,” M cuts in. “I don’t care if we get detention . . .” The shrill of the five minute bell cuts her off.

“Thanks, M, but it’s okay, I’ll see you guys after class.” I pat her arm and trudge across the blacktop toward the office. I can hear the soft rise and fall of Nicki and M talking as I walk away.

Mom picks up on the second ring. “Hi!” she says, all cheerful. Caller ID, she must think it’s Ms. Patel.

“Mom, it’s me.”

“Oh, yes, Ariel.” She’s still upset with me—her voice assumes the injured, slightly cold tone she gets when she’s sulking.

“Mom, is everything okay with Dad?”

“Your father? Well, yes, of course, Ariel. He’s filming the Godfather commercial. You know, we talked about it last night.”

I am possibly the only fourteen-year-old girl on the continent who has actually seen The Godfather several times. It is the classic of classics for mafia movies, which I adore. In fact, I am the one who gave Dad the idea to spoof it for his next commercial.

“But he’s okay and everything?”

“Ariel, what is this about?” Mom asks me sharply. “If you called to apologize for your rude behavior this morning, just say so. You don’t need to act like you were calling for some other reason and then . . .”

I cut her off impatiently, “Someone heard that Dad had a heart attack. On the police scanner here? I was confused, because you were just here to give me the bee kit and why wouldn’t you tell me if Dad got sick?”

Mom is quiet.

“Mom?”

“I . . . I . . . don’t know anything about this, Ariel.” Her voice sounds scared.

“You mean it might be true?” I feel tears spring to my eyes and I realize I am holding the phone in a death grip.

Mom sucks in her breath like she always does when she is upset but taking charge. Her voice still has a quaver in it as she says, “Honey, I will get to the bottom of this. You sit tight, stay in the office, and I’ll call back as soon as I know what’s going on.”

“Okay, but . . .” I am about to ask her to come get me—I don’t want to sit here waiting—but she has already hung up. I hand the phone back to Ms. Patel.

“Everything okay, hon?” she asks me.

“My mom is going to call back,” I tell her. “I need to wait here.”

“Wait in the nurse’s office if you want,” Ms. Patel gestures toward the closet-sized office behind the counter.

“Okay, thanks.” I am grateful to be somewhere that’s not so public. I am still trying to keep from crying. I lay down on the padded table, the crunchy paper covering scrunches up under my shoulders in an uncomfortable lump. I close my eyes. I can’t stand waiting. I try not to think. Isn’t that what meditation is? I can’t do it. I am thinking about what not to think about. I sit up and start ripping the crunchy paper into little flakes. I put them in my pocket.

Ms. Patel sticks her head around the corner. “Ariel, it’s your mother. You can take it in here.” She picks up a wall-mounted phone, pushes a blinking light and hands me the receiver. Then she just stands there.

I press the receiver into my chest and give her a tight smile. I am not going to hear potentially terrible news with her standing over me. “Thanks, Ms. Patel.” She stands there two more seconds, and then finally leaves.

“Mom?”

“Oh, Ariel, this is really something . . . your dad did collapse,” she is almost laughing as she says this.

“What?”

“Remember how the Godfather commercial was going to be filmed? We were laughing about it last night at dinner. Your dad was going to have a heart attack like Don Corleone did in the movie. He was going to use the community garden as the site, remember? So I bet the police were talking about it on the air, on the police scanner, maybe keeping people back, making sure traffic kept moving. You know how the community garden is so visible downtown.”

Things click into place for me instantly. “Yeah, Mom, it makes sense. Oh God, everyone thinks he really did keel over and have a heart attack or something. And all the kids are being so nice to me. Now I’m gonna look like a complete idiot when everyone knows it was all fake.” I am talking quietly, away from Ms. Patel, who is pretending to sort papers on the counter by the door.

“Ariel, it was a misunderstanding. No big deal. I am sorry if you were worried. I must admit your call did give me a fright. But everything’s okay,” she giggles, “and actually, I think it is kind of funny.”

“Ha.” I say it like it is the most unfunny thing I have ever heard. The bell rings, and I say good-bye and hang up. Ms. Patel asks me if everything is okay again. I nod briefly and leave.

I said earlier that Dad spoofs movies to make commercials for Island Sweets. When I was watching The Godfather for the fourth time a month or so back, he sat down and watched with me. That’s when he came up with the idea for two TV spots.

In the movie, there is this really awful, bloody scene, involving a horse’s head in this guy’s bed. I will not lie—it’s a disturbing sight. But anyway, Dad thought it would be hilarious to recreate the scene using chocolate. In the movie the guy wakes up and is covered in blood, and it’s all dramatic as he peels back the silk sheets and finds his horse’s head. Then he starts screaming.

Dad did the same scene for his ad, using the exact same silk sheets, and with the same music, but he is covered in chocolate as he dramatically pulls back the covers to reveal a huge pile of tofu and barley and stuff. Health nut foods. Then he screams dramatically like the guy in The Godfather did and the voiceover says, “Island Sweets, a family tradition since 1922.”

The thirty second spot was very popular. I think a few people might have even watched the movie because of it. Not that many kids had seen The Godfather before, but I know of at least two kids (okay, so they’re M and Nicki, but I bet other kids did too) who were interested in seeing it because of Dad’s commercial. Everyone thought it was hysterical, and so Dad decided to follow-up with another spot inspired by The Godfather.

This time he would do the death scene of Vito Corleone, the main character in the movie. In the movie, Vito is walking in his tomato garden with his grandson when he has a heart attack. My dad was going to spoof it in the Alameda community vegetable garden, where he was made-up and dressed to look just like Vito did in that scene. The son of a lady who makes custom wedding cakes for Dad’s store would play the grandson role. Dad would stroll through the garden and doing his imitation of Marlon Brando, the actor who plays Vito, but when he finally “dies” the “grandson” will turn to the camera and say, “Come into Island Sweets today and try our new Seven-Layer Candied Apples. They’re to die for!”

That’s the commercial dad was filming today. Wow, this goes to show how much people love to gossip and are so happy, actually eager, to think some tragedy has happened. That’s junior high for you. But I guess I got kind of caught-up too. I can’t wait to tell M and Nicki about it. I wonder if people will think I was milking it, acting sad and stuff. This is not a great way to start the school year. I can’t even believe this is only the first day of school.

I rush out of the office, but everyone is still in class. I will have to wait to tell M and Nicki what happened. I’ll be late to my first day of geometry, but Ms. Patel has already given me an excuse slip.

I find the new classroom quickly—I had American history in this room last year—and my new geometry teacher barely looks up as I wave my slip and find a vacant seat. I think over this crazy day, and wonder if the whole year is going to be this full of the unexpected. The earthquake flashes through my mind again, and I wonder why it seems to relate to today’s events. Finally, the bell rings and I head to biology, my last class of the day.

Easy “Certain Death” Orange Chicken1

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts

1 C. orange juice

2 T. finely chopped orange zest (This is orange peel. You

can use a vegetable peeler to peel it off, but don’t peel

it so hard that the bitter, white pith comes off too.

Chop up the peels really small.)

20 to 30 Ritz crackers, crushed into meal (You can put

them in a ziplock bag, put a towel over the bag and

whack it with the bottom of a heavy pan until the

crackers are pulverized. It can be quite therapeutic

making your own crumbs this way.)

cooking spray

½ C. mustard plus 2 T. orange juice

Put orange juice, zest, and chicken in a 13x9˝ baking pan, cover, and marinate in refrigerator at least a couple hours, but preferably overnight. Preheat oven to 375°. Remove chicken from marinade, but allow some of the zest to remain clinging to it. Put the cracker crumbs in shallow bowl, and dip each chicken piece into the crumbs. Use your hands to pat and mash the crackers onto the surface of the chicken so it is well-coated. Wash out and dry your pan (throw out the marinade) and spray it with cooking spray. Put the chicken in the pan and spray the tops of the chicken breasts with cooking spray as well. Bake it for 40 minutes, or until you can prick it with a fork and the liquid that runs out is clear. Let it sit for a few minutes before serving. While it is sitting, combine the mustard and orange juice and use it for dipping sauce when you serve the chicken.