“Phoebe!” Rosemarie yells from the couch. An episode of some reality show blares over the noise spilling in from the kitchen. I can see Rosemarie’s mother in there, stirring a giant pot of homemade pasta sauce, flanked by at least two aunts, a cousin, and someone I don’t know, all in various stages of baking garlic bread, straining noodles, clattering pots, smashing the oven door closed, and rooting around in the fridge.
“Hey,” I say, plopping down on the big brown sofa beside Rosemarie. Peter crawls over my lap and Rosemarie’s legs to get to the good corner seat of the sectional.
“Can I braid your hair?” Peter asks his sister.
“You know how to braid? I’m impressed,” I say.
Peter nods. “I can French braid,” he says seriously.
“No kidding? Show me.”
Rosemarie scoots around on the couch, turning the back of her head to Peter, who stands up on the cushion and starts finger combing her hair. His face scrunches up as he carefully sections off pieces to braid.
Across the room, I notice Rosemarie’s grandfather scowling at Peter. Rosemarie doesn’t move her head—she doesn’t want to mess up Peter’s braiding—but she glares until he turns his attention back to his beer. She shoots me a look; she’s often complained about how her grandfather pressures Peter to be more manly. I’m glad he doesn’t start a fight. If his biggest worry about his grandson is something as stupid as that, he doesn’t know how good he has it.
When Peter gets to the end of the braid, he realizes he doesn’t have a hair tie, so I pull the elastic out of my ponytail and pass it over.
“Gorgeous,” I say, as Rosemarie turns her head left and right, framing her face Vogue-style. She checks her hair by patting the top of her head, and then she punches her brother in the arm. He falls over laughing for no apparent reason.
Dinner’s a casual affair. Everyone gets bowls until the bowls run out, then they get Tupperware or plates loaded down with spaghetti and garlic bread dripping with butter, and we all sit wherever we can. Rosemarie and I reclaim the couch along with some of her aunts, Peter sits on the floor, the older relatives take the tables, and Rosemarie’s mom eats standing up by the kitchen counter. It’s both awkward and fun trying to balance a full glass of soda between my knees as I sit on the couch, everyone still moving around me. One of Rosemarie’s aunts, who married “a fifth-generation Italian” from New Jersey, complains bitterly and loudly about the inauthentic garlic bread while licking butter off her fingers and grabbing a third piece. Peter spills his milk on the floor, then Rosemarie’s homophobic grandpa spills his spaghetti down his shirt, and despite all that—or maybe because of it—everyone’s still in good spirits and filling the entire tiny house with talking and laughter. It sounds like family.
After eating, the adults flood the living room, so Rosemarie, Peter, and I escape to Rosemarie’s bedroom. Peter lets us paint his toenails black, but when he smears the polish on Rosemarie’s polyester comforter, we kick him out of the room. We then spend an hour or so Facebook-stalking Joey Albertus, doing an online quiz to see which character on Rosemarie’s show we are most like, and making plans to go to a concert in Boston that neither of us will ever really be able to go to.
An hour after dinner, my phone buzzes. “I’ve gotta go,” I say, reading the text from Mom.
Rosie grabs the phone out of my hand. “She’s just asking if you’re okay and when you’re coming home. Tell her that you’re fine and will be home later . . . like a normal person.”
I grab my phone back. “Nah,” I say. “I gotta go.” I know what Mom really means.
When I get back to the house, Mom’s in the kitchen doing the dishes. She always rinses them with hot water and soap before putting them in the dishwasher, a move everyone in the family tries to convince her is unnecessary. Dad’s already back in his office, and Bo has hung a sheet where his door used to be. I pause by his room, wondering if I should see if he’s up, ask how he’s been, just talk or something. I think about the easy way Peter and Rosemarie live together. Rosemarie would have no problem going into Peter’s room. She’d just walk right in. He’d smile at her and say, “What’s up?” and she’d suggest they do something together, maybe get some ice cream and watch a movie. She’d say . . . No. That doesn’t matter. There’s no point pretending Bo and I could be like Peter and Rosemarie. But if it were me, if it were Bo, I’d say, “Hey, how’s that school? Do you like Dr. Franklin? He seemed nice.” And then I’d say, “I heard a girl in your class died. Are you okay?” And maybe he’d tell me and maybe he wouldn’t, but it’d be something.
My toe stubs against the new gouge in the hardwood floor where Dad dropped or threw down the drill.
I walk past Bo’s bedroom and into my own, putting my earbuds in, cranking up the music, and staring at the ceiling until I fall asleep.
CHAPTER 21