“Hey, hey! Can you guys take this somewhere else? I’m trying to get in character,” the actress with the fried hair butted in.
Henry crawled out of my wardrobe, grabbed me by the elbow, and walked me out of the bedroom and into the bathroom.
He pushed me against the shower door.
“You can’t do that to me,” he snapped.
I had never seen him angry. I had never seen him care about anything.
“I’m sorry.”
He calmed down. I removed his hand from my elbow, lit a cigarette, and closed the bathroom door behind us. It was the only place left in the house where one could have privacy.
“It would be nice to know what you were doing, going through my clothes.”
“I’m working for your parents. I’m doing wardrobe for the film with you. We’re using your stuff plus stuff from the store.”
“My stuff? Who said you could use my stuff?”
The soporific smell of my mother’s baked biscotti wafted under the bathroom door. Through the small window overlooking the backyard we could see my father and Max. They had fixed the camera and were now auditioning actors en plein air. The yard looked like an insane asylum, everyone walking in circles, talking to themselves.
“God, they’re everywhere,” I said. “In the living room, in the yard, in my bedroom! And now you? My parents have no boundaries. You shouldn’t have accepted.”
“Well, I did. So get over it. And by the way, you should get out of Topanga. Your clothes smell like cow shit.”
He opened the bathroom door and stepped back out into the kitchen where my mother was getting ready to bake a second batch of sweets. They hugged.
“Biscotti?” she offered with a fifties housewife smile, identical to the one she put on for the Spam commercial in Rome.
“Sì, grazie, Mrs. Petri!”
“Call me Serena, please. And good job on your Italian!” She put on a maternal face and handed him a Tupperware container. “Cotoletta alla milanese for your mom!”
“Thanks, Serena. Say goodbye to Mr. Petri for me!”
Henry gave me a cold nod and stepped out through the back door.
“What?” my mother asked in an innocent tone, noticing my disbelief.
“What do you mean what? That’s some surprise you were keeping from me.”
“Oh, Henry? Yes…he’s a sweetheart.”
“Why is he working for you? You didn’t even ask me if he could use my clothes.”
Two actors passing through the kitchen perked up their ears. The word “working” scared them—or the idea that someone else would be working who wasn’t them, did. My mother gave them a reassuring smile.
“We met him when you flaked on him. He told us about how you started to work at his store for fun. We all think that’s great, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“He seemed interested in Dad’s film. So we offered him the job.”
“Are you paying him?”
“Yes, of course! Seventy-five dollars a week.”
“That’s nothing! Why did he accept?”
“It’s extracurricular.”
“Henry’s not even in school anymore.”
“Well. We became friends. We like him. I promised to teach him and his mom Italian recipes.” She blew on two biscotti and bit off their tips. “Yummy. My best ever.”
Max came into the kitchen. He was on the portable phone again, arguing in Spanish.
“?Lo sabía! Esto no es posible! Hay que decirles a bajar el alquiler de la suite de Valentino!”
“Get out!” I exploded at him.
“Don’t scream!” my mother screamed.
“I should have stuck to writing song lyrics for rock stars. A much easier life,” Max mumbled to himself and left, slamming the door behind him.