We'll Be a Dream

Sunday is... exhausting, to put it mildly. Every summer the family takes a trip out to Nonno's cousin Vinny's estate for a large family dinner. And I mean large in the sense that there are so many people present that there are at least six tables pushed end to end to accommodate everyone. It seems like every year more people show up, all considered family.

I often try to avoid going to see cousin Vinny for that very reason. There are a lot of reasons for why I find the situation unpleasant--like the language barrier, the heat, the cramped kitchen, the young children underfoot, being surrounded by strangers--but it's the family aspect that really unnerves me. I am treated like a distant relative who has shown up for dinner. I am passed dinner rolls, pastas, fresh fruit and salad by smiling cousins. Aunts touch my hair and compliment my colouring. They urge me to eat, eat, I am too skinny, I need to put some weight on if I want a husband (translation: I need more curves on my figure).

They are so welcoming that I feel uncomfortable. The only solace I manage to get that day is when Nonna enlists me to help her and Rosa make five large Spicy Italian pizzas.

Mama Franceschi often becomes short-tempered and hostile toward her immediate family during trips to cousin Vinny's estate. She is reprimanding Fabian for something or rather, ordering Leo to round up the kids, Giovanna is pulled away and lectured in private about something she's said to some great aunt. Nonna is chastising Mama Franceschi for forgetting some ingredient or cooking tool for the pizzas and Nonno along with Papa Franceschi were swept off with the other men to walk the estate (translation: drink wine) the moment we arrived.

Somehow we all survive the dinner. As is the case every year, Nonna's pizzas are a hit and the first dish to be snatched up by eager hands. After everyone is full and the dishes cleared and on their way to becoming cleaned, Mama Franceschi begins to round up her immediate family. Cousin Vinny tries to convince us all the stay the night, to drink and be merry, but Mama Franceschi reminds him, while guiding her heavily intoxicated father into the back of the family minivan, that the pizzeria is open tomorrow.

As it is already nearing midnight, Fabian offers me a ride directly to my apartment in his used Mitsubishi. Leo kindly allows me to take the passenger seat, since I will be getting out first. The drive is silent. When Fabian first got his car he was out with one of his girlfriends and they had started to argue while he was driving. He jumped the curb and knocked over a no parking sign. The car was fine, and since then the family has referred to it as the Mitsubeasty.

On Monday, Mama Franceschi is still as irritable as she was the day before and Giovanna is hopeful. She believes without a doubt that any day now One Direction will come into Nonna's Pizzeria for a slice. Part of me also expects them to show up. By eight o'clock that night I convince myself that the boys of One Direction will not be ordering any pizza or stopping in. It's obvious to me that Giovanna is watching the antique clock that belonged to Nonna Giovanni's Nonna, and every so often I catch myself doing the same. We are both watching the clock when the phone rings a half an hour before our delivery hours end, and when Mama Franceschi hangs up, she scowls down at the order.

Giovanna peers over her mother's shoulder, while I lean over the counter to read the order upside down. Two large pizzas; one pizza is half ham and pineapple, with extra pineapple, the other half Spicy Italian. The second pizza is a Greek Salad on a pizza, light on the sauce. Giovanna and I silently communicate with each other. Quirked eyebrows for confusion, there is nothing wrong with this order, wide eyes for a question, what don't we know? Mama Franceschi sighs and calls out the order to Nonna G and then fixes her stern gaze on me.

"Mr. Styles has called and asked for you again." Nothing significant happens on this delivery. When I knock, he pulls open the door immediately. He is a little out of breath, but I know better than to comment on that. Our fingers brush. He tells me that they did end up watching The Avengers. He thanks me for the movie recommendation. I thank him for his order. I tell him to enjoy his pizza. He lingers at the door while I wait at the elevator. I make it to four-one thousand before the door clicks shut.

He calls again on Tuesday to order pizza and asks for me. Mama Franceschi gets more and more irritated. A storm brews just under the surface, only noticeable by her pursed lips and narrowed eyes. Her husband and children give her a wide berth, waiting for the inevitable eruption. When Harry answers the door we make the usual small talk. He tells me how good the pizza is, and that he's had a lot of pizza. I don't pretend like I don't know that he's probably had pizza in every city he's visited. We agree that Chicago pizza isn't as good as Nonna's and he admits to only having had pasta in Italy. We say goodnight and I make it to five-one thousand before the door clicks.

He calls on Wednesday. Giovanna and I know it's him, because Mama Franceschi's voice goes cold and her words become clipped. We listen carefully, waiting for a sign that she has had enough of Harry Styles and his late night orders. But all she does is yell his order louder than necessary to Nonna G.

Mama Franceschi brings me his order when it's ready and boxed up. She stands by the bike and watches while I strap the insulated carrying case to the back basket. I see her open and close her mouth several times like she wants to say something to me. In the end, she says nothing and goes back inside. If he calls again tonight I think that Mama Franceschi may choose maternal instinct over good business and tell him to scram. I almost warn Harry, but I don't know quite what to say. I nearly ask him why he keeps asking for me, but I chicken out of that, too.

I can tell that there is trouble at Nonna's Pizzeria when I walk in. Giovanna looks up from where she is wiping down a table, and I can read it in her face. The way the corners of her mouth pull down, the bags under her eyes, and how her gaze follows my every movement. She doesn't say anything to me, she doesn't even smile. Giovanna should have run toward me, gripped my arm tightly with excitement, and immediately launched into a conversation about her date tomorrow starting with the colour she's going to paint her nails and what outfit will match.

But she doesn't. And then Mama Franceschi walks out of the storage unit with two full packages of napkins to refill the holders on each table. Her mouth is set in a grim line, her eyes shadowy and dark, her body hunched like she is tired beyond the physical level. When she sees me, her back stiffens, her lips press together so firmly that they all but disappear and a steely resolve reflects in her eyes. She puts down the napkins on the counter and gives Giovanna a look. My best friend immediately takes on the task of refilling the napkin holders.

"Bixby, Antony and I would like to see you in the office." My mouth goes dry, and it feels like ice cold water is trickling down my back. I can't remember a time that I've ever been asked to see them in the office. Certainly never in such a serious and mildly terrifying way. Most conversations happen in the back or outside, because the office is cramped. It was originally supposed to be a storage closet, but Papa Franceschi transformed it into a functioning office so that they could expand Nonna's kitchen space.

I mechanically follow Mama Franceschi up the stairs to the apartment. She stops at the top and pushes the door open, looking down at me. I scurry past her and sidestep into the small office space, pressing my back into the wall and waiting for direction.

Papa Franceschi is sitting in an old computer chair that must have been white, but had begun to yellow with age. Behind him is a corkboard with a picture of Nonna's Pizzeria when it first opened, one of the first flyers Isabella designed, school photos of his kids and a picture of Mama Franceschi in her wedding dress. On one wall he has his various credentials in accounting, business and administration . On the other there is a large filing cabinet. The office is very much like Papa Franceschi--clean and organized.

The man himself squints at me over his half-moon reading glasses. His hairline is receding, and his stomach expanding, but his face is still rugged and handsome. He looks to his wife, and his expression goes from surprised to annoyed.

"Regina, I said that I did not want any part of this. This is your cause, and I won't stop you, but this is not my place. I said I would keep the receipts out, and I did. Now, I am going to go see Hal about the leaky faucet. Do what you feel you need to do, bella." Papa Franceschi gives me a look of sympathy and struggles to exit the office, stopping only to give his wife a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Mama Franceschi looks like she spent the day sucking on a lemon. She gestures for me to sit in one of the wooden chairs in front of the desk while she squeezes around the dented and scratched metal desk to Papa Franceschi's vacated chair. She does not look at me, instead she focuses on shifting papers around until she seems to find what she has been looking for.

She lays out three receipts and pushes them across the desk so that they are closer to me.

"What do you see?" She asks me brusquely. It's obvious what I am supposed to see, it's been circled in red pen. I lick my lips and fidget in the uncomfortable chair.

"On all three of these receipts the tip amount has been circled in red pen." I shift in my seat, but find myself locking eyes with Mama Franceschi. It is somewhat of a smart-alecky remark, but I can't seem to stop myself sometimes.

"These receipts are from Nonna Pizzeria's business with Mr. Styles. Is there anything else you can see that might stand out about these receipts?" I lean forward on the chair and really look at the receipts. The ink is slightly smudged, and I never really pay attention to how much I've earned in tips, but now I understand what this conversation is about. On one receipt Harry tipped me $20.00, on another he has tripped me $30.00 and on the last one he tipped me $60.00. I lick my lips and look up into the stern face of a mother confronting a misbehaving child.

My only defense is to stay quiet. I have no idea what she suspects that I have done.

"He certainly tips well, doesn't he? I have to wonder if Leo or Fabian had made those deliveries instead of you, would he have felt so generous?" I stay quiet, waiting for an accusation. "Why exactly does this-this-this strange man continually ask for you, Bixby?"

I respond with silence, because this is something that I've been curious to know, but too afraid to ask.

"Is there something you need to tell me?" I lick my lips again and try to swallow, but my throat is too dry.

"He really enjoys Nonna's pizza." Her eyes narrow and we stare each other in the eyes for a full minute without speaking.

"Fine," she says, and she practically spits the word in a rage. "I'll tell you what I think. I think that you are not conducting yourself in a professional or ladylike manner. I think that this boy is manipulating and leading you down the wrong path and as long as you live--" Mama Franceschi leans back in her chair and seems to collect herself.

"As long as you work for us, you follow our rules. We will no longer be providing our services to Mr. Styles. Do you understand?"

I have never had a problem with authority. Until now. It is hard not to feel indignant about what Mrs. Franceschi is implying. That she would think that I was acting unladylike with a person I didn't know. I wonder, if Giovanna has educated her parents about the One Direction phenomenon, if Mrs. Franceschi is aware of how attractive and charming Harry Styles is known to be.

Maybe she knows of his reputation. It's like he can't stand within five feet of an unknown female without the Internet abuzz with relationship rumours. More often than not, it's implied that he's have a lot of fun with these girls. And Mrs. Franceschi certainly knows my reputation with boys. The way she is looking at me, with suspicion, proves that. Still, I thought that she would trust me. It's been a long time since I'd even shown any interest in a guy.

I say nothing, but I nod my head. I think I understand more than she realizes. She asks me to shut the door behind me and I am relieved to be able to put some physical distance between us. I go down the stairs so fast that at one point I miss a step and feel like I'm flying. Giovanna is waiting for me anxiously at the bottom step, filling me in on everything that happened when I went home last night in a whisper.

Papa Franceschi and Mrs. Franceschi fought in Italian, a sure sign that they were at odds with each other. Nonna and Nonno got in on it, too. Giovanna did her best to defend me, even Isabella spoke up, but no one could deter Mrs. Franceschi.

"Try not to be so hard on her, Bixby. You're like another daughter to her and she thinks that you're getting yourself into trouble. I swear she's only doing this because she cares, even if she's doing a really bad job at showing it." She is staring intently at the napkin holder she's filling.

"Your mom thinks that I'm turning my life into a porno." Giovanna's hands still and her face goes beet red at my comment. It occurs to me that Mrs. Franceschi got the idea that I'm--what exactly? She didn't outright accuse me of anything. I don't know if she thinks I'm just having sex with him or something else. But she got the idea from Giovanna's joke from the other day. I throw an abandoned washcloth at her.

"Thanks a lot, G." She snatches the cloth out of the air before it connects with her face. She looks down at the counter and begins to fold it. After a moment she begins to speak quietly while avoiding my eyes.

"I'm not sure that's what she's worried about. I think it's the whole celebrity thing, you know? Obviously we only know what he's been branded as--a cheeky, sensitive, womanizer. But still, I think my mom is just worried that his celebrity status is enchanting you. She's worried that you'll get yourself into something bad, like drugs or an accidental pregnancy." Giovanna sighs and her eyes are wide and soft when the meet mine.

"I am sorry, though. For what she said and for putting the thought in her head." I wave the apology off, because it's not really her fault. If her mother has such a low opinion of me then it's my own fault. I put my back to the entrance of Nonna's and can't stop my eyes from anxiously darting to the stairwell.

"You don't think that I'm... right?" I ask Giovanna after a few minutes of refilling napkin dispensers in silence. I have startled her out of a deep thought, she shakes her head and grins at me.

"Of course not. You're my best friend. You're obligated by best friend code to tell me if you tapping someone as fine as Harry Styles. I hear he has a massive--"

"Cool it! I do not need your mom walking in on a conversation like this." Giovanna's teasing grin fades.

"Mama," she says firmly. I check over my shoulder, but no one is behind me. Besides, I would have seen her exit from the stairwell.

"What?" I ask her, because it's so random to me. It's like when a kid accidentally calls the teacher mom. There's that moment of awkward giggly confusion as you watch them realize they've just called someone their mother.

"Mama. You called her my mom. You always call her Mama." I lick my lips and walk around to the other side of the counter to pour myself a glass of water. Giovanna's older sister Rosa has this way about her. She stares at people real calmly. There isn't anything about it that pries or feels threatening. Somehow she manages to hold that look without coming off as impatient. She just stares and waits and eventually the person says something, maybe not the whole truth, but enough to satisfy her.

Giovanna gives me that same look. It's not effective as Rosa's, because Giovanna is much too impatient to just wait quietly for me to say something. Her style has always been to harass a person into submitting to her will.

"Well?" She prompts after a beat.

"Maybe, after recent events, I don't much feel like calling her that." Giovanna's face softens and she reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze.

"Bixby, you watch your family's back, you don't turn it on them." After that Giovanna forces us back into a semblance of normality by talking about her upcoming date with Firefighter Zack. She is going through her wardrobe and asking me what she should wear and how she should style her hair. Her mother comes downstairs when Giovanna is asking me if I think it's a good idea to kiss on the first date.

I don't look at Mrs. Franceschi, and my only response is a shrug. I put myself on dishwashing duty so I can avoid the tension. Nonna G is happy to have me, she calls me her little sparrow and holds certain toppings she knows I like in front of my mouth so I can have a snack while I work. I have no idea what time it is when Giovanna screams like someone is trying to kill her.

My heart stops and I automatically reach for a knife. Nonna reaches for the hot sauce. This is not the first time that someone has tried to rob Nonna's Pizzeria and it is unlikely to be the last. My mind is racing so fast that I can't seem to grip a single thought long enough to comprehend it. I peer around the corner and all the tension leaves my shoulders. I wave to Nonna G that everything is okay, well sort of.

Giovanna is leaning heavily on her mother, her left foot elevated. There is shattered glass on the floor and when I look closer, I see that there is a shard sticking out of Giovanna's foot. She is crying heavily, but Giovanna has been known to be a bit of a drama queen. Over the tears her mother is calling for Papa Franceschi. Both he and Nonna are roused by the distress in her voice. Papa Franceschi helps to carry Giovanna past the broken glass, Nonna gets a broom and begins to sweep up the mess and Mrs. Franceschi is making sure that her husband can make it up the stairs to the bathroom where the first aid kit is.

"We may have to take her to the hospital, Antony." She says quietly as she passes. Giovanna's crying keeps getting louder and it's possible that if I hadn't been standing next to the phone, I wouldn't have heard it ringing.

"Thank you for calling Nonna's Pizzeria, this is Bixby speaking, how may I help you tonight?" It is a well-rehearsed line. Sometimes I substitute "thank you for calling" with "you've reached" just to keep things interesting for everyone. For a moment, no one answers. I am about to ask if anyone is there when a low rasp speaks.

"Erm, I'd like to place an order for delivery." I mechanically reach for an order pad.

"Alright, what would you like?" This is not my usual professionalism, but Nonna has come back to the kitchen and I don't want her to know that this is a business call.

"Well, I was wondering if you might recommend something." I'm not the kind of person to talk on the phone for pleasure, but he has the kind of voice that was made for long phone calls in the middle of the night. It's the kind of low rasp that a girl would be lucky to fall asleep to.

"I think I might know something. Do you think you'd trust me enough to let me surprise you?"

"I guess I could trust you." I don't want it to, but the words make me smile. The way he says it is almost flirtatious.

"Alright, I'll be there soon with your pizza." I may have hung up on him, but I only had a small window of opportunity to get this done. I jot down the order in my messy scrawl and give it to Nonna. Her dark hair is beginning to come out of her bun, and her apron needs to be washed, but her leathery skin crinkles around her eyes with a genuine grin. I help her make the pizza, box it myself and then put it in one of our insulated delivery bags. I kiss Nonna's cheek goodbye, calling out a polite ciao as I speed walk into the back alley. I place the bag down carefully on an empty crate and use my copy of the key to unlock the storage unit. I pull out the company bike instead of my bike and strap the pizza to the back. I make sure to lock the storage unit, pulling on the padlock to make sure it's secure before I mount the bike and speed away from work an hour early.

Under the guise that I'm bringing a late dinner home for my mom.