Anyone But You (6 page)

“It’s the look of luuuuuve,” Chef teased, doing impromptu fox trot steps as he shuffled his way over to grab the industrial-sized container of olive oil.

“Unrequited,” I clarified. “
Quite
unrequited.” I slid the pedicured toes of my right foot in and out of my rubber flip-flop sandal. “Loving someone against their will should be a crime, don’t you think?”

“You’re talking to the wrong Guido, doll. When it comes to romance, I’m about as hopeless as a dog trying to catch its own tail. But go easy on the poor sap. One of these days you might fall for someone you can’t have, in which case you’ll feel a bit more sympathy for ‘Stare-y Perry.’” He picked up a clean metal spoon and scooped a bit of chopped tomatoes, basil, and olive oil onto it, presenting it to me for a taste. “More salt?”

“No.
Perfecto
,” I said.

“Good, now you back me up on that if Mario starts in on one of his ‘it needs more seasoning’ rants. If he wasn’t such a sourpuss, his taste buds might actually work correctly.” Not wanting to enter the always comical “Chef vs. Mario” fray, I opted to change the subject.

“I’m sorry you have to work tonight.”

“Zip it. You know I wouldn’t miss your party, Ladybird.”

“But I wish you could be out there—” I motioned to the dining room. “—not slaving away back here all night. I’d much rather be celebrating with you than with any of
those
people.” I hugged him around his pasta-fortified middle, and he patted my head encouragingly.

“I know you feel like a fish out of water around here, but you’re worth more to this family than all those priceless paintings at the Art Institute—even that avant garde stuff that just looks like scribbles. The people on the other side of that door might not always understand you, but you’re the brightest star in their sky. Now go shake a tail feather! I’m scared of what your mother will do to me if you’re not dressed and ready,” he said, teasing. “And remember, at the end of the day it’s only a birthday party. It won’t kill you to try and enjoy it.”

• • •

Mom and Aunt Val had mounted heavy black velvet curtains just beyond the swinging stainless steel door that led into the dining room, and I’d been instructed to enter the party through them after Dad had made my introduction to the guests. I could hear him speaking into the cheap portable microphone we had on hand for company banquets, wedding rehearsal dinners, and the like.

I was dressed and ready, waiting behind the curtain near wooden shelves we kept stocked with napkin rollups and oil and vinegar cruets. The balls of my feet were already starting to throb in my strappy silver high heels.

“Sixteen years ago, our beautiful, bright, and kindhearted daughter entered our lives in this very restaurant,” noted my dad, eliciting a chuckle from members of the crowd familiar with the story of my birth. “Her mother, my wonderful Nora, was the picture of tranquility, but I kept running around the room screaming, ‘Oh, gee! Oh, gee!’ I think that may have been why Nora suggested her nickname be Gigi.” Another round of laughter reverberated through the room. Dad ought to have trademarked this corny anecdote for as many times as he’d told it.

“Tonight,” he continued, “we’re beyond overjoyed to have so many friends, old and new, helping us celebrate right here in the same locale where we first met our daughter. This old neighborhood joint, which my grandfather first opened in 1945, is the Caputo family’s lifeblood. Knowing it will be around, not just tonight, but for generations to come, means the world to me, and for that I say,
Salute
.”

“
Salute! Salute!
” came cheers from partygoers, along with the sounds of clinking glasses.

“Which brings me back to Gigi, the reason we’re all here,” Dad said. “To know her is to love her, and we love her … very,
very
much. So without further ado, please help me welcome the Caputo family treasure, my remarkable birthday girl, Julietta Marie!”

As I pushed through the velvet drapery, the undeniably catchy (but admittedly over the top) sound of big band trumpet music started blaring over the restaurant’s sound system. After some initial dithering a few weeks ago, Mom and Aunt Val had ultimately opted for a “swing era” party theme to commemorate the year in which Cap’s had first opened, way back when. Given that our family considered tonight’s festivities the restaurant’s rebirth, of sorts, the theme had added significance. I’m sure most of the people my age at the party were going to think this music was geriatric, but, hey, it’s not like I had any say in the matter.

Stepping into the dining room, I could see that the restaurant’s lighting was dimmer than usual. Mom, having used to excess the word “classy” in the run-up to the party, wanted Cap’s to resemble an old-school supper club, so she’d festooned the place with white ostrich feathers and a bazillion silver helium balloons. For tonight only, the red-and-white checkered tablecloths had been traded out for plain white linen, each crowned with a black tulip floral arrangement. A silver and gold banner hanging over the bar said, “
SWING
… Into Sweet Sixteen!”

“Gigi, sweetheart,” Dad said, extending his arm toward me. He looked dapper in his white jacket and black bow tie. I walked over to him as the gathered guests cheered and whistled. I couldn’t make out many faces in the glare of the spotlight cousin Enzo had rigged up for the occasion. Beaming and simultaneously embarrassed by the attention, I found momentary refuge in one of my dad’s bear hugs. It would have been perfectly natural, in the moment, to tell him that I loved him, too, but I found it impossible to say the words. In recent years, my relationship with him had changed … or maybe it was only that
I
had changed. I appreciated my dad as much as ever—maybe more so, knowing how hard he worked to support our family and the business—but our relationship had become increasingly stilted, tense even. The more I tried to establish my own identity, the stricter he became in his edicts and absolutism, unable to allow for the fact that I might yearn to deviate from the master plan he envisioned for me. Dad had worked enough pizza dough in his life to expect that his only daughter would be just as easily pliable. With every tentative step I made to assert my own thoughts and opinions, I sensed a growing disconnect between us. He didn’t want his “little girl” to go away, even as I so desperately needed to test the waters of adulthood. Though I couldn’t exactly give words to any of these sentiments, I burrowed a little deeper into his chest to let him know that, despite my turning the big one-six, he wasn’t going to lose me.

As the cheering subsided, I worried for a knee-wobbling moment that I’d be expected to utter words of some sort into the microphone as the guest of honor. I couldn’t possibly give a speech—the very thought had me ready to bolt for the nearest exit. Luckily, Ty (who had appointed himself DJ for the night) had cued up a version of “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” and people started sauntering back to the buffet table. I glanced around trying to find any of my friends from school, but Dad, his arm still around my shoulder, ushered me over to, who else: my unsolicited suitor and his father.

“Hi, Mr. Beresdorfer!” I said with as lively a smile I could muster. Talking to him reminded me of going to the dentist; painful, but necessary. “Thank you so much for coming tonight. And, uh … you, too, Perry!”

“Happy birthday, Gigi. You look pretty smokin’ tonight.” Lord. He handed me a single red rose wrapped in clear cellophane, a bright orange price sticker still stuck to the plastic.

“Oh, Perry, you shouldn’t have,” I said (by which I meant,
I so wish you had not.
)

“Fuggedaboudit,” he shrugged, clearly unaware of how lame it was for people who were zero percent Italian to speak like a mafia don. “You chicks are suckers for flowers. And, well, I am nothing if not a gentleman.”

I forced a pseudo-smile. He was wearing a blazer with gold anchor buttons on it and a giant class ring that looked like something won in an NBA championship. It was almost as if a mad scientist had morphed his baby face onto the body of an AARP member. My dad had the audacity to compliment Perry’s novelty tie, which was covered with golf balls. (Dad usually referred to golf as a “game for putzes,” but suddenly he was acting like he, too, had just emerged off the back nine.)

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with the rose now. Carry it around for the rest of the night? Stick it between my teeth and yank Perry into a passionate tango? (Dad would have been thrilled.)

“So, I guess this makes you legal now,” Perry continued, with—ew—yet another Dad-inappropriate remark.

“Yep,” Dad responded for me. “Trading in the learner’s permit for the official state ID of Illinois pretty soon, eh, Gigi?” Oh.

“I guess,” I answered. “If I pass the driver’s test.”

“Just what the world needs,” laughed Mr. Beresdorfer, “another woman driver on the road. Better up the coverage on your car insurance, Ben.” All three men laughed heartily. This whole macho-man conversation was to be expected from Perry and his father—but since when did my dad have to chime in? Was he going to start smashing beer cans on his forehead next?

“Don’t worry, Ben,” added Perry, knowingly patting my dad’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure I’m the one behind the wheel.”

“In that case, just get her home by midnight, or
else,
” said Dad pointing his finger in mock threat. Wait a minute. Were they under the assumption that I was ever going to be in a car with Perry? Like on dates? No. Just no.

Dad had started discussing business stuff with Mr. Beresdorfer, which left me conversationally stranded with his son, a boy who was about as interesting as burnt toast.

“So, uh … have you met any of my friends yet?” I asked him, craning my head to look for one of them to rescue me. Where on earth were they?

“Not really,” he answered. “I don’t know many people over on this side of town.” Perry went to some private school in Oak Park that I’m sure cost more than some college tuitions. I couldn’t tell if there was an air of superiority in the way he spoke about our neighborhood, but decided not to assume the worst. He already had enough strikes for him in the “Ugh” column that it wasn’t necessary for me to find any reasons to add more.

“Okay, well, I’ll try to introduce you to some people. My friends should be around here somewhere ….”

“No worries,” he said, good-naturedly. “I’m thinking I’ll just stick like glue to you all night. I mean, what’s the point of doing the chit-chat thing with strangers, when I’m really here to hang out with you?” With that, any tiny remnant of hope I had that this party might border on fun vanished like an ant blasted off a driveway by a high-pressure hose. I craned my neck again to find my friends, looking past Perry’s shoulder as he prattled on about his dairy allergy, of all things. My eyes had gotten used to the dark lighting by now, but I forgot all about the girlfriends I was supposed to be scouting when I saw a guy—a jaw-droppingly gorgeous guy, I might add—enter through our restaurant’s back door. The way he’d sidled in, leading with one shoulder, reminded me of a stray tomcat slinking through a chink in some garden wall. He glanced around the room as if looking for someone—his parents, perhaps? My folks had invited so many random friends to the party that there was really no telling who he might have been connected to. Resting against a brick pillar, he dug both hands into the pockets of his dark denim jeans. A black skinny tie dangled insouciantly from the collar of his workaday white oxford shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to just below his elbows. His slouch mirrored the cool informality of his attire, and he studied the scuffed toes of his black Converse sneakers. Like the statue of David, his face looked focused and calm, yet poised for action. But I’d bet even Michelangelo couldn’t have carved anything more perfect than this guy.

“ … and while I
love
cannoli,” Perry blathered, “they need to be filled with a soy-based cream.” I nodded absently, never shifting my gaze from the boy standing ten feet behind him. Perhaps the boy sensed as much, for he slowly turned his head in my direction and looked straight at me, engulfing my chest cavity in flames.

“ … it’s not so much the lactose that’s the culprit,” Perry droned on, delving into the mind-numbing topic of whey proteins and shifting his body so that my preferred view was suddenly blocked. I sidestepped half an inch to the right and found his eyes again, to my sweet relief. I smiled, quite involuntarily, and was amazed to see the faintest hint of a grin echoed in his perfect face. I could happily have stood there frozen in time—even if it meant being forced to listen to Perry’s dissertation on the perils of dairy. The only things I suddenly required in life were those angelic eyes, that devilish grin ….

“Earth to Gigi!” The voice of my friend Bethany ripped me out of my reverie, and I tore my eyes away from his. She was flanked by four of my closest friends from school.

“Oh … hi! There you guys are!”

“So, are we even going to get to hang out with you at all?” demanded another classmate, Anna Lopinsky, looking pert in her flouncy navy blue frock.

“Well, yeah, uh … of course!” I said, glancing back toward the darkened corner of the room. He was gone. Disappointment washed over me, but I tried to shake it off. “I was wondering where you guys—”

“Get together, everyone; I want to take a picture,” Bethany interrupted, moving a few steps away so she could aim her phone in our direction. Like an unwanted fungus, “Perry No Dairy” sidled closer to me than the situation warranted, causing me to cringe. Though I didn’t have the nerve to speak my mind to this insufferable swain, I conveyed my contempt for him more subtly.

“Okay, everyone,” I said, “Say ‘Cheese!’”

“B
ENNY—ISN’T THIS A LITTLE EXTRAVAGANT?”
I asked, glancing skeptically through the storefront window. Workers had just finished hanging a large sculptural sign outside, perpendicular to our shop’s front door. It was guaranteed to visually accost any and all pedestrians and motorists on the street. A giant red arrow blinked on and off intermittently, the words PIZZA PIES (spelled out in letter-shaped lights) making it abundantly clear what we were selling.