The Icing on the Cake (6 page)

My mother finishes chopping the bok choy and scoops all of the pieces into a colander for rinsing. Holding it under the water with one hand, she reaches into a cabinet with the other and pulls out a small bamboo steamer. She puts a handful of bok choy into the steamer, replaces the lid, and pushes
it aside with a sigh. “Your stubborn sister can steam them herself,” she says.

I wonder if she knows that “stubborn” is exactly how most people would describe her, too.

Nana Silver is taking me to see some “venues” after school today. She called this morning all excited to tell me that she's been “scouring the city” for the perfect place to have my party, and she's narrowed down her list to a few “real gems” that she can't wait to show me. Spending a whole afternoon looking at party rooms isn't exactly my idea of a good time, but if I let my Nana choose the place without checking it out myself, I guarantee she'll pick the one that
looks the most like the royal ballroom in Cinderella.

A couple of years ago Nana decided she was “too old to take the subway” anymore, so she takes taxis wherever she goes (never mind that my science teacher, Mr. Stubbs—I know, unfortunate name—is older than she is, and he rides his bike to school every day). Since we'll be making a bunch of stops today, though, she actually hired a car and driver for the entire afternoon. While we're looking at “venues,” the car will be waiting for us outside. When I texted Frankie to tell her, she texted back,
SO COOL! I'm jelly!
But to me the whole thing is totally embarrassing—like we think we're so fancy with a chauffeur-driven limo.

“Here,” Nana says when I complain about the car. She hands me a pair of seriously oversize sunglasses. “Put these on and nobody will recognize you.”

The sunglasses could not be more Nana's style and less mine, but I put them on anyway and check my reflection in the window. I look ridiculous.

Nana nudges my shoulder. “See, darling?” she smiles. “Problem solved.”

If only. I take a selfie wearing the insane glasses and send it to Frankie and Lillian. I'm sure they'll find my misery as amusing as Nana Silver does.

*  *  *

Our first stop is surprisingly less glitzy than I expected. It's a big loft space in a very cool, very expensive neighborhood called DUMBO (which stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass and has nothing to do with the Disney elephant). Back in the 1970s, the neighborhood was full of industrial lofts that artists took over. Pretty soon, DUMBO became a hot place to live, with cool restaurants, art galleries, and all that. These days it's way too expensive for artists or anyone who doesn't make a gazillion dollars a year. But it's still a nice neighborhood to walk around, and there's a really great park along the waterfront with my favorite ice cream place and amazing views of the bridges and the Manhattan skyline.

The loft is big and white and very bright, with giant windows taking up most of three of the walls. Talk about views! I bet it's incredible at night when all the lights are on along the bridges and in the office buildings across the river. Renting this place for a night probably costs more than our apartment does for a whole month, but it's on Nana's list, so she must be able to afford it. And if she insists on throwing me a party, I think this “venue” will do just fine.

Unfortunately, Nana and I aren't exactly “on the same page” as my mom used to say about herself and my dad. “This is the plainest of all the rooms I'm going to show you,” she says. “It's big, but it's nothing special.”

“But what about the view at night? It must be incredible,” I say, pointing to the Brooklyn Bridge out one window and the Manhattan Bridge out another.

“The views are nice,” Nana says with a shrug, “but if everyone's looking out the windows, nobody will be looking at you!”

Exactly! “That's okay, Nana. I don't want everyone to be looking at me.”

“Nonsense,” she says, waving me off. “It's your special day. You should feel like a princess!”

Ugh. This afternoon is definitely starting to go as expected. I text Nana's princess line to Frankie and Lillian. Frankie sends me back a crown emoji surrounded by little hearts.
Not
helpful.

The next place we visit is a little fancier than the loft, but it's not completely obnoxious. It's a big room in the back of an Italian restaurant that I've heard people talk about on some of my cooking shows, but I've never been there. The walls are mostly mirrored and there's a painting on the ceiling, but there's no gold paint or chandeliers. It's not exactly my style, but I could live with it.

It is not a shock to me that (even though this place is on her list!) Nana looks totally less than thrilled. She's just come back from talking to the manager, and she's shaking her head. “You can't have outside
catering,” she says. “All of the food has to be provided by the restaurant.”

That makes sense to me—what restaurant would want people bringing in food from someplace else for a party? “That's okay with me,” I shrug, trying to show how accommodating I am, “I love Italian food.”

“That's nice,” says Nana, “but you won't love having tomato sauce stains all over your pretty dress. Red sauce and party clothes do not go together.”

“Can't we just bring extra napkins?”

Nana shakes her head, tugging one of my braids. “Cute,” she says, even though I wasn't trying to be.

*  *  *

We see three more places—all in Manhattan—each with a little more flash than the one before. The last one might as well be Buckingham Palace. Nana is in heaven.

“Don't you love it, Liza?” she says, opening her arms to emphasize the glittering expanse of the room.
I take a long hard look at her to make sure she's not actually holding a wand.

“It's pretty,” I say, trying to start off on a positive note, “but it's, uh, a little too fancy, don't you think?”

Nana pretends to look surprised. “Not at all, darling, not at all. It's perfect.” She straightens a fold on one of the long velvet curtains. “And besides, we can always tone it down.”

I try not to panic, and force myself to smile. “Even if we could, Nana, it's in Manhattan. All of my friends live in Brooklyn, and most of Mom's, too.”

My grandmother puts her arm around my shoulders. “But my friends are all in Manhattan, sweetheart, and it's harder for people my age to get around the city. You understand that, right?”

This from the woman with a car and driver waiting at the curb. I could remind her, but there's no point. Instead, I wander around the room while she stands there beaming. I must be looking pouty, because finally she throws up her hands.

“I can see this isn't your favorite,” Nana says. “That's okay, that's why I brought you along. It's your party, after all.”

Is it? You could have fooled me.

“So you're not going to rent out this place?” I ask, hopefully.

“I still have to do some price comparisons and look into a few other details. But your lack of enthusiasm about this venue is duly noted.”

Nana's nonanswer isn't totally reassuring, and her chilly tone is intended to make me feel bad, but I'm a little bit relieved anyway. At least this is the last “venue” of the day. I snap a photo of the Buckingham ballroom while Nana isn't looking and send it to Frankie and Lillian.
Gotta go,
I type.
My carriage awaits.

Outside by the car Nana says she's staying in Manhattan and will get a cab home. She tells the driver to take me back to Brooklyn. “And don't try anything funny,” she warns him, giving him a distinctive Nana
Silver glare. “That's my granddaughter and I know what you look like and where you work.” She makes a show of studying his ID posted on the dashboard and takes a picture with her phone.

I slink down into my seat. Nana's protectiveness is sweet, I guess, but I feel terrible for the driver, who has been extremely professional and perfectly nice to us all day.

“Sorry,” I say as we pull into traffic.

The driver (whose name is Vikas, according to the card I've read at least a hundred times) laughs. “No worries,” he says. “You are lucky to have a grandmother who cares only for your happiness.”

Now it's my turn to laugh.
Ha!
I think.
My happiness? If you only knew.

“This Spanish assignment is giving me a stomachache,” Lillian says. We're over at Frankie's doing our homework in the kitchen, which is the only room that is temporarily free of her brothers and assorted random boys throughout the house. Her dad is not on duty today, so he's apparently doing little repairs all over the place—tightening hinges on doors, patching small holes in plaster, changing a shower head. The Caputos' house takes a beating, I guess, because
Frankie's dad is always doing this kind of thing—when he's not in the kitchen cooking, I mean.

“You're probably just hungry,” I tell Lillian. “Check out the cabinet next to the microwave—it's where the Caputos keep their snacks.”

“Is that okay, Frankie?” Lillian asks. Sometimes I forget that she hasn't grown up in our houses the way Frankie and I have in each other's.

“Huh?” Frankie looks up at the sound of her name. For some reason she's been pouring over the “Spring Clubs and Teams” flyer Ms. Hirshman handed out in advisory today. “Oh, sure. Yeah, take whatever you want.”

Lillian opens the snack cabinet and practically has a stroke. “Oh my God, Liza—look at all this food!”

I've seen the contents of the snack cabinet a thousand times, but it's not something you ever get used to. There's a shelf full of chips of every kind—potato, tortilla, barbecue, salt and vinegar, veggie sticks, you name it, if it's salty and crunches,
it's there—and another that's crammed with cookies. The rest of the shelves are stocked with cereal, crackers, granola bars, “healthy” Pop-Tarts, and pretty much anything else that exists to satisfy the munchies. The crazy thing is, between Frankie and her brothers (especially her brothers) and all of their friends, the Caputos can easily clean out the entire cabinet in a week. Frankie's dad must have gone grocery shopping this morning.

“I know—it's like a dream come true,” I say, thinking of the pathetically empty shelves in our kitchen. When we have snacks around, my mother goes for healthy, organic stuff because of Cole. But sometimes you need junk food . . . “So what are we having?”

I recognize Lillian's stunned expression as she stares into the cabinet: snack sensory overload. “I have no idea,” she says. “I want it all. My parents probably don't even know the snack aisle in the supermarket exists.”

Frankie puts down the flyer and looks at Lillian
and the overflowing snack closet. “Yeah, we have a ton of it. My brothers eat round the clock, but I am not that into that stuff. You guys can have whatever, though.”

Lillian and I exchange a look. We may really like good food, but we're definitely not against snack food too. At least, we never used to be.

“Come on, Frankie, you love cheese curls. And you made nachos in Señora Valentin's microwave for lunch last week.”

“I think you've been spending too much time at my house,” says Lillian, reaching for the family-size box of microwave popcorn packets. “You're starting to sound like Katie.”

“No I'm not,” Frankie says, her cheeks turning pink. “I'm just tired of living with a bunch of pigs.” She gets up and opens the cabinet above the sink.

“Wow—you guys have so much pasta!” Lillian says, her eyes practically popping out like an anime cartoon. “And so many different kinds!”

Full-on blushing now, Frankie slams the door shut and shoves a jar at Lillian. “Hey, Lillian, let's make this instead.”

Lillian takes the jar, which is full of dried corn kernels, and looks skeptically at Frankie. “But why? Microwave popcorn is so much easier.”