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the way to the bakery. The reason I wanted to talk to Uncle Buddy instead of my mom or dad was because they had something else on their minds rather than me. It was an odd chapter in our lives, not unlike when Lou was born, except that instead of a baby, they were preoccupied by a secret.
    I came to think of this period as the beginning of the “whispered conversations.”
    My parents stopped talking abruptly whenever I entered the room and would mutter in the kitchen or in their bedroom late at night.
    It would not end until my family disappeared.
    One of the first times I eavesdropped on them, the subject seemed to be money.
    Only days before Gina’s birthday party, I’d listened at their door as my dad spoke in low tones about having  “enough to live on,” which had never been an issue at our house. My mother wondered how we would make ends meet “when we go through with it.”
    “ If we go through with it,” my dad said.
    “Anthony. We have to eventually. We can’t go on like this forever.”
    “You’re right, Teresa. The time is coming. Besides, it’s the right thing to do.”
    I wouldn’t understand what they were talking about for a long time. But once I did, it would be plain how hard their decision had been, and what it had cost our family.
    At the time, though, with Walter’s fresh spearmint flavor on my lips and Mandi’s bitter epithet ringing in my ears, I couldn’t stand the thought of not having a family member’s complete attention. I pushed through the bakery door, the bell jingling madly, and rushed past my grandma, who was cleaning the display case. Lou sat on the marble counter eating a melassa biscotto —a rich molasses cookie. Next to him was his perpetual sidekick and best friend, Harry, glaring at me with hatred.
    Harry was an Italian greyhound.
    To me, he looked like a sleek, oversized rat.
    Harry disliked me intensely and I felt the same way about him, but we both loved Lou with all of our hearts, so we tolerated each other, barely.
    As I think back now, it’s plain that our mutual revulsion was based on simple jealousy. Lou is one of the coolest kids I know (and cutest, with my mom’s jet-black hair and a lighter version of the Rispoli blue eyes) with an intellect that surpasses his age. Not only is he incredibly smart, but he can rip through and absorb massive amounts of material—books, maps, journals, essays, DVDs, you name it—and synthesize it so he can put the knowledge to actual, practical use. What I mean is that when he researches a subject and then thoroughly analyzes the result, Lou can be good at—well, anything. Something nudges his attention, then captures it, and then he masters it. For a while it was photography (he built his own camera) and then abstract expressionism (he painted his bedroom magenta, black, green, and orange a la Mark Rothko) and then physics (he constructed a mini-volcano to test Galileo’s law of falling bodies) and on and on. With his analytical and deductive abilities, we all knew he was destined for something great. My parents’ attitude was to let him try as many things as he wanted until he found it for himself.
    That’s how Harry came into the house.
    Lou developed an irrepressible interest in studying animal behavior.
    He was obsessed with the idea of training the untrainable.
    His research showed that the most effective way was an obscure method called “salutary discipline.” It was created on the premise that animals had shared the earth with people for so long that they had a much deeper comprehension of human language than they were given credit for. Lou believed that if he spoke to them politely and with empathy, as equals, they would respond in kind. When he was ready for a real challenge, we went to the rescue shelter and requested the meanest dog with the lousiest attitude and nastiest disposition. Harry was brought out, scarred and snarling, straining on a leash. Maybe Lou was right, animals really do understand human