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the kids she had grown up with. Anyhow, she was never that close with any of them. She’d had some laughs with the two Melissas, out in Bay Ridge or Canarsie, and she spent a lot of time with Joanne Galbo and Mary DiMaggio in the Kearney days, but that was it. Stephanie Dirello, who used to live right up the block with her family and maybe still did, was the one girl she’d gone to school with for twelve years, at Most Precious Blood and at Kearney, and she used to see her in church every Saturday night, and sometimes they’d do homework together after school on the bus, but they’d never really been close friends, just two girls who lived a few houses apart. But she was nice, Stephanie. Always wore a too-big Mark Messier jersey. Maybe she’d go knock on Stephanie’s door, see if she was still in the neighborhood.
    Alessandra took a front door key and kissed her father on the head and walked up the block to what she hoped was where Stephanie still lived. Chances were she’d moved out years ago, but you never knew around here. People lived with their parents forever. Scary thought. Alessandra had only been back for a few hours and she was already itching to find her own place.
    Alessandra walked into the yard and knocked on the front door. The mailbox still said Dirello.
    “You’re who?” Stephanie’s mother said, opening up, right on top of it, as if she’d been waiting for a knock.
    Alessandra said, “Hey, Mrs. Dirello, I’m Alessandra Biagini. You remember me? From up the block? I went to school with Stephanie.”
    “It’s late.”
    “I’m sorry. It’s just eight. I got home today and I thought I’d see if Stephanie still lived here.”
    “Of course she lives here. She’s gonna go where?”
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dirello. Can I talk to her?”
    Mrs. Dirello looked at her through slitty eyes. She was wearing a housecoat, and Alessandra noticed liver spots on her arms and all of these little brown moles that drooped from her skin like withered worms and networks of varicose veins that tattooed her calves. “You’re who?”
    “Alessandra from the block. You don’t remember me?”
    “Stephanie!” Mrs. Dirello said over her shoulder. Then to Alessandra: “You stay out there.”
    “Okay,” Alessandra said. “Thanks so much.”
    “You trying to sell us something? I don’t need those chocolate bars. I buy chocolate from Chinese Mary’s son.”
    “I’m not selling chocolate.”
    Stephanie appeared behind her mother. She was wearing an over-sized sweatshirt and jean shorts. She looked pretty much the same except she didn’t have braces. Her hair was frizzed out and she wore cheapo glasses probably from the Eyeglass Factory on West Twelfth. She still had a thin mustache too, had never taken the time to wax it or pluck it. Maybe Alessandra could help her out, give her a makeover. The possibilities. “Hi, Steph,” Alessandra said. “Been a long time.”
    “Alessandra?” Stephanie said. “Wow. What’re you doing here?”
    “Trying to sell us something, I think,” Mrs. Dirello said.
    Stephanie pushed past her mother. “Give us a second here, Ma,” she said. Mrs. Dirello huffed back into the house, and Stephanie opened the door. “You look great, Alessandra. Wow. You really look like an actress.”
    “Thanks. You look great, too. Haven’t changed.”
    Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Guys are knocking down the door, trying to get under my big sweatshirt.”
    Alessandra laughed. She’d forgotten Stephanie could be really funny. And that accent. Man, Alessandra was happy she’d lost hers. Stephanie’s was thick, cruddy. “I just got home today. Haven’t been here in a long time.”
    “Your mother,” Stephanie said. “I’m so sorry.”
    “Thank you.”
    “She used to talk about you all the time. I’d see her where I work, she’d be picking up your dad’s blood pressure pills, and she’d talk about you. ‘Alessandra’s starring in this movie, she’s doing this commercial.’ She