was really proud of you. And she was such a character. She’d go around with her shopping cart, just pushing people out of the way.”
“I miss her, yeah. I didn’t get home, but we talked a lot.”
Stephanie lowered her voice. “My mother’s half-a-psycho. She doesn’t leave the house. It’s making her crazy.”
Alessandra shrugged. “You want to come out, get a drink?”
“I don’t really drink.”
“Just for the company then. I need a drink out, I want to catch up.”
“Where?”
“Not many options. Wrong Number?”
Stephanie said, “Heck. Let me go up, change clothes. Come in and sit down.”
“I’ll wait out here,” Alessandra said.
Stephanie disappeared up a back staircase and Mrs. Dirello followed fast on her heels. Alessandra could hear her, saying she better not think she was going out, what did she think she was doing, this girl out front was all whored up and looking for trouble.
Girl was twenty-nine. Imagine. Living like she was still fourteen. Alessandra couldn’t get over it.
Stephanie came out a few minutes later, wearing jeans that rode high above her waist and a pink blouse with ruffled shoulders. She’d put some rouge on her cheeks, with a spray gun it looked like, and her lipstick squiggled out at the corners. “I’m ready,” she said. “ Voila . Watch them line up.” She curtsied.
Alessandra laughed again.
“Never could figure out how to make myself look nice,” Stephanie said.
“You do look nice,” Alessandra said.
“So acting and lying are pretty much the same thing, right?”
The Wrong Number wasn’t as much of a dive as she remembered. Or maybe they’d cleaned it up. It wasn’t a big glossy sports bar by any stretch, but it also wasn’t an end-of-the-world shithole. Alessandra ordered a gin-and-tonic from the bartender with the aped-out chest and waxy chin and Stephanie got a ginger ale with a lime wedge. They sat at a booth in the back by a jukebox and talked over a Budweiser bottle corked with a low-burning pumpkin-scented candle. “It’s just crazy to be back,” Alessandra said. “So crazy.”
“I can’t imagine,” Stephanie said.
“So, you’re what? A pharmacist?”
“At Rite Aid over on Twenty-Fifth Avenue. Conway D’Innocenzio works there. You remember him?”
“Sat behind me in homeroom for nine years.”
“He’s a stock boy. Works the register sometimes.”
“We were out at the cemetery today, visiting my mother, and we saw Duncan’s grave. Made me remember the whole thing. Hadn’t thought of it in years.”
Stephanie said, “Family never got over that. Conway lived in the Bronx for a few years but he got into drugs pretty bad and wound up coming home. Frankie’s just a shell. Mother’s gone, just whoosh, disappeared one day.” She looked over at the bartender and nodded in his direction. He was pulling a draft for a hook-nosed old timer in a Yankees cap with a flat brim. “You know who that is?”
“The bartender?” Alessandra said.
“Teemo. Ran with Ray Boy Calabrese. He got out years ago. You remember the trial and everything?”
“I could forget?” Alessandra paused. “You got any cigarettes?”
“I don’t,” Stephanie said.
“Christ, it’s weird to be home.”
Teemo came over to the table with a dishrag over his shoulder. “You ladies okay?” he said, only looking at Alessandra.
“Fine,” Stephanie said.
He smelled like ten different kinds of shitty cologne and wore designer jeans with pre-ripped holes and a frayed waistband and had a fake tan that had left orange run marks on his neck and arms. His white sneakers were spotless. “Just checking in,” he said, getting closer to Alessandra. “Don’t want you ladies to be thirsty.”
Alessandra said nothing, ignored him.
“I know you?” he said to her.
“No,” Alessandra said, though they’d been at the same parties hanging out a dozen times in high school. She didn’t really know him, hadn’t hooked up with him or anything,
“I miss her, yeah. I didn’t get home, but we talked a lot.”
Stephanie lowered her voice. “My mother’s half-a-psycho. She doesn’t leave the house. It’s making her crazy.”
Alessandra shrugged. “You want to come out, get a drink?”
“I don’t really drink.”
“Just for the company then. I need a drink out, I want to catch up.”
“Where?”
“Not many options. Wrong Number?”
Stephanie said, “Heck. Let me go up, change clothes. Come in and sit down.”
“I’ll wait out here,” Alessandra said.
Stephanie disappeared up a back staircase and Mrs. Dirello followed fast on her heels. Alessandra could hear her, saying she better not think she was going out, what did she think she was doing, this girl out front was all whored up and looking for trouble.
Girl was twenty-nine. Imagine. Living like she was still fourteen. Alessandra couldn’t get over it.
Stephanie came out a few minutes later, wearing jeans that rode high above her waist and a pink blouse with ruffled shoulders. She’d put some rouge on her cheeks, with a spray gun it looked like, and her lipstick squiggled out at the corners. “I’m ready,” she said. “ Voila . Watch them line up.” She curtsied.
Alessandra laughed again.
“Never could figure out how to make myself look nice,” Stephanie said.
“You do look nice,” Alessandra said.
“So acting and lying are pretty much the same thing, right?”
The Wrong Number wasn’t as much of a dive as she remembered. Or maybe they’d cleaned it up. It wasn’t a big glossy sports bar by any stretch, but it also wasn’t an end-of-the-world shithole. Alessandra ordered a gin-and-tonic from the bartender with the aped-out chest and waxy chin and Stephanie got a ginger ale with a lime wedge. They sat at a booth in the back by a jukebox and talked over a Budweiser bottle corked with a low-burning pumpkin-scented candle. “It’s just crazy to be back,” Alessandra said. “So crazy.”
“I can’t imagine,” Stephanie said.
“So, you’re what? A pharmacist?”
“At Rite Aid over on Twenty-Fifth Avenue. Conway D’Innocenzio works there. You remember him?”
“Sat behind me in homeroom for nine years.”
“He’s a stock boy. Works the register sometimes.”
“We were out at the cemetery today, visiting my mother, and we saw Duncan’s grave. Made me remember the whole thing. Hadn’t thought of it in years.”
Stephanie said, “Family never got over that. Conway lived in the Bronx for a few years but he got into drugs pretty bad and wound up coming home. Frankie’s just a shell. Mother’s gone, just whoosh, disappeared one day.” She looked over at the bartender and nodded in his direction. He was pulling a draft for a hook-nosed old timer in a Yankees cap with a flat brim. “You know who that is?”
“The bartender?” Alessandra said.
“Teemo. Ran with Ray Boy Calabrese. He got out years ago. You remember the trial and everything?”
“I could forget?” Alessandra paused. “You got any cigarettes?”
“I don’t,” Stephanie said.
“Christ, it’s weird to be home.”
Teemo came over to the table with a dishrag over his shoulder. “You ladies okay?” he said, only looking at Alessandra.
“Fine,” Stephanie said.
He smelled like ten different kinds of shitty cologne and wore designer jeans with pre-ripped holes and a frayed waistband and had a fake tan that had left orange run marks on his neck and arms. His white sneakers were spotless. “Just checking in,” he said, getting closer to Alessandra. “Don’t want you ladies to be thirsty.”
Alessandra said nothing, ignored him.
“I know you?” he said to her.
“No,” Alessandra said, though they’d been at the same parties hanging out a dozen times in high school. She didn’t really know him, hadn’t hooked up with him or anything,
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