A Summer Like No Other Read online

  “You’re a better dancer than you give yourself credit for,” I tell her instead.

  She shakes her head, pokes my chest. “I am an amazing dancer. But I know my place. I’m not the best dancer yet. I worry about my technique too much.” She pauses. “Anyways, it’s not about my dancing. It’s about the fact that you’re going out with Jen. She doesn’t even like you.”

  My hand on my chest, I wince. “Hey, that hurts. Everyone likes me.” Jen told me dating me was helping her social status at the school, so I didn’t feel that bad about going out with her. She was using me, like I was using her.

  “Every girl thinks you’re hot. There’s a difference.” I must look hurt because Em frowns. “Fine, you’re right. Everyone likes you.”

  I laugh. “I’m pretty likable. And glad to know you think I’m hot.” I should stop this conversation right here and right now. “I have to rehearse, but I guess we’ll see each other around.”

  “Pretty hard to avoid it.”

  It’s getting pretty hard to avoid the...hardness down south too, but I can’t let Em know about that. Em, who’s totally off-limits. Em, who I can’t stop thinking about. Em, who I know damn well I could hurt.

  “See you around,” I tell her and turn to the stereo on the side of the room. I hand her the Madonna CD, careful not to touch her fingers because I have only so much self-restraint.

  She rushes out, grabbing her clothes and putting them on quickly before slamming the door behind her.

  I close my eyes, breathing deeply.

  Spending the entire summer with Em, dancing with Em, laughing with Em, talking with Em. Kissing Em. Caressing Em.

  Both my heads seem to like that plan.

  Fuck.

  CHAPTER 3 – EM

  The heat engulfs me. Even with an AC barely functioning, the building stayed somewhat cooler than the outside inferno. That or my entire body is in flames. There was a moment.

  A moment like you see in movies, or read about in books.

  I’m not sure if it was the way he was looking at me, the way he smiled when he first saw me, the way his voice turned much lower when he said I looked beautiful.

  But it doesn’t matter.

  He’s seeing Jen. Perfect Jen. Jen with her perfect skin and perfect smile and perfect ballet technique. Jen who feels entitled to everything, who does her best to sabotage me every chance she gets. Jen who fucking hates me. Ever since she dated Nick and he dumped her, she’s hated me.

  I enter Central Park instead of going straight into the subway, barely avoiding a group of tourists who are walking while taking pictures of everything.

  I breathe in the sweet smell of cotton candy, a pang of regret and longing in my chest. Nick and I used to eat cotton candy in the Hamptons at least once every summer. It was something we did together, just the two of us, kind of an unspoken tradition.

  I shake my head and stride through the crowds. Jen or no Jen. Moment or no moment. Nothing is going to change. He’s got this weird bro code with Roberto that he can’t date me, and he changes girlfriends as quickly as his pas de deux. And man, he can spin.

  “Can you be careful where you’re going?” a lady with a strong French accent hisses. She’s holding two kids by the hands. One of them has an ice cream cone almost bigger than his face, and my bag swings dangerously close to it.

  “I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of my mouth and I hurry out of the way.

  She mutters something I don’t understand and then pulls her children with her.

  My La Vie en Rose ringtone is almost too perfect for this moment. The woman turns around and actually smiles at me. One of those I’m-tired-and-sorry-I-was-bitchy smile. And the more I look at her, the more I see the lines underneath her eyes, the tears gathered in them, the way she keeps on looking behind her as if she’s expecting someone else to be with her. But there’s no one.

  “Hi,” I pick up.

  “Hey sis, are you sleeping at the studio?” Roberto sounds amused.

  “I’m on my way to Nonna’s and then I’ll head home. Where are you?”

  “I’ll be home soon,” he replies, avoiding my question in true Roberto-fashion. And then he continues, “Did you run into Nick? He wanted to go rehearse too. He said something about a certain list you should be using.”

  My mouth gapes open. “You talked to Nick about my rehearsal?” I stop walking. “By the way, I didn’t know you went to his place last night to play.”

  “It was about time.” Roberto sighs. “It’s not his fault Dad got fired.”

  My chest constricts remembering the look on Dad’s face when he told us he no longer had a job. “I know.”

  Roberto clears his throat—his usual sign he doesn’t want to get all sentimental. “Nick and I are planning on finding ways to have a blast since we’re both stuck in hell for the summer. I’m sweating so much it’s repulsive.” He pauses. “The beach. That’s more my scene. Anyways, wanted to let you know we’re going to be moving some boxes in the pod tonight. Fun times.”

  “You know how to make everything fun,” I reply.

  “Be careful. See ya, sis.” He hangs up and my eyes search for the woman with the two kids. They’re by the Bethesda fountain. Nick and Roberto love that place because it’s the starting point for Delta in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3. I have a love/hate relationship with the fountain because that’s where I thought Nick was going to kiss me for the first time last winter. But instead of feeling his lips on mine, he kissed my cheek, cleared his throat and mumbled something about me being Roberto’s little sister.

  The kids splash each other, while the woman holds the cone, ice cream running down her fingers. She laughs once but then stops as if she shouldn’t be laughing, as if the sound is all wrong.

  “On y va,” she tells her boys, who follow her without complaint, holding on to her like she’s their lifesaver.

  Before I can say anything—and really, what would I say?—she disappears into Central Park. We’re the same height, have the same dark brown hair color, the same lost battle with our frizzy curls. And I have one of those sinking feelings that she could be my mother—or someone similar to my mother. She looked ready to collapse from sadness.

  But at the same time, she seemed to be fighting for her kids’ happiness.

  Maybe that’s what my mother did when she dropped me off at the hospital when I was only a newborn.

  She was fighting.

  My mind reels during the entire ride to Brooklyn, where my grandmother Nonna lives. Between the encounter with the woman and knowing Nick was well aware I was in the studio, I’m equal parts excited and anxious about this summer, about seeing Nick, about looking for my birth parents. It could go wrong in so many ways, but maybe it will all work out, maybe it’s going to be the best summer of my life. The train isn’t as crowded as during the school year and I actually grab a seat—next to a woman about Mom’s age who seems to be deep in her book.

  To busy my hands, I pull out my cell from its designated spot in my bag—or as Roberto calls it, my OCD bag where everything has its place—and log into Facebook. Jen and I may not talk much, but we’re “friends” on there. I click on her profile picture—the one where she’s dancing a solo at last year’s showcase—and scroll through her page.

  She has a picture of the Eiffel Tower and then her status update says, “Paris was amazing. Loved shopping on the Champs, and visiting the Opera, but now time to get serious.” She posted the link to the Lyon Opéra de Ballet. She did mention knowing someone over there.

  She’s posting pictures from France, she’s been there for the past four days, she’s checking out some dance companies in France.

  Nick’s such a liar. I’m not quite sure if I should laugh about it or be offended. After all, he made up going on a date with Jen to simply avoid spending more time with me—but then why did he come to the studio when he knew I’d be there?

  “Asshole,” I mutter and the lady next to me whispers, “Tell me about it.”
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  We exchange a commiserating glance and then she gets back to her book. Something about being almost fifty and starting new again.

  I’m not even seventeen yet, and I have the feeling I need to start all over again.

  Note to heart: find someone else to have a crush on.

  Note to self: stop talking to yourself, people might think you’re weird.

  I’m so deep in thought I almost miss my stop.

  With my gym bag on my shoulder, I slide outside the metro and hurry up the stairs, turn right into the crowded street and take a deep breath when a breeze of air finally blows my way. The humidity and stuffiness of the last few days have almost been too much.

  I miss the Hamptons.

  In the Hamptons, I could sit on the sand, my legs in the water, enjoying the little wind by the sea.

  In the Hamptons, it was all about bonfires, and laughter, and getting a tan, and time with Nick. Nick, who gave me his sweater when I was shivering one night on the beach. Nick, who always made sure I was having a good time. Nick, who makes it very hard to not fall for him.

  But we had to sell the house we owned there. And when Dad told us about it, I managed to keep a smile on my face. There’s no reason he should suffer even more knowing that we’re disappointed. He’s already so sad about everything.

  Some new family is making new memories.

  Good for them.

  Nonna’s restaurant is on the corner of the next block. I stop to clear my mind. Nonna can tell right away if I’m sad or worried or preoccupied. But my smile is genuine when I spot the big sign Nonna placed in front of her restaurant. “The Best Italian Food in New York—almost better than in Italy”. She added a few tables outside, and one of the waiters is trying to convince a couple that they should experience Nonna’s lasagna for themselves.

  I slide past them and push the restaurant’s door open. The AC blasts right in my face and I shiver.

  “Hi Nonna,” I call for my grandmother, who’s been treating Brooklyn to her famous Italian dishes for the past forty years. I overhear her in the kitchen talking about some new dish she wants to make. And then she struts my way, her gray hair in a chignon, her black dress covered with a white apron. She’s been wearing black ever since Poppa passed away two years ago.

  “Hi, Bellisima,” she replies and gives me a big hug. “I’m glad you’re coming to see me.”

  “You know I always love to come here. Plus, no one is home yet. Dad is at work. Mom is at some charity event and Roberto is...somewhere either cramming for that research group he’s part of this summer, or hanging out with some friends.”

  “Are you here to help me bake my famous baked Ziti, Bellisima?”

  “I’d love to,” I reply. “Let me wash my hands.” The restaurant’s not quite full yet, but the kitchen is already busy, preparing the main dish for the evening.

  My Nonna hands me the onions. “Cut them like I taught you to.”

  And for the next thirty minutes, we cook in silence. It’s one thing I love about being here with her. No questions, no judgment, no expectations except to be myself.

  And for the thousandth time, I promise myself that no matter what I end up finding, no matter who my blood family is, no matter my feelings, I will never hurt my parents, Roberto or my grandparents.

  Never.

  CHAPTER 4 - NICK

  My steps are all wrong. My jumps aren’t high enough, not fast enough, not good enough. My tempo majorly sucks.

  I rub the back of my neck.

  This is one of the worst training sessions I’ve ever had. And I’ve had pretty bad ones in the past.

  I need to get my shit together. Daddy Dearest is looking for any possible weaknesses, he’s pushing me to stop thinking I can make a career out of dancing, he’s threatening to pull the money plug. And it’s too late to get a scholarship. So far, Mom’s been on my side and Dad wants to avoid a scandal. But I need to do better.

  I drop my bag in the hallway, already hearing my father telling me that it’s not in its place. I almost bring it with me upstairs but then again, annoying my dad is half of the fun. The house is almost too cold, and I’m not sure if it’s the fact the AC is set to sixty-five or because our family’s been in a deep let’s-pretend-everything-is-okay hole.

  “You’re home.” Mom’s in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of lemonade. Her hair is half-up, half-down, kind of crazy, compared to the very strict way she usually has it up. And she’s wearing sweats for the first time in her life.

  “What’s up?” I ask and sit at the counter. She offers me a glass of lemonade which I take in my hands, still searching for any signs that she’s either lost it, or maybe she’s slugging back a cocktail a little earlier than usual.

  “I’m going on vacation.” She sips her lemonade, staring into space. “On spa-cation.”

  “Okay.” I enunciate slowly, raising my eyes to the ceiling. Mom going to the spa is as new as me wanting to become a professional dancer.

  Mom places a hand over mine. And I almost jolt back. That’s new. Personal contact in this house isn’t the norm. Mom air-kisses her friends, she gives me the occasional hug (the birthday hug, the Christmas hug, the celebratory-in-front-of-everyone hug after a show). She never touches my hand like she’s doing right now—like she wants to pass on some sort of message to me, which I don’t understand.

  “It might be a long spa-cation. I need some distance,” she says and bites her lip. “Not from you. Never from you. You know that, right?”

  “I’m pretty hard to be away from,” I joke because I have no clue what else to do in this situation, and it’s easier than to dwell on the reasons she wants to leave. Mom and Dad have been fighting a lot. Even more than usual.

  She removes her hand and her bland smile is back on. “True. Anyways. Be good while I’m gone.” She doesn’t tell me to listen to my father. Interesting.

  “Always. I’m the definition of good.” Good at school. Good at dancing. Good in bed. Hmm, not something Mom probably wants to hear.

  “I have to pack. I’m going to the same place as always. Come visit me?” Her tone is all over the place between sad and excited, as if she’s not sure what emotion she should convey.

  “Of course, I will.”

  “I’m leaving in an hour.”

  That means if I didn’t come home now, I probably wouldn’t have seen her. I would have gotten one of her handwritten notes on my desk that may have said more about the reasons behind her spa-cation.

  She’s more truthful on paper.

  CHAPTER 5 - EM

  Nonna pulls her cannoli recipe in front of me. It’s full of scribbles and marks, like “Did this recipe to celebrate our twenty-year anniversary. Needed more sugar.”

  She sets the ingredients on the table in the far right corner of the kitchen, where the service is slowing down. “Come on, Bellisima. I’m thinking of serving those during coffee time tomorrow.” She kisses my cheek. “Call me if you need help, or can’t read my handwriting.” She goes back inside the restaurant, where she always makes a point to talk to every single family, to every single customer.

  My hands are deep in yummy, creamy dough when Mom waltzes into the kitchen in her favorite cocktail dress, the one she says reminds her of Grace Kelly: elegant but understated in its elegance. It’s perfect for her: it highlights her blue eyes, and she does look like a movie star with the way the navy sequin dress floats at the bottom.

  “I didn’t know you were coming in,” I tell her after she kisses my forehead, not caring I might be getting flour on her clothes.

  “I thought you’d like to share the driver with me, instead of taking the metro.”

  “The driver?” My voice rises and I clear my throat.

  “Don’t look so worried. I’m not crazy. The other organizers of the gala decided I needed a driver to go back home, and I decided I’d share the comfort with you.”

  I go along with the pretend-game and smile too. “Great! It’s so humid my hair is scary fr
izzy.”

  “Did you convince all those important people to give money?” Nonna asks when she steps into the kitchen again, and then continues without waiting for an answer. “Did you mention the restaurant to them? I can picture them eating my pesto and realizing they’ve never had something so good.” Nonna laughs.

  “I did mention the restaurant to a few people,” Mom says, taking a bite of the pastry Nonna’s handing to her.

  “So the event went well?” I roll the dough one last time before washing my hands.

  “Good, good...the event was good.” She sighs and bites her lip again, but then she must see me staring at her teeth because she laughs. “It’s all fine. It’s the last charity event I was organizing and then, we almost have a buyer for the house in Manhattan. It’s going to be fine. By September, we’ll be living next door from here, and we’ll get to eat at Nonna’s every single day.” She gives me a hug and I squeeze her back. “How was your practice?”

  “Nick was there—apparently I have to register for the room online over the summer. I didn’t think I needed to book anything, but whatever.”

  Mom chews her lip again. “I’m so happy Nick and Roberto are back to normal. Roberto told me they hung out at Nick’s house last night.” Mom’s smile turns brighter and more real. “And I’m glad you’re not holding a grudge against him. I really hope you kids don’t suffer from what’s going on. This has nothing to do with you.” She pauses. “Nick should come to dinner soon.”

  Nonna jumps into the conversation, clapping her hands. “Yes, yes. Nicholas should come to dinner. I’ll make him lasagna, he loves my lasagna,” she says. “You used to think Nick was cute, no?” And as always, Nonna doesn’t have a filter when it comes to my private life. I kiss her cheek.