Cold Fury

Lou and me. My dad smiled at us but didn’t look happy, while Uncle Buddy didn’t look at us at all. They pushed through the double doors, and then I saw my mom across the room, watching the scene unfold. She hurried after them, and I rose to follow.

“Wait,” Lou said, grabbing my hand. “Can I come too?”

“I think it’s better if you stay here,” I said.

He hooked a pinkie at me and said, “But I thought it was all or nothing?”

Lou was just as suspicious as I was, but suddenly he seemed like such a little kid. I wasn’t sure he could handle what was going on between my dad and Uncle Buddy, and I didn’t want him to worry. So I hooked his pinkie and said, “We are, even if we’re not together. Wait here, okay? I’ll be back.” Without another word I hurried across the room and through the kitchen, past busboys and line cooks, and stopped in my tracks, ducking behind a tall shelf crowded with canned tomatoes. My mom and dad were talking hurriedly and quietly just on the other side, heads close together.

My dad said, “He’s out there in the parking lot, waiting for me.”

“What does he want?” my mom asked, trying to stay calm. “Does he know, Anthony? Does he know about. . the plan?”

My dad paused. “He dropped some hints but I’m not sure. It could just be Buddy being Buddy.”

“Buddy’s being a jealous asshole,” my mom said tersely, surprising me, since she rarely, if ever, cursed. “You have to get him to back off. . he could ruin everything. Your dad’s death, sweetheart, it’s a tragedy. You know that I loved him like he was my own father. I wish he could’ve lived forever, but. .”

“But it’s the chance we’ve been waiting for, for a long time,” my dad said. “Go back inside, Teresa, pretend like everything’s fine. I’ll take care of Buddy.” They embraced, and then my mom hurried past without seeing me, and my dad stepped out the back door, into the parking lot.

I followed him carefully, looking left and right, and spotted them next to Uncle Buddy’s convertible. It was like watching TV on mute, my dad with the palms of his hands extended, mouthing silent words while Uncle Buddy talked back, his jaw snapping and head shaking violently. My dad crossed his arms and listened, and then it was his turn to shake his head. He looked so tired, so worn down, and finally he fluttered a hand in the air and turned to walk away.

In slow motion, I watched Uncle Buddy yank his shoulder and spin him around.

I saw Uncle Buddy make a fist and go into an uppercut crouch to hit my dad.

I watched my dad bob and weave, and then lean inside with a gorgeous left hook that found its target on Uncle Buddy’s big jaw.

It was the only noise I heard across the parking lot-a hard, sharp pop of knuckle on bone-as Uncle Buddy disappeared from sight, and I realized that he had gone down. And then my dad was helping him up, my uncle wobbly on his feet but pushing him away, hard. My dad spoke to him again with his palms out, silently apologizing, but Uncle Buddy stormed away without looking back.

Greta was a slowly moving glacier, but Grandpa Enzo’s death was a lightning bolt from the blue.

And my dad knocking down Uncle Buddy was a tremor before the earthquake that would split the Rispoli family apart.

6

Everyone lives a self-centered life.

From the world’s greatest humanitarian to those incredible nuns who work in slums, everyone wakes up each morning thinking about herself.

Whether it’s trivial, like what’s for breakfast, or more ambitious, like achieving some lofty goal, a person is constantly on her own mind.

How else can I explain the fact that, despite what was happening in my family, I was still focused on myself? My grandpa had died only a week earlier, my parents whispered something about a mysterious plan, my frustrated dad punched my rotten uncle in his stupid face, and I was genuinely worried about all of it. Yet, when I opened my eyes each morning, what did I immediately obsess over?

Not having a date for the spring dance, which was one lousy month away.

Graduating with honors, which meant a trip to Italy as a reward from my parents.

Studying Italian so I could speak like a native, or at least not embarrass myself.

Me, me, me.

There wasn’t much I could do about being dateless-no one had asked me and there was no one I wanted to ask-so, even though it was two years until graduation, I focused on school even more. Honors required not just good grades but also the elusive “well-roundedness” on the part of a student. That’s why I was a member of the Environmental Club (we planted trees-yawn) and Red Cross Club (we gave blood-ouch) and eventually decided that I should shake things up and make my own mark on Fep Prep.

What better way than forming an organization and naming myself president?

I considered a boxing club, but it felt too personal-something I didn’t want to share with the whole school. It was my mom who suggested a movie club, leaning over and whispering it while she, my dad, Lou, and I watched The Third Man for the millionth time. We were jammed, as usual, on the big leather couch, with Lou the keeper of the popcorn. He shushed my mom since it was his favorite scene-Holly Martins (yep, a guy named Holly) meets Harry Lime (yep, Harry’s namesake) on a Ferris wheel, seeing but not quite believing that his friend, whom he thought was dead, is in fact alive. Each time we watched the scene, Lou hugged his knees and said the same thing.

“Meeting on a Ferris wheel, high in the sky, where no one can see them,” he said quietly. “Private and dangerous. . perfect.”

Like I mentioned before, The Third Man is Lou’s favorite movie, and my dad’s too. My mom loves Bette Davis’s self-confidence in All About Eve, while I can’t get enough of Pulp Fiction, especially the character Butch, a boxer who fights off some very icky guys in a basement. All in all, the best way to say it is that we’re a family of movie geeks, and based on that, I started the Classic Movie Club.

The Fep Prep student body was less than enthusiastic, to say the least.

The only other member was Fep Prep’s (maybe the world’s) most unpopular sophomore, Doug Stuffins.

His name, by a twist of fate, perfectly defines what he looks like and who he is-incredibly puffy, his three- hundred-pound body stuffed full of junk food, and incredibly smart, his giant brain stuffed full of movie information.

I met Doug during our freshman year in homeroom-my R last name seated near his S last name-when he turned to me as the teacher droned on about something, and whispered, “You look like an Italian film actress from the sixties.”

“I do?” I whispered back. “Which one?”

“All of them,” he said with a wink of his piggy eye.

When I sat across from him the next day, he waved and said, “Ciao, bella”-“Hi, beautiful” in Italian-not in a flirty way, but appreciatively. He’d paid me two nice compliments in two days, and for a girl with a very real issue with her very Italian nose, there are few better ways to start a friendship. We talked every day, covering all of the essential subjects-his lousy home life, my super close relationship with my family, the stunning lack of romance in our lives. The one thing we never discussed, maybe out of sensitivity for each other’s feelings, was our unpopularity-his by decree of the student body, mine mostly by choice. I probably wouldn’t have had a problem dating; I didn’t like how I looked, but some guys seemed to be okay with it. But the insularity of my family had gotten into my bones, and so I never pursued a bunch of friends. Doug was different than other kids because, in his isolation, he was the same as me. We bonded over being outsiders and, of course, over movies.

Doug knows more about movies than any kid in the world-maybe any adult in the world, except for his hero, film critic Roger Ebert. He talks about movies constantly to anyone who will listen, and doesn’t seem to know (or care) how to shut it off. Sometimes he quotes movies that most people have never heard of, much less seen, which makes him sound sort of insane. He’s constantly, frenetically tapping on his laptop, and when I ask what he’s