“Victor.”
“Yeah, Mom?” I smoothed out the loose-leaf on our green dinner table with the nicks and grooves.
“Did you tell anyone that Pierce Stone’s parents are getting a divorce?”
I froze. I immediately became furious with Paxton. I imagined him shooting out of the dirt like the snake in the woods, slithering toward me with the succulent, forbidden secret dangling from his lips: “But you can’t tell anyone, okay? You can’t tell anyone, okay? But you can’t tell anyone, Vic, you can’t tell anyone, Vic, but you can’t tell anyone, okay?”
“You can tell me, Vic.”
“Ah! What? No. I didn’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Why are you talking to me like that?”
“It wasn’t me. It was Paxton.” I lied, and I think I had crossed the threshold from white lyin’, too. “He told me that, but he said not to tell anyone. So I didn’t. I don’t care if Pierce Stone’s parents get a divorce. His dad already has a fort anyway.”
“A fort?”
“Yeah, why does Pierce Stone and Paxton and Maine Ogden and the Barriston brothers get everything? I hate my lunchbox and I didn’t say anything, I just want to go to Jamaica!”
“Oh… okay, Vic. Why don’t you go take a shower, and I’ll call Mrs. Stone and say you had nothing to do with it.”
It hurt to lie to Mom.
My parents made me go to Silas’s birthday party because they said I needed to make friends in my class. I didn’t want to make friends. I wanted to sit in the Geigers’ basement and drink Stewart’s Root Beer and play Super NES—Karl wasn’t invited because he was a grade younger than us and wasn’t friends with Silas. They didn’t care that Pierce Stone was going to be there either. They said if I had nothing to do with the rumor about his parents then I shouldn’t have to worry.
We pulled up to Silas’s house, which reminded me of our house, but closer to their neighbors and with a sidewalk that separated the front lawns from the street. Even in the cold and thin layer of snow, kids played in the front lawns up and down the block, shooting basketballs in their driveways or throwing snowballs that appeared to disintegrate into dust in midair.
“Okay, Vito, make sure to shake Mr. Badenhorst’s hand and look him in the eye. He’s a man of God, a pastor, you know,” said my father.
“Where’s that, hun?” asked my mother.
“That church over on Hartshorn.”
“Did you know it’s pronounced Harts-horn?”
“I didn’t know that. I’ve worked in this town for twenty-two years and never heard that nonsense.”
“Yeah, well, this woman corrected me the other day when I said we actually lived closer to Hartshorn School than Glenwood.”
“Do I have to leave Glenwood now, Mom? Because I won’t leave Karl.”
“No, honey, you don’t have to leave Glenwood. Do you have the gift?” she asked, twisting around in the passenger seat of our station wagon.
“Where are they from again, hun?” asked my father.
“Namibia.”
“Where’s that?”
“In Africa, dear.”
“They have good food in Namibia? Hey Vito, did Silas say whatcha guys gonna have for dinner?
“Yeah, pizza.”
“From where? Joe’s? Frank’s? Tagliano’s? It’s a shame Star doesn’t deliver to Short Hills.”
“Domino’s.”
“Domino’s? This is New Jersey, not New Mexico. Best pizza in the country. I don’t care what they say up in New Haven. Connecticut and pizza? Give me a break.”
“Silas said we’re getting it with pineapple. It’s called Hawaiian. Dad, why can’t we…”
“Pineapple?! On pizza?! How ameriganz!” (Translation: uncultured, philistine, sacrilegious, American; see also: ketchup on spaghetti, that neon-yellow mustard, and casseroles.)
“Tony, let him try new things.”
“We come from Southern Italy, down in Avellino. My son isn’t eating pizza with pineapple on it. I’ll go pick up a bunch of pies from Star and bring ’em later.”
“No. We have to be in Mendham in half an hour. Just let him go. Go, Vic, get out. And don’t forget the gift.”
“Fine, but wait, ashpet (translation: wait, hold on). Take this.” My father flailed spastically in his seat as he tried to retrieve his wallet from his pocket. “Here.” He handed me a card for Frank’s Pizzeria: 355 Millburn Ave, Millburn, NJ. 973-555-0243. “Take that and give it to Mr. Badenhorst. Tell him we don’t eat pineapple pizza in New Jersey.”
“Don’t tell him that, Vic. Just eat whatever they feed you.”
“Ey! And don’t forget your goobalini (translation: snow hat, ski hat, beanie). It’s cold out.”
I left the car.
“And don’t forget to look him in the eye when you shake his hand!” my father yelled out the passenger-side window as he leaned over my mom.
As I crossed the Badenhorsts’ frosted front lawn, a car pulled up behind my parents, and out popped Andrius and Lenny.
“Vic!”
“Victor!” they called as they sprinted across the grass.
“Andrius! You forgot the present!” Mrs. Varnas shouted over the roof of the car. But Andrius didn’t hear her.
“Hello Victor, did you know that tonight we eat the pizza with pineapple? Is this a custom here?” Andrius asked me, but I looked through him as his mother strutted across the frostbitten lawn in knee-high boots, her hips popping from side to side with every step. I could see her neck down to her chest. She wasn’t even bundled, as if she was in command of the cold, the ice queen of the magical, faraway land: Lithuania. When she smiled I forgot all about Jamaica or Puerto Rico or MartInik, or Montes-rat. I wanted to live as a knight in her ice kingdom and defend her from orcs and ghouls and even dragons—I would kill a dragon for her. My face became hot and I wanted to throw off my jacket even though mom told me to bundle.
“Vic, are you okay?” asked Lenny.
“Victor, have you heard about this pizza?”
“Ask my dad…” I said, my eyelids frozen open.
“But he is driving away!”
I was Jack from Three’s Company, and Suzanne Somers was headed right toward me.
“Andrius, you forget da gift, sweetheart. Who is this?”
“This is Victor. He is a friend of mine.”
“Hello, Victor.”
