From what exotic animal did these pioneers of democracy and philosophy concoct this sumptuous sandwich stuffer that slipped through my lunch-munching tenure?
“Capicola.” I whispered, letting it slip off my tongue like a naughty little secret.
“Vic?”
But as I repeated the meat like a lush, I felt as if eyes had opened in the walls and ceiling and were watching me, and I could suddenly understand the Greek chorus, mocking my cultural ignorance: “They must not teach the great civilizations at the top school in the state!” I heard a cashier shout to a short-order cook flipping an egg.
I understand you! Send me to your islands!
“Hey, Vic!”
“What the hell is capicola?” I asked no one in particular.
Mrs. Geiger, taking over Karl’s role as knower of all things, leaned her head to the side and said “Gabagool,” translating it into the language of my people.
“Gabagool…” I said to myself. “Gabagool.” (Translation: capicola.)
I was riding such a high from averting my existential crisis that I, too, ordered the chicken fingers and drenched them in honey mustard, as all of a sudden the Hellenistic sandwiches didn’t feel quite so exotic.
Mrs. Geiger dropped me off at the foot of our driveway and I waved as they pulled up West Road, past their cascading front lawn that ran down to the cobblestoned sewer, and into their own driveway right next door.
I only had a few more months in Short Hills before being shipped off to Collegeville, Pennsylvania—yes, the real and aptly named hometown of Ursinus College where, if the movies and my experience up at Tony’s school held true, there would be a plethora of loose women whose boxes held the antidote to get over Maria, or perhaps replace her. In the meantime, my father had arranged for me to work out with a specialist over the summer who would get me into position to compete for a starting spot as a freshman.
I was on my way through the garage and into the basement when I heard my mother’s voice cracking as she screamed upstairs. My father’s car wasn’t in the driveway, so I assumed she’d found the phone and was yelling at him for doing something stupid like inviting the entire extended family over on two days’ notice. I was about to descend further and get in a few hours on Xbox Live until I heard crying, and I stopped.
I rushed up the stairs—skipping every other step—expecting that when I reached the top I’d be informed that another one of my friends’ dads had jumped in front of the train.
“I want their GODDAMN NAMES!” she shouted into the cordless phone as she slammed her closed fist down on the kitchen granite.
“Mom, what the hell is going on?”
“You know, she has two older brothers who… uh huh… yeah… no, I won’t do anything just yet. But… uh huh… well, have you spoken to my husband?” She pulled out one of the chairs tucked underneath the kitchen table and plopped onto it. Her shoulders sank. Her head dropped and she started to cry. “Okay… okay, thank you, Sharon. You must understand. You’re a mother, too. Hold on.” She grabbed a used envelope and a pencil out of the kitchen fray. “Okay, go ahead.” She scribbled on the envelope, pausing every few moments for an “mhmm” or “go ahead,” said thank you to Sharon one more time, and hung up the phone.
Wiping a tear from her eye, shaking so hard I could hear the bracelets on her wrist rattle, she told me Britney had been bullied at school. A group of girls formed a circle around her in the hallway, said things to her she wouldn’t understand, pushed her into a locker, knocked her books to the floor, and called her “retarded” and said that’s why she was still at the middle school.
“Thank God another girl heard those little bitches and reported it to a teacher, who came out and saw what was happening.”
“Where’s Britney? Is she okay?”
But either not hearing me or ignoring my question, my mother asked, “How can people be so cruel, Victor?” For a moment I thought she actually believed I held the answer and was waiting for me to respond. “I mean, your sister is just… pure goodness. It breaks my heart.” She got up from the table and we hugged before she gave me a kiss on the cheek. Then she left and headed in the direction of Britney’s room.
I took her spot at the table and read the names written in smeared gray graphite.
I wasn’t familiar with the first five, but I stared at the sixth name until my eyes watered: Stone.
I imagined a circle of Pierce Stones surrounding Britney in the hallway, pointing and shouting, “Retard, retard, retard.”
When I came to, “Stone” had been smeared across the white of the envelope and my fingertip was a shiny gray, as if my subconscious had been attempting to erase the family from existence. But it wasn’t Pierce Stone—it was his sister who assaulted my family, I thought as I stomped down the hallway to Britney’s room. Pierce Stone had spoken so often about his brother like a muse, I had forgotten there was a third Stone infiltrating Millburn’s public schools.
I opened the door to Britney’s room, where my mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, running her nails through my sister’s hair, the only part of Brit’s body not blanketed by her cream white comforter. My mother spoke in that soothing tone I believed all mothers were gifted after having their first child. “Come here, Victor. We’re having a talk,” she said, never taking her eyes away from my sister.
I sat down next to her on the bed and stroked Britney’s covered leg, but failed to say anything.
“Britney, your big
