“You know Maddie, of course,” Jill said, before turning toward the polka-dot girl. “Beth, this is Donatello Marcino, the noted playwright. He’s a dear family friend, and an artist, like us. He’s casting me in his next play, eventually.”
The girl, Beth, sneered as she zeroed in on the garlic knots, her eyes tiny black dots behind her glasses.
“Beth is a theorist,” Jill said. “She’s going to Brown next fall. Remember what I said about that plan to occupy the beach? We’re doing it—Friday night! Some activists are coming down from the city—a few Occupy people, some Black Lives Matter kids —real-life radicals! And ten of us from the Drama Club are doing it too—you and Kelly should totally come.”
I didn’t tell her that Kelly was thirty thousand feet over Nebraska by now, heading home to her cats.
“It’s just the start. Once people see what we’re doing, there’ll be spontaneous occupations everywhere. It’s going to be beautiful and viral. By the end of the weekend young people—artists, actors, musicians, activists—will occupy every beach in the state. Beth has written a powerful femifesto. Get it? Instead of manifesto…”
“I get it,” I said. “What are you protesting?”
Beth’s eyes cut through me. “You.”
“You have my support.”
“Beth’s femifesto is brilliant. It’s about straight white male privilege, rape culture, guns…”
“Climate change,” Maddie added. “But I’m a little worried about the signs. We could get arrested.”
“We won’t get arrested,” Jill said. “People hang out on the beach all the time.”
“What does your mother think?” I asked.
“I haven’t really told her. She’s in her own world lately, and this morning she was in this total mood.”
“Her Dad warned us not to do it,” Maddie told me. “He said the police will take it seriously. People got hurt at Occupy Wall Street. They shot pepper spray in their eyes.”
“Pigs,” Beth said.
“Pepper spray really hurts.”
“My Dad’s creepy partner keeps following us around,” Jill said.
“He stalks you,” Beth corrected her. “The embodiment of straight white male privilege, gun culture, rape culture…you should so MeToo him.”
“He’s just a jerk,” Jill said. “He’ll never do anything. My Dad would kill him.”
“Well, be careful,” I said, because I was the adult who was supposed to say things like that. “Make sure your mother knows what you’re doing.”
“I will, but she’ll probably forget. And if you need me for anything, well, I’m committed to the occupation, but I don’t have to stay if you need me for an audition.”
Beth mumbled something but Jill ignored her as they each ordered two slices and settled into a booth to plot the revolution. Uncle Dan joined me at the counter.
“What are they complaining about?”
“Us.”
“Did you charge them for the slices?”
“No.”
“So we’re part of the underground, supporting the resistance? It’s about time.” He flashed a half-smile. “Jesus, she looks exactly like her mother at that age. I keep waiting for the sixteen-year-old version of you to run through the door and join them.” He ran his hand along the back of his neck. “Maybe my hair will turn dark again and my knees will stop screaming.”
He grabbed the wheel and dissected a pie into eight perfect slices.
What if our younger selves could reappear? I thought. Granted the chance of a cosmic do-over, would I spot something in Amy’s eyes and recognize what was happening? Or would I sleep through it all over again, narcolepsy as Eternal Recurrence?
Uncle Dan cleaned the counter and checked the order pad. Watching him, I started imagining he was a character on stage, his movements scripted—the old pizza guy carefully tending his kingdom. Enter stage left—me, the protagonist troubled by revelations in the prior scene.
“Did you ever worry about my spending so much time with Mr. Ronan?”
The sound of my voice surprised me. I wasn’t imagining it—I had actually spoken. Uncle Dan looked up, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Where’s that coming from?” He took a deep breath. “I didn’t love the guy, you know that, but he was your teacher.”
He opened the oven door and checked two pies, the dry heat smacking his face.
“Why didn’t you like him?”
“No special reason.” He closed the oven and eyed the clock. “I barely knew him; he just wasn’t my type of guy.”
“Then why did you let me visit his house all the time? And those drives up to Drew for rehearsals were long, the two of us alone in a car for hours.”
“He was your teacher. What did I know about writing plays? Somebody had to help you.”
He turned away, uncomfortable, and sliced up another pie, my cue to drop the subject.
But something wouldn’t let me. When Amy had made those accusations after Sarah Carpenter’s disappearance, even after Ronan’s house had burned down, Uncle Dan had never really said anything about it or asked me what I thought. “Everything okay?” “Yep, I’m fine.” Then it was back to the goddamn pizza. He was sixty-five. I was thirty-eight. Had we ever had a conversation that didn’t involve cheese? I could remember only one: the previous day, when he had called me out for ignoring Nancy.
I felt my anger circling, eager for a place to land.
“You know, all these years, you’ve never once told me what you thought about Amy’s accusations against Mr. Ronan.”
“We talked about it.”
“No, we didn’t. You asked if I was okay, and that was it. But I have no idea what you thought. Everyone in this town had an opinion—except you.”
He checked the oven again—more dry heat—sliding out two pies, sliding them back in for another three minutes. No one could eyeball a pie like Uncle Dan.
“Look, I can handle this place alone for the rest of the night,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be with your girlfriend or something?”
“Probably, but she’s on a plane back to California because I’m a fucked-up bastard.”
“Don’t say that.” He grabbed the pizza wheel and
