Serene moved further into the living room. "Ramani?"
"Hm?"
"Did people commit suicide at Shangri-La?"
"Ouch." Ramani had pricked herself and a drop of blood sprang to her finger. Her mother popped her finger into her mouth, setting her sewing aside.
Serene sat opposite her on one of the beanbags. "Did that happen?"
Ramani pulled her finger from her mouth and blew on it. "Yes."
"How come you never told me?"
"It had nothing to do with you, Serene."
"But I lived there."
"We left when you were so small. What went on later was nothing that needed to become a part of your life's narrative."
"Were they friends, the people who died?"
Something cracked in her mother's expression, and her features tightened, revealing a raw pain that Serene hadn't seen since Cedar's death. Her mouth struggled to find a smile and then gave up, the bottom lip trembling like the arms of a weightlifter who just can't manage that last rep.
"Some things are best not talked about." Ramani's eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. "You know, I don't need to explain everything to you. I don't."
Serene leaned forward, alarmed. "I'm sorry."
"Me too." Ramani took a breath. Blood was now dripping down her finger. "Me too."
"Do you want a Band-aid?"
"What?" Ramani looked at her finger as if she didn't really see it. "No. I'll get one." She slowly stood, shoulders caving in, and made her way to the bathroom.
20
Steve - May 1996
Enzo Moreno oozed confidence. It showed in his walk, which was more of a strut. He had a slight turn out, each step a step of casual coolness. Enzo smoked cigarettes at a time when cigarettes were losing their appeal, when most people saw cigarettes as cancer on a stick. But Enzo smoked like he was laughing in the face of all those public announcements. He smoked like a proper European. No one thought of ill health or cancer when they looked at Enzo. He turned the heads of girls and women alike. Enzo didn't go for the big baggy pants that all the guys were wearing either. He wore clothes that fit his tight athletic body. Usually he was in a jersey and Adidas shorts, on his way to or from soccer practice, or football, as he called the sport. His legs were muscular, conditioned from years of football, his quads bulging with so much definition that you could count each of the four muscles. Enzo's dark hair was sleek and combed back model style, his jaw square, cheekbones in the right place, eyes slits of seduction and focused as a shark. Enzo expressed himself with Italian slang, the words rolling lazily off his tongue. He said things like, ma figurati for no worries, basta basta for enough, che fico for how cool and ciao for see you. When he spoke, girls paid attention and his jokes often elicited flirtatious giggles. When he winked or looked a girl up and down with a slight smile, her cheeks would spot with color. But he didn't get ahead of himself with the guys.
Enzo was a chameleon. He could be the machismo jock or rock the hip hop tracksuits, dropping all the right dance moves to all the right music. For all that, Enzo was well read and liked to cook. He did things like bring ziplock bags of homemade cookies and focaccia to school. Kids came over to Enzo's for pizza making parties while KRS-One, Eminem, Public Enemy or Lil’ Kim blasted through the house along with Italian rap that no one had ever heard before, like Neffa, or Fritz Da Cat. The passion for cooking came from his dad, who owned a thriving Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills. Enzo endearingly called his dad Babbo. His mama worked as an editor at a small press in Santa Monica, translating books. He was their only child and very much a latchkey, like Steve and Carrie. Enzo's babbo was rarely home, the thriving business of the restaurant swallowing up all his time. His mama was in and out, and, when home, often sequestered in her office, working. Steve had glimpsed the stacks of manuscripts on her desk. Unlike the cliche of the doting Italian mother pushing food at her kids, Enzo made the meals and brought dishes to his mother. Their conversations in Italian would spill out into the kitchen or living room where a group of his friends would be hanging out. The foreignness of Enzo and his family only added an exotic mystique to his appeal. He'd close the door to his mother's office and rejoin his guests, putting the music back on. With a grin, he'd do a couple of moves to the beat and then serve up something like arancini, a grilled antipasto dish, or pasta carbonara with fresh herbs from their garden.
Enzo and his parents moved next door to Serene two weeks after Steve ended it with Taylor. It didn't take but a few days for Taylor to spot Enzo and begin moving in to stake her territory. She flirted obnoxiously, flamboyantly. While a lot of girls lusted over Enzo, the fact that Taylor had laid claim to him was widely understood, even if unspoken. Much to Steve's consternation, however, Enzo's sharp gaze had landed on Serene, although she appeared oblivious to his charm and blatant attention. Steve tried not to think about Enzo's pursuit of Serene, or the churning feeling in his gut that he'd missed out on something special. Whatever may have been between them was over before it ever really had a chance to get started. Last year he'd been the
