I crossed the foyer into the living room. The decor hadn’t changed in years, same tan sofa, same walnut TV cabinet, same scratched end tables, same lamps with tasseled shades, same faux Persian rug.
Wishing to catch Mom and Lucia in their natural habitat, I peeked around the corner. My sister sat at the kitchen table, while mom stood in front of the stove, her back turned. Lucia was wiggling her fingers, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. I followed her gaze and realized she was using her magic to nick a twenty-dollar bill out of Mom’s pocketbook, which rested on the island.
My mouth dropped open as I watched the bill float in Lucia’s direction. Really?! I tried to decide what to do. Should I stop her? I never stole from Mom or Dad—no matter how desperate I got. This was wrong.
But if I said something, Lucia would get mad at me, which might be counterproductive at the moment, considering the hot boyfriend outside and her need to steal money—a sign that she might be in some kind of trouble and in need of a conversation with her Big Sis. I decided mum was the word.
Just as Lucia was about to snatch the bill from the air, Mom suddenly whirled and pointed a spatula straight at my sister.
“Gotcha!” she exclaimed, a gleeful look in her eyes.
“Oh, c’mon,” Lucia whined. “I almost had it.”
Mom noticed me then. “Antonietta!”
She set down her spatula, turned off the stove, and ambled over to wrap me in her arms.
Mom was a petite fifty-one-year-old woman with a few extra pounds “stocked-piled for the apocalypse,” her words not mine. In her youth, she’d been 125 pounds of pure curves and sex appeal, also her words. Now, she was critical of herself, though she had no reason to be. She speed-walked circles around the neighborhood and, in my opinion, and probably the opinion of half the middle-aged men in The Hill, she looked fine in her yoga pants.
“How long have you been standing there?” Mom asked with a huge smile. She looked very pretty with her hair and makeup already done, and her colorful apron that read “I don’t need a recipe... I’m Italian.” We’d all inherited her golden tone and brown eyes as opposed to Dad’s paleness and blue eyes.
“Long enough to witness Lucia’s attempt at thievery.” I gave my sister a raised eyebrow.
“What’s up, Toni?”
“Hey, Luz.”
She nodded and walked toward the island. She was wearing skinny jeans with holes, black Converse, and a red hoodie. Her long, brown hair was loosely curled and flowing down her back, and she had those perfect, symmetrical eyebrows that made me suspect she watched the same YouTube videos Rosalina did.
“I’ll get it next time, Mom.” She stuffed the twenty in the pocketbook. “You’ll see.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Mom said in a singsong voice.
I walked to the stove, snatched a piece of sausage from the skillet, and popped it in my mouth. “What’s this all about?” I mumbled.
“Just a bet she and I have,” Mom said. “If she can take the money without me noticing, she can keep it.”
“How’s that an appropriate game? And how come you never played it with me?”
Mom put her hands on her hips. “Hey, with only the two of us ‘round here, we have to keep things interesting.”
Lucia glanced past the threshold, toward the living room, frowning. “Connor is late.”
“Oops,” I thunked my head with the heel of my hand. “I was supposed to tell you he’s out there.”
“Gotta go.” She popped a forkful of eggs into her mouth, picked up her backpack, and pointed an adamant finger in my direction. “You need to come back at a better time so we can talk.”
“I will,” I promised and returned her hug as she leaned over and squeezed me.
With a smile, Lucia turned on her heel and rushed out of the house.
“Do you know this Connor guy?” I asked Mom when I heard the front door close.
“He’s Lia Baresi’s kid. He gets good grades, brings her home before curfew, and brings me chocolate. I think that’s all I need to know.”
God, how things had changed! The list of things she used to require from Daniella’s boyfriends as well as mine was way longer and meaner than that.
Mom served two plates and set them on the table. She also poured me a cup of black tea, her favorite thing to drink in the morning.
“How are you, honey?” Mom scanned me carefully. “Are you feeling well?”
“I guess.”
“Any headaches?”
“Just one the other day.” Mom worried too much. Since I was little, headaches bothered me every once in a while, and she pestered me about them all the time.
Mom pursed her lips, looking worried. I sipped my tea and glanced around the kitchen, noting she’d gotten a new copper adornment to go on her knickknack shelf. She had a farm theme going, and she’d added a rooster.
“So what brings you here this early?” Mom asked with a slight frown that let me know she already suspected something was up.
“Um, I came to get the car. I’ll need it for a few days.”
The car was a convertible 1970 Camaro Z28 in light blue with two black stripes running down the hood. It had belonged to Dad and was now mine. I kept it here, stored in Mom’s garage since I didn’t need to drive anywhere most of the time. I
