Mia the Melodramatic (10 page)

“At least it’s not raw fish,” I said, tentatively dipping one of the
fried things into a red sauce. “And it’s not covered in weeds.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Sushi wrapped in seaweed is very popular in other parts of the United States.”

“Well, then, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad I live in Iowa. At least we know enough to cook our food before eating it,” I said as I bit into the calamari and wiped the grease from my chin. “Hey, this isn’t bad. What is it?”

“Squid.”

I spit my half-chewed mouthful into my hand. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“What? I thought you liked it.”

“There’s no way I’m eating octopus for dinner.”

“It’s not octopus. It’s squid. And this is only the
antipasto
—the appetizer. Just wait until you see the main course—Risotto Ai Funghi Porcini.”

I sat down and folded my arms over my chest. “I’m not eating anything with fungus in its name.”

Chris walked into the room and took his place at the table. “What did I miss about Mia’s fungus?”

“We weren’t talking about Mia’s fungus—”

“Mom!” I screamed.

Mom shook her head. “Not that Mia has a fungus...”

“Am I late?” my dad asked as he sat down at the table dressed in his tuxedo.

I raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you a little dressed up for this meal?”

He waved his pinky ring at me and rasped in his best Marlon Brando impersonation, which wasn’t saying much, “I’m dressing like a character from
The Godfather.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said, rolling my eyes. “This family’s insane.”

He jutted his lower jaw forward. “Mia, you are my daughter and I love you. But don’t ever take sides against the family again. Ever.”

“That does it,” I said as I stood up. “I’m out of here.”

“Sit down,” Dad said, continuing his Don Corleone impression. “I’d hoped we could come here and reason together. And as a reasonable man, I’m willing to do whatever is necessary to find a peaceful solution to this problem.”

“Mom,” I whined. “Make him stop.”

“That’s enough, dear,” Mom said as she sat down across the table from the Godfather. “Eat your
antipasti
like a good don.”

Chris took a bite of the calamari. “This is good. What is it? It tastes like chicken.”

“You’re right,” I said, offering him the plate. “Would you like some more?”

Mom reached across the table and helped herself to a tentacle. “The exterminator came today,” she said. “He said it was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. He couldn’t figure out how the crickets got into Mia’s room. He said there were no cracks or crevices in the walls and ceiling.”

“Wow, that
is
strange,” I said, glaring at Chris. He was so going to pay for this. Just when I thought I was out of this prank thing, he had pulled me back in.

“So, anyhow, the crickets are gone,” Mom said, “but how they got there in the first place will remain a mystery.”

“A mystery I intend to solve,” I said, tearing off a piece of Italian bread. “And when I do, the person responsible will be sleeping with the fishes.
Capeesh?
”

I was hiding the last of the mushrooms in my napkin—the mushrooms, I’d discovered, were the infamous
funghi
of the meal—when the doorbell rang.

Mom frowned. “Who could that be?”

“Oh. I forgot to tell you. Zoë said she might drop by tonight.”

Actually, I had purposely not told my parents about Zoë’s visit, hoping the shock of seeing her for the first time would jolt them into instant submission, after which they would agree to let me go see her band Friday night.

I wadded my napkin into a ball and got up from the table. “I’ll get it,” I said, running for the front door.

As I opened it, Zoë held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear a word about my hair,” she said.

Her neon-pink hair temporarily blinded me, and I had to look away from the glare. “Uh, it looks nice.”

“I look like I stuck my head in a freaking cotton candy machine,” she said. “I only did it because my band-mates thought their lead singer would stand out with this shade of hair. But I don’t care what they say—I’m dying it back to black tomorrow.” She walked into the living room and looked around. “So, this is Barbie’s Dream House. Where are Skipper and Ken?”

“They’re in the dining room, but I think I better warn you—”

“Yeah, I know.” She pushed past me. “They’re a bunch of dead-beats like you.”

“No, it’s not that. They’re just a little...” My voice trailed off as we entered the dining room. My parents were crooning Frank Sinatra’s anthem song, “My Way,” while improvising some elaborate dance moves. “... weird.”

I sighed. I knew I shouldn’t have let them drink that second glass of Chianti. I turned to Zoë to explain how they’d kidnapped me as a child and held me captive over the years, but Zoë held up her hand to silence me. And then to my amazement, she joined my parents in the last chorus, her voice strong and clear.

“For what is a man?... What has he got? If not himself... then he has not... to say the things... he truly feels... and not the words... he would reveal... The record shows
...
I took the blows... and did it my way.”

Zoë held the last note, harmonizing with Frank until the song’s last chord faded.

As Frank started swinging with “The Best is Yet to Come,” I stammered, “Um, Mom, Dad, this is Zoë.”

Dad ran over and pumped her hand up and down like he was trying to get water from a well. “Your voice is amazing. Where’d you learn to sing like that?”

Mom dabbed her eyes. “Old Blue Eyes never sounded better.”

“It’s nothing.” Zoë shrugged. “My parents listen to Sinatra all the time. I guess I just picked up the words from them.”

“I wish Mia had a singing voice like yours,” Mom said. “Unfortunately, she inherited her vocal abilities from her father’s side of the family.”

Zoë smiled at my dad. “Then,” she said, “your family must be very talented.”

“What an insightful girl,” Dad said, pulling out a chair for Zoë. “Here, sit in Mia’s seat and tell us all about yourself.”

“Then where am
I
supposed to sit?” I sputtered.

Dad shooed me out of the room. “Go get another chair from the kitchen.”

I couldn’t believe it. One Sinatra verse and Zoë had taken my place at the table? I bet if she sang Tony Bennett, she’d get my bedroom, too. I dragged a kitchen chair into the dining room.

“What an interesting style you have,” Mom gushed as I squished my chair into the space beside Zoë. “Mia, how come you never do anything fun like that to your hair?”

I stared at her. “You’re kidding, right? You won’t even let me wear mascara.”

“Mom’s right,” Chris said. “Maybe if you colored your hair, people wouldn’t notice you’re so ugly you needed tinted windows on your incubator.”

Zoë looked across the table. “You must be Chris.”

Chris wiggled his eyebrows up and down. “I see my reputation
precedes me.”

Zoë shrugged. “Something like that.”

Chris looked meaningfully into Zoë’s eyes. “I should tell you that I’m very mature for my age and I have a way with older women.”

“Then, I should tell you that I don’t date guys who still need a bib,” Zoë said, pointing at Chris’s shirt, “and that you have a big glob of spaghetti sauce on your chest.”

Chris looked down and his face turned the color of the stain spread across his tee-shirt. Mom immediately wet the edge of her napkin in her mouth and reached over to dab at Chris’ shirt, but he pushed her away and got up from the table.

“May I be excused?” he asked, his face a model of mortification.

“But I was just about to serve dessert,” Mom said. “We’re having cannoli.”

I could tell Chris was dying to tell Mom what to do with her cannoli, but instead said through gritted teeth, “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Leave the son. I’ll take the cannoli,” Dad said, hitting an all-time low with his play on words as he served up the first cannoli to Zoë.

Zoë took a bite. “This is wonderful, Mrs. Fullerton. Do I taste a touch of pistachios?”

“Yes, you do. I’m so glad you like it.” Mom beamed. “It’s a new recipe. Would you like me to make a copy of it for your mom?”

“That would be super,” Zoë said.

Super?
I stared in disbelief. Who
was
this girl?

“Mr. and Mrs. Fullerton,” Zoë said as she daintily wiped the sides of her mouth with a napkin, “I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you. You see, my band is playing on Friday night at a coffeehouse and I would really like Mia to come hear us. I promise it’s a safe environment, and Eric has already said he’ll bring Mia home right afterward.”

Mom looked across the table at Dad. “I don’t know...”

Zoë woefully blinked her eyes. “It would really mean a lot to me.”

“If that’s the case,” Dad said, scratching under his chin and continuing his awful Don Corleone impersonation, “how ’bout I make you an offer you can’t refuse?”

“Marlon Brando, right?” Zoë asked. “I love those
Godfather
movies.”

I shook my head in total awe. Eric had been right—Zoë
was
good.

Dad, obviously trying to impress Zoë, now took his impersonation over the top. “How’s about we let Mia go hear your band if you stay and sing some more Sinatra with us?”

When he stuck out his hand, I was afraid he was going to ask Zoë to kiss his pinky ring.

Instead, she reached out her hand and matched his grip. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Fullerton.”

A
fter work on Friday, I logged onto the computer to respond to Tim’s latest e-mail, which contained way too many references to his “boom,” “winch,” and “rudder” for my taste.

I rolled my eyes and continued typing.

I hit “send” and then went up to my room to get ready. Opening my closet, I looked for something black and depressing to wear, hoping to blend in with Zoë’s crowd. Unfortunately, the closest thing I could find was a dark brown tee-shirt, way in the back of my closet,
that I’d secretly bought at a souvenir shop when my family visited the Grand Canyon last summer. It had a picture of a donkey on the front and read, “Me and my ass made it all the way to the bottom of the Grand Canyon.” I thought it was hilarious, but my parents obviously lacked a sense of humor gene and wouldn’t let me wear it in public. And because I was already pushing the envelope by getting them to let me hear Zoë’s band tonight, I settled on a turquoise shirt and prayed for dim lighting.

I pried open the warped door to the coffeehouse and Eric and I walked in, looking like a matching pair of belt buckles from a souvenir shop in New Mexico. I still couldn’t get over the fact that he showed up at my house wearing the exact same shade of shirt as me. I mean, what are the odds?