do , Henry wanted to say. You hang out in that ’hood.
“It’s, um, a really good Italian place,” Henry said.
“A restaurant?” Henry’s father spit out the word like an epithet.
“Yeah.” Henry was going to continue, but his father stopped him, standing and holding out his hand.
“So, let me get this straight. You’re gonna, what, wait tables this summer instead of work downtown in a plush law firm? A place where you’ll not only learn a lot for your future but probably begin building a network. A place I busted my ass to secure for you.” His father flung his glass against the wall. It shattered and left a dark stain.
Henry shrank back, his shoulders bunching up. He figured now was not the time to let his father know he wouldn’t exactly be waiting tables. Waiting tables was actually above his pay grade. “It’s just that I thought this might be my last chance.”
“Last chance to do what?”
“I love to cook, Dad. I love being around food. Haven’t you noticed? I just wanted a chance to explore that passion.”
“You’re full of shit. What a lowlife thing to do.”
“Tank, please!”
Henry’s father shot his mother a look that caused her to wither against the couch. “If you think you’re gonna toss aside a good opportunity like the one I’ve got lined up for you to work like some loser in a restaurant, you better think again, young man.” He shook his head. “Do you know how embarrassing it would be for me to not show up with you on Monday? I’ve been telling everyone about you, even showing your picture around. You’re my heir apparent.”
Ah , Henry thought, so this is what it’s really about. Him. His image. The realization gave Henry the courage to continue. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad. But I hardly think anyone’s going to think twice if you have a different intern than me this summer. I want to do this. I want to work at Fiorello’s.” Henry crossed his arms in front of him.
His father shook his finger in Henry’s face and then leaned close enough so that Henry could feel his dad’s liquor-scented spittle on his face. He spoke with a low intensity, barely above a whisper, that made it even more terrifying and threatening than if he was yelling. “You are not going to do this. You are going to come to work with me on Monday. I’m your father, and for a little while longer at least, I like to think I know what’s best for you.” He raised his voice. “End of discussion!”
Henry blinked. His father stormed from the room. Distantly, Henry heard a door slam. He jumped.
He looked to his mother. “That went well.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” His mother looked away from him, staring down at her yoga pants as if there were something fascinating woven into the fabric.
This is where you’re supposed to hug me, Mom. This is where you’re supposed to comfort. Henry stared, frozen, at his mother for a long time, waiting.
But nothing happened. After a few minutes, she opened her iPad. She smiled a little at something on its surface. There was a lot he wanted to say to her, a lot he wanted to ask, but the words weren’t there. Not now.
Henry quietly left the room. He paused in the foyer, wondering if he should go back up to his room or out into the night.
He went out into the night.
C HAPTER S EVEN
V ITO WATCHED the new kid as he washed dishes. He had to give him credit—the boy had learned how to use the industrial dishwasher with ease and kept up with a constant flow of dishes, cutlery, and glasses from the dining room with nary a complaint or broken glass. His first two weeks working at the restaurant had been a study in professionalism. When Vito had first laid eyes on the boy, he had to admit, he wouldn’t have guessed he’d last more than a single shift, that those soft lily-white hands were cut out for the hard work required.
But he had fooled him. Fooled all of them, really. Carmela, Rosalie, Juan Carlos, and Antonio, who all thought
“It’s, um, a really good Italian place,” Henry said.
“A restaurant?” Henry’s father spit out the word like an epithet.
“Yeah.” Henry was going to continue, but his father stopped him, standing and holding out his hand.
“So, let me get this straight. You’re gonna, what, wait tables this summer instead of work downtown in a plush law firm? A place where you’ll not only learn a lot for your future but probably begin building a network. A place I busted my ass to secure for you.” His father flung his glass against the wall. It shattered and left a dark stain.
Henry shrank back, his shoulders bunching up. He figured now was not the time to let his father know he wouldn’t exactly be waiting tables. Waiting tables was actually above his pay grade. “It’s just that I thought this might be my last chance.”
“Last chance to do what?”
“I love to cook, Dad. I love being around food. Haven’t you noticed? I just wanted a chance to explore that passion.”
“You’re full of shit. What a lowlife thing to do.”
“Tank, please!”
Henry’s father shot his mother a look that caused her to wither against the couch. “If you think you’re gonna toss aside a good opportunity like the one I’ve got lined up for you to work like some loser in a restaurant, you better think again, young man.” He shook his head. “Do you know how embarrassing it would be for me to not show up with you on Monday? I’ve been telling everyone about you, even showing your picture around. You’re my heir apparent.”
Ah , Henry thought, so this is what it’s really about. Him. His image. The realization gave Henry the courage to continue. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad. But I hardly think anyone’s going to think twice if you have a different intern than me this summer. I want to do this. I want to work at Fiorello’s.” Henry crossed his arms in front of him.
His father shook his finger in Henry’s face and then leaned close enough so that Henry could feel his dad’s liquor-scented spittle on his face. He spoke with a low intensity, barely above a whisper, that made it even more terrifying and threatening than if he was yelling. “You are not going to do this. You are going to come to work with me on Monday. I’m your father, and for a little while longer at least, I like to think I know what’s best for you.” He raised his voice. “End of discussion!”
Henry blinked. His father stormed from the room. Distantly, Henry heard a door slam. He jumped.
He looked to his mother. “That went well.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” His mother looked away from him, staring down at her yoga pants as if there were something fascinating woven into the fabric.
This is where you’re supposed to hug me, Mom. This is where you’re supposed to comfort. Henry stared, frozen, at his mother for a long time, waiting.
But nothing happened. After a few minutes, she opened her iPad. She smiled a little at something on its surface. There was a lot he wanted to say to her, a lot he wanted to ask, but the words weren’t there. Not now.
Henry quietly left the room. He paused in the foyer, wondering if he should go back up to his room or out into the night.
He went out into the night.
C HAPTER S EVEN
V ITO WATCHED the new kid as he washed dishes. He had to give him credit—the boy had learned how to use the industrial dishwasher with ease and kept up with a constant flow of dishes, cutlery, and glasses from the dining room with nary a complaint or broken glass. His first two weeks working at the restaurant had been a study in professionalism. When Vito had first laid eyes on the boy, he had to admit, he wouldn’t have guessed he’d last more than a single shift, that those soft lily-white hands were cut out for the hard work required.
But he had fooled him. Fooled all of them, really. Carmela, Rosalie, Juan Carlos, and Antonio, who all thought
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