The Fine Art of Truth or Dare by Melissa Jensen

his menu with a flourish, “with the soup of the day.”
    The soup of the day was curried carrot. Not exactly a Tony Soprano standby.
    So here’s something everyone should know about diners and Italian family restaurants. Order the obvious. On the rare occasion when Sadie, Frankie, and I forgo Chloe’s for the South Street Diner, Sadie inevitably orders something that just shouldn’t be on a diner menu. Osso bucco, sole almondine, sweetbreads. She’s always disappointed. Me? Grilled cheese and tomato sandwich on wheat, side of fries, every time.
    â€œHow do you know what you’ll like, if you won’t even try?” Sadie scolds.
    â€œYes, Frances. Have some bread and jam” is Frankie’s helpful refrain.
    Truth : I have seen sweetbreads in their natural state. Gimme bread and cheese any day.
    Diner or Italian joint: Regulars have their faves; smart diners go for classic. People pleasers order the specials.
    I turned to Alex.
    â€œMinestrone. Please. And spaghetti carbonara.”
    Smart boy. Smart boy who still hadn’t looked me full in the face. Growing up in South Philly, it’s no big deal, giving and taking orders from people you know. There could be any one of the Giordano kids behind the counter at the bakery; Mom’s best friend from forever cuts our hair. The Ryans down the street handle all our insurance, and I buy way too much unnecessary stuff to camouflage the tampons when Sam Nguyen is manning the register at his parents’ pharmacy.
    I know there’s a division north of South Street. Your friends are never, ever your servers. But then, Alex wasn’t really my friend.
    â€œOn its way,” I said cheerfully. And went into the back, back to my family.
    We keep the walls between us.
    I gave the food order to Dad. I’d debated not saying anything, but couldn’t. “Persons of interest,” I told him.
    It’s code. Police-speak for suspects; Marino for regulars, suspected restaurant critics, and anyone who might be in a position to help or hurt the restaurant’s reputation. Everyone gets good food at Marino’s; persons of interest get the best.
    It galled me a little, giving Alex’s family the designation. But I’m a pragmatist. A good word from Paul and Karina could bring in extra business. And the more extra business we get, the less money I’ll have to beg, borrow, or steal for college.
    â€œWho?” Dad asked as he scanned the order.
    â€œKarina Romanova from Channel 4 and Congressman Bainbridge. With their son.”
    He let out a low whistle. “Well, lah-dee-dah. Good for us.” Then, “You forget something here, hon? There’s only two entrées.”
    â€œShe’s skinny,” I explained, then, before Dad could give a familiar opinion on women who eat naked salads for dinner, I told Uncle Ricky, “The congressman ordered the ravioli.”
    â€œHot damn!” He grinned, actually rubbed his hands together, and swung into action. Flour flew.
    â€œHeaven help us,” Dad muttered under his breath. “Now, you take an antipasto plate out to them, on the house—”
    â€œDad, no!”
    â€œWhat? We can’t let Whatshernameanova sit there with just a pile of lettuce. Trust me, she’ll pick at a pepper, nibble some prosciut, and all will be well in the world.”
    Not exactly. Karina wouldn’t touch the platter, with its meat and cheese and oiled peppers; I knew that. And there it would be, sitting on the table in front of Philadelphia’s Most Beautiful Family, like a gift from peasant to king. It’s always a pig in fairy tales, hauled in from the grateful subject’s backyard and trotted up the hill to become royal prosciutto.
    â€œDad . . .”
    I closed my mouth. I couldn’t say it. My dad’s no peasant, and he’s no brown-noser. He’s a decent guy who thinks an empty stomach leads to an empty head. I watched