Page 70 of Mafia King
Something’s up. He can’t be counting the days in my menstrual cycle, but who knows?
“Do I ever?” I ask.
“Bene, allora. Finish your coffee and we go.”
* * *
He drivesthe Alfa with the windows open and I let the warm summer breeze break against my cheeks. My right hand taps on the top of the door and my left rests on the gearshift, over his. The crown ring he wears on that hand is hard against the underside of my fingers. He hasn’t told me where we’re going. I’m okay with that until he turns onto the bridge over the river and my curiosity gets the best of me.
“Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
The tower of St. John’s creeps over the tree line, and I wonder about school. I wonder why I haven’t thought about it, wished for it, or asked him about it. Maybe because I don’t have to. It’s summer anyway, and I’m already registered for fall. Or maybe I’ve been too distracted by the insanity my life has become.
And now I think about what happens to all that if I’m pregnant, and I don’t have to wonder if another decision can easily be taken away from me.
“Santi,” I say, squeezing his hand, “is it school? Are we going to school?”
He takes his attention from the road long enough to look at me, and something in my expression must tell him that I won’t take less than a definite answer. “No.”
“Good.” I relax and turn back to the view of the river with fishing boats, the V of jet-skis, the diagonal hatch of piers on the shore.
The tires buzz over the textured metal plate that ends the bridge connecting Secondo Vasto to the rest of the world.
“Do you want to go to school in the fall?” he asks at a red light.
What I want could be irrelevant soon, but he asked what I wanted, not what’s possible. That doesn’t make the answer any easier.
“I’d be the only married person in the class.”
“So? You’re there to study.”
“What if I get a bad grade? You going to beat up the professor?” I ask.
“What’s a bad grade?”
“A B plus.”
“Oh, for that?” He shrugs and turns into a residential area. “Just a black eye.”
“What about a D?”
“That’s failing?”
“That’s passing. Barely.”
“Then I will let him live. Barely.”
He’s joking, of course, but I pat his hand in thanks for letting this fake professor live through my unlikely near-fail. I don’t need to ask about an F.
“This is a nice neighborhood,” I say.
The streets curve around clean sidewalks shaded with old trees. The lawns are lush and short. The houses are painted soft colors and trimmed in white. Flowers, birds, and butterflies thrive inside a bubble of perfection.
“It’s called River Heights. They say it’s very safe.” He strokes my pinkie with his thumb, then slows by a property with ten-foot hedges and an open driveway gate. When he pulls into it, a pale yellow two-story house is visible. He stops behind a silver Lexus SUV. The house’s front door is wide open.
“So,” I say, “who lives here? What’s going on?”
