loved him, too, but I found it impossible to say the words. In recent years, my relationship with him had changed … or maybe it was only that
I
had changed. I appreciated my dad as much as ever—maybe more so, knowing how hard he worked to support our family and the business—but our relationship had become increasingly stilted, tense even. The more I tried to establish my own identity, the stricter he became in his edicts and absolutism, unable to allow for the fact that I might yearn to deviate from the master plan he envisioned for me. Dad had worked enough pizza dough in his life to expect that his only daughter would be just as easily pliable. With every tentative step I made to assert my own thoughts and opinions, I sensed a growing disconnect between us. He didn’t want his “little girl” to go away, even as I so desperately needed to test the waters of adulthood. Though I couldn’t exactly give words to any of these sentiments, I burrowed a little deeper into his chest to let him know that, despite my turning the big one-six, he wasn’t going to lose me.
As the cheering subsided, I worried for a knee-wobbling moment that I’d be expected to utter words of some sort into the microphone as the guest of honor. I couldn’t possibly give a speech—the very thought had me ready to bolt for the nearest exit. Luckily, Ty (who had appointed himself DJ for the night) had cued up a version of “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” and people started sauntering back to the buffet table. I glanced around trying to find any of my friends from school, but Dad, his arm still around my shoulder, ushered me over to, who else: my unsolicited suitor and his father.
“Hi, Mr. Beresdorfer!” I said with as lively a smile I could muster. Talking to him reminded me of going to the dentist; painful, but necessary. “Thank you so much for coming tonight. And, uh … you, too, Perry!”
“Happy birthday, Gigi. You look pretty smokin’ tonight.” Lord. He handed me a single red rose wrapped in clear cellophane, a bright orange price sticker still stuck to the plastic.
“Oh, Perry, you shouldn’t have,” I said (by which I meant,
I so wish you had not.
)
“Fuggedaboudit,” he shrugged, clearly unaware of how lame it was for people who were zero percent Italian to speak like a mafia don. “You chicks are suckers for flowers. And, well, I am nothing if not a gentleman.”
I forced a pseudo-smile. He was wearing a blazer with gold anchor buttons on it and a giant class ring that looked like something won in an NBA championship. It was almost as if a mad scientist had morphed his baby face onto the body of an AARP member. My dad had the audacity to compliment Perry’s novelty tie, which was covered with golf balls. (Dad usually referred to golf as a “game for putzes,” but suddenly he was acting like he, too, had just emerged off the back nine.)
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with the rose now. Carry it around for the rest of the night? Stick it between my teeth and yank Perry into a passionate tango? (Dad would have been thrilled.)
“So, I guess this makes you legal now,” Perry continued, with—ew—yet another Dad-inappropriate remark.
“Yep,” Dad responded for me. “Trading in the learner’s permit for the official state ID of Illinois pretty soon, eh, Gigi?” Oh.
“I guess,” I answered. “If I pass the driver’s test.”
“Just what the world needs,” laughed Mr. Beresdorfer, “another woman driver on the road. Better up the coverage on your car insurance, Ben.” All three men laughed heartily. This whole macho-man conversation was to be expected from Perry and his father—but since when did my dad have to chime in? Was he going to start smashing beer cans on his forehead next?
“Don’t worry, Ben,” added Perry, knowingly patting my dad’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure I’m the one behind the wheel.”
“In that case, just get her home by midnight, or
else,
” said Dad pointing
I
had changed. I appreciated my dad as much as ever—maybe more so, knowing how hard he worked to support our family and the business—but our relationship had become increasingly stilted, tense even. The more I tried to establish my own identity, the stricter he became in his edicts and absolutism, unable to allow for the fact that I might yearn to deviate from the master plan he envisioned for me. Dad had worked enough pizza dough in his life to expect that his only daughter would be just as easily pliable. With every tentative step I made to assert my own thoughts and opinions, I sensed a growing disconnect between us. He didn’t want his “little girl” to go away, even as I so desperately needed to test the waters of adulthood. Though I couldn’t exactly give words to any of these sentiments, I burrowed a little deeper into his chest to let him know that, despite my turning the big one-six, he wasn’t going to lose me.
As the cheering subsided, I worried for a knee-wobbling moment that I’d be expected to utter words of some sort into the microphone as the guest of honor. I couldn’t possibly give a speech—the very thought had me ready to bolt for the nearest exit. Luckily, Ty (who had appointed himself DJ for the night) had cued up a version of “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” and people started sauntering back to the buffet table. I glanced around trying to find any of my friends from school, but Dad, his arm still around my shoulder, ushered me over to, who else: my unsolicited suitor and his father.
“Hi, Mr. Beresdorfer!” I said with as lively a smile I could muster. Talking to him reminded me of going to the dentist; painful, but necessary. “Thank you so much for coming tonight. And, uh … you, too, Perry!”
“Happy birthday, Gigi. You look pretty smokin’ tonight.” Lord. He handed me a single red rose wrapped in clear cellophane, a bright orange price sticker still stuck to the plastic.
“Oh, Perry, you shouldn’t have,” I said (by which I meant,
I so wish you had not.
)
“Fuggedaboudit,” he shrugged, clearly unaware of how lame it was for people who were zero percent Italian to speak like a mafia don. “You chicks are suckers for flowers. And, well, I am nothing if not a gentleman.”
I forced a pseudo-smile. He was wearing a blazer with gold anchor buttons on it and a giant class ring that looked like something won in an NBA championship. It was almost as if a mad scientist had morphed his baby face onto the body of an AARP member. My dad had the audacity to compliment Perry’s novelty tie, which was covered with golf balls. (Dad usually referred to golf as a “game for putzes,” but suddenly he was acting like he, too, had just emerged off the back nine.)
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with the rose now. Carry it around for the rest of the night? Stick it between my teeth and yank Perry into a passionate tango? (Dad would have been thrilled.)
“So, I guess this makes you legal now,” Perry continued, with—ew—yet another Dad-inappropriate remark.
“Yep,” Dad responded for me. “Trading in the learner’s permit for the official state ID of Illinois pretty soon, eh, Gigi?” Oh.
“I guess,” I answered. “If I pass the driver’s test.”
“Just what the world needs,” laughed Mr. Beresdorfer, “another woman driver on the road. Better up the coverage on your car insurance, Ben.” All three men laughed heartily. This whole macho-man conversation was to be expected from Perry and his father—but since when did my dad have to chime in? Was he going to start smashing beer cans on his forehead next?
“Don’t worry, Ben,” added Perry, knowingly patting my dad’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure I’m the one behind the wheel.”
“In that case, just get her home by midnight, or
else,
” said Dad pointing
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