Once you start hanging out with them, they don’t give you a say.”
“You just want me to be like you,” I shouted.
“You are like me. Get used to it,” she shouted back.
My father would go around and shut all the windows in the kitchen so the neighbors couldn’t hear us shouting, but Mia and I would go at it until I backed down or my dad would say, “Mia, she’s a kid. Couldn’t you just let her win for once?”
But it was never in Mia’s makeup to back down.
“Is that what you want, Frankie? That I let you win?”
Yes, I’d want to scream. Just once, let me win .
We’d go to bed furious with each other, and then she’d wake me in the middle of the night and come and lie on my bed and we’d talk for hours, about nothing and everything, and she’d let me touch the scars on her stomach—the scars from where they cut me out of her.
“My pelvis was too small,” she’d say, “and you were in such a hurry to come out that they had to deliver you by Cesarean, and by the time I woke up from the anesthetic, Nonna Anna and Nonna Celia had already held you, and I felt so cheated and I said to your father, ‘Let’s always take care of her, Robert. No one else is to take care of her but you and I.’ ”
But here I am at my grandparents’ house, knowing that this is killing Mia more than a breakdown. And I need to get myself back home, and Luca too. Because if we don’t, my mother will feel as if we’ve been ripped from her without the anesthetic, and the pain waves will be felt by all of us.
I need to get back. But I don’t know how.
My detention with Mr. Brolin means that I have to come into contact with Jimmy Hailler again. He gives me a wave, as if we’re long-lost friends, and I ignore him. So he turns his attention to some Year Eight kid next to him, who is looking over at Mr. Brolin, frightened of being caught speaking. The kid looks miserable. Not just Brolin miserable or Jimmy Hailler miserable, but it’s there in his eyes and Jimmy Hailler doesn’t make things any better.
Later, I sit under the tree in Hyde Park: it’s one of those fantastic weather days that bring everyone out, and I sit among strangers enjoying the sun and watching the old guys play on the giant chess game. I like this park. It’s full of life. Of greenies selling points of view, of lovers lying on the grass smooching, of Japanese tourists having their photo taken in front of the fountain, of the cathedral looming over us. At this time of the afternoon, there are no Sebastian kids around and I feel a bit at peace.
I see the Year Eight kid from detention walking as fast as possible down the pathway, and sure enough, there’s Jimmy Hailler trailing him. A fury builds up inside of me. I don’t know what comes over me, but I’m up on my feet and walking toward him before I can talk myself out of it.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He looks around, to see if I’m speaking to someone else.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yes I am, Mr. Taxi Driver, De Niro. You’re a bully and I know you don’t care, but I just thought you should know that I think you’re scum. He’s probably some miserable kid with his own demons and he doesn’t need yours.”
I’m actually shouting, and I feel as if there are tears in my eyes, but I don’t care. I’m just sick of all the misery—my absolute lack of control over everything. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of shock on his face, but I walk away. When I reach the lights on Elizabeth Street, I find that he’s next to me.
“It’s my favorite film, you know.” He’s got a lazy voice that comes across as an annoying drawl.
At first I ignore him.
“Taxi Driver,” he persists.
“Of course it is,” I say, because it’s just too much effort to ignore him. “And I bet I can tell you what your second-favorite film is.”
He gives me one of those go-ahead-but-you’ll-be-wrong looks, and the lights change and I walk away. But after a moment I turn back,
“You just want me to be like you,” I shouted.
“You are like me. Get used to it,” she shouted back.
My father would go around and shut all the windows in the kitchen so the neighbors couldn’t hear us shouting, but Mia and I would go at it until I backed down or my dad would say, “Mia, she’s a kid. Couldn’t you just let her win for once?”
But it was never in Mia’s makeup to back down.
“Is that what you want, Frankie? That I let you win?”
Yes, I’d want to scream. Just once, let me win .
We’d go to bed furious with each other, and then she’d wake me in the middle of the night and come and lie on my bed and we’d talk for hours, about nothing and everything, and she’d let me touch the scars on her stomach—the scars from where they cut me out of her.
“My pelvis was too small,” she’d say, “and you were in such a hurry to come out that they had to deliver you by Cesarean, and by the time I woke up from the anesthetic, Nonna Anna and Nonna Celia had already held you, and I felt so cheated and I said to your father, ‘Let’s always take care of her, Robert. No one else is to take care of her but you and I.’ ”
But here I am at my grandparents’ house, knowing that this is killing Mia more than a breakdown. And I need to get myself back home, and Luca too. Because if we don’t, my mother will feel as if we’ve been ripped from her without the anesthetic, and the pain waves will be felt by all of us.
I need to get back. But I don’t know how.
My detention with Mr. Brolin means that I have to come into contact with Jimmy Hailler again. He gives me a wave, as if we’re long-lost friends, and I ignore him. So he turns his attention to some Year Eight kid next to him, who is looking over at Mr. Brolin, frightened of being caught speaking. The kid looks miserable. Not just Brolin miserable or Jimmy Hailler miserable, but it’s there in his eyes and Jimmy Hailler doesn’t make things any better.
Later, I sit under the tree in Hyde Park: it’s one of those fantastic weather days that bring everyone out, and I sit among strangers enjoying the sun and watching the old guys play on the giant chess game. I like this park. It’s full of life. Of greenies selling points of view, of lovers lying on the grass smooching, of Japanese tourists having their photo taken in front of the fountain, of the cathedral looming over us. At this time of the afternoon, there are no Sebastian kids around and I feel a bit at peace.
I see the Year Eight kid from detention walking as fast as possible down the pathway, and sure enough, there’s Jimmy Hailler trailing him. A fury builds up inside of me. I don’t know what comes over me, but I’m up on my feet and walking toward him before I can talk myself out of it.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He looks around, to see if I’m speaking to someone else.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yes I am, Mr. Taxi Driver, De Niro. You’re a bully and I know you don’t care, but I just thought you should know that I think you’re scum. He’s probably some miserable kid with his own demons and he doesn’t need yours.”
I’m actually shouting, and I feel as if there are tears in my eyes, but I don’t care. I’m just sick of all the misery—my absolute lack of control over everything. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of shock on his face, but I walk away. When I reach the lights on Elizabeth Street, I find that he’s next to me.
“It’s my favorite film, you know.” He’s got a lazy voice that comes across as an annoying drawl.
At first I ignore him.
“Taxi Driver,” he persists.
“Of course it is,” I say, because it’s just too much effort to ignore him. “And I bet I can tell you what your second-favorite film is.”
He gives me one of those go-ahead-but-you’ll-be-wrong looks, and the lights change and I walk away. But after a moment I turn back,
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