33
BANKS MORETTI
“What youse doin’ over here pouting for?” a cousin laughs like I’m sulking in a fucking corner after the leak two days ago. It’s Thanksgiving.
I’m out in the open at Uncle Joe’s row house, a beer in hand. Turkey is in the oven. “Give me a fuckin’ break, Vito,” I say with a hard swig.
“So you’re not gonna talk to your dad then?”
“So you’re gonna keep standing there with your foot on your dick?” I shoot back.
Vito clucks his tongue and waves an angry hand at me. “Ah, vaffangul’.”
“Yeah, fuck you too, you scustamad’.”
“Hey, hey, Banksy,” my mom says in surprise at my anger, and Vito, that fucking coward, leaves as soon as a woman approaches.
“Hey, Ma.” I swig.
She takes my hand. Hers are rough like mine, from working on cars for longer than I’ve been alive. “Let’s go talk, huh? Come on.”
I follow my mom into her brother’s bedroom. Small. Smells stuffy and a little like black licorice.
That’s the smell of anisette, genius.
Uncle Joe loves drinking anisette, especially around the colder holidays.
“What’s goin’ on with you?” she asks straight out, arms crossed.
“Other than me hating Dad?”
Her gaze softens. “He called me, you know.”
I frown. “What’d he say?” I sip my beer, tensed.
“He asked about you—whether you still like hockey. He was thinking of buying tickets to a game for you and him.”
I stare at the shot glasses on my uncle’s nightstand. “I’ve never liked hockey. That was…” Skylar. I swallow hard, unable to say the name.
“I know.” She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “I told him as much.”
“Ma, you shoulda hung up on him if the first thing outta his mouth wasn’t a fucking apology.”
She gives me a no-nonsense look. “I’ve stopped expecting things from that man a long time ago.” Her eyes drift over my angered expression. “You should talk to him. He’s still your father—”
“He’s a terrible father—”
“He’s trying for you.” She rests a hand on my arm. “I know what grudges are like in this family. They eat from your core and hollow something out. Don’t let it get so bad it can’t be filled up again.”
I think for a second, lifting my beer to my lips. “I’m not saying yes, but I’m not saying no.”
She rolls her eyes with a smile and reaches up to touch my jaw. “I love you, Banksy. Don’t be a gabbadost’ like half the men in this family. We have enough of ‘em.”
I’m not as big of a hardhead as Thatcher, that’s for sure. I glance back at the door. “All the family knows about me hating dad now?” I ask.
“They already knew.”
Right.
I finish off my beer. “Except now I get to hear an earful from my cousins.”
If it were up to me, I’d be spending Thanksgiving with my girlfriend. But I wasn’t invited.
Neither was Akara.
Ryke knew if he left one of us out, Sulli wouldn’t show, and he wanted to spend Thanksgiving with his daughter. She wanted to spend it with us, but this was a good opportunity for them to work things out.
And even if I wanted, I couldn’t invite Sulli to my uncle’s house. No one knows we’re together, not even my mom.
She waves a hand like my cousins are full of shit anyway. “Ignore ‘em.”
For a second, I contemplate telling her about me and Sulli and Akara. “Ma,” I start.
Knock knock.
Fuck me sideways and back to fucking hell again. I dig irritably in my pocket.
“What’s that noise?” she asks.
“An alert for The Royal Leaks.” I open the website.
THE ROYAL LEAKS
We reveal all the truths about the American Royals. These are verified and come directly from the source.
ROYAL LEAK #1: Thatcher & Jane are trying to have a baby.
#TodaysLeaks #GetItOn #oooohbaby
I smile, liking this one, even if the news should’ve been aired with their permission. I show my mom.
She gasps into a big grin and pats my chest.
I wrap an arm over my mom’s shoulders. “Someday soon, you’re gonna be a grandma.”
“You’re gonna be an uncle.”
“Uncle Banks.” I nod, liking that for me.
The door flings open. “Gloria!” my aunt shouts. “Did ya see?!” More shouts of excitement pitch the air behind her. Uplifting my Thanksgiving.
34
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
I peel a green cupcake decorated like an alien head and just sniff the frosting. Contact sugar high. It smells fucking divine. Bet it tastes even better.
I’m salivating.
If Winona didn’t recently profess to being so proud of me for still being vegan, I’d deep-throat this birthday cupcake right now.
I sink deeper on a teal beanbag. In the penthouse’s game room, we pushed aside the pool table to make room for several beanbags and a projector screen.
The Star Wars movie marathon isn’t enough to distract my cravings, and I already gave Luna her 20th birthday present: a new beaded friendship bracelet and a nonfiction book about life in the universe.
“Thanks, Sulli.” We fist-bumped and then hugged. All seemed to be going okay. Except, now I’m a beanbag behind Luna, Moffy, and Jane, and I catch Luna passing her brother a note.