The Fine Art of Truth or Dare by Melissa Jensen Page B

She actually once asked Frankie what Asians throw at weddings, since Americans throw rice. He said shredded math tests. I think she believed him. But she’s surprisingly smart when it comes to people’s complicated love lives (in the last six months, she’s correctly predicted two marriages and three divorces among Marino’s regulars), and is usually pretty nice to me.
    I took the hint. I snapped the valve onto the syrup, pushed the button, and a minute later, had two glasses of Coke in hand. “Come on,” I told Alex, crossing the kitchen and pushing the screen door open. “It’s cooler out here.”
    He followed me out onto the stoop. Someone had swept; the little parking lot was free of leaves and the usual soggy take-out menus from the Thai restaurant up the street. There was a Porsche SUV squeezed in next to the Luccheses’ Buick. I assumed it belonged to Alex’s parents.
    I sat all the way over to the right, so he had no choice but to sit to my left. He did. He was wearing the same green Lacoste from the disastrous declamation day. I could see a trail of bread crumbs running down the front. Nonna takes her
pane
seriously. She bakes it on a stone in the pizza oven and mists it while it’s cooking, as if it were some sort of bizarre tropical fern. The result is pretty amazing. The crust shatters like glass, but the center is so soft you almost don’t have to chew.
    Alex folded himself up and rested his crossed arms on his knees. The stoop isn’t very high. With his legs bent, his knees were almost even with his shoulders. He looked like a really beautiful human umbrella.
    â€œYou’re not going to get in trouble for this, are you?” he asked.
    â€œNo.” I handed him his Coke and prayed silently that it wouldn’t be flat. “I’m good for a few minutes.”
    I had no idea what else to say. So I drank. A little sweet, but plenty fizzy. Like I thought I should probably be. Peppy. Perky. Civically minded and fond of pastels.
    â€œI really didn’t know this was your family’s place,” he said after a minute. “It was
Philly
mag. The ’rents were looking for authentic Italian. They’re big on authenticity.”
    â€œâ€˜The best place to eat while channeling Tony Soprano’?”
    He winced. “You make it sound so . . . cheesy.”
    â€œYeah, well, what can we do? People like . . .” I stopped myself.
People like you think we’re all tied to the Mob.
“. . . the idea of old South Philly. The checkered tablecloths and rubber grapes. Men in hats. We have pictures like that from when my grandparents opened the restaurant.”
    â€œEver had a hit here?”
    See?
    I sighed quietly. “Not in my lifetime.” Then, since I was feeling none too eloquent, and “What do you want, Alex?” was a little too Frankie and not at all Ella, I asked, “Shouldn’t your mom be in the studio or something?”
    â€œThey’re sending her down to D.C. to interview the Russian president, so she’s not on tonight. If she’s home and Dad’s home and they don’t have an event, we go out to dinner.”
    â€œHappen often?”
    â€œOften enough. Once a month or so. They like to play happy families.”
    Oh, I was dying to ask,
Aren’t you a happy family?
I know, of course I know that money isn’t enough, but it has to help. I can’t remotely imagine how it’s possible to be unhappy on trips to Florence.
    â€œIs it just you?” I did ask. “No sibs?”
    â€œJust me. Public figures have to have at least one. It makes them look trustworthy.” He took a quick look at my face and laughed. “I’m kidding. Trust me, you can’t believe most of what I say.”
    I had absolutely no idea what to say to that.
    Truth: I want people to tell the truth.
    Truth: Yes, I am that naive.
    â€œSiblings