“I’m fine,” I sing, swiping a chunk of yesterday’s crusty bread along the surface of the sauce. They ignore me.
“You know exactly why she’s needed in the kitchen,” Zia says.
“You know exactly why she needs to prepare for next year’s classes.”
“I have all summer to do the reading,” I say, popping the sauce-soaked bread into my mouth and shoving it into my cheek so I can talk around it. “I know what needs knowing.”
“She has a duty to the kitchen.” Zia backs me up even though she didn’t hear a word I said.
“She has a duty to her studies.” Zio’s voice raises to the attic.
“You already let her miss mass.”
“Woman.” His voice is a warning my aunt doesn’t seem to hear. “Don’t forget your place.”
“My place? Don’t you forget yours,” Zia snaps, her words far more weighted than a conversation about my study habits. “She must help with the cooking.”
My jaw freezes mid-chew. She never talks to him like that in front of me.
And why’s my uncle looking at her with surrender? I’ve never seen him look at her as if he knows he’s lost the fight.
Soured butterflies flit across the tight muscles of my stomach. Why are they arguing about me as if I’m not here? And why does Zio suddenly care so much about my studies? They know I’m a good student. I’m a solid 3.8 reading the books on the bus. There’s no use getting a nine-week jump on the material for another .2 when there were dinners to cook and fun to have.
And they know if it’s a big, important meal, I can help. Both of them.
“Don’t do this in my house,” Zio growled, low and ominous.
“Don’t do this in my house, old man.” She snaps a dishtowel off a metal bowl, revealing a swell of dough.
It doesn’t feel like they are arguing over my participation in the kitchen. It feels harder, deeper, like this is somehow life and death instead of osso buco.
It’s uncomfortable, watching them bicker like this over me. They act like my autonomy is gone, like I’m some kept woman who can’t make decisions for herself. This isn’t like my zio, waving around his man card like he’s king of the house. Nor is it like my zia to challenge him.
“What’s going on?” I say, finally, because I’ve never seen a battle like this.
Their eyes land on each other, and there’s a flicker of understanding I’m not permitted.
“Tell her,” Zia says, rolling the dough onto the butcher block.
He stands straighter, chin up in defiance to his wife before he turns to me.
“Your cooking is for your family. Your studies are for you.”
Zia scoffs, then punches the dough.
“I tell you what,” I say. “I’ll spend an hour working through the reading list, then I’ll come help.” I take a deep breath and hold it, waiting to see if my compromise sticks. I don’t like them making decisions for me, but I hate watching them argue more. Maybe they’ll just send me back to bed. My mind can return to Greece and pretend none of this ever happened.
The doorbell rings, but it’s just a courtesy. Zia’s younger sister, Donna, comes right in with her three kids.
With the help coming through the door, I figured Zia lost the fight. But Zio frowns deep again, then mops his head with a handkerchief.
“Fine, Violetta. You work a little and then you help.”
He shoots a look at Zia that I can’t quite decipher and disappears into the folds of the house. With a floury hand, Zia pats my cheek gently and turns her attention to the dough.
Feeling like a bocce ball knocked against the wall, I try to slink off, but my tiniest cousin, Tina, catches me in the hall.
“Vee-oh-letta!” she cries in the squeak of a four-year-old as her patent leather Mary Janes clack on the wood floor, then clop the rug.
“I made a horse for you!” She holds up a sheet of paper with a drawing of a blue, four-legged creature with red spots.
“Wow,” I say, kneeling to take it. “It looks exactly like the horse I took you riding on for your birthday!”
“Yes!” Tina claps. “That’s her! Freckles!”
“Oh my God,” her thirteen-year-old sister Elettra says with crossed arms. “It looks like a trash bag on sticks.”
I swat the teen’s calf, noticing the stockings and dressy shoes.
“It does not,” I say to Tina. “Can I keep this?”
“I want to make it better.” She snaps the paper away and runs to the TV room where her aunt keeps her crayons.
“Hey.” I stand up as Elettra’s trying to storm away. “She’s little. Why can’t you be nice?”
“Because I’m in this dumb dress,” she whispers angrily. “And these shoes are killing me.”
“Why are you guys still dressed up from church?”
“I. Don’t. Know,” Elettra snaps, then stomps into the kitchen like a warrior sent to fight an injustice her generals won’t even define.
Medical nonfic is agony. I can barely concentrate because I keep circling back to the argument between my aunt and uncle. My precious Z’s. Zio’s never been down my throat to study before, and it was never a problem for me to help in the kitchen.
Surgical processes I memorized the second I read them the first time look like gobbledygook on the page while I try to work out what just went on. The doorbell rings as people arrive. The usual suspects for Christmas or Easter, but not a random Sunday. Must be one of those lucky weeks everyone’s around.
At the end of the hour, I close my book and decide surgery is easier to understand than human relationships.
I’m about to go down when I remember how Elettra and Tina are dressed. I might not know why they’re staying in their Sunday shoes, but I can’t go down there unshowered in sweatpants and sock feet.
After a shower, I rifle through my closet, finding a dark pink peasant skirt and white button-front shirt. I put them on and check the mirror. My friends would laugh at this getup, and Mr. Dreamy Blue Eyes—who is definitely out there somewhere—wouldn’t take a second glance at me looking like this. I undo the second button of my shirt to show a hint of white cotton bra. I look a little like a movie star in that plunging neckline and decide my skirt’s long enough to skip stockings.
I slip on a pair of white sandals and go downstairs, where the entire extended family has packed into the house. Gross smoke from stubby cigars seeps from under the door to Zio’s study, curling around deep conversations about important things. Every woman in our family, from tiny cousin Tina to ancient Nana Angelina, hums between the two kitchens, carrying, stirring, chopping. Between gossiping and instruction on proper cooking technique, Zia’s usually the head of a well-practiced surgical team, but she seems more subdued today, and the players aren’t at their Sunday chattiest.
As soon as I join them, it goes quiet.
“Will you miss school?” Zia breaks the silence.
“Probably not.” I smile tightly, ever aware they are all staring. “It’s been so busy. I had like a million study groups this week and I bet I could sleep until grades come in.”
My friends and I didn’t get much studying done in group, but it felt like the right thing to say, with everyone treating me like a goldfish in a tiny bowl.