Chapter 4
Good Luck, Babe!
“A private jet is a baller move.” Matty’s eyes widen as we reach the tarmac and he sees the PJ in the distance set against a hazy July sky.
“See—you should go work for Topher, Fielder,” Ma says. “Make real money instead of relying on that ridiculous Clock App.”
Lay off, Ma.
I must’ve said that out loud because she smacks me upside the back of my head.Lightly—relax, readers. It’s not child abuse; it’s a love language for Italian moms.
“I’m just saying, you gotta figure out how to make a sustainable career for yourself, baby. That was the deal. No college, but make something of yourself; don’t just let time pass you by like the hands on a clock. Ticktock, ticktock.”
In other words,Good luck, babe!
“I’m trying. Not everyone can be a college dropout multimillionaire at twenty-one.” I remind myself to make sure the contentI’ve filmed over the last two weeks reviewing restaurants and devouring food is set to post at certain times to keep the algorithm in my favor. I don’t have anything yet for the @Food-ForChange contest. I haven’t told Ma about it yet to manage her (and my, frankly) expectations. It’s hard enough being on a trip where I’ll be constantly reminded of how successful Topher is and that I should follow in his footsteps or learn from him.Deep breath.“Don’t worry, Ma.”
“That’s my job,” she says.That and good old-fashioned Italian guilt!
The runway of Westchester County Airport is clear just for us, something I’ve never seen (because it’s far too expensive to fly out of Westchester versus JFK or LaGuardia or even Newark, so this is my first time here, period). I’mdeeplyuncomfortable because I feel like a rich douchebag walking toward a private jet, which could not be further from the truth, but if I saw our family traipsing across the tarmac, I’d be hardcore judging us for our extravagant spending and enormous carbon footprint.
But, alas, here I am, craving a cappuccino and knowing I can probably get one aboard the flight. Being human is weird like that.
Lush green trees and flat plots of perfectly trimmed grass present a kind of serenity that major New York metropolitan airports don’t. It’s free of city noise.
The air is slightly dewy.
Zia Gabriella scoffs. “I cannot believe Topher did this.” Her suitcase has one wheel that pulls maddeningly to the right, and she keeps having to yank it with every five steps she takes. “He spent too much money on us.”
“That’s not what she said when Topher flew her out to LA for Mother’s Day,” Zia Rosa whispers. Except nobody in the Coven ever whispers, so it’s more like a dull scream.
“I’m just saying,” Zia Gabriella continues. “We could have flown coach on a regular plane. It’s not like any of us are strangers to that.” She eyes Ma up and down. The shade is real. “There are better ways for Topher to spend his money.”
“Than on his family?” Ma scoffs.
“Meanwhile, he’s constantly flying all over the world,” Zia Rosa adds. “Didn’t he post on Instagram last week that he was in Parisjustto eat at a Michelin-star restaurant for dinner?”
“He loves luxury, my son.” Zia Gabriella waves Rosa’s comments away like a gnat.
“Really, Gab?” Ma says. “Topher’s generous enough to charter a plane for his family, the little people who can’t afford to up and go toJerseyon a whim, let alone Italy, and you’re complaining? Shut up.”
“Youshut up!” Zia Gabriella quips.
Matty and I exchange knowing glances. Gabriella and Ma are oil and water. They can’t exist in each other’s orbits for longer than a couple hours without going off on each other. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember. According to Lemon legend, the genesis of their feud was when Ma convinced Gabriella, always the weaker willed of the two, to let Ma cut her hair when they were eight and ten, respectively, right before school picture day. The most prized picture in our family is Zia Gabriella with a scrunched-up face and red, teary eyes, balding with angry, wispy hairs tied into a heinous bow at the top of her head, looking likean onion freshly plucked from the ground. Zia Gabriella claims she forgave Ma, but I’ve noticed whenever they fight hard, she grabs at her long black hair in an act of protection. Still, don’t ever get in the middle because they’ll go after you—they fight hard, but loveeach otherharder.
“Can you both shut up?” Zia Rosa shouts.
Matty links his arm with mine and forces us to walk at a gayer speed in hopes of outrunning the Coven.
He’s trembling, his body brimming with excitement, electricity firing in his veins.
“You all right there, Flash?” I ask, tugging at our hooked limbs.
“What do you thinkItaliawill be like?” He emphasizes “Italia” like every other Guido in our neighborhood might. All-American with a Westchester twist. “More importantly, what do you think the guys will be like?”
“One-track mind,” I say.
He cranes his neck and looks behind us, making sure the Coven are far enough away that they can’t hear our conversation—though I’m convinced they all have bionic ears and no private chat is safe. “I’m determined to lose my virginity, bro.”
