“I hate phones. Life was better before cell phones. In my day . . .”
Dear reader, I roll my eyes so hard my entire body follows and I crash to the floor in dramatic fashion.
“All right, stugots! Get up! Zia Gab, Zia Rosa, and Matty are coming over for sauce. Go wash up. You smell.”
I sniff under my arms. She’s not wrong.
Then, randomly, she asks, “Have you heard from Topher?”
I haven’t spoken to Topher in a couple months, at least. “No, why?”
She clicks her blush-pink manicured nails together. “There’s some wonderful family news. But first—” She mimes a zipper closing across her lips.
Curiosity: piqued. “Why so cryptic?”
She shrugs. “What happened with that boy?” She’s trying to throw me off the scent of something much larger than a boy.
My head whips around. “Huh? What boy?”
“The one who was over the other day.” Ma’s nostrils flare. “Good thing it was me who saw him, and not Nonna. She’d give him a lecture about the proper way to court her grandson, and then scream at you for being disrespectful and not introducing him. Was he the neighbor’s kid from down the street, Rye? He’s a nice boy, but he’s no R—”
“Ma!” I cut her off before she can say the name. My cheeks heat faster than Nonna’s Bialetti espresso pot. “First of all, Ma, I’m sorry—I’d never disrespect you or Nonna like that. Rye’s just a friend.”
Ma’s eyes narrow. She’s too smart for that. “It’s nice to see you moving on, finally.”
“Mm-hmm.” I don’t have the heart—or balls—to tell her that Rye’s also a friend I occasionally hook up with. After my heart was crushed by the boy next door in what I call “the Great Commencement Massacre,” I needed to have fun. Kiss lots of boys. And nobody ever got hurt kissing a boy, right?
*Stares directly at camera.*Anyway.
I’ve discovered over the last year sincehe, the big fatRin the room, broke up with me, I can pretend I’m completely fine day-to-day: film online content, go to school, do homework, hook up with guys on the football team while saving my heart for the guy who ruined me yet not be able to say his name out loud,anddo it all with a broken heart!
Some call that delusional; I call it containing multitudes!
“But, yeah, the guy—erm, yeah, he isn’t gonna work out.”
“You’re young.” She avoids eye contact. “But while you live under my roof—”
“Nonna’s,” I correct.
She clears her throat in an interrupt-me-again-and-I’ll-whoop-your-ass way. “As long as you live here, you live bymyrules. Once you’re old enough to get your own place, you can have any Kevin, Joe, or Nick you want over.”
Dread creeps into my chest.
“Did you just name Jonas Brothers? Ma—”
It’s not like I haven’t thought about moving out. All my high school friends are about to move on to their various campuses, into run-down dorms, and I don’twantto be stuck in my same bedroom wallpapered with posters of Pedro Pascal, Orville Peck, Billie Eilish, Chappell Roan, a Ryan Reynolds–autographedDeadpoolposter—who doesn’t love a fourth wall break?—andPolaroids of high school friends, family—andhim—a time capsule for who I once was. But where would I go? I like being home.
Part of Ma’s “No College? Fine, but You’re Learning a Thing or Two from Me” agreement included paying rent and contributing to household bills and expenses, which I’ve had to do all through high school anyway to help make ends meet. But the part Ma really goes hard on is wanting me to focus on a career beyond social media.
Ma’s rule—I haveoneyear of living at home (not rent-free, to clarify!) to sustain an Italian mom–approved career outside of the Clock App. Even though my only marketable skill is the million-plus user following I’ve builtusingthe Clock App. Right now, I’m laser-focused on being a Clock influencer and riding that to whatever comes next. At the very least, it’s a bullet train to gaining more followers and building more “fame.” Expand my platform. As it stands now, I’ve done a stellar job doing that on my own. My Clock account is a success by any metrics or standards.
That’s all I need, right? At least, that’s what I’ve told myself—and Ma.
*Stares directly into camera, blinks twice.*
Anyway.
“I can move out soon. Ish. If you want,” I offer, though I know she’d never go for that. Italian moms would keep their kids until they died if they could, Norma Bates–style.
