The writer who’s doing the intro to the pictures for Vogue calls a few days after the shoot.
“Do you have a few minutes?
Happy to take a break from bio, I close my notebook. We chat about the kind of clothes I like to wear.
“Designer mixed with H&M and other stuff.”
Where I shop. “Everywhere,” because off the truck won’t cut it.
“Do you have a boyfriend? ”
“No…I don’t.” To be safe.
Then I think the questions are over because she says she really enjoyed chatting with me and I thank her and say I enjoyed it too, then she says, “Oh, one last thing.”
I hesitate. “Yes?”
“You live in a very high profile world.”
High profile?
“Your dad is in the newspapers all the time…and on TV.”
I hold my breath.
“How does that affect you?”
Never talk to reporters, Super Mario once told me. They’re your best friends until they sit down at the computer. The seconds go by. My face gets hot. I want to hang up and not have this conversation. “If I wasn’t his daughter, you wouldn’t be interviewing me for Vogue magazine—”
“Yes, but I mean the…”
I know what you mean. “So I’m really honored to be part of the story, thank you.” I press end and hold my middle finger up to the phone.
I forget about Vogue magazine and do homework. And then I’m having a four-way conference call with Ro and Clive and Candy and checking email and searching online for the perfect red silk thong because I’m thinking about New Year’s Eve and imagining a romantic night with Michael with dinner and champagne and chocolates. Although that is out of the realm and anyway, he’s probably more of a hamburger and beer guy. But then I stop fantasizing when I hear loud voices downstairs.
My mom is crying.
Frankie and Vinnie are shouting. A sick familiar feeling creeps up my spine.
“I have to go,” I yell into the phone. I know the cops are after my dad for something because they probably bugged his phone or the social club and decided that whatever he said or didn’t say fingered him even though by now he knows to be careful and talk in a code that only he and his friends can understand.
“Ma, what is it? What is it?” I say, running down the stairs.
“Find your brother, find Anthony!” she yells, shaking her head. I have no idea where Anthony is, but she always feels better when he’s around. So I get on the phone and start texting his friends to call me now!
This has happened before and I shouldn’t get scared, but I always do because deep in my gut I get this feeling that life is spiraling out of control and all of us are powerless to stop it and my dad is always the target, always. And I mean how many times can you dodge a bullet?
Last time there were about twenty feds along with NYC detectives and it looked like they were trying to stop a terrorist attack instead of just bringing my dad and a few of his associates in, as if that was so hard. Then to make it worse, they made sure to call the Daily News and the Post and TV too so they could embarrass us and make themselves look good.
Within five minutes the outside of our house is lit like a movie set even though my dad isn’t even home and we’re stuck inside peeking through slits on the side of closed drapes to see what’s going on.
When they finally find my dad in a restaurant, they make a show of cuffing him while his manicotti sits there half eaten. Like what would he do, try to run with fifty cops surrounding him, guns drawn, ready to shoot? With his hands cuffed behind him, they perp walk him across the street with the TV cameras rolling and then book him downtown for RICO and murder or manslaughter even though my dad actually never personally killed anyone. I know that. I believe it.
Anthony comes home in five minutes and he has to parade past the TV cameras too, trying his best not to smack them out of his way, which he is dying to do. Not to mention cursing them out while they’re yelling questions in his face about what he thinks about what my dad did or didn’t do and then wanting to know, “are you taking over after your dad? Are you next in line?”
He comes in slamming the front door hard and talks to my mom and Vinnie and Frankie who is perpetually cleaning his Glock, and they have a conference call with Super Mario who is already in his car on his way to help my dad.
“It’s time for dinner,” my mom announces, going into her default setting. She heads for the freezer and takes out a pan of lasagna because God forbid in life you should miss a meal. She slips it into the oven and slams the door too hard and we sit and fold our hands and pretend everything will be just fine and that we should try to eat and relax and act normal, even though there’s no normal in our family.
Anthony opens some Chianti and I dive for it and drink about five glasses because aside from everything with my dad, how will I face everyone tomorrow at school in the middle of this media circus?