It’s been almost a week and we don’t have a school president, or we do and it’s Brandy, but not really because they’re still recounting. Only why is it taking so long? The day before Thanksgiving, Clive and I and Ro and Candy meet in front of the school because somebody said that there might be more information about the election.
“Let’s look at the bulletin board,” Clive says.
“One for all and all for one, united we stand, divided we fall,” Ro chants, and we chime in along with her. But we stop when we get to the sign.
Based on irregularities in the tabulations, the school will be recounting the ballots.
Now it’s officially out there.
“This is huge,” Clive says. “Because if you win, it means we’ve caught them at their dirty game.”
“I love that,” says Ro.
“Moi aussi,” says Candy, raising her fists in the air.
Maybe justice will prevail and I had a hand in it. So I am now in an extra good mood because of the recount and Thanksgiving coming and the trip to Europe that no one knows about.
I haven’t asked my parents yet, but I’m sure they’ll let me go because it’s with Clive’s parents and it’s totally chaperoned and I’ll be away and safe and everything will be five star.
“Come for Thanksgiving,” I say to Clive.
“I would love that.”
His parents are away of course, this time with friends in the south of France and he doesn’t want to go there because the French don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, duh, so he brings pumpkin pies and cookies from Daniel Boulud and crusty baguettes, and my mom and dad really like Clive because he’s totally respectful and worships me and he’s always telling them about how the teachers love my work, which they want to hear because of what they pay for my school. I think that at some level they think of Clive as one of their own and I tell everybody I’ve adopted him and that he’s my new brother. Even Anthony laughs about that because he wouldn’t mind having another brother so there is someone else around the house to deal with all the garbage he doesn’t want to.
My dad motions to Clive to come talk to him. I casually walk toward them, pretending to be fixing the flowers on a side table. From the corner of my eye I see my dad put his hand on Clive’s shoulder.
“You’re a good friend to Gia.”
“She’s very special to me,” Clive says.
My dad nods. “You are always welcome in my home, and I am here for you, whatever you need.”
“Thank you,” Clive says and then falls silent. I don’t have to see his face to know how touched he is.
We both head for the kitchen to help my mom baste all three turkeys and Clive gives her a pottery cup with a hand-printed label that says Herbes de Provence that has fennel and basil and lavender and stuff so we sprinkle it on the turkeys and it makes the house smell like a kitchen in the south of France, or that’s what Clive says, because how would I know. Everyone who walks in says, “Omigod, what is that?” and presses their hands to their hearts.
That of course makes Clive feel very special and then we also help my mom mash the forty-five hundred potatoes, a job that Anthony hates to do, but Clive doesn’t mind. So Anthony goes upstairs to look at pornography on his computer or whatever, and then finally, everything is ready.
All forty of us descend on the table like locusts and everyone looks at my dad who says grace and makes a speech about thanks, and of course my mom and I get teary-eyed even though we hate that.
But I am thankful.
For having my dad with us. For my crazy family. For Clive. For the recount. For what hasn’t happened yet, but will, like my secret plan for the future.
When all the emotional stuff is finally over, we dab our eyes and take a breath, then pass around big platters of white meat turkey and then dark and of course we start with my dad. After the meat, we move on to gravy and then the mashed yams and mashed Yukon Gold potatoes and string beans and brussels sprouts and carrots and parsnips, cranberry sauce with walnuts and oranges, sausage corn bread stuffing with sage, and then the bread and then the pumpkin and chocolate pecan pies and the sugar cookies and espresso and tea and then after-dinner drinks, and then Frankie drops to the floor because he has a massive heart attack.
The ambulance screeches up and the EMT guys give Frankie oxygen and it takes three of them to carry him out on a stretcher. By then everyone has switched over to speaking Italian because that way they feel closer to God and then they’re praying and throwing their hands up and everybody heads for their cars to follow the ambulance.
But my dad holds up his hands. “Please, I will go with Anthony,” and “we’ll call you when we get there.”
We all stay home and pray for Frankie and wait and wait and after that there’s a total pall over what’s left of the day. Clive and I help my mom clean up and then we go upstairs and watch a movie.
“Do you want to stay over?” I ask Clive.
“Would your parents mind?”
“Definitely not.”
But I put him in the guest room, not my room, anyway. At three in the morning the house phone rings and I know it’s my dad calling so I tiptoe into the hallway.
“Thank God, thank God,” my mom says, which means Frankie pulled through and we have something else to be thankful for. I start wondering how the hell we’re going to get him to lose weight because when you’re ninety pounds overweight, you’re basically a walking time bomb.