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I feel someone tapping on my shoulder. “Excuse me, but are you … Hudson Finch?”
I turn to see a couple of teenage girls smiling down at me. I give them my best leading man smile. “I am.”
“Oh my God! Can we get a selfie?” one of them asks.
“Sure,” I say, standing up and positioning myself between them, careful to keep my hands in front of me so they’re in view of the camera the whole time. I make hang ten signs and grin while one of them holds her arm out (and up, always up) and snaps some pictures of us together. When she finishes, she says, “My mom is going to absolutely die when she sees this. She’s your biggest fan ever.”
Her friend nods. “She is. Like, she would totally leave her husband for you.”
Her mom is my biggest fan? My heart drops to the cement, but I keep this stupid smile plastered to my face. “That’s … so nice to hear. Tell her I said hi.”
They walk away and I sit down, suddenly not hungry anymore.
Gersh wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure that happens to Tom Cruise all the time.”
Sighing, I say, “Yeah, probably. But I’m not Tom Cruise, am I? I just had a film shelved.”
“Well… I mean, we’re talking about Hollywood royalty here. Nobody else is Tom Cruise. Not even Tom Cruise.”
“True, yeah.”
“So…”
“So maybe I should take the job.”
Gersh nods. “Yep.”
“Pivot, right? Try something new?”
“Exactly.”
Letting my shoulders drop, I say, “This is going to suck so hard.”
And there’s a ninety-nine-percent chance I’m going to fail utterly and completely.
4
Moon Dust, Homemade Gnocchi, and Overly-honest Relatives
Allie
“Allegra Bianca Cammareri! Don’t make me call you again!” my mother hollers up the stairs.
“Jesus God, I’m not ten,” I mutter, getting up from my tiny desk in my bedroom and crossing the room. I yank open the door and poke my head out into the hall, only to see her standing at the bottom of the stairs with an apron over her church dress and her messy light brown hair, that I inherited, up in a bun to keep it off her face while she cooks.
We glare at each other for a second until I finally say, “What?”
“Are you dressed? It’s almost four o’clock. The family’s going to be here any minute.”
“Of course I’m dressed, Ma. It’s almost four o’clock.” The truth is, I’m in the same clothes I slept in because I was too tired to change into pajamas when I gave up on Frank at three a.m.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t get smart with me, young lady. I’m still your mother.”
“Ma, I don’t have time for this right now. I told you, I’ll be down to eat dinner, but then I need to get right back to work.”
If I could get out of it, I would. But missing Sunday supper is a cardinal sin in my family. My parents, along with my dad’s brother and his wife, own a bakery which is closed on Sundays, which means every Sunday, we have a big meal together, and attendance is mandatory. My sister missed it once when she went into labor with their first child, Camilla, and my relatives are still talking about it because she wasn’t born until Monday night at ten, which, in their eyes, means she definitely could’ve made it to supper.
“Pfft, work,” Ma says, waving her hand. “I’ll show you work. I had to make the gnocchi myself today. My hands are raw from peeling potatoes.”
