Page 8 of Let the Light Shine Through

I return Mr. Robinson’s wave. He only waves at me when he’s happy, and he seems to only be happy when I skate on the opposite side of the street from his flower shop, which is why I just weaved my way through traffic like a noob when I got lost in my head—again—and almost rode across his beloved sidewalk.

I make a mental note to swing by later with chalk to leave my second-favorite widower a nice note to find in the morning. It’s been a while since I did that. Hopefully it doesn’t rain before he has a chance to see it. June can be stubbornly chilly, annoyingly soggy, or blissfully warm—sometimes all in the same day. Ah New York, you moody bitch you.

I attempt to scissor back and forth over the crumbly concrete before giving up and hopping off my board entirely. With my fave spine tucked under my arm, I head inside the bakery I’ve been meaning to stop by. It’s completely peanut-free, which is fucking awesome, not because I have a peanut allergy, but because other people do, and it’s about time we acknowledge that shit. I’ve even been trying to switch out some of my dad’s vendors to help make our pizzeria more allergen-friendly too, but it’s slow. And difficult. Dad’s stuck in his ways.

A girl about my age, maybe younger, greets me as soon as I enter and I take her in before returning her friendly smile. She’s wearing a baggie sweatshirt she keeps pulling on that has me wondering what she’s so self-conscious about along with a slouch beanie hipsters wear to look cool. She seems like she genuinely prefers it though, which instantly warms me to her. Also, she’s got a shy kindness about her my dad probably wishes I presented to our customers.

That thought has me almost laughing out loud as I say, “Hey,” then glance at her name tag, “Kylin.”

“It’s Kyle actually.”

Dope name.

“I like your sweater, Kyle.” It says I’m not a morning person, which with her working in a bakery, she no doubt has to work early mornings on the reg, especially if she’s still in school, so…poor Kyle. “What’s the best thing on the menu?”

Recovering from her whole face blush—shy and innocent—she recommends a fantastically high double chocolate cake with salted caramel filling. I order three slices, shovel one into my mouth, then leave her a hefty tip that makes her blush all over again.

Kyle’s adorable.

I’ll definitely be back.

On the way out, I spot a girl from my Lit and Comp class stopped at a red light, so after watching—hilariously—as her eyes grow wide when I ask if I can catch a ride, I hop in her passenger seat. I left my truck at home this morning, wanting to skate to school instead, but I’m not up for trying to ride all the way to my dad’s pizzeria juggling two slices of cake. Our academy didn’t teach us that particular life skill. Shame.

Luckily, it’s a short drive—I can only handle so much digital hardcore music before I lose my shit—but I leave her one of the slices as compensation anyway.

One foot through the door and my dad’s voice booms across the small dining room as he stands behind the counter, cheesing at me. It’s fairly early, so there aren’t many diners yet, but still, he acts like he didn’t just see me this morning. He begins singing opera in an exaggerated voice, using the handle of a pizza peel as his microphone, and I let out a groan, pretending I don’t absolutely love this kind of thing. He knows I’m full of shit though and sings even louder just for my benefit. Pure perfection, this guy.

I let him carry on for a while longer, soaking in his show like it might be his last—you never know—then when I can’t take it anymore, I snatch up a nearby metal spatula and croon out my own part of this unrehearsed duet. Winding between the tables, I work to keep pace with my pops, stumbling over the foreign words but not caring one bit. Opera isn’t about perfection, it’s about emotion. Exactly what life should be.

“Dad, enough already,” I mock scold after our song comes to a close. “You’re gonna scare away our best customers,” I say, pointing at the one table that’s currently occupied. I have no clue if they’ve eaten here before, but they seem like good people and by that I mean they stayed for our whole performance and didn’t throw food at us.

“Gia, come give me some sugar.”

I hand him the last slice of cake, pleased with myself for being so literal, then I kiss both of his cheeks, just as happy to be figurative, too.

We work side by side for the rest of the evening until my boy, Rowdy, shows up asking what our plans for the night are. He suggests a luau over on Greek Sac but I’m not feeling it. Coconut bras and sarongs? Not for me.

Mentioning Greek Sac reminds me of the guy from earlier—Roz. His roommate, Fletcher, mentioned them having a party tonight, too. At least if people are swimming there, I can play that shit off, a lot easier than I could at a luau.

Two pizza rolls and an order of fried ravioli later, I’ve persuaded Rowdy to not only spread the new plan to everyone else but to be my ride for the night as well. I even promise to play wing-woman for him until he finds someone else to keep him busy. He’s so easy to like, but he has this habit of getting super shy whenever he meets new people, so I usually have to wear my hype-woman hat just to get the conversation flowing. We’re like Lance-tailed Manakin birds, working in a pair to only get one of us laid, except without the ridiculous dancing display.

Whatever. It’s all good. He’s a great guy, my best friend, and has a hell of a quad collection. If he was as confident hitting on women as he was racing four-wheelers, shit, we’d all be in trouble.

Rowdy waits until the dinner rush is over, then we’re off to my house so I can change. And although the idea of Roz going apeshit over my underwear again does sound amusing, I need to change my whole outfit because this schoolgirl uniform covered in clam sauce ain’t gonna cut it. If it was my clam sauce, then maybe.

Despite my best efforts, I crack up at my own joke, filling the foyer with peals of laughter when we walk in the front door. Rowdy gives me a weird look but doesn’t ask, going in search of the remote for the TV instead.

“Where did you stash those cookies?” he calls out when I’m halfway up the stairs, and my eyes roll all on their own. Didn’t he just eat? Like a lot?

Ignoring him, I grip the baluster, spinning to the right toward my room and saying, “Hi, Mom,” as I pass before pulling up short. I back up a step and twist my head. Both hands on the frame, I adjust the portrait a hair to the left, then stand back to admire it. “Better,” I whisper.

My mom left this earth three years ago, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t talk to her. Sometimes to this picture hanging on the wall, sometimes in the dreams she visits me in, sometimes in my heart where I know she’ll forever be.

She was one of those people, the kind that everybody liked. She could light up a room with her smile alone. That’s what made my dad fall for her…him and everyone else. The warmth of her affection was unparalleled. She warmed everybody with her love, and the day she died, we were all left shivering.

Finally alone in my room, I strip my school clothes off, hoping the clam smell goes with them since I don’t have time to shower. The rest of our boys don’t want to walk in until we’re all there because Fletcher can be a dick sometimes about the numbers being even, and having that many guys show up at once would totally screw with his chances of scoring with the opposite sex.

Sure, Fletch.