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  “My father.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Most people think my mother does all that, but she doesn’t.”

  “It’s a pretty amazing garden.”

  “You think?” Leo has spent so much time avoiding Papa’s requests to help with the weeding that he’s never thought about what the garden might look like to others.

  One whole side of the yard is a bank of peony bushes that bloom enormous pink blossoms in June. Surrounding the birdbath are Papa’s rosebushes, about twenty of them, which he seems to coax into bloom each summer, bending over them, spraying them, gently removing the fully opened roses before the petals fall. Flanking the other side of the yard is his vegetable garden, in which he grows corn, lettuce, beans, peas, cucumbers, and his special pride—fat, juicy tomatoes.

  In the spring and summer, Papa is out there first thing in the morning and immediately after dinner each night. Leo thinks of himself in the maple tree and the attic, and he wonders if the garden is where Papa goes to have quiet.

  Ruby says, “You’re the one who should have done this photosynthesis display. Maybe you’ve got your father’s green thumb.”

  “Nah,” Leo says. “I don’t know the first thing about it.” But he wonders how his father learned, and if Papa might have been proud if Leo had done a science project like Ruby’s.

  As Leo is leaving, his eyes are drawn to a photo on the hall table. A younger Ruby is hugging a little boy with red curly hair, like Ruby’s. “Is that—?”

  “Yes,” Ruby says. “That’s my brother. Johnny. Cute, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  All the way home, Leo can’t get that picture out of his mind. There was this real boy, Johnny, and he was Ruby’s brother, and now he is gone. Gone. Leo can’t imagine either of his brothers or his sister gone, even though Pietro and Contento are sometimes annoying. He doesn’t want to think of the word dead; it is too awful. To have someone you love go—it must leave a big, empty hole in yourself, and no one can see the hole, only you.

  CHILI BEAR

  Saturday morning, home alone for two whole hours! Leo is curled on the sofa, reading about Rosaria in Papa’s Autobiography, Age of Thirteen.

  Rosaria is the youngest and everyone’s favorite. She carries a fuzzy red bear with her everywhere. Its name is Chili Bear. She’ll say “Chili Bear needs a cookie,” and “Chili Bear needs a hug,” and “Chili Bear does not want to take a bath”—which means that she needs a cookie or a hug or doesn’t want a bath. She’ll push that little bear in your face and say, “Don’t you just love Chili Bear?”

  In a photograph that appears at the end of this chapter, the whole family is seated on a blanket, at a picnic. They are bundled up, and most of them are smiling at the camera. Two of the boys are not smiling; they seem to be pinching each other. Leo can tell which are his grandparents, of course, and which is his father, and Auntie Maddalena (because she has light hair, unlike the others) and Uncle Guido (who has a very large head, still does). Leo looks for Rosaria. That must be her, the smallest one, on Grandma Navy’s lap. Sure enough, there’s a stuffed bear in her hand. Rosaria gazes directly into the camera with deep, deep dark eyes.

  As Leo is about to close Papa’s book, something in that picture catches his eye. In the background, behind and off to one side of the family, is a little white dog. It’s not looking at the camera, but at the family, or maybe at the cake that Grandpa Navy is holding on his lap.

  In the attic, Leo grabs the tap shoes, and off he goes, skittering across the floor and wondering if that little white dog belonged to the family or if it just happened by as their picture was being taken. What happened to Rosaria, and why is Leo not allowed to mention her name? Where is that “favorite one,” the one with the Chili Bear?

  THE RELATIVES RETURN

  It’s Sunday morning, and Leo is pretending to be asleep. Mom and Contento are in the hallway.

  “But, Mom, Mom, listen,” Contento says. “Write it down. You’ll forget. The game is next week—”

  Nunzio, who is still in bed, shouts out, “Mom! Mom! The moothic fethtival ith next week—I have a tholo—write it down!”

  Pietro joins in, from his bed. “Mom! Mom! You and Papa promised you’d come to my football game on Friday. You promised. You haven’t been to a single one yet. Write it down!”

  Leo is about to add his two cents’ worth, to remind them about the play coming up, when Mom appears at their bedroom door.

  “Look at you, lazy band of goats. Get up! And clean this filthy pigsty room and then come down and help me in the kitchen.”

  Pietro moans. “What? Why?”

  Mom is already hustling down the hall as she says, “Grandma and Grandpa and the aunties and uncles and cousins are coming—”

  Pietro says, “Barf. Talk about a band of goats.”

  Later, in the kitchen:

  Mom is in frantic mode. “Aye yie yie! Sardine-o, run next door and borrow some flour, and Contento, go iron the tablecloth, no, not that one—”

  Nunzio pokes his head in the doorway. “Mom, Mom, Pietro ith on the roof.”

  “What? Aye yie yie. Get your papa—”

  Later, on the porch:

  Auntie Angela, arms crossed, says, “I’m not going in.”

  Uncle Guido says, “Oh, come on, Angela—”

  In the front hallway:

  Auntie Maddalena is fuming. “If Angela weren’t my sister, I’d strangle her.”

  Mom says, “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Don’t tell me how to talk.”

  On the back porch:

  Cousin Tina is kicking at the door. “Why do we have to come here? I hate to come here.”

  Cousin Joey says, “Me, too. Land of the boring.”

  In the kitchen:

  Grandma Navy is looking in all the pots. “Rice?” she says. “Mariana made rice? What’s she got against potatoes, I’d like to know? And where’s my Carlo?”

  Auntie Carmella bats her hand at a fly. “Traveling. Of course.”

  “He travels too much. And your husband?”

  “Golfing. Of course.”

  “He golfs too much.”

  In the garage:

  Grandpa Navy is inspecting the headlights of Papa’s car. “You got a new car?”

  Papa says, “No, it’s the same one you saw last time.”

  Grandpa taps on the hood. “I’ve had my car for twelve years. If you take care of them, they last forever, you know.”

  Papa studies the ceiling. “I know,” he says. “I know.”

  Dinner is served:

  When Papa says he’d like to propose a toast, Grandpa says, “Mangia! Let’s eat. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

  Uncle Paolo, who has not yet said a word, says to the air, “Are we having—”

  Maddalena continues for him. “Rice? Of course we are having rice. Mariana always serves rice. You ought to know that by now.”

  From the kids’ table:

  Cousin Tina whines, “Mom, Mom, Pietro is eating with his hands.”

  Pietro says, “Tattletale turkey.”

  “Thtop it,” Nunzio says to Joey, who has pinched him.

  At the big table:

  Auntie Carmella jabs her bread stick at Mom and says, “Mariana, are you ever going to do anything about Nunzio’s lisp? You need to send him to a speech therapist.”

  At the kids’ table:

  Cousin Tina says, “Hey sardine, old witch, you got a broom in that play? A broom to fly on?”

  The big table:

  Grandma says, “Where’re the potatoes?”

  Leo gets up to get more bread from the big table, and when Auntie Carmella hands him the bread basket, Leo says, “Auntie Carmella, did you and Papa and everybody ever have a dog?”

  Auntie Carmella gasps. “Leo!”

  Papa says, “Leo!”

  Grandma Navy rushes off to the bathroom. “Oh, oh, oh!”

  In the kitchen:

  Papa says, “What has come
over you? How do you manage to upset your grandmother every time she comes here?”

  “But what’d I say? All I asked was—”

  “I know exactly what you asked. Who put you up to that? Was it Auntie Angela?”

  “I—I—”

  “It was, wasn’t it?”

  “I—I—”

  “Go back to the table. And keep your mouth closed, you hear?”

  And Leo does. He keeps his mouth closed throughout the rest of the meal and all evening long. He says not one tiny word. Maybe he will never speak again.

  A large yellow sign appears on Leo’s front door: QUARANTINED. They are not allowed to have any guests (especially relatives) over ever again.

  A doctor comes to examine Leo. He says to Leo’s parents, “And you say he just stopped talking? One day he talked, and the next day he didn’t?”

  Leo’s mom wrings her hands. “Yes,” she says. “That’s right.”

  “And you have no idea why? There was nothing traumatic?”

  “Well,” says Papa, “I might have said something—”

  “Like what?” Mom says. “What did you say now?”

  Papa looks sheepish, hangs his head.

  The doctor examines Leo’s throat. “Hmm,” he says. “Hmm. I think you might try some chocolate brownies and ice cream. That might do the trick.”

  Leo smiles, but he does not speak. He’ll wait for the brownies and the ice cream.

  CRASH, SMASH, CRUMPLE

  It is bitter cold as the family piles in the car to go to Pietro’s football game.

  PIETRO:

  Hurry up! I’m going to be late. The coach is going to kill me.

  MOM:

  Contento! Contento? Where is that girl?

  NUNZIO:

  I lotht my thoothe.

  MOM:

  Your what?

  NUNZIO:

  My thoothe.

  PAPA:

  Well, go find them!

  LEO:

  Who took my gloves?

  PIETRO:

  The coach is going to kill me.

  When they finally get to the game, the coach is ready to kill Pietro. The other team looks awfully big: huge, hulking creatures. Pietro straggles onto the field, his shoulder pads flopping on his shoulders like enormous ungainly wings, his shins appearing pale and skinny and vulnerable.

  Leo is not a big fan of football, but he has learned to pretend.

  Someone kicks the ball. Crash, smash, crumple. They’re all down. Someone passes the ball. Crash, smash, crumple. They’re all down.

  Leo’s mother is clapping, and Papa beams at the man next to him. “That’s my son Pietro out there!”

  They all yell “Rah, rah, Pietro,” even though they can’t see him, buried in the piles of bodies.

  On the third play, they see him. He is the one lying there, not getting up. They carry him off on a stretcher. He broke his leg.

  In the hospital waiting room, while Mom and Pietro are with the doctors, Papa hunches forward in a chair, wiping his palms on his khaki trousers. He says, “That boy was doing pretty well out there on the field.”

  “Yep,” Leo agrees.

  “Too bad about the leg, though.”

  “Yep. Papa? His leg will be all right, won’t it?”

  “Sure,” Papa says. “Sure it will.” He wipes his palms on his trousers again.

  At home, Pietro seems proud of his cast, but he looks shaken and lies on his bed staring at the ceiling. Leo offers him a candy bar he has kept hidden in the closet.

  “Thanks,” Pietro says, tearing off the wrapper and nibbling at the candy.

  “Does it hurt, your leg?”

  Pietro reaches down and pats the cast. “A little.”

  “Papa said you were playing really well out there.”

  “He did?” Pietro grins. “Well, I would’ve done a lot better if I hadn’t broken my stupid leg.”

  “Yeah.”

  The crowds are cheering, a thunderous roar rising in the stadium. Coach Leo signals to Pietro, the quarterback. At the next play, Pietro deftly drops back, fades right, and there! He has the ball. He’s taking it down the field. Touchdown! The crowd goes wild. They’ve won the championship!

  Reporters surround Coach Leo and his star player, Pietro.

  “Coach, how do you feel about your team today?”

  “Great! It was a team effort all the way.”

  “And Pietro, how did you feel about the game?”

  “We were ready. We did our best. We’ve got a great coach.”

  Coach Leo sees Papa on the sidelines. “Papa, come here.”

  Papa seems shy as he walks over to join his boys.

  “Are these your sons?” the reporter asks.

  “Yes,” Papa says, leaning into the microphone.

  “You must be proud of them today.”

  “Yes,” Papa agrees. “I am. Very, very proud.”

  SPLAT

  It is sleeting, icy sharp needles bombarding the family as they pile in the car to go to Contento’s soccer game.

  CONTENTO:

  Hurry up! I’m going to be late. The coach is going to kill me.

  MOM:

  Pietro! Pietro? Where is that boy?

  NUNZIO:

  I lotht my thoothe.

  The coach is ready to kill Contento. The other team looks so much older and bigger than Contento’s: giant girls with rippling muscles. Contento runs onto the field, her shirt streaked with mud before the game has begun, but she looks good out there, all rosy-cheeked and black curls bobbing.

  Leo’s mother’s smile is so wide. Papa says, to the woman in front of him, “That’s my daughter, Contento, out there!” He’s smiling.

  Leo doesn’t understand soccer, but he pretends.

  The whistle blows, someone kicks the ball, everybody runs, someone else gets the ball, everyone runs the other way, someone else gets the ball, back and forth, up and down the field. Leo feels tired just watching. He tries to focus on Contento but loses her in the field of running girls. But there, there, she aims for the goal! It is blocked. They all run the other way. Back and forth, back and forth. Leo and his family all cheer whenever they feel like it: “Rah, rah, Contento! Go, go, Contento!”

  And then, spectacularly, Contento has the ball and is taking it down the field, way ahead of her opponents. For a moment, Leo sees the appeal of sports: the grace in running, the skills perfected, the teamwork. Leo thinks of the play he’s in, when one character passes a line to the next, who runs with it.

  The family cheers like mad for Contento racing down the field, and then, whoosh, she slips in the mud, her legs fly out from under her, and for a moment she is suspended there in the air, and then, splat, she comes down hard, and she lies there, writhing and moaning.

  They carry her off on a stretcher. She has dislocated her knee.

  In the hospital waiting room, a nurse says to Papa, “Weren’t you just in here yesterday?” As Papa nods, the nurse spies Pietro with his cast and crutches. She narrows her eyes at Papa, as if she suspects him of beating his children.

  “It’s my daughter this time. Soccer,” Papa says. “She’s a very good player.” He then motions to Pietro. “Football.”

  The nurse looks at Leo and Nunzio. “And what torturous games do you two play?”

  Nunzio says, “Nothing! I thing!”

  “Thing?”

  “Sing,” clarifies Papa.

  “And I’m in a play,” Leo adds.

  “Well, good,” says the nurse. “Then we won’t be seeing you two in here, will we?”

  “Oh no,” Nunzio says. “Never!”

  At home, Contento is irritable, frustrated with her knee and crutches. “It hurts,” she moans. “Hurts like crazy!”

  When Leo brings her cookies and iced tea, Contento bursts into tears. “That’s just so, so nice.” She nibbles at the cookies, sniffling.

  “Papa said you’re a really good soccer player.”

  Contento’s eyes open wide. “He
did? He said that?”

  “Yes, and he was grinning like mad when you were on the field.”

  “He was?”

  Now the crowd is roaring for Coach Leo and his star women’s soccer team. The stadium is packed, everyone cheering and waving banners. And there goes Contento, racing down the field, her toes seeming to barely touch the ball, as if the ball is leading her down the field, and she aims, whop, and the ball slides into the net under the outstretched arm of the goalie. They’ve won!

  The team carries Contento and Coach Leo on their shoulders, splashing champagne on their heads, and the crowd pours onto the field like a giant wave.

  AGONY

  Loud thunder and pouring rain as they pile in the car to go to Nunzio’s music festival.

  NUNZIO:

  Hurry up! I’m going to be late. My teacher ith going to kill me.

  MOM:

  Pietro! Contento? Where are they?

  PIETRO:

  How do you expect me to hurry with these clumsy crutches?

  CONTENTO:

  Your clumsy crutches. What about my clumsy crutches?

  NUNZIO:

  My thoothe—

  In the car, everyone gets poked with crutches. When they reach the school, for the music festival, Grandma and Grandpa Navy are waiting in the lobby. They look annoyed.

  Grandma Navy says, “What took you so long?”

  Grandpa Navy points toward the auditorium. “They wouldn’t let us save seats.”

  “For grandparents, they don’t reserve seats?” Grandma asks.