Fruit Page 5

  “Can you dance?”

  “How the fuck should I know?” Daniela said. “You think anyone ever asks me?”

  Daniela said that she could play the accordion, though. “Is that a talent?”

  “Are you any good at it?” I asked.

  “It’s an accordion,” she said. “They all sound the same.”

  Daniela said the two songs she knew off by heart were “Ti Amo” and “I Will Survive.”

  “Well, maybe you should stay away from ‘Ti Amo,’” I said. “Do the other one. It’s a very powerful song.”

  “You think so?” Daniela asked me.

  “Yes. It’s about a woman who falls in love with an alien. One day, he comes back from outer space and she tells him to leave his key on the table, get back on the spaceship, and never come back. It’s very dramatic. People will relate to the message.”

  Daniela spat on a tomato and rubbed it on her pant leg.

  “Dramatic,” she said. “That’s a good thing, right?”

  Every day when I delivered the papers, I’d see Daniela in her garage, standing in the middle of the tomatoes, practising on her accordion. When she hit a wrong note, she would yell “FUCK!” and smack the accordion. She was driving my mom nuts.

  “When is that pageant again, Peter?” She was pacing in front of the living room window with her hands on her hips.

  “Saturday night,” I said.

  On Wednesday night, Mr. and Mrs. Bertoli took Daniela to pick up her dress at La Mirage, Sarnia’s fanciest dress store. It’s where all the girls get their prom dresses. Daniela came home with a red poofy dress and a big white tent with hula hoops. She told me it was a “crinoline.”

  “My parents paid two hundred bucks,” she said the next day when she unzipped the bag to show me. “Two hundred bucks. That’s real fuckin’ taffeta, too.” Then she whistled through her teeth.

  “How are you going to do your hair?” I asked her. I was eyeing her split ends.

  “Lots of baby’s breath,” Daniela said. “I saw it in a magazine. My aunt works in the hair salon over on Huron Street. I’m going to see her and she’ll fuckin’ fix me up and then I’m going to the Merle Norman to get my face painted on.”

  I watched Daniela as she zipped up her dress bag and took it back into the house. I just knew I’d have to stop her from going into that pageant and embarrassing herself, but I couldn’t figure out how to do it without hurting her feelings. Maybe I could write the Basilico Club a sinister note with letters cut out from magazines.

  “Danger!” it would read. “Death to all beauty queens! Cancel the pageant or else!”

  Or what if I could convince the judges that Mr. and Mrs. Bertoli weren’t really Daniela’s parents, that Daniela was born white and had been thrown into a dumpster behind Mr. Bertoli’s restaurant by her white low-class mom and the Bertolis had found her and raised her as the Italian daughter they never had? Then Daniela wouldn’t be allowed to compete because she wouldn’t be a true Italian. She’d be an impostor.

  Just then, Mr. and Mrs. Bertoli pulled into the driveway.

  “Uh oh,” Mr. Bertoli said to me as he got out of the car. “Ow are you tomorrow, boss?”

  At least, that’s what I think he said.

  “Isa time for collection?” Mrs. Bertoli asked. One look at the Blue Jays toque on her head told me that no one was going to believe that the Bertolis were anything but Daniela’s real parents.

  “No, not tonight,” I said. “I just came by because Daniela wanted to show me her dress.”

  “It’sa nice, okay?” Mrs. Bertoli said.

  “Yes, it’s a very nice dress.”

  “You know, I tell Daniela, I say ‘Why you wanna be Miss Basilico? It’sa too much work. You gotta smile alla time. You gotta wave alla time.’ But Daniela she say, ‘Dis isa someting I gotta do for me. You understand?’”

  Mrs. Bertoli sighed.

  “I say to Daniela, ‘No I’ma never understand.’”

  “Uh oh,” Mr. Bertoli said. “Ow are you tomorrow, boss?”

  I smiled and said “Yes.”

  The rest of the week, I think I was more nervous about the Miss Basilico pageant than Daniela. I just couldn’t figure out why Daniela was entering the contest in the first place. I kept thinking back to what Mrs. Bertoli had said, about Daniela saying how she had to do it for her. What did she mean by that and did she really think she’d win? Part of me felt guilty, like I was watching her walk into a room full of tigers. Another part of me felt angry at her for wanting to walk in the room in the first place. Daniela couldn’t be that stupid, could she?

  When Saturday night came, I sat on my front porch to watch Daniela leave for the pageant. She had some problems getting through the front door in her red dress and accordion, so Gianni had to push her from behind while Mrs. Bertoli pulled on her arm.

  “Careful!” Daniela yelled. “You’re gonna fuckin’ rip it!”

  Her hair was piled up and looked like a big black beehive. She had clumps of white stuff stuck in it, which I guess was the baby’s breath, but looked more like cobwebs to me. Mr. Bertoli had on a tie and a green shirt that was too tight. Mrs. Bertoli was wearing a dress that matched her toque.

  Gianni was wearing his Burger King uniform.

  “Good luck,” he said and got into his Camaro. “You fuckin’ cow!”

  Daniela started yelling back at him, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying because Gianni backed his car out of the driveway, squealed his tires, and roared off down the street.

  Then Mr. Bertoli made Daniela stand on the front lawn while he took pictures of her. “Hurry up,” she said. “My back is fuckin’ killing me. This accordion weighs a ton.”

  Just before Daniela’s parents squeezed her into the car, she looked across the street and saw me sitting on the porch.

  “What do you think?” she yelled and twirled around. “Pretty fuckin’ hot, eh?”

  I nodded and gave her the thumbs up.

  “I lost two fake fingernails pulling up my pantyhose and I got so much make-up on, I think I’m going to fuckin’ tip over.”

  I just hoped Daniela wouldn’t use the f-word in her speech.

  Once Daniela’s parents had her stuffed into the back seat, the Bertolis took off for the Basilico Club. A black cloud of smoke followed them all the way down our street.

  As I watched their car disappear, I started to wonder. What if Daniela actually won? What if she didn’t swear in her speech? What if she hit all the right notes on her accordion? What if the judges thought she’d make the perfect Christmas elf? What if she really did set an example for Italian girls everywhere by showing them that dreams can come true if you believe in yourself?

  I went inside the house, grabbed a box of Wheat Thins and a bottle of pop, went to my room, and locked it with the chair.

  “Bravo!” the people called. I turned my desk lamp so that it was staring me right in the eye. I squinted and smiled.

  “Bravo!”

  Lifting my hand to my side, I cupped it and slowly twisted my wrist, waving to them all. I brought my other arm against my chest, holding my bouquet of red roses. I mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  “Do you want any popcorn?”

  It was my mom at the door. I quickly turned the desk lamp down.

  “I thought about making some, if you want it. What are you doing in there, anyway?”

  “Homework,” I said. “And no, I don’t want any popcorn.”

  I wouldn’t be surprised if my mom put hidden cameras in my room.

  I didn’t see Daniela at all the next day, but when I picked up my papers on Monday after school, I looked through a copy before delivering them. On the first page of the “Local News” section, there was a photo of the new Miss Basilico 1984. It wasn’t Daniela.

  When I went up to the Bertolis’ house to drop off the paper, Daniela was sitting in the garage, cleaning off her tomatoes with a rag. She was sitting on a small stool, wearing a pair of ripped jogging pants
and a white T-shirt. She still had white bits in her hair. I thought about pretending not to see her, because I didn’t know what to say. What if she started to cry? Or what if she was angry at me for not stopping her? I headed up the driveway and kept my eyes on the paper in my hand, like I was really interested in one of the stories.

  “What the fuck?” Daniela said. She wasn’t talking to me but said it loud enough for me to hear. “All these fuckin’ tomatoes have bugs in them.”

  “Oh, hi, Daniela,” I said, walking over to her. “You scared the crap out of me. I didn’t see you sitting there. What’s new?”

  “Not much,” Daniela said. She squished a small black bug between her fingers.

  “How did the pageant go?” I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

  “Fuckin’ stupid,” Daniela said and spit on a tomato. “The whole thing was fixed. Gina Marzapona won and only because she wore a dress that showed off her tits. Even my parents were cheering for her. What kind of fuckin’ loyalty is that? She sucked in the talent part, too. I mean, I only missed two notes on my song. Her, she put on a pair of rubber boots and sang ‘Singin’ in the Rain.’ It was like listening to a cow trying to yodel. I think I went deaf in one ear. Who cares, anyway? It’s just a stupid contest. There’s no way you’d catch me dressing up as a fuckin’ elf at Christmas. I got too much self-respect for that.”

  Even though she was acting tough, I knew Daniela was upset. She had practised so hard and her parents had spent two hundred dollars on a dress and she believed in herself and it didn’t get her anywhere. She was still in her garage, cleaning off tomatoes.

  “Maybe you can enter again next year,” I said.

  “Hey, you only get this once,” Daniela said, pointing at herself. “If they can’t realize what a good Miss Basilico I would’ve made, fuck them. Just because I have more class than to show my tits to the world.”

  I watched Daniela wipe off another tomato and had an idea. I ripped the page with Gina Marzapona’s picture from the newspaper and poked it through a nail on the far wall of the garage.

  “What are you doing?” Daniela asked.

  “You know what you need to do, Daniela,” I said and pointed to the tomato she had in her hand. She looked down at it, back at me, and turned to the picture of Gina. Then I saw her eyes light up.

  “You’re fuckin’ evil,” she said and brought her arm back. “But I like that. Take that, bitch!” she yelled at Gina just as the tomato left her hand and smashed like a bomb into the wall. She missed the picture, so she took more time with the next tomato. It hit Gina right on her smiling face.

  “Fuckin’ great,” Daniela said and bent down to grab another tomato. She whipped it at the wall, but it hit too low and splattered on the lawnmower.

  “Maybe you better stop,” I said. “You might break something and then your mom would have a fit. Besides, you already hit her.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Daniela said and wiped her forehead. She was breathing heavy. “That felt pretty fuckin’ good, though.”

  She sat back down on her stool. I had one more idea.

  “I’m going away out west next summer,” I told her, “and I might need someone to cover my paper route for a couple of weeks. Do you think you’d want to do it?”

  Daniela squinted. “How much cash you pull in?”

  “Usually about twenty dollars a week,” I said. “Sometimes, I make more with tips, but you have to be really nice to people.”

  “I could do that,” Daniela said. “I’m pretty fuckin’ nice when I want to be.”

  I bit my bottom lip and tried to smile. I told Daniela we’d talk about it later.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Hanlan,” I whispered and went on to deliver the rest of my papers.

  BEDTIME MOVIE #2

  I’m a contestant in a beauty pageant. My hair is blonde and curly and hangs down to the middle of my back. My name is Vanessa.

  I know that I’m going to win the pageant. That’s what everyone tells me.

  “You’re the prettiest,” Mr. Hanlan tells me. He’s one of the judges. “It’s a no-brainer.”

  I laugh and toss my hair back and tell Mr. Hanlan that he shouldn’t pick the winner before the competition has even started.

  “It’s not fair to the other girls,” I say. Then I look over at the other contestants and see Daniela standing off to the side. She’s got her accordion strapped to her chest. She pretends like she’s practising her song, but really, she’s watching me out of the corner of her eye. Daniela is wearing her red La Mirage dress. She looks like a giant tomato.

  I tell Mr. Hanlan to get back to the judge’s table before someone notices.

  “It’s illegal for us to be talking like this,” I say.

  “Can I visit you in your dressing room after the show?” Mr. Hanlan asks me.

  “We’ll see,” I say. “I don’t have time to discuss this now. I have to practise my song.”

  I have the most beautiful voice and for the talent competition, I’ve chosen “Ave Maria.”

  “It’s written by one of my favourite Italian composers,” I tell the audience before the lights go down and the orchestra starts up. I can hear the people gasp as I begin to sing. My voice fills the auditorium. No one has ever heard anything more beautiful. I can’t see the audience but I know that most of them are crying by the time the song ends. That’s how my voice touches people. I get a standing ovation.

  When it comes time to pick the winner, all of the contestants are standing together and holding hands. We’re pretending to be best friends.

  “I hope you win,” I whisper to Daniela. She’s beside me and her hand is hot and clammy.

  “Fat chance,” Daniela says.

  When the announcer calls out “Vanessa!” I put my hand against my large breasts and pretend to look surprised. I even start to fake-cry.

  Mr. Hanlan comes onstage and puts a tiara and sash on me. Then he hands me a big bouquet of long stemmed roses.

  “Tonight you’re mine,” he says, which makes me nervous. He’s very determined.

  I walk down the runway, cradling the roses in my arm and waving. Everyone is on their feet, cheering. A reporter from the Observer takes my picture.

  “You’re front page tomorrow!” he yells.

  When I turn around and walk back to the stage, I see Daniela standing there with her accordion. I feel very bad for her, because even though she’s acting tough, I know the real Daniela better than that.

  “I know what I need to do,” I whisper to myself and take the microphone from the announcer.

  “I’m very touched by your kindness,” I tell everyone. “Your love means the world to me. But unfortunately, I cannot accept this crown.”

  I can hear people in the audience say things like, “What?” and “Did I hear that right?” Mr. Hanlan looks confused. The room gets very quiet.

  “Although I’m very flattered by your decision, there’s someone here tonight who deserves this crown more.” I pause, leaving everyone on the edge of their seats. “That person doesn’t have it easy. She failed grade 6. She wets the bed. Her mom makes her do all the housework and her dad has a blind eye. But she had the courage to enter this pageant, even though there was no way she’d ever win. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Daniela Bertoli.”

  I walk over to Daniela, place the crown on her head, and hand her the roses. Her whole body is shaking, she’s so nervous.

  “Go on,” I say. “Go meet your public.”

  And then it’s Daniela’s turn to walk down the runway. I stand back with the other contestants and applaud with everyone else, watching her wave to the crowd. I’m a little sad, but I’m glad that I was able to give Daniela this.

  “It’s more important for her to win this pageant than it is for me,” I think to myself. Besides, I already have too many crowns at home.

  Suddenly, a hand slips around my waist. “Your Christianity makes me want you even more,” Mr. Hanlan whispers behind me. His body is pressing against me. A
chill runs down my spine. He won’t let me escape. There’s no choice but to give him what he wants. I sigh and turn around to face him.

  Then I fall asleep.

  four

  It’s October now and cool enough to wear my jacket. But I can’t wear my jacket indoors or else I’ll look suspicious. The Scotch tape doesn’t work anymore. I tape my nipples down in the morning and by recess, the tape would be peeling off. So after school last week, I went to the Shop ’N’ Bag and bought a big roll of masking tape.

  “It’s for a school project,” I told Mr. Bernard, even though he didn’t ask me.

  Now, I wrap the tape around my chest three times every day before I go to school. It holds much better than the Scotch tape, but it’s hard to breathe, and when I pull the masking tape off at night, it hurts.

  My nipples are sticky and sore and now look like maraschino cherries. In some ways, I feel bad that I’m not taking better care of them. I keep taping them down when all they want to do is grow. It’s not their fault. They’re angry at me.

  “Maybe if you were normal, we’d be normal, too,” they say. “Did you ever stop to think about that?”

  “You’re cruel!” I tell them. “I’m perfectly normal.”

  “Who are you kidding? You can’t even go out and find a boy friend.”

  “You’re terrible! Don’t say another word or I’m going to get the ice cubes. I mean it!”

  The truth is, my nipples are right. I do need to get myself a boy friend. My mom’s been on my back about that lately.

  “Surely there must be someone for you to chum around with,” she said once. My dad was in the room. I was so embarrassed. “Isn’t there anyone in your class, Peter?”

  My parents have always wanted me to be normal, although they don’t come right out and say it. But I know I don’t always make the choices they want me to make. My mom tried to get me to sign up for hockey last year. Instead, I signed up for a calligraphy class.