Is Connor coming? I ask.

Mom looks away, a sure sign she’s lying, since she knows she has no poker face. She says, He told me he might have to work.

Bullshit, I say, before I can stop myself. So much for tradition.

I head to the phone in the kitchen, ignoring my mother’s admonishments to watch my language.

Please don’t leave me alone with them tonight, I say as soon as my brother picks up the phone.

He sighs, then asks, And what exactly am I supposed to say over the rum cake? Happy birthday, Dad. Thanks for kicking me out and telling me I’m everything wrong with the world today.

Whether I want to admit it or not, my brother has a point.

He won’t make a scene in public, I say, which is true. Even when Connor pulled his stunt at graduation, my father stayed quiet until we got home. Then there was nothing quiet about him as he started yelling and throwing Connor’s stuff out of the apartment.

Why don’t you bail? Connor suggests. We’ll meet up with some of my friends. We can dance and pretend we’re orphans. It’ll be great.

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the receiver. I want to hang with my brother, but I must be more like my mom than I want to admit, because I don’t know how to do anything aside from keep up appearances. I’m not ready for the fight.

Have fun for both of us, I mumble to my brother and hang up.

According to the menu, the restaurant opened in 1906, and obviously hasn’t been updated since.

Also, I’m pretty sure the members of the waitstaff are all originals as well. Old Italian men in stiff black suits and ties.

Only tonight, our waiter is young. Not only young, but attractive with smoldering dark eyes and curly dark hair.

His name, according to his tag, is Pietro, and I can’t keep my eyes off him as he pours water for my parents and drops rolls on our plates with silver tongs.

I busy myself by folding and refolding my napkin, but then it falls to the floor and Pietro is there to pick it up and, with one deft move that makes my breath stick in my throat, sweeps it back onto my lap.

Probably a good thing Connor isn’t here. I can’t imagine my brother keeping his hands on his puttanesca.

Frank Sinatra plays in the background, and I listen to him sing about loving someone all the way while my parents talk about some movie they’ve seen, and about my mom’s second cousin who is about to have her gallbladder taken out, and about Reggie Jackson striking out two thousand times.

My whole goal for the evening is to keep things on an even keel. I manage to stay quiet. Twirling my linguini, rolling cherry tomatoes around on my salad plate, staring at Pietro, sipping my Coke until the talk turns to this article in the Post by some commentator who says that AIDS is nature’s way of declaring war on homosexuals who have declared war on it. I hear the familiar rise in my father’s voice. Then I blurt out, “I think I’m flunking chemistry,” which isn’t true, but is better than where this conversation is headed.