Page 215 of Filthy Elites

“You don’t have to hover,” she tells me as she takes a seat. “If I need help, I’ll ask.”

“All right.” I know she’s a little sensitive about it, so I don’t want to make a fuss. Instead, I dust that comment right under the rug and start collecting ingredients. “I’m going to start with the gelato since it takes the longest in the freezer.”

It wouldn’t take as long if we had an ice cream maker, but we do not, and buying one just for this was definitely not in the budget. I pull out the gelato tubs I ordered on Amazon, a pair of them for $15. That was more within my budget, so the long way it is.

Mom sits at the island and we talk and listen to music while I get the gelato started. Once that’s done, I dump it in the container and put it in the freezer, then I set the first alarm.

Next, we make a mess on the counter making pasta from scratch. It’s a laborious task, but at least the pasta this recipe calls for can be made without a pasta machine. I only needed a cheap pack of bamboo skewers, and Mom enjoys helping me shape it until we have enough for dinner.

I’m trying to do everything as traditionally as possible, so instead of a food processor, I grab a mortar and pestle for the assembly of the sauce. Mom laughs, thinking I’m joking.

“Nope, we’re doing it old school,” I tell her as I drop garlic in and get to crushing.

Turns out, that process sucks. My arm is not happy, but I keep at it until I need a break, then I grab the pecorino cheese and grate some in the bowl.

My alarm goes off, so I have to pause to mix the gelato. Then I’m back at it, adding basil and a pinch of salt. Before long, we have two plates of authentic Italianpesto alla Trapanese.

“This looks incredible,” Mom says, reaching for her plate, but I tell her to go sit down and I’ll bring it to her. She starts to object, but I cut her off with a firm raise of my eyebrow.

“If we were in Italy, a hunky Italian waiter would be serving you. Under no circumstances would you be serving yourself. I don’t want to hear it.”

Reluctantly, she goes in and sits down. While the pasta was cooking, I made quick work of setting a table for two with a white linen tablecloth and a candle in the center.

I bring in our dinner and a plate of sliced Italian bread. I grab us goblets of water and the wine that paired best with this pasta, then I start the next music playlist and we enjoy a nice dinner.

After dinner is over, I clear the table, move it out of the way, and turn on our first movie of the night,Oceans 12.

We watchThe Talented Mr. Ripleynext, and as the credits roll, Mom says, “That’s what I never did. I should have pulled off a heist.”

I crack a smile and look over at her. “Hey, there’s still time. I go to school with plenty of rich assholes we could rob if you need help finding a target,” I joke.

Mom cracks a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I know you don’t want to,” she says, looking down at her lap, “but there are some practical things we need to talk about, Aubrey.”

I pluck the sunglasses off my head and put them on the end table between the couch and Mom’s trusty recliner. “Not while we’re on vacation. Where should we go next weekend? We could stick with Italy but get more specific—maybe Rome on Saturday, Venice on Sunday? I’d like to see Rome and stop by the Trevi Fountain. Or we could hop the train to Paris. There’s this restaurant inside the train station in Paris that Janie was telling me is really good. I looked around a bit and found a recipe for their mashed potatoes. I can look at the menu and find something else I can cook. We can bingeEmily in Paris, and I can order one of those Amazon experiences, maybe a walking tour of the city, or I think we can tour the Eiffel Tower. Personally, I think I can kick ass at French cuisine, so I’m down if you are.”

“That sounds nice,” she says, her tone a bit subdued by my dedication to changing the subject.

“It’s decided, then.” Pushing up off the couch, I add, “I’m going to check on the gelato.”

Mom sighs but makes no further attempts to ruin our night with ugly reality.

TWO

Aubrey

We’reon night two of Italy—more delicious pasta, but tiramisu for dessert. Tonight, we watchUnder the Tuscan SunandLetters to Juliet.

I am mentally and physically exhausted, but I still have to clean up after dinner. Mom offers to help, but of course, I tell her no and take care of everything myself.

She’s tired, too, so we call it a night.

Mom goes to sleep, while I unpack my book bag and set my textbooks and notebooks in stacks across my queen-sized mattress. Lunch was especially noisy today and I couldn’t concentrate, so I didn’t get the head start I usually get.

My phone lights up on the bed beside me. My gaze flickers to it, my brow creasing as I see a new text message and who it’s from.

Jane Sebold, an old friend of mine from school.

Before my entire life tore apart at the seams and it fell on me to single-handedly hold the pieces together, I used to hang out with Janie all the time. We were best friends, and I know she was hurt when I had to take a step back, but I could only spread myself so thin before I couldn’t even holdmyselftogether anymore. Something had to give, and unfortunately, it was Janie that needed me the least.

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