She promptly turned down the invitation to pasta. “I’ve got Beady coming over tonight,” she said. “Tell your mother thanks anyway.” I settled into a kitchen chair. Nonna had replaced the clutter on the table with two place settings. The room smelled like something burning. Despite my antipathy for Mr. Beady, I felt sorry for him. Nonna was a world-renowned bad cook. Unless she was cooking with chocolate. It was one of her odd little defining qualities. Her chocolate desserts were amazing, but everything else she cooked…yuck. Antipathy: dislike engendering feelings of extreme annoyance. “So,” she said as she scraped the pan, “did you finally tell her?” “Yup,” I replied. “And how did it go?” she asked. “She seemed a little preoccupied,” I said. Nonna shut off the burner and turned. “Her daughter gets suspended from school and she’s preoccupied? That doesn’t sound like your mother.” “Well, I think she’s worried about you,” I said. Nonna frowned.
