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Maria raises an eyebrow at me before going outside.
I follow her, catching her smoking a cigarette.
“That’s a filthy habit.”
“I’m cutting down,” she says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “If you tell them I’ll kill you.”
I laugh, but I think I’ll always be a little bit scared of my big sister.
“I won’t tell.”
“So how’s things up at that big fancy school?”
“Fine.”
“God you’re worse than Ari. He practically grunts when you speak to him these days.”
“He’s fourteen, what do you want?”
She takes another drag on her cigarette, looking up at the fire escape crawling down the side of the apartment building nextdoor. “I know. And he is a good kid really. You know what they’re like.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? The jailers.”
I snort. We haven’t called our parents the jailers for years.
“No normal kid sits in their parents’ restaurant doing homework as much as we did.”
She taps her foot against the wall in her comfortable-looking shoes. Her lighter slipped back in the pocket of her apron.
“It paid off for you I guess,” she says.
“It paid off for you too, you’re gonna run this place one day.”
“I suppose.” She bites the nail on her thumb before spitting it out. “Hey, remember all those classes they had us go to when we were kids?”
“Like what?”
She rolls her eyes. “You have such a selective memory! Like ballet and piano and Greek school… well, I guess you took to the violin like a duck to water, so they didn’t make you do all that stuff. But me… it was piano lessons, then ballet, and when they didn’t work out, it was tennis, Baba thought I was gonna be the next Serena Williams.”
We laugh. I miss this. Miss my family. Miss the smells and sounds of the restaurant. Miss not having to perform the violin in a grand library to Ivy League people.
I shrug. “That’s what parents do, right?”
“Sure. But come on Stef, they tell everyone you’re the next Joshua Bell.”
I snort. “I love that you know who he is.”
“Hey, supportive sister here.” She grins.
“Yeah well, they think you’re gonna be the next… Gordon Ramsey.”
“Shut up. I’m serious. Are you doing okay over there?”
I look down at my shoes, letting my hair fall over my face. “I’m fine. I like playing the violin.”
“Yeah, but like, do you do anything else?”