I guess it’s that warm current that surrounds me every time I pass by the worn concrete building of the Celeste Cibo. For some reason, the bright red amateur paint job over the concrete makes me smile. The clean glass window allows me to experience the joy and laughter the tummy-full customers feel. And the smell; the smell opens up a whole other sense and a whole other side of me. For the rare times in my life, it makes me relax my shoulders, and loosen my arms. The saucy smell of sautéed and burst tomato with garlic makes me imagine strands of ivory-yellow spaghetti immersed in the heavenly sauce. For the rare times in my life, I can think of only soft, warm, and happy thoughts.

Chef Lombardi’s unmistakable mustache comes into view.
With his thick and friendly voice he insists, “How about a warm dish of spaghetti for you and your boy? On the house.”
I know to never expect anything during invitations like these, yet however much I try, there is always this small part of me that hopes against all odds.

I feel a large arm wrap around my arm and playfully shake it.
Cumner, my father, replies, “No, no. We ate a big delicious plate of pesto this afternoon. My boy Vincent made it for us. He is going to be a great cook someday. One day he might bring your Celeste Cibo some competition, eh?”

I’m used to his lies, so I get lost inside my own mind, imagining my life. Unlike usual bizarre dreams, mine have certain principles. One: there is no Cumner. In no corners of my fanciful dreams is there the perfectly cared for skin, or the solid clear blue eyes that can easily trick someone. Second: I must be in a kitchen. There is just this incomparable satisfaction of being able to combine spices, vegetables, meats, grains, and pastas into a dish that will make people taste it and wish for nothing more than—

A firm smack in the center of my back interrupts my thoughts. My back straightens out like the concrete beneath my feet. My hands clasp like magnets to my sides. My father retrieves his hand immediately. His pupils visibly dilate and his eyes nervously jump from side to side like Ping-Pong. His Adams apple bobs up and down as he takes a gulp of air.
“Vincent boy,” he gives a nervous chuckle, “he asked you what dishes do you like to prepare?”

I am caught by surprise. My mind goes through all the answers: tender Orzotto, buttery Spaghetti, thick Pappardelle, filling Tortelli, and juicy Strozzapreti, but nothing comes out. His direct attention towards me makes me shy and although I know the consequences the only thing Chef Lombardi hears from me is, “Uh, I li— well, eh…” I don’t even look at him in the eye; a giant mistake because where I come from, it is disrespect. My father’s hand tightens firmly on my shoulder. I begin to breathe rapidly. Sweat beads at my hairline, and my mouth parches. My whole body feels like wavering jello, so I glance at my hand hoping to God that it isn’t shaking because I know it will go much worse if it is.

I hear my father’s chuckle again. It isn’t nervous. It is curt and tight. He explains, “Oh, Vincent. He is such a timid boy, very unlike his mother.” The mention of my poor mother, beaten to death, stings my eyes. I feel little needles prickling them, but I hold back the tears that threaten to spill out.

Chef Lombardi leaves inside his restaurant, taking with him all the light and despite the cloudless sky, everything dims. To any passerby my father would appear like a friendly man and exemplary father, but to me, at that second, his shell crumbles away. This darkness unknown even to any merciless murderer radiates from his eyes. To any passerby it would appear as if we we’re hurrying to a cheerful home, but I know better. The only thing we’re hurrying to is a life that no one, not even the most demented human could contrive.


•?•?•?•?•?•?•?•?•?•?•?•?•?•

The air in the vast open field is cool and fresh. I look up into the sky and fill my vision with a color I have grown to love: a perfect milky blue. As I close my eyes, I retain the color and it calms me. A strong wind begins to whiz past me and if it weren’t for the many sheep grazing around I would feel alone and afraid, like I usually do. Second to cooking is shepherding. Our relationship is nothing compared to mine and my fathers. My voice invites them while his voice traumatizes me. My touch soothes them while his touch wounds me. They have grown to love me while I have grown to hate him.

Two small and fragile baby lambs drift into the distance, running and jumping. I hear their weak sounds and feel protective. For a moment this sensation fills me. This strength pumps through my veins, making my heart swell. Protecting and caring for them is my responsibility; I seize it. Seeing them in the distance makes me smile. By now the rest of the herd has also drifted closer to them. Observing the grass and how it has been eaten at and trampled on makes me laugh. The similarity between it and me is strikingly close, that my laughs shift rhythm and appear choked as they transform into sobs. Is it possible that I, a twelve year old, can grasp the concept of paternity while my own father cannot? It doesn’t make sense. The entire community props him on this glowing pedestal, but I wish I could reach over and grab his ankle so he could fall. His synthetic mask would shatter letting the reeking brown scum ooze out and everyone would see him for what he is, disgusting. How will they believe me when his charm, smile, and lies have become part of a corrupt alias?


Every brand is like a landmark. My body is like a map. I am in a war against him. I can imagine him standing and analyzing my displayed body. Red sharp pins mark where he has attacked. Only a few places are left blank, unharmed but traumatized. It will not be long until I am conquered. Until I am like my mother: misled, used, and dead. I see her. Her body lies perfectly still on the red and shiny turf grass. Her face that was once scared and gaunt is but now, although her features are drained and disfigured, she seems calm, at peace. I do not want that peace, but how will they believe me?

“Wolf!”
My arm hairs stand on end by the terror of my own voice.

“Wolf!”
The sheep detect my fear and scatter in confusion.

“Wolf!”
There is no wolf, but this is the test. If they come it is because they believe me. I’m not lying. After all, there is a worse beast that is roaming loose. I hear the clanking of metal and steel. The sounds of pounding tremors and battle like cries make me happy. The whole community is in front of me now and I have this radiant smile on my face. They are here because they believed me. I scan the crowd and see so many familiar faces: Ms. Myrna, my strict schoolteacher holding her sharp metal meter-stick, Family Fontana, all eight of them are holding every farming tool imaginable, Mr. Rinaldi; Mr. Rinaldi the sour old man? Well, he is only holding his cigar. Then there is that unmistaka—

“Where is the wolf?”

“I don’t see a wolf.”

“Why are you smiling?”

I didn’t plan further. I get nervous and my smile fades. I turn and with the wind against me as well, I run.

The cold has settled in and the night too. My mind is heavy with worry over my sheep. I left them scattered and unattended, but I am tired of running. I try to ease quietly into the house. The beast might be asleep and I don’t want to wake him. The new moon causes infinite darkness so I make my way palpably through the kitchen but that is where I stop.

His words reach my ears, “You know Vincent boy, nobody believes a liar, even when he tells the truth," and he is right. No one will ever believe a lying boy who cried wolf.