Welcome to the Family Read online

  For more than forty years,

  Yearling has been the leading name

  in classic and award-winning literature

  for young readers.

  Yearling books feature children's

  favorite authors and characters,

  providing dynamic stories of adventure,

  humor, history, mystery, and fantasy.

  Trust Yearling paperbacks to entertain,

  inspire, and promote the love of reading

  in all children.

  OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY

  BILLY CLIKK: CREATCH BATTLER, Mark Crilley

  BOBBY BASEBALL, Robert Kimmel Smith

  BOYS AGAINST GIRLS, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  DOGS DON'T TELL JOKES, Louis Sachar

  HOLES, Louis Sachar

  HARRIET SPIES AGAIN, Louise Fitzhugh and Helen Ericson

  HOW ANGEL PETERSON GOT HIS NAME, Gary Paulsen

  For the loves of my life, Laura, Bria, Ciara and my mom, Lorraine

  —S.S.

  To my daughters, Katie and Frankie, for giving me their help in writing this book, and to my wife, Julie Singer, for giving me daughters

  —C.F.

  Steve Schirripa would like to thank David Vigliano, Beverly Horowitz, Pam Krauss, Johnny Planeo, Allison Walker, Roger Haber, Lisa Perkins, Cheryl McLean, Valerie Baugh, Alexandria Addams, all my friends in Bensonhurst (you know who you are) and my good pal Charles Fleming.

  Charles Fleming would like to thank the honorary goombas Beverly Horowitz, Pam Krauss and David Vigliano, and the original goomba, Steve Schirripa.

  he big black Lincoln Navigator rolled slowly down Bath Avenue. A group of teenage boys playing stick-ball in the street stopped their game and stared. The huge SUV had smoked black windows and, one of the boys saw through the windshield, a uniformed black driver.

  “Hey—it's a limo!” the boy shouted.

  The ragtag group of boys circled the car. They pressed their hands and faces against the windows and stared inside.

  “What's the big idea, breaking up our game?” one of them shouted.

  “Hey, mister, who's the celebrity?” another yelled.

  “Open up and let us see!” a third said.

  Soon the boys were banging their hands on the side of the SUV and chanting, “Open up and let us see! Open up and let us see!”

  The Navigator came to a stop at the curb. Then the driver's-side door swung open. The uniformed driver, menacing in his mirrored sunglasses and chauffeur's hat, said, “All right, boys. Back off.”

  The crowd of boys went silent—for a second—and then began chanting again. The driver scowled and studied the numbers on the houses.

  In the back of the Navigator sat twelve-year-old Nicholas Borelli II. He was pale and thin and wore khaki pants, a polo shirt and a dark blue sports coat with a school emblem over the pocket. He watched the chanting boys with dread. He'd been right all along: he did not want to go to Brooklyn.

  He was supposed to be at Camp Wannameka. The night before he was to leave, though, there'd been a phone call. Nicholas was in his room at home in the leafy suburb of Carrington, New Jersey, packing his things in a duffel bag. In went the swimsuit, the sunscreen, the snorkel, the digital camera, the Game Boy, the cell phone and his pencils and sketch pad— filled with drawings of his camp friends at play. Noah at the archery range. Chad and Jordan in a canoe. Noah and Chad and Jordan after a lacrosse match.

  The next morning his father's man, Clarence, would drive him two hours north into upstate New York. For three weeks, Nicholas would run, swim, sail, fish, canoe and drink watery fruit juice.

  But then the phone rang. Nicholas strained to hear what was being said. He went downstairs. He found his parents in the kitchen. They wouldn't look him in the eye.

  “There's been an accident at Camp Wannameka,” his father said. “An explosion in the septic system. The entire camp is knee-deep in, uh, sewage. Camp is canceled.”

  “Camp Wannameka is knee-deep in crapola?” Nicholas said.

  “Nicholas!” his mother exclaimed.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Are you going to cancel your cruise?”

  “We're leaving tomorrow morning, just as scheduled,” Nicholas' father said. “You're going to spend the next couple of weeks with your grandmother.”

  “Grandma Tutti is coming here ?”

  “You're going to stay with her, Nicholas,” his mother said. “Clarence will drive you to New York. To … Brooklyn.”

  Brooklyn! Brooklyn? Nobody went to Brooklyn! Brooklyn was the place where his father had grown up. Brooklyn was full of Italians—the people his father called goombas. Brooklyn was the place his father hated most in the world.

  “Forget it,” Nicholas said, and ran to his room. “I'm not going.”

  But here he was. Nicholas looked through the smoked black windows, past the chanting boys. The street was lined with three-story brick buildings. Some of them had businesses on the ground floor and apartments above. Nicholas could see a butcher shop, and a candy store, and a dry cleaner. Music came from open windows. The heat was stifling.

  Clarence opened the back door and pulled out Nicholas' duffel bag.

  One of the boys said, “He's coming out!”

  Another said, “Somebody call the newspapers!”

  Another said, “Somebody get the red carpet!”

  Nicholas stepped onto the street.

  One of the boys said, “Hey, it's nobody!”

  Another said, “It's just some rich kid!”

  “Hey, rich kid! Gimme ten bucks!”

  The boys crowded around. Clarence put his arm around Nicholas' shoulders. The boys started chanting, “Gimme ten bucks! Gimme ten bucks!”

  Then a voice said, “You boys! Stop it!” and the crowd went silent.

  Nicholas' grandmother was on the street. She was short and compact and dressed in a black cotton housedress, and she was carrying a long wooden spoon.

  “You, Tommy! You, Angelo! Get away from here before I call your mothers.”

  The boys scattered. Nicholas' grandmother smiled and opened her arms. She said, “Nicky! Caro mió!” and gave him a huge hug. “I'm so glad you're here. Come inside. Who's the African?”

  “The what?”

  “The airline pilot. With the bags.”

  “That's Clarence, Grandma. He's Dad's driver.”

  “Ask him if he wants to come inside,” she said, and then shouted, “Do-you-want-to-come-inside?”

  “Mr. Borelli instructed me to—”

  “Capita,” Grandma Tutti said with finality. “Just bring the bags.”

  It was five steps up the broad concrete stoop, through a short hallway, then into a dark, cool apartment that smelled like bread, garlic and old people. Nicholas' grandmother said, “Your room is at the end of the hall, on the left. Put the bags in there.”

  Nicholas followed Clarence to a room with a single bed and a small desk. On the walls were posters and pictures and sports pennants. Nicholas stared at a black-and-white photograph of two young men. One was a husky kid wearing a baseball uniform and cap. The other was a thin, nerdy-looking kid wearing glasses and a sports coat.

  “Clarence, look! It's Dad.”

  Clarence peered at the picture and whistled. “So it is. I bet this is your dad's old room.”

  Nicholas' grandmother was waiting with her purse. She said, “How much do we owe you?”

  “Nothing at all, ma'am. Mr. Borelli said—well, goodbye, Nicholas. Good luck.”

  Clarence shook Nicholas' hand gravely, bowed to Nicholas' grandmother and left them.

  Nicholas looked at his grandmother. She looked at him. She said, “Skin and bones. Just like your father! Go wash your hands, an
d then come and help me in the kitchen.”

  His grandmother was stirring a pot of sauce with the large wooden spoon she'd used to scare away the teenagers in the street. Nicholas could smell garlic and tomato. In a frying pan were balls of something that looked like hamburger.

  “I'm making meatballs,” Nicholas' grandmother said. “It was your father's favorite. Does your mother cook that for you?”

  “No. She doesn't cook Italian food at all.”

  “Allora, what can you expect? She's not Italian like us. Never mind. So, I'll teach you. Take this spoon, and stir around in circles like this.”

  Nicholas stood next to the stove and began stirring. His grandmother pushed the meatballs around in the frying pan.

  “I didn't tell your mother and father, because it would only have started a fight, but your uncle is living here, too, now. His wife—the good-for-nothing—she threw him out. Stir the sauce.”

  Nicholas made some more circles in the sauce.

  “Well, good riddance. I said it was a mistake from the beginning. At least she's Italian—not like your mother, God bless her, she's a wonderful woman, but why couldn't your father marry a nice girl from the neighborhood?—but she's never been any good. Have a meatball.”

  “Yes, Grandmother.”

  “Don't call me Grandmother. Call me Tutti. Here.”

  She stretched out her spoon toward Nicholas. He took the piece of meat with his fingers and popped it into his mouth.

  Nicholas' mother was a vegetarian. This was the first meatball he had ever tasted. It was the most delicious thing he'd ever eaten in his life. So he reached for another.

  Smack! His grandmother swung the wooden spoon onto the back of his hand.

  “For later,” she said. “Anyway, here comes Frankie.”

  e was a big man, tall and wide. He had thick black hair and heavy black eyebrows. He was wearing a jogging suit, and a gold watch, and a gold chain around his neck. He dropped a gym bag in the hallway and started toward the kitchen. He wasn't smiling. He looked tired. He was staring at Nicholas.

  “Hey, Ma. Who's the kid?”

  “It's Nicholas.”

  “Nicholas what?”

  “Don't be an idiot. Your nephew Nicholas.”

  “This?” The big man smiled. “This is little Nicky? Hey, kid! How ya doin'?”

  Nicholas stood up and extended his hand. Frankie grabbed it and pulled Nicholas to him and hugged him to his chest.

  “You used to be such a shrimp, and look at you now!” Frankie said, holding the boy at arm's length. “All grown up, sort of. Where's your father?”

  “He didn't come,” his mother said. “He sent a car. Mr. Big Shot, too busy to visit his own mother.”

  “Ah, you know it's not like that, Ma,” Frankie said. “But what's the kid doing here?”

  “He's staying here,” Tutti said. “His mother and father are going on a cruise. Nicky was supposed to go to summer camp, but the toilet exploded—don't ask me. So Nicky's staying here in his dad's old room.”

  “Spending the summer in Bensonhurst!” Frankie said. “Did you eat already? Did she give you something?”

  “I had a meatball.”

  “Just one, right? You can never get more than one!”

  Frankie reached for the pan, but out came the spoon again—fast! Grandma Tutti got him on the back of the hand.

  “One meatball!” Frankie yelped. “One!”

  “Out!” his mother said. “Dinner's in an hour. Take down the garbage.”

  “Come on, kid,” Frankie said. “Let's get out of here.”

  Frankie reached under the sink, pulled out a sack of garbage and led Nicholas back down the hall, out the front door and down the stoop. The trash bins were behind the building.

  “Now that you're living here, this is your job,” Frankie said. “Every day, you gotta take the trash down. Got it?”

  “Sure thing,” Nicholas said.

  Frankie put the top back on the trash can. He gestured at the street, which was empty now.

  “Did you already see the neighborhood?”

  “A little,” Nicholas said.

  “Isn't it great? In the summer, it's the best! You got stickball, slapball, Johnny on a pony, hit the stick, ring-a-levio …”

  “That sounds like a skin disease. Is it a game?”

  “They're all games! You play stickball with a thing like a broomstick and a ball called a spaldeen. And Johnny on a pony—you'll see. There's a lot of kids your age here. I'll show you around. You'll make some friends.”

  Nicholas remembered the crowd he'd seen around the Navigator. He didn't think he'd make friends with any of that group. He followed Frankie inside, to a family room at the back of the apartment. Frankie flopped down onto an easy chair. There was a television in the corner. On one wall was a large crucifix, with rosary beads hanging over it. On another there were framed pictures of Frank Sinatra and the Pope.

  Nicholas said, “You guys know Frank Sinatra?”

  “Not personally,” Frankie said. “We don't know the Pope that well, either. But I almost met Frank one time. He was part of this parade. Me and a bunch of guys tricked old man Fornelli, the guy that owned the corner grocery store. We went inside like we were going to buy a soda. When the parade started, Mikey said, ‘Hey! It's Frank Sinatra!’ Mr. Fornelli ran outside. Mikey closed the door and locked it. We got Italian sandwiches and went up to the second floor. We ate the sandwiches and watched the parade while Mr. Fornelli pounded on the door, trying to get inside. Beautiful!”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing. We screamed, ‘Frank! Frank!’ but he didn't even wave.”

  “Didn't you get in trouble?”

  “Trouble? Fugheddaboudit. I never got into trouble. I just caused trouble. It usually involved food. One summer we figured out how to get free pizza. I'd call and order a pizza to be delivered to, say, 161 Bath Avenue, apartment 1-A. Then another guy would call and order another pizza for 201 Bath Avenue, apartment 2-B. Both of the addresses were phony, but the pizza guy didn't know that. So he'd drive into the neighborhood and park the car and take a pizza into 161 Bath Avenue. We'd swoop down and steal the other pizza right out of the back of his car. Free pizza!”

  “You never got caught?”

  “Never! Because we were smart. We never hit any pizzerias run by Italians. We stayed away from the wiseguy places. That's the lesson. You cross a wiseguy, you're history. Never forget that.”

  “Okay,” Nicholas said. “What's a wiseguy?” “Oh boy,” Frankie said. “You got a lot to learn. But let's eat first.”

  In addition to the meatballs and rigatoni, Tutti had prepared some kind of chicken and some kind of cooked vegetable that looked like salad.

  “What a feast!” Frankie said as they sat down. “Roast chicken, and escarole. And the meatballs. Pass the macaroni.”

  Frankie ate with gusto. Nicholas could see how he'd gotten so big. He ate big—two pieces of chicken, a huge plate of rigatoni and meatballs and some escarole.

  “That's some meal, Ma,” Frankie said. “I bet the kid don't eat like this at home, huh?”

  “Not exactly,” Nicholas said. “My mom's a vegetarian. And she's always on a diet.”

  “Well, you can forget the diet around here. As long as Ma's cooking, no one's going on any diets. Right, Ma?”

  Grandma Tutti shrugged. “I cook what I like to eat,” she said. “But it's nice to have two men at the table again. Not since your father died, and your brother left …”

  Frankie stared into his empty plate. Grandma Tutti pulled a wad of Kleenex from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

  “That's about enough of that,” Frankie said. “What's for dessert?”

  “I bought some cannoli,” Grandma Tutti said. “I'll make a little coffee.”

  Nicholas got up and started taking plates and glasses to the sink. Frankie stared at him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I'm clearing the table,” Nicholas said.r />
  “Oh, no you don't,” Frankie said. “This goomba ain't doing no dishes. The kitchen is your grandmother's place. Come with me.”

  Nicholas followed his uncle down the hall to the room with the easy chair in it. Frankie flopped down, undid the belt on his trousers and said, “What a meal. I'm stuffed. So, how's your old man doing? He working hard?”

  “That's all he does, is work hard.”

  “He's very ambitious, your dad,” Frankie said. “He was always a hard worker. In school, after school, studying … He left for college and he never looked back. Me, I like to take a rest now and then.”

  “Frankie!” Grandma Tutti's voice came sharply down the hall. “The sink! How many times I gotta ask you?”

  Frankie stood up and said, “So much for the rest. C'mon. We got chores.”

  Frankie went to a hall closet and pulled out a toolbox, then led Nicholas to the bathroom. He opened the toolbox and took out a pair of wrenches and a flashlight.

  “This sink is leaking again,” he said. “Let's see what we can do.”

  He lay on the floor, covering most of it, and said, “Gimme that big wrench.”

  “You said goomba,” Nicholas said. “What is that?”

  “You don't know what's a goomba? Doesn't your old man teach you anything ?”

  “Not anything Italian.”

  “All right,” Frankie said. “A goomba is, like—me. A goomba is an Italian—an Italian-American—from New York, or New Jersey, or maybe Buffalo. He's a guy from the neighborhood. They probably don't have any goombas up where you live in Caramel Town.”

  “Carrington.”

  “Whatever. A goomba is a guy who's been around. He knows a few things. He didn't go to the university, like your old man, but he ain't stupid. And he ain't a crook, either. He may know some goodfellas, but he's no wiseguy. You got that?”

  “Sort of,” Nicholas said. “What's a goodfella?”

  “Oh boy,” Frankie said, and slid out from under the sink. “You've seen The Godfather, right?”

  “No. My dad wouldn't let me.”

  “No Godfather! That's your heritage! You're an Italian—well, half Italian, anyway. Did you see Raging Bull?”