The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z. Read Online Free Page A

laughing, and takes her eggplant back.
    On the drive south, we talk about Italian recipes and French pastries, fancy olive oil and when we’ll carve our pumpkins for Halloween.
    But I keep remembering the look on the face of that old lady across the street. She had no idea where she was. And it scared her.

CHAPTER 3
    W hen we get home, Mom won’t talk about Nonna getting lost. I try to bring it up while we’re making the salad.
    “Mom—you should have seen her.” I slice the cucumber into the bowl and reach for a potato chip from the bag Dad bought at the market when Mom wasn’t looking.
    “Put that down,” Mom says. “Do you know how much trans fat is in those?”
    Mom tosses the chips into the trash. Dad walks by and gazes in at them like he’s saying good-bye to an old friend.
    “Don’t you have a French quiz coming up? Have you studied?” Mom asks. She points to her elbow. “What’s this?”
    “It’s your elbow.” I start slicing a second cucumber.
    “ En français, Gianna!”
    I have no clue what her elbow is in French, and even if I did, I can’t concentrate. “Mom . . . ,” I try again. “Nonna had no idea where she was.”
    “So she was confused for a minute.” She scoops up the salad bowl before I’m done slicing and whisks it over to the table.
    “But she was standing there in the middle of the—”
    “It’s a big market, and it could have happened to anyone. You forget things too. Now go wash your hands and come sit down.”
    We eat our eggplant parmesan in silence.
    Sunday morning, I wake up to Zig’s special knock and shuffle downstairs in my Big Bird slippers to unlock the door.
    “Come on in.” I lead him toward the kitchen. “I think everybody’s eating. I’m the last one up.”
    “Is that my future grandson-in-law?” Nonna calls. When we walk in, she gives Zig her biggest smile and puts down her rolling pin. “I’m going to make these cookies for your wedding someday, you know.”
    She’s rolling dough between her palms, shaping little round cookies for later. The first batch is already cooling on the counter. Her eyes twinkle at us. “What do you think, you two? Will you want them with sprinkles or powdered sugar? Go ahead and try both. Then you can decide.”
    “Nonna!” My face feels like I’m standing too close to the open oven door. She’s always joked about how I ought to marry Zig, but never in front of him. Geez!
    “Uh . . . I think I’ll just have a muffin,” Zig mumbles, and shuffles over to the table, looking at his feet the whole time.
    I look at Nonna with big cut-it-out eyes, but she just smirks again. I take a cookie, even though I’m annoyed with her.
    Nonna makes the best Italian wedding cookies in the world, even if they aren’t really served up at weddings. At our house, Nonna’s cookies usually end up being funeral cookies. She always brings them when Dad has calling hours scheduled downstairs. Whether she knows the family of the dead person or not, Nonna shows up with a big plate of cookies. She says food holds sweet memories, and those memories help people say good-bye.
    “Hey, Zig!” Ian looks up from his riddle book with jam on his face. “Why did the cookie stay home from school?”
    “I give up. Why?”
    “Because it was feeling crummy! Get it? Crumby?” Ian laughs so hard, toast crumbs spray out of his mouth. Zig smiles and hands him a napkin.
    “Morning, Mr. Zales.”
    Dad nods from behind his coffee. “Helping Gee with her leaf project?” He points to a plate of Nonna’s apple crumb muffins on the table.
    “Yep—twenty-five leaves by Friday.” Zig reaches for a muffin. “And I have the perfect idea for helping her remember the kinds of leaves.” He turns to me. “We should change the dog game to the tree game for the next week.”
    “The dog game?” Dad asks.
    “It’s a game we started a couple of years ago, where we assign everybody a dog,” I tell him.
    “Like the kind of dog they’d have for a