Page 2 of Off the Wall

As for the octopus, that’s even worse.

Hayden and I took a tour at an aquarium in Boston last year, where we learned that octopuses are super-intelligent. Or is it octopi? Either way, the guide said they’re almost humanlike in their ability to relate to the world and understand their circumstances. No judgment to people who eat these creatures, but I don’t want to put something smarter than I am in my mouth.

“I think I’ll just have the mozzarella sticks,” I say, hoping some deep-fried hot cheese can salvage this evening.

“Mozzarella sticks?” Warren lets out a snort of disdain. “Kinda predictable.”

“They’re very popular,” our server says brightly. “And what would you like for your main courses?”

Warren puffs out his chest at her. Extra hair. Extra pompousness. “How’s the chef’s pajata Romana tonight?”

“That’s a rare order, sir.” She tips her head, and her ponytail swings. “I haven’t actually tried it.”

“Never? Hmm.” Warren sounds awfully condescending for a man in an undershirt. He snaps his gaze to me. “Pajata Romana is a delicacy in Italy. I’m guessingyouhaven’t heard of it.”

I glance down at the menu and read that pajata Romana is a stew made from the intestines of milk-fed calves.

Milk-fed calves?

Hot bile rises in my throat.

Never. Ever. EVER.

“You know what?” Warren slaps his menu shut. “Let’s live dangerously. I’ll give it a whirl.” He snatches my menu and passes both over to the server. “And the lady will have the same.”

“Excuse me.” I cough in protest. “But the lady will not.”

“Ah, come on, Nori.” Warren splays his hands. “Don’t be like that.”

“Sorry.” I apologize to our server, wincing on the inside and out. “But I’d like the chicken parmesan. Please.”

She offers me a tiny smile in solidarity. “Our chicken parm is delicious.”

Under his breath, Warren says, “Lame.”

Whoa. He’s sayingI’mlame? Warren Snuze might be the pottiest pot to ever call a kettle black.

I should’ve trusted my gut and turned Mrs. Chamberlin down when she suggested this setup with her grand-nephew. But she’s such a sweet old lady, and one of the best customers at Serendipi-Tea. That’s the tea and coffee shop I manage. Mrs. Chamberlin loves that I always add smiley faces to thetravel cups below her name. Which is Pearl, by the way. Pearl Chamberlin.

Great-aunt of Warren Snuze.

But I’d trade every single smile I’ve ever drawn for a magic wand to rewind time and say no to this date. Too bad that kind of magic doesn’t exist in real life, despite all the rumors surrounding The Serendipity. That’s the apartment building where I live. It’s in Serendipity Springs. And for decades, stories have circulated throughout New England about the wonders of the place.

The residents here report being luckier than the national average. We’re supposedly healthier too. Not to mention more prone to falling in love. According to the locals, this burst of unexplained goodness has something to do with the water.

Like, literally. The springs here are serendipitous.

True or not, this legend was one of the reasons my brother and his wife moved us to Serendipity Springs right after they got married. I was four years old at the time. They were barely twenty. But they tied the knot early in order to become my legal guardians. It was the only way to keep our family together.

And we needed all the love and luck we could get.

The previous owner of The Serendipity—Galentine Valencia—heard our family’s story and reached out to offer East and Becca ridiculously low rent on a place in her building. And she never raised the price. Not once in all these years. Our two-bedroom apartment is the only home I can remember. And the three of us have lived there ever since.

Well, up until six months ago.

That’s when East and Becca moved back to Boston so they could be closer to her parents. They’re getting older and they need more help now. (Becca’s parents, I mean. Not Becca and East.)

And honestly, I feel so bad.

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