Page 171 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
I can see everything.
I am the Looker.
The house smells like oranges and cinnamon and soup and also like the radiator, which sings the hot song.
The window is all sparkles because snow is trying its best.
The door chime goesding, ding, dinglikeJingle Bells, except Uncle Tino made it fancy so it tricks the song and does three notes at the end like “surprise.”
I have three jobs:
Sprinkles captain.
Star helper.
Do not touch Daddy’s knives, even if they look like pirates.
I am already done with one sprinkle tray (perfect) and one sprinkle tray (artistic chaos).
Daddy says both are beautiful like the city.
He has flour on his cheek and pretends he doesn’t.
Mama kisses the flour spot and it disappears into her mouth, which is magic.
“Bee,” Mama says (that is my nickname), “quality control on the biscotti.”
I take a bite like a scientist.
“Crunchy. Approved.” I hand one to the giraffe on my shirt.
The giraffe is not hungry. That means more for me.
Daddy stirs sauce with his serious face and then checks the door latch with his click.
He always does the click.
The click is how the house says good morning and you can’t come in unless you ring twice and say the right word.
Today the word ispanettonebut only in our family.
It is a secret like Santa’s shoe size.
There is a knock-knock—two times, polite.
The door chime singssurprise.
