Chapter Text
When Angie was a kid, she got all her information about high school activities from conversations her older cousins had amongst themselves at family dinners, far away from Nonna’s watchful eye and open ears. And so she learned that dances were for rubbing up against people and drinking spiked punch, spending money on corsages and losing virginities. Football games were for heckling the cheerleaders. And Friday nights were for parties in dimly-lit attic rooms, air hazy with smoke and the smell of musty furniture and spilled drinks.
Now that Angie’s in high school, she knows dances and football games are not for her and Friday nights are for curling up on her bed and trying to memorize lines for a part she’s not going to play anyway. Damn Sarah! Angie would’ve killed to play Sandy. She’s still considering it, at least a little bit. But then she’d have to hide Sarah’s body, and Angie would be the most obvious suspect…
She shakes her head and tries to concentrate on reading the script. What she really needs is someone to run lines with her, but Gloria and Carol are both busy and she’d rather die than ask someone in her family. Piero would probably laugh until he falls out of his chair. Her father would just raise his eyebrows. Her mother would stumble over the words, grimacing at everything slightly scandalous, even in the high school version of Grease. And Francesca – well, Francesca can’t read.
Sighing, Angie turns on her phone just as a message pops up on screen.
[8:13] Peggy Carter: Hi, Angie. I have a favor to ask.
Angie waits, heart suddenly in her throat. The typing bubbles appear and reappear in the chat.
[8:13] Peggy Carter: I’m afraid I have a rather important project for Italian class due at the end of month. Do you think you could give me some pointers?
Pointers! The churning in Angie’s stomach makes her lightheaded. Peggy wants her help. She places a hand on her chest, rubbing the bone until it hurts.
[8:14] Heyy! Yeah, no problem 😊
[8:15] Peggy Carter: For a pastry, of course!
Angie has to stop herself from stuffing her fist in her mouth.
[8:15] Don’t worry, English! I got ya
She lets herself fall back onto her bed, heart pounding.
„Mom, it’s not a big part, you don’t have to ask our whole family to come,” Angie says, wiping her jam aggressively on her toast.
“What are you talking about? It’s the main character.” Mrs. Martinelli puts a hand on Francesca’s back, who has already started squirming after finishing her breakfast. “We need to let everyone know now, so they can plan.”
“I am understudying the main character,” Angie clarifies. “And I don’t want to give Matteo more ammunition to bully me with.” It was enough that Matteo saw her play a gate in the seventh grade. For the next months, he applauded every time she touched a door and shouted “Brava!” until Aunt Julia made him stop.
“It’s not embarrassing to be in a musical,” Mrs. Martinelli says.
“I think so,” Piero says quickly.
“Shut up,” Angie says to him. “I’m not embarrassed, I just don’t want Matteo to make fun of our costumes, or our hair—” Angie glares at Piero, whose gleeful look convinces her of the righteousness of her point -- “and there’s no chance I’ll step in for the main role,” she says finally. “Sarah’s like a cockroach, she’s never sick. So I’ll be a Pink Lady anyway, just one of the girls. No need to bust out the family group chat for the ensemble.” The ensemble, like always. At least they’re actually letting her have a solo. And she gets a run-through where she gets to play Sandy, so that’s something, even though that’ll probably only make it worse to see Sarah, of all people, screeching out “Hopelessly Devoted to You” on opening night.
“I still don’t understand what this musical is about,” Mrs. Martinelli says, sitting down. “And what does it have to do with Greece?”
“It’s Grease,” Angie says. “Like hair grease. Not country Greece.”
Mrs. Martinelli makes a face.
“I don’t even think you want to ask Aunt Julia,” Angie points out. “Aren’t you still mad about Dad’s last birthday party?”
Mrs. Martinelli’s expression goes dark. Angie sits back, triumphant.
“I’m going to get all my friends to come,” Piero singsongs.
Angie rolls her eyes. “Then all my friends are going to squish your little cheeks at opening night and tell your little friends that your obsession with John Travolta inspired us artistically.” She shrugs and takes a bite of toast. “Your move, wiseguy.”
Piero opens and closes his mouth a few times wordlessly.
“You look like a fish,” Angie says, pleased with herself.
“Angela!” Mrs. Martinelli shakes her head. “Be nice to your brother.”
Angie tilts her head. “What, because he’s a pillar of kindness and familial support?”
“He’s joking,” Mrs. Martinelli says, stopping just short of protectively placing a hand on her son’s shoulder. Piero grins at Angie from the other side of the table. “Besides, it’s your job as the big sister to set a good example.”
“Ugh,” Angie says, taking another bite of toast. She fidgets her phone out of her pocket and types a message to Gloria from under the table.
[9:21] please free me
[9:22] Gloria Butler: whats happening???
[9:22] just my family as usual
[9:23] Gloria Butler: okok! Mall??? I’ll come pick you up
[9:25] yes!!!!!!!!! Ur my hero<3
“Angie, put your phone away,” Mrs. Martinelli says, holding her hand out for Angie’s phone. “We’re having a family breakfast.”
“Sorry,” Angie says, putting on the sweetest, I’m-the-best-Catholic-daughter smile she can muster. “Gloria’s going to pick me up soon, we’re going to go to the mall before rehearsal.”
“The mall?” Mrs. Martinelli furrows her brow.
Shit, Angie thinks. She’s probably expecting me to clean or something. “Gloria needs help picking out her homecoming dress,” Angie explains smoothly. That seems like a decent excuse.
“Fine,” Mrs. Martinelli says. “Do you have a dress already?”
“I’m not going,” Angie says immediately.
“Because you don’t have a date,” Piero says, loud enough that Angie can hear and quiet enough for their mother to ignore.
“It’s your last homecoming,” Mrs. Martinelli says, shaking her head as she pours herself a cup of tea. “You’ll miss out on all these experiences!”
“The experience of a few hundred highschoolers locked into a stinky gym and bad catering? No thanks,” Angie scoffs.
“You could ask that boy from church – what’s his name?”
“James,” Piero volunteers helpfully.
“Yes, James!” Angie’s mother snaps her fingers at her. Angie flinches. “He’s so nice! And his mother is lovely, she brought the best salad to the potluck last week, it had this amazing dressing…”
Angie tries to tune her out. She imagines herself at Homecoming with James from church. His hands are sweaty and feel heavy on her waist. He’s wearing a tie that doesn’t match her dress. She seems them dancing together like a vision, her moving her body away from him as subtly as she knows how.
“Angela,” Mrs. Martinelli says.
Angie snaps out of it. “Sorry.”
Mrs. Martinelli sighs disapprovingly. “You don’t listen,” she says. “I was saying that James—”
“I’m not going with James,” Angie says. Her voice is tight but unwavering. “I’m not going at all. Because I don’t want to go. And if I did, I would go with my friends and not with James from church who I don’t have anything in common with.” She pushes her chair back and stands up, grabbing her plate for the dishwasher. “See you later.”
“Don’t speak to me like that,” Mrs. Martinelli calls after her.
“Yeah, yeah,” Angie says, knowing that’ll earn her a lecture later. She paces around in her room for a few minutes until her heart has calmed. Homecoming. Sitting in a corner with Gloria and Carol and gossiping about what everyone’s wearing and who everyone is with. Fiercely ignoring the football players. They can do that on Instagram at home and save themselves the money. It’s what they’ve always done.
Homecoming. Angie hates dances, always has. She hates getting dressed up only to starve for half the night because they never have enough food for everyone. She hates the way she always feels the need to adjust her clothes, or her hair, or something. The planning committee has gone berserk the past few weeks, since the cash from the waffle sale came in. She’s heard Dottie screaming at someone on the phone in the hallway at least twice. Maybe it’s different this year, a small part of her thinks. She sits down on her bed and tries to stop thinking, just for a second.
She wonders what Peggy will wear to Homecoming.
Her phone buzzes.
[9:50] Gloria Butler: outsideee
[9:50] coming!
Angie stops by the kitchen on the way out. She kisses Francesca on the head. “Sorry,” she tells her mother.
Mrs. Martinelli glances up from the sink, a crease in her forehead where it didn’t use to be. Angie looks at her mother, really looks, the way she rarely does. She thinks of the pictures they have hanging in the hallway, Angie as a baby and her mother’s smooth, unlined face forever frozen in a smile. “Have a good time at the mall,” Mrs. Martinelli says mildly.
“Thanks,” Angie says. She considers hugging her mother goodbye. She can’t remember the last time she did that.
Instead, she walks out the door.
“Thank you so much,” Angie says, opening the door of Gloria’s car. “God, they were driving me crazy.”
“Just the usual, or anything specific?” Gloria asks, setting the navigation to the mall.
“I’m just tired of Piero,” Angie says, slumping down into the passenger seat. “He gets to say whatever he wants, and I just get a lecture on being a good older sister.” She sighs.
“I notice that every time I’m at your house,” Gloria says, nodding to herself as she backs out of the driveway. “Like no offense to your parents, but –”
“Please offense to my parents,” Angie groans.
“—like your mom is really nice and all and she makes the best food, but does she ever get Piero to do the dishes?”
Angie bolts upright. “Exactly! And he just makes fun of me for the musical and my parents definitely don’t get it.”
“I’m sorry, Ange.” Gloria says, craning her neck to check her blind spot.
Angie shrugs.
“Do you want to choose the music?”
Angie perks up at that. They spend the rest of the ride belting along to the Original Broadway Cast of Wicked, and by the time Idina Menzel hits the last note on “The Wizard and I” and Gloria pulls into the mall parking lot, Angie’s heart feels ten times lighter.
“I’m just real sorry it’s so difficult with your parents,” Gloria says quietly, turning off the engine.
“Makes it easier when you rescue me,” Angie says, shrugging.
Gloria pats her shoulder affectionately. “So, soft pretzel?”
“Dear God, yes,” Angie says.
“Angela,” Gloria says, in her best impression of Mrs. Martinelli’s no-nonsense voice, “the name of our Lord!”
“The only Lord I care about right now is Auntie Anne,” Angie says, “who died on the pretzel for our sins.”
Gloria laughs until they’re out of the parking lot.
“So, are we going to Homecoming this year?” Angie asks, glancing at Gloria over her smoothie.
Gloria shoots her a look. “You hate dances. Why the sudden interest in homecoming?”
“Fear of missing out on formative experiences during senior year?”
Gloria half-laughs.
“Come on, Glo.” Angie drums her hands on the table. “It’s Homecoming! If it sucks, it sucks.”
“Only if Carol goes,” Gloria grumbles. She tilts her head. “Or is this about Peggy Carter?”
“I don’t want to talk about Peggy,” Angie says, a bit too quickly. She feels heat rising in her cheeks.
“Well, me neither,” Gloria says. Her eyes flicker downwards. She picks at her nailbeds.
Angie feels her heart shrivel a bit in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she says. She can barely hear herself over the bubble of conversation around them. She reaches out a hand and places it on Gloria’s arm, warm and soft.
“No, I’m sorry,” Gloria says. She closes her eyes. “I know I’m not being fair to you.”
“Nothing to be fair about,” Angie says. “It wasn’t good for you, with Colleen.”
“No, I’m being selfish,” Gloria says. She shivers and rubs her arms with her hands. “She just makes me feel so broken.”
Angie rubs her thumb over Gloria’s arm. “You’re not, Gloria.”
“I know that,” Gloria laughs ruefully. “Trust me, I know I’m not only the person who got her heart smashed into pieces at fourteen.” Angie watches her friend’s face crinkle, like a piece of thin paper. With a jolt, she realizes Gloria is trying not to cry. “But I see her coming down the hall and it’s—” Gloria shakes her head. “It rips the wound open all over again, I guess.”
A certainty – no, a pain settles into Angie’s stomach with a weight that makes her breathless. “Gloria,” she says, voice impossibly soft. Gloria just stares at her wordlessly. Angie sighs. “Are you still in love with her?”
Gloria is a person who cries easily. At reruns of Glee, sentimental commercials, whenever they babysit Francesca together and watch Disney films. So Angie has seen her cry, more times than she can count. However, Angie has never seen her mind, never seen her fight back tears to the point that her lip trembles and her nostrils flare. She normally just lets them come, laughing at herself, blowing theatrically into a tissue.
Gloria closes her eyes softly, streaks of tears running down her face. She blinks rapidly, then tilts her head up. “Probably,” she says. “Why else would I care so much?”
“It’s okay if you are,” Angie says.
“It’s embarrassing,” Gloria mutters, clearly trying to regain her composure.
Angie shakes her head emphatically. “Absolutely not.”
Gloria raises her eyebrows. “Being hung up on the same girl for four years isn’t embarrassing?”
“It’s Colleen,” Angie says. “She’s like six foot tall, gorgeous, a Cheerleader –”
“Don’t remind me,” Gloria groans, hiding her face in her hands.
“—if it mends your broken heart, Peggy is dead to me,” Angie continues, ignoring the pang in her chest. “Like, who even is Peggy Carter?”
Gloria smiles warily. “Thank you, Angie.”
Angie bites her lip. “I did promise to help her with her Italian homework, though.”
Gloria groans again. “Jeez, Angie.”
“I can cancel it,” Angie says desperately. “I’ll text her and tell her I hit my head and forgot the whole language—”
Gloria sighs, resigned. “No, it’s fine. Italian tutoring is fine. I just…”
“It’s just the tutoring,” Angie promises. Just the tutoring. Tutoring amongst casual friends and classmates. Tutoring because there isn’t anything else Peggy wants from me or will ever want from me. It doesn’t feel like a lie, but it hurts all the same.
“Can’t begrudge her your Italian skills.” Gloria shakes her head and sits upright. “So, Homecoming.”
“Homecoming,” Angie says, trying to feel excited for it.
“Just us and Carol?”
“Just the Three Muskequeers.”
“It’s still a horrible group chat name,” Gloria says.
Angie smacks her arm. “Then come up with something better.”
“Fine, then.” Gloria leans back in her chair and takes a sip of her smoothie. “Let’s do Homecoming.”
Angie’s never considered herself a particularly elegant person, but it is a low point in her clumsiness – lower, even, than accidentally smacking a bowl of cut onion out of her mother’s hand and having to hand-gather it off the floor at last year’s Thanksgiving – to literally run smack dab into Peggy Carter in the middle of the school hallway because she got distracted by Thompson throwing a football over her head.
“Gosh, English, I’m so sorry,” Angie says, just thankful she didn’t drop anything so they don’t have to do the whole crawl-on-the-ground-together-and-awkwardly-make-eye-contact thing. “Don’t know where my head was.”
“I absolutely blame Jack Thompson,” Peggy says, her voice low and surprisingly conspiratorial.
Something twitches in Angie’s stomach. Swallowing, she smiles. “Yeah,” she says. Is that all you’ve got to say, Ang? she thinks, wanting to kick herself.
“Are you going to Calculus?” Peggy asks. At that moment, a shaft of sunlight falls through one of the open classroom doors, catching her hair. Angie just stares for a moment. Please say something, she whines to herself. She’s just waiting for Gloria to round the corner and look at her like a kicked puppy.
“Angie? Did you hit your head?”
Peggy’s hand is on Angie’s arm. It burns there, soft and so, so warm. Acting skills, Angie tells herself. Come on, Angie!
“No, it’s all good, English,” Angie says. “Yeah, I’m going to class.”
“I really appreciate you helping me with Italian,” Peggy says casually as they fall into step next to each other. “Does this weekend work for you?”
“Oh, yeah.” Angie tries to smile with just the right amount of teeth. Her heart stumbles over itself, as clumsy as her feet. “Saturday, maybe?”
“I’ve got some errands to run for the Homecoming committee,” Peggy says, rolling her eyes. “But afterwards would work.”
Angie raises an eyebrow. “I thought Dottie took that over?”
“With Dorothy, you’ll find theory and practice diverge more than with most people,” Peggy muses. “No, I’m afraid she’s discovered how to delegate things to me.”
“She’s just ordering you around, isn’t she.”
“Quite,” Peggy huffs. “And if I refuse, she spins some sort of narrative about this being a team effort and if the leader of the team can’t even join in…”
Angie snorts.
“Well, here we are, then,” Peggy says, pushing the classroom door open. “So, Saturday?”
“Saturday,” Angie says. She hides a smile all the way to her seat.