The whole family leaped out of hiding. They were wearing corny birthday hats and blowing noisemakers. They had decorated the new—well, not new —dining room with crepe-paper streamers. They’d hung a banner from the mantel: HAPPY 13TH, TONY! Michael ushered the totally stunned Tony over to the seat of honor at the head of the dining table, where a small stack of presents awaited on a plate. Everyone sat, and Michael started serving up pizza out of delivery boxes. “Pizzeria Regina,” he said. “The oldest in Boston, and it’s just a few streets over. Zio Angelo bought after-school slices from there when he was a boy.” He turned to Tony and asked, “Pepperoni with extra cheese or veggie-the-works?” “Neither,” Julia said, before Tony could answer. Right. Those twenty-five pounds that never got lost. “Just pass me the salad bowl,” Tony sighed to Angey. “That’s not what I meant!” Julia said, flushing. “I meant: Not until you clear off what’s already on your plate.”
