Word Count: 2513

“But he’s so small, Christopher!”

Chris kept a smile plastered on his face and tried not to let the corner of his mouth twitch in the opposite direction, maybe a little over-sensitive now about comments like that, but he thought it was within good reason.

He hadn’t had possession of his phone since his grandmother had taken it from him when he’d walked through the front door nearly thirty minutes ago. For a woman who typically acted like she had no idea what to do with current technology, she sure was flicking through his pictures with a deft hand. Chris suspected her usual display of ignorance was merely a well-executed ploy she engaged in as a means of getting her wayward grandchildren to spend time with her while explaining their “confounding devices,” a clever ruse she’d developed to have them fall right into her clutches, so that she would then have the opportunity to fawn over them, plant kisses on their faces and pinch their cheeks and ingratiate herself into their lives again, questioning them about anything and everything going on in their little bubble of reality.

She did it to Peter all the time. Or at least she used to. Peter was probably the easiest to catch when one considered his penchant for technology. Chris wondered if that was the reason his little brother put up such a fuss about visiting their grandparents nowadays. He’d probably finally caught on after the many times he’d had to show their grandmother his new phone or iPod, with the result that he’d had his cheeks affectionately pinched and adorned with a lip-stick tattoo one too many times.

Chris was beginning to understand how he felt, though he was much more amendable to it than his younger brother. For the last half an hour, his grandmother had spent her time fussing over pictures of Paris and drilling him about every last detail of their relationship.

It was much like talking to his mother, only his grandmother was a bit more forceful, demanding when his mother would normally sweetly charm the information out of him.

“Let me see him, let me see him,” his grandmother had said as soon as they’d arrived, snatching his phone out of his hand without so much as a kiss on the cheek in greeting before she was whisking Chris and his mother off to her sitting room full of antique furniture.

The Gallo house in Boston was a grand residence (perhaps a bit too grand, truth be told), and his grandmother presided over the comings and goings like a queen.

Built in the early 1800s, the house had been in the family for four generations, since his great-great-great grandfather J.R. Gallo had purchased it for his new bride, Caroline, in the 1890s. Along with the townhouse in New York and the estate in Pittsburg (where his family had first settled years and year ago, back during that rapid period of growth and industrialization that had seen the fortunes of many a family rising), the Boston house was perhaps the most lavish and advantageous piece of property his family owned. Located in Boston’s historic Beacon Hill neighborhood, the magnificent home overlooked the Boston Public Garden, and made his parents’ house in Destiny City look easily affordable by comparison. It had been updated and renovated extensively over the years, with many of the original features kept to retain some of that old-time charm, and with twenty rooms spaced out over six floors it had enough space to house at least half the extended Gallo family during Thanksgiving and Christmas holiday reunions.

It was a mark of privilege that Chris had little trouble admitting was a bit ostentatious, though he resented any snide remarks or the premature passing of judgment all the same. Maybe it was a part of his heritage, maybe he stood to inherit quite a bit of it by virtue of being… well… by virtue of being him, honestly, but it wasn’t like he’d asked for it. It just… was what it was.

He’d grown familiar with his grandparent’s house over the years, having spent many a weekend or holiday exploring it from top to bottom, but when he looked around and tried to imagine Paris seated amidst the expensive furniture or wandering the impressive rooms and halls, he found he couldn’t quite manage it.

Paris was much more suited to quaint country charm than posh, upscale urban living, try as either of them might to pretend otherwise.

“Are you feeding him enough?” his grandmother asked. She looked at both Chris and his mother in expectation.

Chris rolled his eyes and claimed, “Of course I am!” (though, really, it was more often than not Paris who was feeding him) while his mother issued a similar assurance and then went on and on about how sweet Paris was and “he’s such an angel, just like a doll! Just wait until you meet him!”

His grandmother hummed and nodded in agreement when it was appropriate to do so, her finger continuously sliding over the screen of Chris’s phone to view picture after picture after picture, a few he’d actually thought to take on his own, but most of which Paris had encouraged him to take for whatever reason (probably because Paris liked to goof around and happened to enjoy being the center of attention and having his photograph taken at any and every opportunity).

Abigail Gallo was still a formidable woman at eighty-four, energetic and spry and nearly immortal with the way she managed to avoid all manner of illnesses and disease. Her silver hair was perfectly coiffed, her nails beautifully up-kept and painted a pearly pink, her complexion still surprisingly clear but for the lines on her face to show her age. She was elegant and sophisticated and marginally healthy, her beauty still visible beneath the years. She might not be able to climb all of the house’s many, many stairs and clean each and every one of its rooms without tiring the way she used to insist upon (though that was what the elevator was for, and even now she only enlisted minimal help), nor could she maintain the level of social activity she used to, but her prideful nature and bold attitude more than made up for it.

Here was a woman who knew just what she wanted, and knew exactly what she had to do to get it, and had the conviction to do just that. She was fearless, with a sharp eye and a clever mind and a backbone of steel. Chris’s grandfather might be the “head of the family” (he was, after all, the bearer of the Gallo name and wealth by birth rather than by marriage), but everyone knew it was Abigail who had all of the power. More than his grandfather’s, it was her approval that was paramount.

His grandfather sat quietly in a chair by the large fireplace with a newspaper unfolded in front of him to obscure most of his face, as was his way. He had greeted both Chris and Claire warmly (if a bit distantly, as he wasn’t usually one for physical affection) upon their arrival before retreating to his chair and allowing his wife to conduct most of the necessary business, peeking over the top of his paper from time to time to show that he actually was paying attention to the discussion. His was a reserved presence, sedate and dignified like Chris’s father. Edmund Gallo had been as successful in life as many of the Gallos before (and after) him, but his was not a boastful nature.

He was content simply to sit, read, and observe.

“Is this a video?” Abigail asked, though she manipulated the screen in such a way that it was quite apparent she already knew the answer.

Music played, somewhat tinny sounding from the phone speaker. The quality of the video wasn’t the best, but the cameraman (or boy, as the case may be) had been sitting close enough to pick up some of the other noises beneath the music. Occasionally Chris could almost hear the soft, nearly indistinguishable ‘tap-tap-swish’ of pointe shoes stepping and sliding over the hard surface of a stage, and the jingling of a tambourine as it was rattled and tapped against a foot or shoulder.

“Is this recent?”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “Peter sent it a little while ago, right after we landed at Logan. Tonight was Paris’s fall recital, or whatever they call it. He doesn’t have any written tests in his ballet class, so I guess this is sort of like his midterm.”

“And you didn’t go?!” his grandmother demanded with a clear tone of disapproval in her voice.

“I had to fly up here and do it so Paris wouldn’t want to come with me, so it just… seemed like the perfect time! I made sure Peter filmed it!”

“Hmmm.”

His grandmother watched avidly. Even though he’d already seen it in the car on the way over, Chris leaned a bit closer so he could look at the screen. There Paris danced, smiling happily in his sparkling blue, black and gold tutu, looking every bit the ballerina he’d always aspired to be, with his hair pulled tightly back and a beaded headpiece glittering under the lights of the stage.

“He’s wonderful,” his grandmother observed. “He has such a beautiful body. How long has he been dancing?”

“Since he was little,” he replied, smiling ironically over the fact that his grandmother would first insist that Paris was too small and skinny only to turn around and praise him for it when she finally saw him in action. “I think he was two or three when he started.”

“Why isn’t he dancing professionally?”

“He was last year,” Chris said, watching his grandmother watch Paris, before he went back to watching Paris again himself. “But he wanted to go back to school. He doesn’t expect much anyway since he’s… well… I guess he’s not what a lot of companies want.”

“That’s absurd. He’s perfect.”

“He says a lot of ballet companies still have some outdated standards.”

“What? Because he’s male?” his grandmother asked, following it up with a scoff and, “Who could tell? And what should it matter if the talent’s there? Absolutely nothing. Talent should be the deciding factor before anything else.”

“Don’t ask me,” Chris said. “Ask the rest of the ballet community.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed again, and Chris wondered if she actually intended to do just that. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d raised her voice for a cause, nor did he expect it would be the last.

It was what she’d done her entire life. Aside from the notable differences in their personalities, his grandmother and his mother were really quite similar in the ways they’d made use of their wealth and influence in their respective communities. Chris suspected that was one of the reasons they got along so well. Abigail and Claire were particularly close for a mother and daughter-in-law. They shared the same interests and tended to hold the same opinions. They were active and responsive, and they made use of their privilege when they could have just as easily sat on it and let it go to waste. The only difference was that his grandmother was much, much more vocal and didn’t seem to care if it ever came across as impolite or offensive.

She did what she wanted and said what she wanted, and if anyone had a problem with it they could kiss her foot as she summarily squashed them under her designer heels.

Some people might call it arrogance.

Chris just liked to believe his grandmother was right about everything.

Sometimes he envied that surety in her, her ability to stare someone in the face and tell them exactly what she thought and exactly what they could do about it if they didn’t like it. In a lot of ways it reminded him of Paris, and he wondered if that was strange or if that was just how attractions worked, if people were naturally drawn to the sort of things they envied and admired in the people they loved when other people showed themselves to bear similar qualities.

“Ballet was very popular in the sixties, you know,” his grandmother eventually continued, moving her finger over Chris’s phone to play the video again once it had ended. “Your grandfather used to take me all the time. I tried to encourage your aunt Olivia to dance, but of course she wouldn’t. Probably to spite me. She was very obstinate as a child. Your grandfather claims she got that from me, but I was never that bullheaded, was I? She would have been lovely if she’d only applied herself.”

“Paris’ll dance for you if you want,” Chris replied with an amused smile. “He’s always practicing around the apartment for hours. I asked him to come up with me for Thanksgiving this year.”

“Since you missed it last year?” he grandmother asked, shooting him another pointed glance.

Chris ducked his head and fiddled with a fold in the fabric at the knee of his khakis. “Um,” he hesitated. His mother just looked at him and smiled sweetly, unwilling to help him get out of that one.

“Both you and Peter,” Abigail continued, shaking her head. “You never visit enough. And Michael! Heaven forbid I ever get a visit from Michael!”

“I had a project,” Chris tried to explain lamely.

His grandmother just frowned and released a heavy sigh. “The proper thing to do would have been to introduce him to us sooner,” she insisted, as if she always did what was proper, when that was probably stretching the truth a bit.

The newspaper rustled as his grandfather lowered it, glancing over in their direction as if to express his agreement, but he didn’t say much of anything and soon went back to reading.

“Sorry. I know,” Chris mumbled, a bit sheepish. “We’ve been kind of busy.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Too busy for your poor grandmother.”

For a few moments longer she looked at him like she was disappointed, but the expression quickly faded away and was replaced by a small, slow smile. Her cold exterior melted somewhat to show the warmth beneath, and one of her thin hands rose to pet his hair and turn his face toward her so that she could pat his cheek. She looked into his eyes and exuded tenderness. If he’d been smaller, still a little boy, Chris imagined she’d have pulled him into her lap for a hug and a cuddle.

The two of them shared a bit of a secret (though how much of a secret it really was, Chris had no idea). His grandmother always insisted that she adored each of her grandchildren equally (and she did, for the most part), but Chris was ashamed to say he knew this claim to be a lie.

“We’ll take a trip down Newbury Street and meet with the designer tomorrow,” she said.

He had always been her favorite.