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them move like ballroom dancers, completely aware of one another and completely in sync. My uncle mixed gallons of batter and kneaded buckets of dough. My grandpa built intricate cakes, towering cakes, wedding and everyday cakes, all baked in pans with a distinctive R stamped on the bottom, so that every cake top bore our family initial. My dad’s job was patting, shaping, and rolling cookies of all varieties. Together they swirled whipped cream on top of tiny fruit pies, squeezed smiles onto the faces of gingerbread men, and slid fat slabs of cocoa brownies into the enormous fire-breathing oven. It was built into the wall, lined with white glazed bricks, and dominated by an enormous iron door stamped with the word VULCAN in capital letters. The oven was so large that if I bent over, I could easily fit inside. As I entered the kitchen, my dad was sliding in trays of molasses cookies. I wanted everyone to know how victimized I felt, and sighed dramatically, saying, “Lucky cookies. Can I climb in, too?”
    “What?” my father said, clanging shut the heavy door.
    “ Cosa ?” my grandpa said.
    “Never, ever go inside that oven!” my father said.
    “ Non mai! Never!” my grandpa echoed, pounding his little fist on the long steel rolling table, sending a puff of flour into the air.
    I stepped back, shocked at their overreaction. “I was kidding. I’m just . . . I’m having a bad day.”
    “Of course she was kidding,” Uncle Buddy said, wiping his hands on his apron and placing them on my shoulders. He put on his big trademark smile. “You think she’s dumb enough to climb inside that thing?”
    My dad stared at me, and what I remember specifically is how sad he looked. He and I share a similar trait—blue eyes decorated with little flecks of shimmering gold—and his seemed to be seeing something far beyond the here and now. Softly, he said, “No, Buddy. I think she’s the smartest girl I know.”
    “ Nostra ragazza intelligente! Our smart girl!” my grandpa agreed.
    Uncle Buddy looked at Grandpa and then at my dad, as confused as I was by the outburst. He was still smiling but there was a trace of suspicion in his voice when he said, “Is it just me or is there something weird going on here?”
    “Sara Jane, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell . . . ,” my dad said, ignoring the question. But my feelings were hurt, and I turned to Uncle Buddy.
    “Can I talk to you?” I said. “Just the two of us?”
    Uncle Buddy looked over me at my dad, who sighed and shrugged. My uncle took off his apron and said, “Okay, sure. Let’s go outside.” It was early evening and the summer sky was warm and orange as I told him about Walter’s kiss and Mandi’s word. He sat on the hood of his convertible puffing a “Sick-a-Rette,” a non-cancerous concoction of organic herbs prescribed by his doctor to help him quit smoking. The good news was that it was working; the bad news was that it smelled as sickly sweet as a Dumpster full of garbage on a hot day. At the end, I told him what little Max Kissberg had said about ignoring knuckleheads.
    “Smart kid,” Uncle Buddy said, flicking away the stinking Sick-a-Rette. He produced car keys and said, “Get in. I want to show you something.” We didn’t talk much as he drove through the Loop and parked off Michigan Avenue. We climbed steps past the lions guarding the entrance to the Art Institute, walked inside the cool, quiet building, and went directly to a gallery where a handful of people loitered silently. One wall was dominated by an enormous painting. Uncle Buddy nodded at it and said, “It’s called A Sunday on La Grande Jatte .” I’d seen it before, shuffling past with other kids on field trips, but now my uncle urged me to inspect it closely. I stepped forward and stared, and slowly my eyes divided a picture of people relaxing on a small island into millions of tiny painted dots. He explained that one of its meanings is that life is made up of an