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it’s a little sunny out there now, and I thought you guys might need some help serving the protesters and—”
    She nodded her head and spoke calmly. “So you’ll do it later.”
    It wasn’t a request; it was an edict. I sighed. At some point today, I’d be digging in that garden. I wouldn’t put it past Nonna to set up a spotlight so I could work all night. “You bet, Nonna,” I said brightly. “But right now, shouldn’t we get ready to feed the starving hordes?”
    But the “hordes” turned out to be a dozen people, two of whom had made signs, one reading “Not in Our Town” with a big thumb pointing downward; the other said “Pasta-tute,” an epithet suggesting an Italian who was willing to sell out, presumably aimed at Gio Parisi. In the group, I recognized Gale the librarian, our produce man, Mr. Biaggio, and Mr. and Mrs. Pak, who owned the dry cleaners. They marched vigorously in a little circle chanting the slogans on the signs, with my mom pulling up the rear. (It’s a little hard to protest in heels.) My father alternated between making short speeches and serving pizza, while Nonna perched on a lawn chair in the shade.
    â€œThat display outside,” I said as I walked back into the kitchen, “is at once the bravest and most pathetic thing I have ever seen in my life.”
    â€œGod bless ’em,” Tim said. “Want a pizza to take home? We got plenty left.” Since he was cooking, he had a blue bandanna tied around his head. Only Tim could make health code compliance sexy.
    â€œSure. Who are those for?” I pointed to a stack of foil-wrapped pies.
    â€œI’m gonna bring them over to Father Tom at St. Rose’s. A couple families in his parish are having tough times.”
    â€œOh,” I said. I couldn’t imagine the Tim I knew driving out of his way to donate leftover food. “That’s really nice.”
    He shrugged. “There’s a lot of waste in restaurants. But there are health regs regarding perishable food for donation.” He grinned at me. “Father Tom and I get around them. He doesn’t ask and I won’t tell.”
    â€œNeither will I.” We stood smiling at each other, and a tiny ache tugged at my chest. “Well, I’m off to bring some cold drinks to the righteous,” I told him, determined to stay out of that kitchen for the rest of the day.
    Outside, it appeared our little rally was still going strong. A reporter had left the throng on the boardwalk to get some comments from our group. At the moment, my mother was speaking animatedly into a large mike, while behind her rose chants of “Pasta-tute! Pasta-tute!”
Please
, I prayed,
don’t let this turn up on the cable news.
Across the street, the boardwalk was packed, the crowds were laughing, and the food stands looked to be doing a brisk business. I walked down to the sidewalk for a better view, only to see our mayor, Anne McCrae, up on the makeshift stage. The crowd cheered as she pumped her fist in unison with the show’s stars.
    â€œOh no,” I said aloud. “This is not good.” There was no doubt that
The Jersey Side
could bring major profits to the businesses in Oceanside, but it might do some real damage as well. And apart from our ragtag little band of protesters, did anyone even care? Would any of us be able to stem the RealTV tide that was threatening to engulf our hometown?
    After all the excitement died down and the crowd dispersed, our protesters, including Nonna and my parents, took their signs and went home. I was left alone with Tim, Cal, and the tomatoes, wondering which I should most avoid, when a customer appeared at the door and I got my first real look at the villain of the piece.
    Gio Parisi was a good-looking man, if your taste ran to dissolute Roman emperors. His heavy-lidded eyes were dark and hard, the kind of eyes that missed nothing. But