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were supremely fortunate and imbued with a magical quality: All of them were related to Lisa Sinsong.
    â€œMama said it was a terrible neighborhood.” Alfonse collapsed his hands and picked up his half-eaten slice of pizza. A group of four college students spilled into the restaurant. It was immediately discernible they were from Yale—not Southern or Quinnipiac or the University of New Haven. They were paler, with powdery fine skin. The girls wore long, lightweight scarves even though it was still balmy outside; the boys were quieter than regular boys. Was it breeding, Alfonse wondered, that made them so distinctive? He decided it was. They possessed an inherent superiority that could not be learned; it was sewn into their fabric by a long, uninterrupted thread.
    â€œPapa,” Francesca said suddenly, wresting him from his reverie. “Why do I love another girl?” She tried to stop herself, but—there—it jumped out of her mouth.
    He stared at her because, of course, he and Vivian and Evelyn had all wondered this. And then, with the force of a benign dictator making a ruling of what was and wasn’t permissible, he spoke: “You think—you might think you love a girl. You probably do love this girl, the same way you might love a very best friend.” He made a distinct separation from this normal, best friend love, and the other sort of love which he was deeming nonexistent, as if separating them from an embrace. “You spend too much time alone, Francesca. You need other friends. This girl just came along and she made you realize you were lonely. For a friend.”
    â€œBut I do love her,” Francesca said, her voice tiny, resigned.
    He shook his head. “You cannot tell your mother about this. It’s more than she can bear. She’s got her hands full with Isabella. You area good girl, Francesca. You always have been.” It was less an observation than a command.
    Francesca felt sick. The college students had finished their first pitcher of beer. They were arguing about a movie they’d just seen, something that had a love story which the boys found implausible; the girls, romantic. It was a conversation that was being overheard in that moment in pizza restaurants across the country.
    â€œCan we go home?” she asked. “I don’t feel good.”
    â€œYou feel sick? Was it the pizza?” He turned to find the waiter. He was relieved that the conversation was over and he wouldn’t have to listen to Francesca confess any more of her strange secrets. It was one thing to be a father, to provide money, to play catch, to bring Francesca with him on his jobs sometimes and help her with her homework. But if this newest incident were really an indication of some sort of perversion in her development, he’d rather pretend not to notice it and hope it would work itself out.
    They were quiet on the car ride home, so Alfonse put on the game. The Dolphins vs. the Redskins. Francesca never paid attention to the specifics of football, but she enjoyed the sounds of the game over the radio—the announcer’s enthusiasm, excited but muffled, the warm shifting of the crowd’s roar, like someone turning over in bed. It made her sleepy. In this moment, it soothed her. It reminded her not to rely on anyone, least of all her parents.

Chapter Six
    When Isabella was 14, her manuscript, A Cry from the Attic , was published by Random House. Comprised of thirty-six sonnets written in the fictionalized voice of Anne Frank, the volume was hailed as “an unprecedented genre . . . historical poetry—unwieldy as it is thorough,” 16 “a visionary deconstruction of reality, dappled with piercing insights,” 17 and, cryptically, “the author glimpses the fourth dimension.” 18
    Isabella’s literary agent, Mrs. Val Noonan, suggested a party to celebrate. Invitations went out to major players in the industry: newspaper and magazine