"Here you go, Adriana."
Grandpa handed me an apron and a cap.
They looked silly with red, white, and green stripes.
I gulped. Did I really have to wear them?
What if someone from school saw me?
I didn't want to hurt Grandpa's feelings.
He had spent the past year getting his pizzeria ready for business.
Years ago he had been a pizzaiolo—a pizza maker—in Italy.
Now he was finally going to make authentic Italian pizza here in America.
His dream was coming true.
But all I saw was a fashion nightmare.
"Pass out free slices of pizza Margherita to everyone who walks by," Grandpa instructed.
"And be sure to tell them the story."
I grabbed a tray and started passing out pizza slices to people from a table set up outside.
Then I saw them: Rachel and Clara—the most popular girls at my school.
I pulled down my cap to hide my face.
But it was too late.
"Hey, you're Adriana, from school, right?" Rachel said.
"I didn't know there was a new pizza place in town."
Clara was looking around.
"Don't you have pepperoni or Hawaiian pizza?"
"Oh! Hi!" I blurted out.
I lifted my cap and started talking—much too fast.
"Yes, my grandpa owns this place.
Today's our grand opening.
We don't serve American-style pizza, like pepperoni or Hawaiian.
We only have pizza like they do in Italy.
My grandpa wants it to be authentic."
"Awesome," Rachel said.
"Can we try some?"
"Sure." I tried to act cool.
I put two slices on plates and gave them to the girls.
"Mmm. Delicious!" Clara said.
Rachel nodded.
"Much better than pepperoni pizza! What is this called?"
"It's called pizza Margherita.
It was named after Queen Margherita.
Back in 1889 in Italy, pizza was eaten mostly by workers who needed a quick lunch.
But the queen was tired of fancy food.
So she asked a pizza maker to make some pizzas.
He made one with tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, and basil—the colors of the Italian flag!
The queen loved it, and the pizza maker named the pizza after her.
Soon everybody in Italy started eating pizza."
Rachel grinned. "We owe a big thanks to that Italian queen!"
"Can we try some other types of pizza?" Clara asked.
I got some more slices from the kitchen.
"This is pizza bianca," I said.
"It's from Rome.
There's no cheese—just olive oil and salt."
Next the girls tried the Sicilian-style pizza with anchovies—and they liked that too!
"My family is Italian American too," Rachel said.
"But no one is good at cooking.
You're so lucky your grandpa makes such great food."
I smiled.
I felt proud of my family's culture—and Grandpa.
When the girls left, I went back inside to get more of Grandpa's delicious pizza.
And I didn't even care about the apron or the cap anymore.