Wish You Were Italian

by Kristin Rae

  For Mom and Grandma Rosie

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Thank You:

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  Chapter One

  You can do this. You want to go to Italy.

  By yourself.

  Outside the terminal window, the plane that will take me to my connection in Newark taxis up to the gate. Thirty minutes until they board first class. As if a big reclining seat and hot towels could make me forgive Mom any faster.

  My hand cramps from white-knuckling the journal my best friend gave me when she dropped me off. I untie the string and flip open the front cover, smiling as I take in the first page decorated with red and green doodles and Pippa’s Italian Summer in bubble letters nestled in the center. The next page is a note in her handwriting:

  I know you’re still angry this was all forced on you without much warning, but you really are going to have fun. YOU’RE GOING TO ITALY! Think of all the fantabulous pictures you’ll take! Of the food you’ll eat! Of the hot Italian boys you’ll see! All I ask is that you bring back a calendar for my locker this year (and maybe one of those hot Italian boys).

  Since I can’t be with you on your fab jaunt across the Pond (that’s not sarcasm, it’s jealousy), I’ve constructed a book of activities for you, all geared toward the documentation of your summer. I might ask you to write, draw, smear dirt on the page. You never know! The important thing is that you have to do EVERYTHING I tell you to because I spent all freaking week making this for you.

  Love you, and I’ll miss you!

  —Morgan

  My eyes sting. Looks like I won’t have to be without her on this trip after all. I take a sip of Sprite and swipe my eyes with the back of my hand before turning the page to face my first task.

  ASSIGNMENT NUMERO UNO: THE LIST

  Write out a list of 10 goals for your summer while in Italy. Each of these goals must be accomplished IN FULL before you even think about setting foot back home. And … GO!

  Ten goals? The only things coming to mind are fears. Accidentally doing something illegal … embarrassing myself in front of the locals. I shudder as I write:

  Don’t get arrested

  Don’t make a fool of myself in public

  A worthy goal, though knowing me, it has the potential for failure. I’m not sure what I’ll be allowed to do outside the snoozer of an art program I’ll be attending, so I dream up things I’d like to do if given the chance.

  Get my picture taken at the Colosseum

  Find random souvenir for Morgan

  Get a makeover

  See Pompeii

  Swim in the Mediterranean Sea

  Have a conversation with someone in only Italian

  Eat a whole pizza in one sitting

  I read back through the list and sigh at my lack of originality. I have to throw in something major. Something crazy.

  The Italian couple behind me starts chatting and I close my eyes as the rhythm of their language washes over me. In only a handful of hours, I’ll be immersed in a sea of people speaking this way. I’m not even there yet, and I already know I’ll miss it when summer ends. Not the confusion of the language barrier, but the beauty of the way it sounds. If only there was a way to bottle that up and bring it back with me.

  Wait.

  I snicker out loud as my pen glides across the page. My final goal:

  Fall in love with an Italian

  Chapter Two

  There are eyes on me. I can feel them. I must be a sight—a lanky seventeen-year-old with a very full and heavy backpack, a camera bag strapped across her chest, an obnoxiously feminine rolling suitcase, bloodshot eyes, and no idea where to go next. I make a point to stand up straighter and hold my head higher, but that makes me feel a bit too much like my mother, so I settle for relatively lost and observant.

  A whistle rings out near me, followed by a “Ciao, Bella!”

  A group of teenage boys waves fervently at me. Real Italians! And of course they’re all gorgeous. I can’t help grinning as I pass them. The potential for an extraordinary summer is definitely here, which is something I wouldn’t have admitted a week ago.

  As I walk through the automatic doors and step outside, I expect to see old buildings and ruins right away, confirming that I’m actually in Rome, but it looks like every other passenger-pickup area. There’s a long row of middle-aged men smoking cigarettes and chatting with one another, halfheartedly holding up little white signs with names printed or scrawled across them.

  I manage to find a sign that says PIPPA PRESTON at the far right of the line. The man’s light-blue polo shirt is clean, loose at his shoulders but snug around his gut. He seems awfully tan for a taxi driver.

  I clear my throat and bite back my nerves, silently praying he speaks English.

  “I’m Pippa Preston.”

  He blinks a few times, so I point to the sign.

  “That’s me.”

  He takes in my appearance and suddenly I’m self-conscious. A smile finally stretches his wrinkles and he wheels my suitcase toward the long line of taxis, stopping at a smallish red van. I climb in and quickly pull the phrase book out of my backpack and flip through it. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I imagine myself trying to speak Italian to an actual Italian and not just through the little headset that came with my Rosetta Stone software. I have no idea what to do, what to say—if he even expects me to speak to him at all.

  I’m practicing Non parlo l’Italiano—I don’t speak Italian—in my head as he pulls himself up into the driver’s seat and turns to me.

  “Where would you like to go, Signorina?”

  A couple of thoughts pulse through my brain at once: He speaks English! and Why doesn’t he know where he’s supposed to take me?

  I’m relatively sure I’m supposed to go to the train station, seeing as how I’m in Rome and the art program is in Florence, or Firenze, according to my booklet.

  I hold up a finger and say, “Just a minute,” as I search for the folder with all the important info. The driver faces forward, clicks on the meter, and whistles along to the radio.

  I locate the folder, but as I open it, an envelope I hadn’t packed slides out. On the outside is a note in Dad’s chicken-scratch. For some reason, he doesn’t write lowercase letters, so I always feel like I’m being yelled at even when he writes I LOVE YOU. I scan the note.

  PI
PPERS,

  I KNOW STUDYING ART HISTORY ISN’T WHAT YOU HAD PLANNED FOR YOUR SUMMER. YOU KNOW YOUR MOTHER AND HER VISION FOR THE ART GALLERY. ONCE SHE GETS HER MIND ON SOMETHING, THAT’S THE WAY IT IS. ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, YOU FINALLY GET TO SEE ITALY!

  OPEN YOUR MIND TO IT. MAKE SOME FRIENDS, TAKE LOTS OF PICTURES! I’VE ENCLOSED A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR YOU. THIS IS JUST FROM ME SO DON’T MENTION IT TO YOUR MOTHER. I DON’T WANT YOU TO HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT MNYTHING WHILE YOU’RE AWAY, SO HOPEFULLY THIS WILL HELP. EUROS ARE VERY EASY TO USE, AND EVERYTHING IS LABELED CLEARLY. I’M PROUD OF YOU, AND I KNOW YOU’RE RESPONSIBLE ENOUGH TO HANDLE THIS (THE MONEY AND THE EXPERIENCE).

  LOVE YOU,

  DAD

  I peek inside the envelope and my pulse pounds in my ears. He doesn’t want me to worry about anything, so he gives me who-knows-how-much money, in cash? Someone sure was feeling guilty about this trip. I thumb through the rainbow-colored euro bills. Most of them are hundreds, but there are some smaller ones thrown in too. There must be a couple grand here.

  The driver is in his own world, still whistle-humming along to Lady Gaga, the meter ticking away. As inconspicuously as possible, I pull out a hundred and a handful of the smaller bills for my wallet, then shove the envelope down to the depths of my backpack.

  Looking over my itinerary for instructions, I see that I’m supposed to head straight for the train station, or stazione. More traveling. Awesome.

  But the Colosseum is here.

  I’m also supposed to report to an Antonia Conti upon my arrival, and classes start on Wednesday at nine in the morning. Wednesday? Today’s only Saturday. Surely I have a few days to spare.

  And the Trevi Fountain is here. And the Pantheon.

  I glance at the meter, my fare climbing steadily.

  The electric current of excitement radiates from my envelope full of euros. They want to be spent—it’s what they were made for, after all.

  I’m in Italy. Alone. With cash.

  I can go anywhere I want.

  Chapter Three

  It’s summer in one of the most popular vacation destinations in the world, so I don’t know why I’m surprised the hotel I randomly selected is full. My cab driver is probably halfway back to the airport by now, and I’m left to be my own translator.

  The woman working behind the counter—nametag says Patrizia—looks more like a runway model than a concierge. Her rich mahogany hair even has a life of its own, while mine’s pretty much the same color as dirt. I might need to meet that makeover goal ASAP.

  Patrizia must be able to tell how exhausted I am, because she leads me to a couch in the lounge and brings me several chocolate pastries and a glass of orange juice. She makes sure I’m eating—like I’d say no to a chocolate pastry—and calls around to check availability for me. A few minutes and several intense-sounding phone conversations later, she points to a dot on a fancy paper map with scalloped edges.

  “Room here,” she says, proceeding to draw a line of the route. It doesn’t look too far.

  I stand, taking the map from her, and manage to get out a comprehensible “Grazie,” which my Rick Steves’ Phrase Book says is actually pronounced graht-seeay. Who knew? She smiles again and everything seems to be perfect until I lose my mind and give her a slight bow. I’m in Europe, not Asia.

  I should have asked for a cab, because after about twenty minutes of dragging my overpacked suitcase behind me, my head is pounding and my legs feel like they want to give. The cobblestone street I’m navigating narrows a little and the tall, rustic buildings seem to close in around and overtop of me. A few noisy Vespas whiz past, the high-pitch squeal from their motors echoing off the nearby walls, and the crowd around me presses in to get out of the way.

  Please let me be close. I really need to lie down.

  I notice a line of people waiting to get into a storefront to my right. Affixed to the window is a large multicolored palm tree encircled with the best piece of news since I landed: Della Palma. Gelato di Roma. Customers swarm the long freezer that curves around the perimeter of the room. There must be a hundred flavors of Italian ice cream.

  Mouth watering, I pull a pen out of the front pocket of my backpack and draw a big star on the map where I think I am. I’ll come back for you.

  Reluctantly, I trudge forward, now completely aware of how insanely hot it is. I’m almost there … I think. The hotel should be right behind—holy crap!

  The Pantheon.

  I stop in my tracks to look up, completely disrupting the flow of tourist traffic. It’s directly in front of me, in all its ancient glory. Probably one of the most immense structures I’ve ever seen. Skyscrapers don’t count—nothing modern counts. Nothing made in the last five hundred years counts against this monster, because this was built, like, two thousand years ago and it’s still here.

  With the grace of a zombie, I make my way closer to inspect it. The giant stone pillars are even taller than I expected. From a distance, the whole building looked like it was carved out of a giant rock, but now that I’m only ten feet away, I see innumerable faded red bricks. I had no idea we’ve been building things the same way for thousands of years.

  I’m so uncultured. I know nothing about everything.

  This trip is going to change that.

  My room at the Albergo Santa Chiara is small but clean. And expensive. I can’t stay here too many nights or I’ll burn through half my money stash. I pile all my stuff on the luggage rack and let out a sigh of relief. The bathroom appears clean and, thankfully, normal. Although there are two toilets right next to each other. Wait. One is definitely a toilet, but the other contraption is trying to be. It doesn’t exactly look sanitary. I’ll be staying away from that.

  Now that I have a minute alone with my thoughts, a wave of anxiety finally materializes. I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I need some sort of plan. How much do I tell the parental units? How many days can I get away with exploring Rome before I absolutely have to get on a train to Florence?

  I decide to shower and test out the bed for half an hour before making solid decisions about contacting anyone. I put on a tank top and pajama shorts, and sprawl out as much as I can on the Barbie-size bed.

  Muffled laughter from the hall forces my eyes open, and it takes me a minute to remember exactly where I am. I could have slept for seconds or hours. Unless it’s hiding somewhere, the room doesn’t have a clock, so I pull out my computer and let it boot up.

  “Four-thirty?” I screech. I slept for six hours.

  I wonder if actually calling my parents could somehow incriminate me. The caller ID probably wouldn’t say Hotel in Rome, Italy, but it might say something I don’t want them seeing. Clearly, I have no experience in this area. I mean, I may have stretched the truth once or twice about my whereabouts, who hasn’t? But this is far beyond anything I’ve ever pulled.

  I splurged on twenty-four hours of Internet when I checked in, ten minutes of which I wasted trying to figure out where to plug the Ethernet cable into the wall and my computer. Seriously old school.

  Mom almost has OCD when it comes to checking her e-mail, so I sign into my account and send this message:

  To: Mary Preston

  From: Pippa Preston

  Subject: Ciao from Italy

  Well, I’m here and I’m wiped out. Going to bed after I get something to eat. Things don’t officially start until Wednesday (as you already know), so the plan is to get acclimated and see some of the sights until then. I’ll check back in later this week.

  Tell Dad and Gram hi for me.

  Pippa

  I read back through it quickly before hitting send. No hint of excitement, which is good, because I don’t want her to have any clue there’s a grin plastered to my face. And I didn’t lie, technically.

  While I’m at it, I compose an e-mail to Morgan too.

  To: Morgan Arrant

  From: Pippa Preston m>

  Subject: I’m in freaking ITALY

  And it’s HOTTER than Ryan Reynolds over here! Seriously, sweltering. Ugh. I haven’t seen much yet, but I can tell you that Italians are ALL tan and they have fashion models working in their hotels. I’m making it one of my goals this summer to get a makeover.

  And about these goals, seriously, girl, I don’t even know what to say. That whole journal is made of awesome. Just like you. I already miss you.

  Okay, Morgs. You have to swear absolute secrecy for what I’m about to tell you. I just want someone to know where I am in case I end up missing or something (don’t freak out, everything’s fine!). I’m supposed to be in Florence right now, but I stayed in Rome after my plane landed. My dad gave me some play money (seriously, a lot!), so I had a stroke of genius and got a hotel right behind the Pantheon! It’s called the Albergo Santa Chiara. Classes don’t start until Wednesday, so I’ve got plenty of time to get where I need to be.

  This info is for EMERGENCY USE ONLY so keep a lid on it. I just couldn’t help it. The Colosseum was calling to me. Hopefully I can figure out how to get to it today. Not sure I can wait until tomorrow!

  Anyway, I’m starving so I’m off to eat lasagna or pizza or something Italian.

  Miss you!

  Pippers

  I shut down my computer and change into a sundress and ballet flats. Stylish enough to feel cute while keeping comfortable and ventilated. Morgan would be proud—of course, she did most of my packing for me. I dig out a smallish over-the-shoulder bag from my luggage and pack it with a granola bar, hand sanitizer, lip gloss, money, and my passport.

  My zoom lens clicks into place on my camera and I loop it over my neck, then check myself out in the bathroom mirror. Total tourist tragedy. At least I’ll blend in with everyone else.

  I locate my map and start scanning it for restaurants, but I can think of only one thing. And you know what they say:

  When in Rome … eat gelato first.

  Chapter Four

  There’s every color of gelato you can imagine. All the little flavor signs are in Italian, but I do recognize some of the words, like “nutella” and “amaretto.” Each tub of gelato is its own work of art—a swirly mound drizzled with glistening sauce or sprinkled with nuts, chocolate bits, or fruit.