Wish You Were Italian

by Kristin Rae

  “I think they close at seven,” Darren says. “Probably best to come back tomorrow when you can spend a couple of hours in there. And now you know how to get here.”

  Of course. Because they won’t be with me tomorrow. I’ll be alone. Again.

  Off to our right stands a massive white structure with three arched openings. I wonder if people used to be able to walk under them or if it was always fenced off like a statue. Through my zoom lens, the detailed carvings of ancient Romans and their steeds come to life.

  “That’s the Arch of Constantine,” Nina says.

  “I was about to tell her that,” Darren says with a hint of disappointment.

  She throws her head back and pokes his arm again. “I know you were, dweebs, that’s why I said it first.”

  Doll. Dweebs. Aren’t they just so cute?

  Not.

  “And all this area behind us is the Roman Forum,” Darren says quickly before Nina can say more.

  I turn around, but all I see is a creepy stone building that makes me think of abandoned prison cells.

  “The entrance is down that way,” he says, pointing past the Arch. “Add that to your list of things to see tomorrow. Used to be the center of Roman civilization. It’s all crumbled bits now, but there’s nothing like it.”

  He talks about the history here with such reverence and awe. It’s refreshing to listen to someone passionate about something other than the newest video game.

  Darren’s stomach growls, even though I can’t imagine there’s room for anything else after that gelato trough he inhaled. He throws a hand over his middle as if it will hide the noise. “Anyone else hungry? I’m feeling like … mmm, Italian?”

  “My treat,” I offer.

  “What?” they say at the same time.

  “No way,” Darren adds.

  “Yes!” I insist. “It’s the least I can do for my own personal tour guides.” And I’m not ready to say good-bye yet.

  “Well,” Darren says with a laugh, “we won’t hold you to it after you see the bill.”

  We all turn to go, but something holds me back. I steal another look at the Colosseum, glowing in the rich evening light, trying to comprehend that I’m actually standing in front of the real deal. My fingers twitch at the thought of touching it.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell them as I nearly skip down the crowded path to the outer wall, slowing only just before placing my palm on a section of original stone. Stone once touched by the ancients who first set it in place. I feel so connected already.

  And it’s still my first day here, in just one city in Italy. Just Rome. There’s also Pompeii, Ostia Antica, Sienna, Venice, Milan, Assisi, Verona. … There’s so much to see and take pictures of. So much to learn.

  You’re in Italy for three months, Pippa.

  Three months. That’s a nice chunk of time. Maybe even long enough to see everything I want to see.

  But I couldn’t. Could I?

  My eyes widen, staring at the wall but not really focusing on a particular spot. It’s possible … with enough planning.

  Three months.

  But this was the adventure, staying in Rome a few extra days. It’s enough.

  Right?

  I slide my fingers along the cool stone once more, unable to help the smile on my face despite the logical fear that this could all end very badly.

  Chapter Six

  We decide on a little restaurant closer to the Pantheon, and though it’s still pretty toasty outside, Darren insists we sit at a table along the street so my first official meal in Italy is everything it’s supposed to be. With the light from the setting sun slipping between the buildings, and the gentle glow from the candle centerpiece, I feel like I’m inside that café painting by Van Gogh, even though that was probably supposed to be Paris.

  Our ridiculously attractive waiter with jet-black hair speaks comprehensible English, but Nina shows off by ordering for us in pristine Italian. Somewhere in all the flowing mumbo jumbo was a request for pizzas and lemon sodas with extra ice— apparently ice isn’t as popular over here as it is back in the States, or gli Stati Uniti.

  I gape at her. “That was amazing.”

  “It better be. I’ve taken enough classes.”

  “I got a language program for my computer, but I’ve tried it only a couple times,” I tell them. “It kept honking at me when I said things wrong. Gave me a complex.”

  They laugh, and warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature grows inside me.

  “You should keep at it,” Nina says. “It’s a rush to be able to communicate with someone in a different language.”

  “Are you fluent too?” I ask Darren, my tone laced with a little more jealousy than I intended.

  He shakes his head. “I’m far from fluent, but I get by. Nina’s definitely had more formal training.”

  Formal training. There’s a polite smile on my lips, but inside I’m frowning at my lack of worldly experience.

  The waiter whistles back to our table and holds out each pizza for display before setting them in front of us. They’re the furthest I’ve ever seen from the deep dishes in Chicago. The crust is as thin as paper and the bright red sauce peeks between patches of perfectly melted mozzarella. My mouth waters as the salty aroma reaches my nose.

  Darren stabs one with a knife to slice it.

  “Wait!” I blurt out before he does any real damage.

  He freezes until I take a picture of it, then proceeds to snatch a slice. Head tilted back, he opens his mouth wide and dangles the pizza in the air, but he doesn’t bite. “Are you taking my picture, or what, Pipperoni?”

  I smile as I lift my camera to my eye again. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

  The pizza is unreal. So many flavors, cheese that is melt-in-your-mouth good, sauce with a touch of sweet, and just enough crunch. I may never be able to eat at a pizza chain again.

  Accordion music floods the air. An elderly man dressed in black slacks and a plaid button-down ambles down the street, working out a slow song on a worn instrument. I relax in my chair and let the soft melody wash over me. I’m officially smitten with Rome.

  Something brushes across my cheek, and I jerk my head around to find Darren swiping at my face with his napkin.

  “Sorry.” He hands it to me so I can finish the job. “You have sauce … all over you.”

  Embarrassed, I glance at Nina for an instant and see her staring at Darren, eyebrows arched. She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but her cell phone buzzes, shaking the table, and she turns her attention to the text message.

  “Gotta go,” she announces, popping up from her seat.

  My pulse quickens as I realize I’m about to be alone again. I force a smile and look at Darren, expecting him to join her, but he’s still chewing away, elbows propped casually on the table.

  “Pippa, it was so great to meet you. I hope you enjoy your time in Italy.” She stands and wraps an arm around my shoulders, giving me a quick squeeze before turning to Darren. “You’ve got this one, right, doll?” She motions toward her empty plate and he nods, waving her away.

  The bill, or il conto, comes and it’s not nearly as bad as I expected for a tourist area. It’s probably even cheaper than eating at Disney World.

  “I was serious when I said I was paying,” I say, stealing the ticket from Darren. He opens his mouth to respond, but I stop him. “Don’t even try. It’s happening.” I count out some cash and leave it on the tray.

  “Well, thank you.” He smiles, scratching that sandpaper chin of his again. “So what’s next on the agenda?”

  “Honestly?”

  “No. I want you to lie.”

  “Smart aleck.” If it weren’t beyond the boundaries of our three-hour friendship, I’d give him a playful shove. “I was actually considering more gelato.”

  He grins. “So it’s not a rule that you can only eat it before your meals?”

  Is this considered flirting? Doesn
’t he have a girlfriend? Or am I really so desperate that I’ll take any attention from boys way too seriously?

  “The rule was just amended to include after-meal gelato consumption too.”

  “Well, in that case,” he says, stepping aside so I can exit the patio first. “Feel like company? My treat.”

  We walk until we spot a handful of people coming out of a doorway, licking on cones piled high with gelato in all different colors. The gelateria is literally an open door to a room not much bigger than a closet. I get a scoop of pomegranate and chocolate. Darren picks out mango and pistachio.

  “Pistachio?” Sure, this place doesn’t have as many options as Della Palma, but there are at least twenty, the rest of them all a better choice. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

  “What are you? Eighty?”

  He pushes his cup toward me. “Taste it.”

  I scrunch my brows together and stare at the bright green mound.

  “I haven’t licked it yet or anything,” he says. “Try it.”

  Reluctantly, I scoop at it with my tiny spoon and my eyes widen as the flavor surprises my tongue. It tastes exactly like a creamy, cold, sweet pistachio nut. “Okay, you win. That’s actually really good.”

  “Told you,” he says, taking a bite. “It’s always good to try new things. Especially if it scares you a little bit.”

  I turn to look at him, expecting him to elaborate, but he keeps his eyes forward.

  He pays for our cups and we stroll along the crowded street until we’re in front of the Pantheon. Sitting along the base of a big water fountain in the middle of the piazza, we have a full view of the monstrous building glowing an eerie yellow in the streetlights against an indigo sky. Tourists speaking languages I can and can’t identify mill about, pointing, chatting, and posing for pictures. A similar scene plays out right here every single day, and tonight I get to be part of it.

  Darren is quiet for a few minutes before he asks, “So what brings you to Italy?”

  I savor the taste of the rich chocolate, choosing my words carefully. “My parents sent me.”

  “Sent you? For what, like a learning experience?”

  “Something like that,” I mutter.

  “I’m listening.”

  I hesitate, but then realize how anxious I am to talk it out with someone. “I’m supposed to go to this summer program in Florence.”

  “Supposed to go, huh? Now this is getting interesting.”

  “Yeah, I’m supposed to be there by Wednesday,” I say. “But it’s going to be so lame, studying art, like the old stuff people go to see just to say they’ve seen it. Not my thing.” I look up at the Latin words across the top of the Pantheon. “So I decided today that I’m not going.”

  “Rebellion. I like it.” The twisty tooth again. “And how did your parents take the news?”

  I bite my lip, fiddling with my camera.

  “They don’t know?” He snickers. “How do you plan on pulling that off?”

  I stare at the ground between our feet. “I haven’t figured out the logistics yet.”

  Deciding that I’m skipping out on Florence in favor of touring the country for the summer is as far as I’ve gotten. But there’s so much more to it than that if I plan to accomplish it all undetected. There’s a school that’s expecting me and parents that are paying for me to go to said school. Then there’s the issue of making a budget and sticking to it so I don’t starve.

  Darren waves a hand in front of my face. “Anyone in there?”

  I blink.

  “You didn’t hear anything I just said?”

  “Oh. No, I’m sorry,” I say. “I was trying to—”

  “Come up with a plan?” I nod and he continues, “I was saying I can help.”

  “How?”

  He sits up straighter and polishes his nails on the front of his shirt. “Because I’m the king of subterfuge.”

  “That’s a pretty big claim.”

  “Well, I’m kind of a big deal.”

  “Ha! Okay.” I snort. “Let’s hear how you came to be so qualified in subterfugery.”

  “Well, I can’t even count how many times my brother, Tate, and I said we were spending the night at a friend’s house, but we really just pitched a tent at the park, pretending to be explorers or something.”

  “Hmmm.” I scratch my chin like Darren does. “That’s child’s play. What else you got?”

  “Hard to please. Okay.” He pauses. “For a while we lived down the street from this church. We weren’t even Catholic, but my parents had it in their heads that I needed to go to catechism classes. Once I figured out I wouldn’t be learning about actual cats, every week I’d ride my bike toward the church, then turn off and just keep riding until I thought it was time to go home.”

  I groan. “Are you a cat lover?”

  “She asks, disdainfully.” He puts his hands up in surrender. “Look, I was ten years old. And why do you have such animosity toward cats?”

  “Because of the creep factor. They’re unpredictable and always have the same facial expression so you can never tell what they’re thinking. Are they going to rub against your leg or slash your face open?”

  “Wow.” Darren rests a hand on my shoulder. “Do you need a support group? They say talking about traumatic experiences is the only way to move on.”

  “Wait a minute.” I ignore him, holding up a finger. “Did you do anything sneaky after the age of twelve?”

  He removes his hand and runs it through his hair, laughing halfheartedly.

  “I thought you were actually going to be able to help me. You know, bring some real experience to the table here.” I drop my head into my hands. “I’m in a foreign country and I’m planning to lie to my parents about my whereabouts for almost three months. It’s a little more serious than skipping catechism class and camping at the park.”

  I take in slow, deep breaths, trying to decide if I’d rather laugh at him or cry at the situation I’m digging myself into. “This was a bad idea, wasn’t it? Maybe I should just suck it up and go to Florence.”

  Darren’s voice is calm. “Look, I don’t know what kind of relationship you have with your parents, so I can’t tell you what you should do. You’ll be the one answering to them if—”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure they’d even catch on,” I confess. “They’re so busy with work right now. That’s the real reason I got shipped off.”

  I’d suspected it ever since the moment they sprung my summer plans on me last week, but admitting it to someone proves I actually believe it. It’s the perfect setup for my parents—send me away for a few months to get schooled on art galleries and come back just in time for the opening of their own.

  “They wanted me out of the way,” I say. “Who knows what they did with Gram after I left.”

  “Gram?”

  “My grandma—my mom’s mom. She lives with us.” My insides flutter as I remember saying good-bye to her at the airport. Gram and Morgan were the only ones I let see me off.

  “You’ll do just fine,” she cooed, fingertips stroking my hair as I buried my head against her neck. “You’ll get to eat carbs every day without anyone telling you not to. You’ll be required to look at sculptures of naked men! You’ll say ‘grazie’ and ‘prego!’”

  Gram always did have that magical calming effect on me. As she spoke, the tears stopped and my breathing steadied.

  “Tell me I’m going to have a good time,” I mumbled, taking in the scent of lavender perfume one last time.

  “Pippa.” She sighed, laughing in her sweet, grandmotherly way. “It will change your life.”

  Darren clears his throat, bringing me back to the present. “I’ve got two questions for you.” He pulls his knees toward his chest and folds his arms over them, looking at me intently. “First, what do you have to lose if you go through with skipping out on school?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Do
n’t answer out loud! The less I know, the better. I don’t want you blaming me if this thing backfires.”

  What do I have to lose?

  They could ban my phone, my computer, the TV. Hopefully they aren’t cruel enough to take my camera. I’d be grounded for some unspecified amount of time, and I’d probably be forced to work in their stupid gallery every day.

  Well, the gallery’s my future no matter what. Doomed to a life of living out my parents’ dream. I thought parents were supposed to dive headfirst into supporting what their kids wanted to do. But Gram gave me the fancy camera, not my parents. And how many of my plays have they come to together? Dad usually caught at least one showing of each run, but it wasn’t uncommon for Mom to have something better to do—at the beck and call of some client with bottomless pockets looking to hang a dead artist’s work on all his walls.

  But it’s not like I won’t learn about art if I don’t go to the program. I mean, real life education is better than the classroom, right? I’d still be doing what my parents want, just in a different way.

  I look at Darren, feeling a little more determined to take control of my summer.

  He smiles before asking, “And what do you have to gain?”

  Within ten minutes, we have a plan that might actually work. All I have to do is open an e-mail account using my mother’s name, compose a message to the school telling them I’m not going, and continue sending e-mails to my family periodically throughout the summer so they know I’m alive. It all hinges on the supposition that both my mom and the school’s person-in-charge are such busy people that communicating exclusively through e-mail is acceptable. And that I’ll consistently be able to find Internet service. Yeah, it’s risky, and potentially the most idiotic thing I’ve ever tried, but now that the idea is in my head, I can’t not do it.

  I’m torn between wanting to sit here with Darren until all hours of the night and rushing back to the hotel to put my plan into action. I’m afraid if I wait too long, I’ll lose my nerve. I’m also running out of juice and my eyes are starting to burn from being awake for so long.

  But I might not see Darren again … and I still don’t really know anything about him.