Wish You Were Italian

by Kristin Rae

  “Where are Nina and Tate?” I finally ask, plopping a grape into my mouth. “I’m starting to think they don’t like me.”

  “Of course they like you!” He laughs and takes a drink from his bottled water. “Nina wanted to hunt for the best gelato in Cinque Terre.” It rolls off his tongue so beautifully, like he’s said it thousands of times. “And Tate follows her everywhere,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “What, does that bother you or something?”

  “No. Not anymore. I’m happy for him.”

  “But …?”

  “No buts, really.” He stares at the ground and peels the skin off a grape.

  I cross my legs at my feet and tuck them under the bench. “That wasn’t very convincing.”

  “It’s just,” he says slowly, as if he’s not sure he wants to commit to telling me, “Tate’s done with the hard part.”

  “What do you mean?” My eyebrows scrunch together.

  “He already knows that she’s it. He’s done trying to figure out if she likes him or doesn’t like him. If it’ll work out or not.” He finally chews the peeled grape and clears his throat. “I mean, it’s exciting, I guess. But also infuriating because—”

  “Because you still have to start from the beginning,” I finish for him.

  He looks me in the eye and for a moment we just stare at each other, knowing we’re both in the same place. Starting from the beginning.

  I sit on my hands. They shake when I’m nervous and right now I don’t want to acknowledge the physical symptoms. The wind catches a curl of Darren’s hair and it sticks up in the air before lying back down again.

  I inhale, building my courage, then go for it. “I’ve got to ask you something. Don’t be offended.”

  He laughs loudly and a couple walking by jerk their heads toward him in surprise. “I can’t believe you. I’m so offended.”

  “Okay, now I don’t want to ask you at all.”

  “Too bad. You have to.”

  I lift my shoulders toward my ears. “Well, I was just wondering …” I start to reach up to his hair but pull back. “Is that a perm?”

  He grins before biting his bottom lip, eyes cast to our feet. “Maybe.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  Thank God. “Have you always kept it long?” I picture him as a toddler, his mom dressing him up like a little girl. He must have been one pretty baby with those mile-long eyelashes and ringlets.

  He runs a hand through his hair and his fingers catch on a tangle. He works it out as he says, “This is actually as long as it’s ever been. I let it go the start of senior year just to see what it would do.”

  I watch his fingers pick at the knot. “And it did that.”

  His eyes snap up at me. “You don’t like it.” It’s a statement.

  “No, I—”

  “No?” He abandons the tangle and scans the passersby frantically, the corners of his mouth just barely turned up. “Where’s a barber when you need one?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant!” I reach up and take over knot duty. A stray curl brushes the top of my hand. “It’s … different.”

  He turns his head to look at me, but I don’t let go of his hair and he yelps as it tugs. “Different like it’s so weird you don’t have an accurate word to describe it, or good different?”

  “Darren.” I shake his shoulders gently, but he exaggerates it and flops his head around. “Your hair is fine.”

  “Fine? That’s not really making it any better.”

  “I like your hair, I do! Promise.” I draw an X over my heart, then cross my fingers, holding my hand up for him to see.

  One of his eyebrows shoots up. “I think you just voided your promise.”

  “What?” I pull my hand down to my lap. “I thought it was scout’s honor or something.”

  “Um, that’s three fingers. You cross them when you say something you don’t mean. This is, like, kindergarten 101. Look,” he says, offering me his outstretched pinkie. “This is the real way to make a promise.”

  He squeezes my baby finger with his and we act like we’re shaking hands. His skin is rough and dry from digging in the dirt and working with his hands, but I don’t mind.

  When it should be time to let go, he doesn’t release. I meet his eyes and find him smirking.

  “Your pinkie’s crooked,” he says, tracing the sides of my finger with several of his.

  I stare at our joined hands. He’s got a few random cuts across a knuckle or two. I shake my head to clear it when I imagine myself kissing them. There’s a flutter in my gut. Our hands are starting to sweat where they touch.

  “Yeah. It’s sort of hereditary, I guess.”

  He lets go and raises his hands, palms to him, lining his pinkies up next to each other. They touch up to the top knuckle, but then the tips bend slightly in toward the rest of his fingers, creating a V-shaped gap. I mirror him. My pinkies do the same.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Right? I mean, clearly your fingers aren’t normal,” he says. “I can’t believe I pinkie-promised you.”

  I point a crooked pinkie at him and wiggle it closer and closer to his face.

  “Get that away from me!”

  We’re both buckled over in laughter. He swats at me but I don’t let up, and before I understand what’s happening, his teeth are lightly clenched on my finger.

  Darren’s eyes widen but we’re both frozen. His tongue is touching the tip of my littlest finger and I can’t breathe. Finally he opens his mouth and I slowly retract my finger, casually wiping off the moisture on my shorts.

  “I guess that’ll teach me not to attack anyone with my pinkie again,” I say. Silent laughter shakes my shoulders until I can’t keep it in any longer.

  “Man, I’m killing it today,” he says. “It’s just short of miraculous, how cool I am.”

  “You’re pretty cool in my book.” I give him a playful shove with my elbow, which he returns.

  “So, you’re still coming with us to Pompeii, right? Haven’t changed your mind?”

  “If you still want me to go with you guys.”

  He turns in his seat to face me, tucking a leg up under him. His knee rests against my thigh, but I don’t move out of the way. “Of course!” he says, eyes lit up. “You’ll love it. I already can’t wait to see the pictures you’re going to take.”

  I nod in agreement, trying to rein in the part of me that wants to jump up and down.

  We decide to leave Monday so I won’t miss the St. John’s Day feast Matilde is planning. Darren says he and Tate will take care of all the arrangements.

  I reach for a couple more grapes and Darren skillfully works the peel off another one. A few of the little birds come back to peck at the scraps at his feet.

  “You know the peel is edible right?” I tease.

  He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t look at me. “Do you want to hang out tomorrow?”

  I hardly wait for him to finish. “Yes.”

  His smile reappears.

  “Oh, wait.” I sink into the bench. “I should probably help out at the restaurant.” I hope it sounds more like truth and less like a lame excuse. “Or at least make sure they can spare me.”

  He nods and says, “It’s not a real job though, right? Are they even paying you?”

  “Well, they gave me a bed. They feed me,” I defend. “I already skipped out on most of today. I should probably head back soon.” I didn’t even ask about taking off this afternoon, I just left. Though the look on Chiara’s face proved she didn’t mind.

  He turns to face me again. “I’m just saying, this is your summer. Isn’t that the whole reason you skipped out on Florence? To see Italy. To make your own rules?”

  “Good point.”

  Darren stands and stuffs the bag of leftover grapes into his backpack. “Well, how about for today, you go back to work so you don’t feel guilty, and I’ll see if I can catch up with Tate and Nina on their gelato hunt?”

  I
stand too, brushing off the back of my shorts. “That works.”

  Darren shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his shorts and I take a long drink from my bottled water. The air is thick with the humidity of yesterday’s storm and the strong aroma of seafood.

  “So, tomorrow?” Darren asks before he makes the turn back to Manarola. “After your lunch shift?” He grins and I nearly melt into a puddle.

  How can I say no? “Where to?”

  “Have you been to the beach in Monterosso yet?”

  The beach. Darren in swim trunks. Don’t smile, don’t smile. “The beach sounds like a great idea.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The beach is dotted with colored umbrellas and lounging bodies—thankfully, none of them completely nude. Several teens kick soccer balls to one another, and a child near the water flies a kite. I didn’t bring my camera—hello, sand—but the scene is so vivid, it makes me wish I at least had a little point-and-shoot.

  Darren spreads out the beach mats and drops his backpack on top of one. As soon as he crosses his arms and grips the hem of his shirt with both hands, I know what’s about to happen. I should look away but I can’t. Abs reveal themselves. One. At. A time. His chest isn’t exactly lacking for hair, but given the amount on his face and head, I expected that. Not that I actively thought of what his chest might look like.

  Not often, anyway.

  As he wads up his shirt to stow under his backpack, he glances at me, but I cast my gaze down, suddenly finding the sand-to-pebble ratio of the beach fascinating.

  “Don’t you have your suit on?” he asks, pulling off his shoes.

  I nod and wait for him to get distracted again before shedding layers, turning my back on him as I pull out my sunscreen and work the cool lotion into my face, down my arms, stomach and legs. A grunt escapes my mouth, the hard to reach spot on my back mocking me.

  No. The cliché Can you rub this on my back? is most definitely not happening.

  Assuming the plan is to soak up some rays and chat, I lie down on my back, hiding the vulnerable strip of unprotected skin, determined not to ask for help. His eyes are on me. I can feel it.

  I suck in, flattening out my stomach as much as possible, before turning my head and squinting at him. I was right. He’s staring.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Do you want me to get your back for you?”

  Cringe. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Okay, then could you get mine? I don’t really want the striped look you’re going for. A little too trendy for me.” He laughs, snapping the lid shut on his sunscreen bottle. He shakes it hard to force the lotion to the end, every muscle in his body tensing, releasing, tensing, releasing.

  My jaw goes slack. He asked me a question. What was it? The cliché come to life? I hesitantly sit up and he’s already on his knees on the end of my mat, back to me.

  “Oh. Okay, sure.” I take the bottle from him and smear the lotion on the middle of his back as fast as I can. Why isn’t it rubbing in? Too much, I took too much.

  His body is solid under my fingertips. And tan. And solid. And sweaty. Overstimulation. Accelerated heart rate. Bad thoughts, Pippa. Stop.

  The lotion finally blends into his skin and I wipe my hands on my towel.

  “That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” Darren twists around and winks. “Now are you going to be stubborn or do you want me to finish your back for you?”

  I give in for lack of a reasonable excuse and toss him my higher SPF. He kneels behind me and gently rubs even the places I know he saw me reach myself. When he nears the small of my back, I sit up straight as a board, goose bumps racing down my arms and legs, pulse loud in my ears.

  I need a distraction, fast.

  A green-and-yellow Hacky Sack lands on Darren’s mat just next to me, and a girl about my age in a string bikini—emphasis on string—prances over to pick it up. She studies me with narrowed eyes, then smiles at Darren.

  “Sorry, cutie.”

  Darren doesn’t respond. I watch her thighs jiggle their way back to her group until an old man wanders into my line of sight, dripping wet. His little gray swim bottoms are probably smaller than mine, potbelly hanging over the top of them.

  I lean toward Darren and whisper, “Take a picture of that. Five euros.”

  We both look back at the man just as he sheds his bottoms, revealing, well, everything.

  “Oh, sick out,” I screech, shrinking down and looking for something to hide under. I’ve seen a few sets of breasts on the beach so far—which is a little uncomfortable, though Darren does a good job pretending he doesn’t see—but this is completely different.

  I grab a towel and throw it over my head, laughing uncontrollably. Darren sits down cross-legged, our knees touching, and adjusts the towel to cover both of us. His lips fight back a smile.

  “I can’t believe you’re hiding from that fine specimen of a man,” he says. “I’m sure he’d love it if you helped him reapply his sunscreen.”

  “Thanks for that visual nightmare!” I’m laughing so hard, I’m crying. I just saw some dude’s thing. Just hanging out there. Morgan is going to die when she hears about this. “Did he put it away yet?” I ask.

  Darren peeks out from under the towel. “He’s still changing into his clothes.”

  I meet his eyes as I recover, catching my breath. We’re too close. Our lungs-are-sharing-the-same-moist-air close. The thick towel blocks most of the sunlight from overhead, but it reflects off the sand, illuminating our faces from underneath. We sit perfectly still, holding the gaze. This could be it. The moment Darren kisses me. He raises a hand and I hold my breath … but all he does is lift the edge of the towel to look out.

  “He’s done now. Aren’t you disappointed?” His laugh is soft and gravelly as he folds the towel back up and lays it on his mat. “I think I may cool off in the water for a few minutes. Do you want to come?” He stands and brushes the sand off his knees.

  Darren wet? Yes, please.

  I smile and pop right up. “Andiamo.”

  ASSIGNMENT NUMERO OTTO: FEEL YOUR FEELINGS Write down the first thing that comes into your mind. Short and sweet. No pondering! Just WRITE IT DOWN!

  Chiara was right. I like the nice boys. I like Darren.

  Chapter Thirty

  Swim in the Mediterranean Sea

  “Where’s Bruno been?” I ask Chiara after we close up and head home for the night. Matilde stays behind to do the pesky end-of-day chores like counting her money. “I haven’t seen him all evening.”

  “I am not sure,” she says, though the scowl that appears on her face for an instant tells me otherwise.

  “You don’t know, or you just don’t want to tell me?”

  We power up the steep, poorly lit hill to the apartment, a climb I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever get used to. I slow down and pant when we reach the gate, but Chiara keeps trucking along.

  “I do not think Bruno would want you to know where he is all the time,” she calls back to me.

  “So he’s with a girl.” By her silence I guess she either thinks it would bother me to know, or she just wants me to think he’s with a girl so I’ll get mad and forget about him.

  But I don’t really feel mad. Should I? I probably would have a few days ago, but now … And I even kissed him just yesterday. Ugh, I am so messed up.

  My hand flies to my temple and I rub it.

  Chiara stops on the stairs ahead and turns to face me, arms crossed. “What—”

  “Never mind,” I manage to say, shaking my head. “Let’s just go to bed.” I pass her up, skipping every other step.

  “Aspetta!” she calls out, so I obey and wait. “You have not told me about your date with Darren.”

  I rush to spit out, “It wasn’t a date.”

  “Whatever you say,” Chiara says through one of her wicked smiles, which makes me smile too.

  The apartment’s empty—Luca must have gone out too—so we take turns getting ready for bed, and soon I
can hear Chiara’s breath slow and deep from her top bunk. I pull the sheet up to my neck and close my eyes. Not comfortable. I roll onto my left side. Still awake. I try my right side and my nightshirt gets twisted tight around my stomach. I groan and sit up to straighten it out. I’m completely wired. My brain won’t shut up.

  I made out with an Italian. In his boat. And he’s probably with some other girl right now, doing the same thing. I’m going on a trip with Darren. He rubbed sunscreen on my back. He bit my finger. The crooked pinkie I got from Mom, and she got from Gram.

  I miss Gram so much, it hurts. Talking to her on the phone almost made not seeing her every day even harder. Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to our next call. I can’t believe she’s letting me stay here. For some reason, I feel guilty. She thinks Mom won’t be able to “punish” her, and sure, it won’t be the same as my punishment, but Mom has the ability to make you miserable if she wants to.

  Ugh. Too much to process. I’ll never get to sleep at this rate.

  I pull my computer out from under the bed—still connected to the Internet since I seem to be the only one using it much lately—boot her up, and sign in to my e-mail. Nine new messages. Two from Mom, the rest from Morgan.

  I start with the subject lines from Morgan’s oldest e-mails. The first few are just replies to the same thread, but the newer ones get increasingly desperate.

  Open me; I have news; PIPPAAAAA; Where R U?; I’M GOING TO TELL YOUR MOTHER YOUR SECRET; I’M NOT KIDDING

  I roll my eyes at her drama and click to compose a new message to Gram first.

  To: Lorelei Mead

  From: Pippa Preston

  Subject: Gram!

  How are you? It was so great getting to talk to you and hear your voice. I’m going to try to call you tomorrow, but I can’t sleep, so I’m reaching out to you the only way I can right now. I need your advice. You always know what to do.

  There’s this guy. I think he likes me. Maybe. How can I tell?