by Kym Brunner
He’s obviously being polite, but I’m not about to fill him in on my mother’s level of unsuitability—three divorces and back on the market. She couldn’t even hang onto the guy who got her pregnant—the one I call Sperm Daddy. Whatever. Not going there.
As we reach the bottom step, Giovanni says, “This may come as a surprise, but I didn’t ask you out because of your mom.”
“Don’t tell her that.” We both laugh, and I’m again amazed at how easily we connect.
“It smells really good in here.” Giovanni follows me through the back room and into the bakery.
I sniff, noticing the usual lingering scents of brown sugar, rye bread, and lemon filling. “That’s how it always smells. But don’t say it smells good when Busia’s around, or she’ll keep feeding you until you burst.”
“Sounds like a challenge I might like,” he says, his voice deep and manly.
“Be careful what you wish for!” My heart flutters at the idea that he’s not weirded out by my family.
When we step outside, I turn and lock the glass-paneled bakery door. The sun is hot on my back, but thankfully, it’s cooled off a bit from this afternoon. Enough, I hope, to ward off my archenemy—crazy frizz head. When the humidity skyrockets, so does my hair.
“My car’s over here.” He fishes his keys out of his front jeans pocket, giving me an eyeful of his naked waistline. “Her name’s Purple Hazel.”
“Purple Hazel?” I tilt my head slightly, thinking I misheard him.
“You know, after the famous Jimi Hendrix song, ‘Purple Haze.’”
Never heard of the guy, but I don’t want to admit I don’t know something that he obviously thinks everyone knows. “Oh, yeah. That’s a cute name for a car.”
“Yep, she’s cute all right. Just like you.” He’s got an adorable twinkle in his eye.
“You are quite the charmer, Giovanni.” I look around to see if someone else heard him say those words so I could ask them later if I imagined it, but the parking lot’s deserted at the moment.
We walk past another ten cars when he stops at a rusted out, dark purple car with a huge dent on the back passenger door. The right front panel is tan, and a yellow golf ball with a cowboy hat and pigtails is on the end of the antenna. It is probably the ugliest car I’ve ever seen in my life. “Here’s my girl.”
Part of me rejoices that he has a soft spot for underdogs. I may have a chance with him after all. “Wow, she’s quite a beauty.”
He smiles. “She’s not much to look at, but I earned her all on my own.” He taps the hood twice. “Took me almost a year to save enough. She’s old, but she’s a keeper.”
“Maybe you should call her Grandma.” I smile, thankful that every once in a while, my brain actually works.
He winces and leans toward the car, cupping his hand around his mouth conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, Hazel. Sophie was joking. You’re not that old.” His face comes within a few inches of mine. He whispers, “Hazel’s ultra-sensitive. Say something nice, or she might not start.”
I get a whiff of his cologne, nearly fainting with delight. I whisper, “Oh, sorry.” And then louder, “Woo-ee! What a babe you are, Hazel!”
“Much better.” Giovanni opens my door and bows slightly. “May I interest you in a ride, madam?” Giovanni is so sweet compared to the other three morons I dated that I discreetly check for some kid with a video camera who is going to leap out any second and yell, “Ha! You’re on Girls Who’ll Believe Anything!”
“Why, thank you.” I ease onto the black vinyl seat and immediately burn my legs. As Giovanni heads around to get in the driver’s side, I scooch to the edge, hoping my seat will cool quickly. Who knew that Giovanni had a car that is as hot as he is?
Smoothing my hair, I can already feel the telltale signs of humidity frizz. If my hair could talk right now, it would squeal, “Get out of car! We no like it.” I roll my eyes, wondering why I allow my hair to take on a Polish accent.
The interior of his car is super clean—only a single receipt lying inside the cup holder. If he’s a neat freak, that’d be the first sign of bad luck. Dirtiest Girl in Chicago does not do neat. He gets in and gives me a giant smile. His wavy brown hair is a bit tousled from the wind. I gleefully note that he doesn’t make a move to fix it. Mr. Perfect he is not. Yes!
“I hope you’re hungry. I can’t afford to send any leftovers from tonight’s meal to the starving children in Africa.” He smiles at me, and I laugh.
I think about doing the whole coy girl act and saying, “A little,” but the truth is, I’m famished. He might as well know the real me. “No worries. I’m so hungry I could eat some starving children in Africa.” I chuckle at my joke, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how horrific and insensitive my comment was. “I didn’t mean, ohmigod…never mind.”
He pauses a moment before laughing out loud. “You’re a total nut, you know that?” He grins so sweetly at me that it eases my embarrassment. When he turns the key, the engine roars to life with a shake and a rumble—along with music cranked so loud, I worry that my eardrums will split in two. So, Giovanni isn’t all sugar and spice after all. He lunges for the volume control, turning it lower. “Sorry. There was a good song on when I got here.”
He guns the engine, and, seconds later, we zip out onto Milwaukee Avenue, tires squealing. Neat freak or not, the boy has some testosterone.
The conversation flows easily. We talk about dogs, TV shows, and favorite condiments on burgers as we head through Lincoln Park. We pass a ton of swanky restaurants, and I worry that he’s planning to spend a lot of cash. Unlike a certain relative of mine, I don’t need my date to spend a lot of money on me.
But instead of turning onto Lincoln Avenue, he keeps driving straight, toward the lake. We get caught up in heavy traffic, creeping past a congested neighborhood of brick two-flats, becoming part of a one-lane parade of cars heading east. A million people are out walking around enjoying the beautiful evening, elevating my already good mood tenfold. I want to scream, “Look at me, everyone! I’m on a date with the sweetest guy ever!”
As we near Lake Michigan, I recognize the area. “Hey, isn’t this Oak Street Beach?”
“Yep, it sure is! You told me how your friend blew you off for your beach day, so I thought I’d try to make up for it.” He pats my bare knee and smiles.
I inadvertently jolt from his touch. It’s like I got zapped with an electric wire. “That’s so sweet,” I say, trying to recover from his touch. Either he’s genuinely amazing, or he’s hoping for some major action. Looking at how adorable he is, part of me wants to grant that wish—just not yet. Please, please don’t be another guy just looking to get lucky.
Giovanni glances at me, eyebrows raised. “Hope you don’t mind having a picnic instead of going to a restaurant. My mom told me what to buy, and together we made Italian subs.”
“Sounds perfect.” And I mean it. But since it looks like he and his mom are close, I’d better tone down my “mom angst” tonight, or it might be the thorn in our “rosy” evening.
We sail through the beach parking lot, past teens lying on top of their car hoods, husbands and wives pushing strollers, couples carrying coolers and blankets. We finally pull into a spot near the far end and hop out, grabbing a cooler and two beach chairs from the trunk. When he grabs a blanket too, my palms get sweaty, and my heart races. Hope he’s not planning to get under the blanket at any point tonight. Shut up and relax already! No one can make me do anything I don’t want to do.
We each grab a few things and cross the parking lot, strolling along the path for a bit before stepping onto the sand. We walk about fifty yards, chatting and dodging low-flying seagulls before selecting a spot. To my relief, Giovanni spreads out the blanket and places our two chairs on top, side by side. We sit down, and he flips open the cooler. He holds up a can of Diet Coke and a lemonade. “Which would you prefer, bambolina?”
My heart melts a little at the way his voice takes on a lyrical accent on the last
word. I point to the Diet Coke, smiling. “You speak Italian?”
“Sì, parlo italiano, ma solo un po. Yes, but only a little bit.” He twists the plastic cap from my bottle and hands it to me.
“What’s bambolina mean?” Please don’t say “cannibalistic monster.”
“Pretty girl.” He smiles. “I only learn the important stuff.”
My first thought is that he probably uses that line on every date, but I don’t care. He’s with me tonight, and I’m going to stop analyzing every stupid little thing and enjoy myself. “You keep talking that way to me, and I might have to kiss you.”
A wide grin spreads across his face. “That’s what I have planned for dessert.”
“Sounds delicious.” Inside my head, I squeal with anticipation, praying that moment will be perfect. Luckily, I brought gum along. Peppermint Orbit. Perfect.
He hands me a few napkins and a plate with half a sub on it before setting himself up with the same. He opens the lemonade for himself. “Cheers!”
We clink our plastic bottles together and each take a sip before diving into our sandwiches. To my delight, the bread is crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. The meats and cheeses are delicious, and I notice with a small grin that he left off the raw onions. He opens a bag of potato chips and drops a handful onto my plate.
“How is it?” He holds his sandwich in midair.
“Itsh hreal yhrummy,” I respond, my mouth full. A bit of lettuce falls on my lap.
He plucks the lettuce from my lap and flicks it off onto the sand. “Good thing I left off the mustard and oil, or Chicago would have another famous Picasso exhibit—on your shirt.”
“Ha, ha.” I playfully elbow his upper arm, feeling that rock hard exterior of his. Teegan’s favorite line echoes in my head: Mmm, mmm. That boy is fii-iiine. A twinge of guilt over avoiding her calls rolls through me. I miss talking with her. If Giovanni had called me up the day Teegan and I had plans for the beach, would I have remembered? Next time she tries to reach out, I’ll reach back.
For the next hour or so, we talk about a million things—school, friends, our favorite TV shows, work, and even music. I decide to come clean and admit I wasn’t as musically up-to-date as a lot of people, but Giovanni doesn’t seem to mind. He even volunteers to download a bunch of songs to my iPod, which I say would be fabulous—if I owned one.
“You don’t have an iPod?” He sounds surprised, as if I said I didn’t have arms.
I shake my head. “My mom would never spend that much cash on me. But who knows? Maybe I’ll get one with my first paycheck,” I lie, knowing I need clothes more. A seagull lands nearby, as though it’s curious about our conversation.
“I can go with you to help pick it out if you want,” he offers. He’s making future plans for us? A zing of happiness races down my spine. He breaks off a piece of his bread from his sandwich and throws it to the seagull, which gobbles the tidbit hungrily.
The seagull walks a closer, likely looking for more, so I break off a piece of my sandwich and toss it to the little scavenger too. Seconds later, three more seagulls land and stand at the perimeter of our blanket, watching us.
“Uh-oh.” I look up to see the entire Chicago Seagull Nation flying toward us from several directions. Apparently, a silent seagull “Food!” siren was tripped. In minutes, there are thirty or so of the birds vying for space, nipping at each other.
Giovanni grimaces. “I bet this is why my dad used to tell me not to feed the seagulls.”
“If your dad is anything like my mom, he’d be more angry that you were wasting food than attracting a flock of birds.”
I laugh at my mom’s stinginess, but Giovanni shrugs. “Nah, my dad wasn’t like that.”
I detect a weird shift in his attitude—I want the jovial Giovanni back. “That’s good because if your dad were like my mom, he’d wear really short skirts and flirt with every guy around.” I let out a blast of laughter, but Giovanni just gives me a polite smile.
Duh! Of course he’s insulted by saying his dad wears a skirt. “Sorry. Dumb joke.” I whip another piece of lettuce into the feathered crowd, wishing I was one of those people who always knew the right thing to say. More often than not, I surprise myself with just how moronic I sound.
Giovanni touches my shoulder gently. “Hey, no. Don’t feel bad. It’s just that my dad died two years ago, and sometimes when I talk about him, it makes me miss him, that’s all.” He shrugs before looking down at his hands.
“I’m so sorry.” Me and my big mouth. “How did it happen?”
“Car accident. Truck driver fell asleep and rammed him off the road. They say he died instantly. I hope that’s true.”
Thinking about how sad it would be to lose my mom or Busia, my heart breaks for him. “Gosh, that must be horrible.”
“Yeah, but enough about that.” He digs in his bag and pulls out a Frisbee. “You got game, bambolina?”
I shrug. “I had game, but I think I lost it on the playground somewhere in third grade.”
He laughs. “Then I’ll help you find it.” He offers me his hand and pulls me to my feet. Crumbs galore fall to the ground, and the few seagulls that had hung around run in for a feast.
We play for a good half-hour, laughing as my throws either hit the sand or nearly fly into the lake. He shows me the correct throwing motion, and I improve slightly. But one time my throw is so bad, it becomes a boomerang, hitting me in the middle of my head, in the same spot as when I ran into the pole. Giovanni runs over to me, laughing, as I stand holding my forehead, a painful déjà vu.
“Are you okay?” He stands so close, his body gives off warmth. My face flushes. I can smell the lingering scent of the peppermint gum that I had given him earlier, and pray my breath smells just as good.
“I think so.” I take my hand off the sore spot so he can see it.
“Uh-oh. Not good.” I’m about to ask what he means when he gently kisses my forehead three times, in slightly different places. “Better?”
“Almost. But it hit me here too.” I point to my lip and attempt to puff it out, which is hard to do when you’re grinning.
“Ah…my specialty area.” He raises his eyebrows through sexy, half-lidded eyes before leaning down, putting his lips on mine. I slide my hands around his back and close my eyes, nearly swooning from the feel of his tongue on mine. He’s a soft kisser, slow and gentle, the way I like it. He rubs the side of my neck with his thumb as he kisses me. When I forget that I’m standing, my knees buckle, and he holds onto me. Looks like I’m at serious risk of falling for this guy—in every sense of the word.
After several glorious minutes, he whispers, “How’s it feel now?”
I grin. “I can’t even remember where my injury is anymore.”
By the time we head back to the car, I’m pretty sure there isn’t anything I don’t like about him. We hold hands as we lug the stuff back to Purple Hazel and even during the car ride the whole way to my house. If this is Dola’s idea of a curse, then bring it on.
Giovanni parks in our strip mall parking lot and, to my delight, says he’ll walk me to my door. When we get there, I turn to face him, hoping for a kiss and a promise to see him again. He takes my hands in his. “I had a really nice time tonight, Sophie. You’re a lot of fun.”
“Thanks, you too! Not to mention, you’re fabulous at Frisbee first-aid.”
He smiles and moves in closer, pushing me up against the door. I have a feeling the glass door is filthy, but Dirty Girl doesn’t care. “Can I see you again?”
“Definitely,” I whisper, hoping to sound sexy.
“Great. I’ll call you soon. Buona notte, bambolina.” He looks down at me with those smoky brown eyes, and we kiss again. Not even ten seconds later, the door suddenly opens behind me, and I nearly fall. Giovanni grabs me so I don’t lose my balance.
“Sophie! Don’t be kissing Giovanni in front of the whole neighborhood!” my mother shrieks. She yanks my arm and pulls me inside. “Sorry, but
Sophie shouldn’t be kissing until the third date.”
“Obviously, she’s dead wrong.” I roll my eyes. Giovanni holds back a grin.
“I’m right; you’re wrong,” she snaps. “We’ll talk about this later.” I wonder where Mrs. I-Think-You-Are-Such-A-Nice-Boy from earlier went?
Giovanni runs a hand through his thick brown hair. “No problem, Mrs. Dumbrowski. My mom would probably do the same thing with my sister.”
My mother nods. “Call me Irene. And I’m glad your family knows the right way to treat women. Good night, Giovanni.”
Giovanni waves and walks away. Mom closes the glass door and locks it.
As she turns around, I go in for the attack. “Why did you do that? I wanted to kiss him good night!”
“You know why.” She shuffles away in her silk robe and slippers, heading back to the stairs. “It’s important that boys treat you right.”
I traipse a few steps behind her, practically shouting, “He did treat me right! We had an amazing time at the beach, for your information.”
She stops walking, and I run into her. “The beach? And for that you kissed him good night? What is the matter with you? Now he’s thinking he doesn’t have to spend money next time, either.” She shakes her head in disgust and climbs the stairs to our apartment.
“He did spend money!” I argue. “He bought food and drinks, and we had a picnic. It was super sweet.”
“Ha! More like super cheap.” She trudges up the last few stairs, muttering under her breath. “Next time, make him take you out someplace nice. Then he can get a kiss.”
I roll my eyes and follow her through the kitchen, heading down the hall to our rooms. “Maybe if you weren’t so worried about how much money your date has, you’d find the right guy too. Ever think of that?”
She stops and turns around and again, and I run into her. “You got a lot to learn about dating! Didn’t you ever hear that saying, ‘You can fall in love with a rich man as easy as a poor one’?”
“Didn’t you ever hear that money is the root of all evil?”
“That is stupid. You can’t buy things with love.” She shakes her head and leaves.