by Gina Azzi
All those American girls in short skirts and boots. I laugh to myself, shaking my head and scoping out the girls further. There’s a hot redhead next to the lipstick girl. I haven’t hooked up with a ginger in a while. Not since Guilietta.
And, if all else fails, there’s always Simona.
I smile, my earlier frustration completely forgotten. There are definitely worse things than working at Angelina’s. Not all jobs offer a selection of beautiful girls to look at and flirt with.
Chapter Two
Mia
The execution is pure perfection. I leap into the grand jete, the soft material of my costume brushing against my legs, my headpiece glimmering in my hair. My posture is spot on, no tension in my neck, my arms graceful, legs extended, toes pointed. For a brief moment I am suspended between the blurry division of reality and marvel. A miracle. Pure magic. Everything is perfect.
Until it isn’t.
The searing pain that cuts through my knee and jolts up my spine jerks me awake, leaving me gasping in my seat, fingers digging into the armrests, beads of sweat dotting my hairline. Breathe, Mia. It’s just a dream.
Or more accurately, an all-too-familiar nightmare.
“Benvenuti a Roma.” The plane’s wheels have already touched down and as the nightmare recedes from my foggy mind, I realize the plane is taxiing.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to calm my nerves. It was just a dream. Deep breath in, count to five, exhale. Only a dream. A dream I have relived regularly since my knee injury—the real-life moment of not perfectly landing a grand jete. One misstep, a moment of unbalance, a spark of indecision, that resulted in a torn ACL and a bitter end to my dancing career, my passion, my life, six months ago.
The flight attendant’s warm voice switches to English. “Welcome to Rome. The current temperature is eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit. The weather is sunny and hot, with seventy-eight percent humidity.”
Instinctively, I unwind my pashmina from around my neck and pull the ends of my hair loose from the inside of my T-shirt. Long, brown, pin-straight strands hang over my shoulders.
The plane comes to a stop and the seat belt sign flickers off as passengers bustle around, reaching into the overhead bins for their stowed luggage and filling up the aisles. I wait my turn patiently, smiling to thank my neighbor when he hands me my purple backpack.
As I wait to disembark, I turn airplane mode off on my phone. The aisle is full with impatient Italians and tourists, all shuffling their feet, eager to get off the plane and stretch their legs after such a long flight. Waiting in the crowded aisle, I send Dad a quick text.
Me: I arrived! Just getting off the plane now. I love you.
He responds not even a minute later.
Dad: Happy you arrived safely. Have a great day and message me once you’re settled into your apartment. Be safe. Love you too.
I smile at his message, his words giving me an unexpected strength I didn’t realize I needed.
Deep breath. I can do this.
* * *
Passport control takes ages and still, when I arrive at the baggage carousel, the luggage from my flight hasn’t appeared yet. I shake my head, watching families, couples, and people milling about, waiting anxiously for their luggage, excited to begin their vacations, reunite with family and friends, tour Italia!
I never imagined I would study abroad in college. It’s definitely something I pegged for Lila and Emma, taking a semester to trot around Europe in flimsy flip-flops and oversized backpacks. I had a plan. I was going to star in the Junior-Senior showcase: Romeo and Juliet. As Juliet. There would be no time for studying anywhere but the McShain University library in order to fit in all the extra classes, rehearsals, and general demands required of a dance major. And yet, I loved it. I reveled in the routine, the structure, the discipline. I always knew what to expect, what I needed to improve, how to prepare for perfection.
Despite having landed thousands of grand jetes during hundreds of practice hours, that one moment changed it all. I turned too sharply, landed too hard, twisted too much, and the strain that shot through my left leg and lower back, causing me to crumble in a pile on the floor, was an instant wakeup call that the Junior-Senior showcase would not be the perfect conclusion to my junior year of college.
Or my senior year.
I was devastated. Imagine training for something for hours every day, every weekend, every spare moment, only to have it ripped away from you when you are so close to finally achieving your dream. After years of sacrifice, it all finally seemed within reach.
Until it wasn’t.
The sorrow that colored my reality was crippling. The disappointment in my dad’s eyes when he came to the hospital was evident and hung heavy in the lines around his brow. My stepmother, Claire, didn’t bother coming, but the way she flicked her wrist at me over Easter, while explaining my injury to guests, was another reminder that I somehow failed.
I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering the awkwardness of that holiday: Claire’s stiff smile, Dad’s preoccupied throat clucks when I offered something to the conversation, the stretch of days that hovered between slightly frosty and downright frigid. I was so grateful to return to Philadelphia, to McShain University. Quickly, it became apparent that ballet was my life since I suddenly didn’t know what to do with myself, how to fill all the extra hours in the day when I would normally be at the studio.
I returned from the Easter holiday with a stack of my mother’s journals. Once I was settled in back at the dorms, I spent hours thumbing through them, combing the pages for pieces of her. She loved to write, to chronicle, to pour her feelings and thoughts into flowing, oversized handwriting, comprised of half-print and half-cursive that filled countless notebooks. When she passed away from cancer, almost thirteen years ago now, her journals were one of the only things I still found her in—her spirit, her essence, her beauty dancing across lines of paper, little flowers doodled in the corners.
It was during one of these moments, when I was lost in thought, lost in my mother’s words, that I learned of her desire to travel. To see Rome and London and Madrid. To ride elephants in Phuket and feed giraffes in Johannesburg. She was passionate and loving and had a wild streak a mile long. I always wished I could be more like her, embrace adventure, flirt with danger, have fun.
Her words inspired me, convinced me that instead of wallowing in self-pity and feeling worthless for not performing in the Junior-Senior showcase, my time would be better spent learning, growing, exploring. And I remembered how, even at the end, when her head was bald, her skin nearly translucent as it delicately hugged her bones—even as she grimaced with pain, cancer eating her organs, medicines and pills erasing her body—she dreamed. Whenever I entered her bedroom, her eyes would light up and she would smile encouragingly. “Dream with open eyes, Mia,” she would whisper. Even in her final days, she was as radiant as a sunflower yet delicate like a butterfly.
Completely absorbed by her journals, swept away by her dreams, I handed in the study abroad application at the absolute last minute. I was stunned when I was accepted, couldn’t believe I was really doing this.
Moving to Rome.
To live.
For a semester.
And now here I am, about to embark on the next four months with absolutely no plan in sight. I shake my head, digging my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. I already feel lost.
Clearing away my thoughts, I pinch myself, but yes I am still standing at the baggage carousel. In Rome. Finally, I spot my two suitcases. The first one is smaller and slides off the carousel easily. Then I lean in to gather my oversized suitcase from the baggage carousel, smiling gratefully at an older gentleman who comes to my rescue, helping me tug it off.
“Grazie,” I tell him. He nods his head.
My larger suitcase is massive and weighs the same as I do. Actually, I bet I outweigh it now that I’ve put on extra weight. I shuffle outside, dragging the two suitcases behind me, avoiding eye co
ntact with everyone I pass, and settle into the taxi line. After securing a taxi and handing the driver the piece of paper with my new address typed neatly across it, I lean back in the seat, close my eyes, and count to ten. When I open my eyes, Rome is flying past the window and panic flickers in my chest.
I moved to a foreign country.
What the hell was I thinking?
Chapter Three
Lorenzo
“Something’s off,” I tell Giuseppe, my papa’s accountant.
He nods. “Si, the numbers, they must have been inflated.”
“Why?”
He shrugs, his fingertips digging into his eyes as he tries to stifle a yawn. “I’ve gone over the books four times, Enzo. I don’t know what your Papa was thinking, doing, at the end.” He pauses, looking at me. “Scusa.”
I nod.
“But he never kept the ledgers like this. Everything is all over the place. Nothing adds up. I don’t know where the money went, but a lot of it is missing.”
I lean back in my chair, blowing out a loud breath. Why is everything a disaster? I’m supposed to be meeting Sandro in ten minutes for a quick drink and now, as I sit here surrounded by receipts and ledgers that are all in the red, I know I’ll be late.
“Have you discussed this with my mama?”
Giuseppe nods solemnly. “I’ve called her several times, tried to explain. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I know she is grieving, but it’s like she’s checked out. All she talks about is Angelina’s. But Enzo, Angelina’s earns a tiny percentage compared to your papa’s businesses, his companies, his investments. She should be more focused on this…” he taps the top ledger “…instead of making tiramisu.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Is he crazy talking about Mama like that? “I know you’re tired and frustrated Giuseppe but—”
He nods, holding up his hands. “I know. I’m sorry.” He sighs again. “I don’t want this…” he shoves the ledgers, allowing them to slide across the table between us “…to be your papa’s legacy. He worked too hard, cared too much, for this to be all that’s left.”
I nod in agreement, although I’m not quite sure what he is referencing; there should be millions left. Even with this minor glitch, Mama, Claudia, and I are still set for life. So why is he making this into a much bigger deal than necessary?
My phone chimes a text from Sandro. “Where are you?”
I sigh, standing from the table and extending my hand. “I have to go. Thank you for letting me know about all of this.” I gesture toward the stack of falling ledgers. “Let’s see how the next month goes. Call me if it gets worse.”
He nods in agreement, standing to shake my hand. “Something isn’t right, Enzo. It’s just not right.”
I nod, shaking his hand once more before letting go and leaving his office. Fuck if I don’t need a Negroni.
Chapter Four
Mia
“Hello?” I knock again on the green door to the apartment I will be living in for the semester. I check the folded paper again. Via dei Chiavari, 32. Roma, Italia. Looking up at the street sign branded into the side of the building for the third time, I assure myself that I am in the right place. The taxi driver took off the second I was settled on the curb, my suitcases standing guard on either side of me.
I knock again.
“Yay! You’re here!” The door opens wide and I stumble forward. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you knocking. I was drying my hair.” The girl before me stands smiling, indicating her damp hair with a flick of her wrist. “I’m Lexi. Here, let me help you with your bags.”
“Mia.” I smile at her shyly. “Thank you.”
“No worries. Paola and Gianluca are still on holiday in Spain. They should be back in like a week or something. Luckily, they left keys for us at the university. I just arrived two days ago, from the Bay area. Hope you don’t mind but I already snagged the room on the left. It has two windows.” She shrugs, pushing open the door to the bedroom on the right and depositing my smaller suitcase at the end of the bed. “Are you tired?”
“Um, no, not really. I slept on the flight.” I toss my backpack on the bed and wheel my second suitcase into the room.
“Perfect! I’ll finish getting ready and let you settle in. Then let’s do dinner and an apperitivo? God, everything just sounds so much better, classier, in Italian, don’t you think?”
“Uh, sure.” What’s an apperitivo?
“Oh wait, let me give you a quick tour. This apartment is so cute.” Lexi grabs my hand, dragging me out of the room. “Here’s my room …” She pushes open the door to her room wider and I peek inside. The layout is the same as mine: queen-sized bed, small desk with a chair and lamp, wardrobe with two doors. The only difference is her room’s a little larger and has two windows. Several picture frames are already propped on her desk and piles of clothes litter the bed. “I hate unpacking,” Lexi says apologetically.
“This is the bathroom.” She points toward the door across the hall from our bedrooms. “We have a bidet! Can you believe that? My mother would die with how European it all is. I guess we can shave our legs in it.” She laughs and I join in, her bubbliness contagious and her warmth putting me at ease. She’s a lot like Emma.
Lexi continues walking down the hallway, passing the main entrance and a small sofa. The hallway suddenly widens into a room in the center of the apartment. “This is the kitchen.” She turns toward me, waving to the space behind her. The kitchen is tiny but clean. A small refrigerator, stove, and sink line one wall. All of the appliances are slightly tinier versions of the appliances back home. Another wall holds shelves that are stacked with various colored plates and chipped glasses. In front of the shelves sits a round table with four chairs, next to a window letting sunlight stream in.
“You need to strike a match to light the stove.” Lexi shudders in horror. “I’m convinced I’ll burn the place down.”
I laugh. “Not much of a cook?”
“Definitely not. Are you?”
I shrug. “I can do the basics.”
“Well hallelujah! My parents will take great comfort in the fact that I won’t starve. Not that they’re too nervous with me being in Italy and all. I’ll probably gain a senior fifteen.” She laughs, patting her flat tummy.
I catch the movement. Not a chance of her gaining weight. She is really skinny.
“Down that hall…” Lexi points to the hallway that leads out from the kitchen “…is Paola and Gianluca’s room and bathroom. I haven’t ventured into their personal space yet. I think it’s so nice they are letting us move in before they even meet us. We totally scored in the host family department.”
I nod in agreement. Paola and Gianluca Franchetti are going to be our host parents for the semester. Lexi and I will live in their home, eat at their table, and practice our Italian with them. Based on the information I received about the Franchettis, Paola and Gianluca are a young couple. Paola works in advertising; Gianluca is in the automobile industry. They seem friendly, easygoing, and incredibly kind. Especially, as Lexi pointed out, to open their home to the two of us while they are out of country, vacationing in Spain.
“Okay, go get ready.” Lexi claps her hands. “Thirty minutes, then we conquer Roma!” She flits out of the kitchen and back to her bedroom. Several moments later, I hear the buzz of a blow dryer.
I shake my head. I like Lexi. She seems fun and outgoing and definitely someone who can push me to test my own boundaries. The girls would approve.
I walk back to my room and sink on the bed. Flopping backwards, arms splayed wide, I sink into the soft mattress. I’ll sleep well tonight. After a few moments, I force myself back up and over to my one window, throwing open the shutters.
My room overlooks a small, winding street. Cobblestones line the street and shops and cafés dot the sidewalk. Laughter and bits of conversation float through my window. A tiny bird flutters past to perch on a vertical sign advertising a bakery three doors down. I smile to myself. It’s l
ike a postcard, exactly how I imagined it would be.
I breathe in deeply, garlic and basil and fresh baking dough making my mouth water in the best way possible. Pizza. I laugh out loud, my hand coming up to cover my mouth. I’m a long way from Philadelphia, where the smell of sewage and stale beer regularly assaults everyone’s nostrils. In a charming way of course.
I unpack my toiletries and walk across the hall to the bathroom. Lexi has already unpacked, her Vera Bradley cosmetics bag perched next to the sink, makeup brushes and eye shadows peeking out. A green towel splashed with yellow flowers hangs on the back of the door underneath a plush white robe. I laugh to myself. This girl really has Emma written all over her.
I brush my teeth and run a brush through my hair. Limp and lifeless, it hangs past my shoulders. I sigh, digging my fingers into the roots, trying to infuse some volume. No such luck. I bobby pin the front pieces to the side and out of my eyes.
Lexi knocks on the door. “How’s it going in there?”
I open the door and she stands in the doorway. Her blond hair tumbles over her shoulders and down her back in soft waves. You’ve got to be kidding me. She is the queen of volume. Her green eyes are bright, lined softly with eyeliner. She walks in, reaching past me to grab a tube of mascara out of her cosmetics bag. “Do you think this is too much?” She gestures to her outfit with the mascara wand, her mouth opened wide as she coats her lashes.
Her outfit, a short denim skirt, white strappy sandals, and a classic navy V-neck T-shirt is casual-chic. It screams college undergrad. She looks like she just stepped off the cover of a university brochure. She looks adorable. “No, I think you look great.”
She shrugs. “I over packed. What are you wearing?”
Right. I look down. My leggings are stained from my meal on the plane, one of my Converse sneakers is untied. My T-shirt is wrinkled from sitting in it for ten-plus hours. Oh my God. I can’t believe I look like this. Sophomore year I wouldn’t even leave my dorm room to run to the shared bathrooms looking like this. Lila would have a field day with me right now.