by Liz Miles
“Oh. I don’t refuse. I’m just … not. I can’t help it.” I have no idea why I’m saying that. Except that it’s true.
He nods. “High school sucks,” he says. “But it’s over pretty quick, in the grand scheme of things, and I promise it gets better after that. All those haters? They kind of get over themselves. Or they’re easier to avoid. Or override.” He grins at me. “You know, with your superior intellect.”
I’m not sure I have one of those, but I don’t like to mention it.
Andy’s still smiling at me. “I go to school in Chicago now and that’s pretty cool.”
Huh? “You’re still at school?”
“I’m a JYA at the international university here,” he says. “For college credit, you know?”
I must look really confused because he explains, “I’m nineteen. So is Yoshi, though she’s from Japan. I know her from class. We take Italian culture and language together. The rest of the time, I study philosophy. It’s my major back in the States.” He smiles, eyes shining with love for his subject. I feel myself relaxing about my earlier admission.
“This city’s famous for its philosophical thought,” I say, because Dad told me that once. But, bizarrely, all that springs to mind right now are the Italian chocolates Dad used to buy us for a taste of home. “Chocolate kisses,” they were called, if you translated the Italian. Inside the wrapper of each one there was a little philosophical quote. Faz and I would stuff ourselves and giggle for hours at the messages. We’d take it in turns to read them out in silly voices.
“They even wrap their chocolates in philosophical thoughts,” I say, which has to rate pretty highly on the Stupid Things to Say scale.
But Andy gives a huge belly laugh. Then he gets up. “Well, I have the same test as Yoshi so I’d better get studying too. See you tomorrow, Ellie Minghelli.”
The vamp bedroom door shuts behind him.
I’m all alone again.
I decide to intrepidly venture downstairs and onto the street, where the shops still seem to be open even though it’s getting late. I buy myself a small box of those famous chocolates and unwrap one.
“In order to find perfect love, embrace imperfection,” the flimsy paper reads.
“Embrace imperfection?”
Welcome to my life.
• • •
Surprise surprise, I don’t see much of Dad for the next few days. He does come round a few times, and the first time he finds out about one of my new housemates being male. He asks whether I mind and when I say “no” he says, “Good. I trust that agency.”
Yes, because they clearly try to meet their clients’ needs … by sending the opposite of what they’ve asked for.
And aren’t fathers supposed to worry about their daughters sharing bathrooms with strange men?
Not mine.
I ask him to fix the bathroom door lock and he does. He tells me to call if I need anything. I don’t tell him I don’t have his number. He doesn’t ask what I’ve been doing all day.
What I’ve been doing all day is exploring. Mostly on my own but also with Andy, whenever he’s not “in class,” as he calls it. It just kind of happens, because he knows his way around. We’ve been thrown together. I’m enjoying myself, though. I’ve found we can talk about anything and everything, and we do.
When I finally get hold of Mum, she doesn’t sound like herself. She’s been out loads with the people from her course. She tells me about women called Tasha and Rose and Hannah, who she feels like she’s known forever. Then she goes on about their tutor, Robert, and how much fun he is and how he’s just one of them, really, and he’s turned his life around with the power of positive thought and he’s an inspiration.
She certainly sounds positive. She won’t even join me in bad-mouthing Dad, which is a total first for her. She’s not worried about Dad losing his phone and us not knowing where he lives. She says, “I’m sure he’ll get a new phone soon, and anyway it sounds like he’s popping round a lot.” She adds, “Ellie, don’t let this go to your head, but I trust you, and I know you’ll be fine. And don’t be afraid to ask Armando for help if you need it. He’s not as useless as you think he is.” She contradicts herself spectacularly in the next sentence, something only my mother can do with such style. “Anyway, you could probably look after him better than he could look after you. Honestly, Ellie, try to enjoy yourself. Think positively. Have fun. Robert says …”
“But, Mum,” I burst in, because she doesn’t seem to get it. “He’s got me sharing with a boy! A nineteen-year-old boy!” I stop short of saying “with a tattoo.” “And Dad doesn’t even care!”
“Is he a nice boy?”
“Does such a specimen exist?”
“Ellie!” She doesn’t know about Mo, but she’s probably guessed. She has spooky powers like that, my mum. “Does he make you laugh? Does he listen to you? Is he kind?”
“Yes,” I admit.
She uses her Mum powers to analyze that single word and the next thing she says is, “Okay, now I’m worried.” Then she laughs.
“Mum!” Honestly, this isn’t like her. Well, it’s a bit like her, but with added sparkles and a feather boa. What are they teaching her on this course? “He’s just come out of a big long-term relationship. And I’m pretty sure he likes someone else. Our other housemate, who’s drop-dead stylish and gorgeous.”
“Huh,” says Mum, and I wait for her to reassure me about my own looks and style. She does, but it never helps. She has to say that stuff—she’s my mother and it’s in the contract. She adds, “You can still be his friend, you know. Men are human beings, like you and me.” She sighs. “I think I’d forgotten that myself, until this week.”
It occurs to me for the first time that while she’s “finding herself,” she might be looking for someone else.
• • •
A couple of days later, Andy and I are walking around town. Andy’s chatting away as usual, telling me about this barmy professor who asks the students for cigars during lectures. He tells me all about the lectures, too. He’s not ashamed of being passionate about academic stuff. He’s so intense. He’s not like Mo, who’s always playing to his gang of donkey friends.
We pass a gorgeous little church with an inviting patch of green in front of it and he switches into telling me about its history and then, kind of out of the blue, he says, “Let’s sit down?” and I answer, “Okay.”
I settle on the grass next to him and watch as he digs into his messenger bag and brings out a tiny box of chocolate kisses. There are three in the pack and first we have one each. We laugh at the cheesy quotes. He insists I should have the third chocolate, and I remember that’s how my crush on Mo started—with chocolate. But maybe it has extra power in this city—some kind of a force that radiates out from the factory and beams its rays over us all.
Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about kissing Andy.
When I go quiet, he looks at me. He says, “I’m glad the agency thought I was a girl. It’s worth the hell I went through in school about my name. If I’d been called Bob, I might never have met you, Ellie.”
He laughs and I think, oh no. I am so falling for this guy. And I never feel like he’s going to turn my name into a stupid nickname. In fact, I love it when he says my name. I could listen to it forever.
I shake myself. He is still a guy, and you never know with guys. I never thought Mo would turn on me either, or snog Holly in front of me immediately afterwards.
“And Yoshi, too, of course,” Andy continues, giving me a jolt of reality. “Yoshi’s great—she’s one of a kind.” He hesitates. “Hey, can I ask you something?” He touches my arm.
My heart does a little fluttery thing and I can’t believe myself. I can’t wait for my hormonal teen years to be over so that I can stop getting crushes. As soon as I’m twenty I’ll dye my hair gray and get loads of cats. It will be hard for me, but I’ll adjust, because cats are what women have when they don’t want men. Anyway, cats are cool
er than men, and when they leave you, you don’t mind because you’re expecting it. Cats have no loyalty but you still love them.
I’ll just have to get over my phobia first.
Andy says, “So Yoshi … well, she told me about these tickets she got hold of for a concert on Friday. She says it will be really cool and she asked me to go with her …”
The fluttering turns to pounding. Oh no, oh no.
“… and it’s far away in this little town, kind of romantic.” He sneaks a glance at me. “And I wondered …”
I tune him out and focus on the whooshing sound in my ears as he keeps talking.
He’s finally going out with Yoshi. It had to happen. She’s perfect.
“So what do you think?”
He’s asking me what I think of him going out with Yoshi? Like he needs my blessing?
But Fazia asks me what I think of Hot Harry all the time. It’s a friend thing. I think of Mum, telling me to be friends with Andy, and that boys are human.
I swallow hard. “Sure,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Yoshi’s great,” I add.
“I know. She really is,” he confirms. He smiles as if he has never smiled before. “Yoshi is the best!”
“The best,” I echo.
We walk back in silence. Something’s changed between us. My stomach lurches when he unlocks the door and sprints up four flights of stairs. I stagger behind him, out of puff and out of luck. He’s probably dying to see Yoshi right now.
Andy goes to his room and I go to mine. I collapse on my bed and try to conjure some kind of anti-love spell to get rid of these feelings for him that are coursing through my body. I blame the chocolates.
I text Fazia and say, “Faz help, am in LOVE!” and she texts back with, “Me too! Hot Harry finally asked me out! Woo hoo!” and then, “Happy for you! Big bro missed his chance! Luv ya, tell me ALL! Xxx”
So I text back with “No, Faz. It’s BAD. He loves sum1 ELSE,” and she texts back, “Soz, hun. Luv sucks. Xxx”
Not when you’re Fazia, though, it doesn’t.
Or if you’re Yoshi, and Andy is crazy about you.
• • •
I see Disappearing-Act Dad exactly twice in the next two days.
The first time, he turns up at the flat while Yoshi, Andy, and I are eating pizza. We do that every night. Yoshi still doesn’t talk much, and she and Andy certainly don’t act exclusive or anything around me. But the concert is on Friday and I guess that’s their first date, and things will change after that.
When Dad arrives, he does something fiddly to the kitchen tap, which has been dripping for a while. I’m not sure how he could have known that, though, because I didn’t tell him. He generally fusses around for a while longer, then he tells me to call him if I need anything—his new catchphrase—and he leaves.
The second time, I run into himin the street. Well, he’s in the street and I’m sitting at a cafe table with Andy, talking about his Italian studies lecture that I gatecrashed. (We watched a film, and I even sort of imagined I was on a date at the cinema with Andy, until I managed to stop my evil thoughts.)
I’ve sat in lots of cafes with Andy by now, but today feels different. I’m distracted because, during a heated bit of discussion, his hand somehow landed on mine. He doesn’t seem to have noticed, but it’s all I can think about. It’s making blood rush to my head.
Then I see Dad in the distance. I pull my hand away and Andy stops talking.
I call out to Dad and he comes over. He’s with a tall woman who’s wearing expensive-looking clothes, a scarf around her neck and a hairband of sunglasses. As Dad greets me and Andy, I find myself wondering whether she has an extra pair of eyes at the top of her head, like some kind of alien. She’s certainly acting weird—glancing at me with her nose wrinkled up in an aloof sort of way. It occurs to me that this is my new Wicked Stepmother-to-be.
Dad talks to Andy about some house issue or other and she hangs back, all polite smiles. After a minute or so, she touches Dad’s arm and asks him something, and I recognize my name and the Italian word for daughter. Dad nods and she tuts at him and holds out her hand to me.
“I am Adelina and I am pleased to meet you, Ellie.”
I’m not quite sure what I mumble in response but she doesn’t really listen anyway. She turns to Dad and says something in quick-fire, angry-sounding Italian. He replies and then he says to me, “Adelina would like you to have dinner with us.”
She says something else, in the same annoyed tone, and he replies, defensive, and I think I hear the Italian for “sorry” and the word “independent.” But then some professor-type calls out to them from across the street and Adelina smiles and says goodbye to us, and Dad tells me to give him a call. Then they both disappear.
• • •
The next night is the night of the concert.
Or “weirdest night ever,” as I like to call it.
At first, I’m slightly surprised to be involved at all. I was planning on staying out of the way, trying not to pine in my room, but when Andy asks me to go with him to pick up the hire car, I think I might as well.
He doesn’t say much—he seems nervous as he signs about a thousand documents and shows half of Italy his American driving license. It all takes ages because he doesn’t have a proper credit card, just some pre-pay thing, and this means the staff have to huff a lot and make thousands of long, sharp phone calls.
Finally, Andy drives the car back and double-parks it illegally outside the flat, which seems to be okay since there are about ten other cars parked the same way, all at different angles.
He groans. “I’m sorry that took so long, Ellie! We pretty much have to leave right now. Is that okay?” So I offer to run up and get Yoshi and he looks surprised but before he can say anything, Yoshi appears at the door.
She’s wearing tons of bright makeup and three-quarter-length pastel-pink trousers with sparkly bits that clash with her shocking-pink sequined top. But it looks great on her, and she’s obviously made an effort for tonight. I remind myself that my heart shouldn’t be sinking at that. It’s good. Why wouldn’t I want my friends to be happy?
The weirdness starts when Yoshi nods at Andy. “See you later,” she says. Then she sweeps off down the road.
“Where’s she going?” I ask, confused.
Andy looks at her disappearing pinkness. “I guess to meet her date. She’s given me our tickets, but the seats are right next to hers so we’ll see them there.”
Her date?
Our tickets?
We’ll see them there?
“Is something wrong, Ellie?”
“Wrong” isn’t the word, not if I’m on a date. With Andy.
Wearing one of my oldest dresses and with no time to change.
“Ellie? We have to leave. I’m so sorry about the time thing …”
He looks nervous. He is nervous. He’s going out on a date with me and he’s nervous!
Maybe Mum is right about men being human. Though this one is clearly insane.
• • •
It takes two fist-clenching hours of Italian traffic but eventually we get there. Andy double-parks the car and we stagger up a hill with the sun setting dramatically in front of us. He takes my hand and I realize it wasn’t an accident, that day in the cafe when his hand landed on top of mine.
And I am on a date with Andy.
The venue is an open-air opera house, amazingly grand. The spotlights light up the old building and cover us in a yellowy glow. It feels unreal, like a film set.
We meet Yoshi and her date, who is at least ten years older than us and has a wacky sense of style and a pink shirt on. Maybe that’s what they see in each other. They are pink together.
Andy buys us each a drink, and we settle down in the half-light with the excited hum of a thousand concert-goers building around us.
The concert itself is fun but weird. A pepper-haired man croons away to folksy ballads, mostly in lyrical-soun
ding Italian and occasionally in heavily accented Eeengleesh, which doesn’t spoil the exotic effect.
Andy catches my eye in those parts and we try not to laugh. He tightens his hold on my hand and my heart swells. I can’t believe I’m here with him. Then I really do giggle and Yoshi gives us a bit of a look, but Andy doesn’t seem to care.
The concert ends in a swirl of standing ovations. I swear Yoshi and her date have tears in their eyes as they applaud.
“It was so perfect, no?” Yoshi’s man enthuses before Andy and I say goodbye and trudge back to the hire car.
I will never get tired of holding his hand.
• • •
The car isn’t there.
Andy stares at the empty space.
“You sure this is where we parked?” I ask him.
He moves his head slowly like an owl. “Three trees to the right, overturned garbage can, small family of wild cats.” He sighs. “It was here, Ellie.”
One of the cats turns to look at us then, as if it knows we’re talking about it. A lot of Italian cats are skinny and feral, but somehow when we parked here earlier, I managed to walk past them with ease. I thought, I can cope. I thought, something about me is different. I’m no longer a mouse.
The cat’s scrawnier brother or sister wanders over and eyes me suspiciously.
I breathe.
“The cats might have moved,” I say. I wouldn’t put it past them to have followed me to the concert with the intention of waiting till my guard was down and clawing my legs off.
“No, Ellie, it was definitely here.”
I can see exactly what’s in his head—it ticker-tapes across his face. It goes something like: “Oh, no! Someone’s stolen our car! We drove for two hours to get here! How will we get home? Oh no! Someone’s …” etc. Ticker ticker ticker.
Oddly, I’m not panicking. “Should we try to find Yoshi?”
“She was going back to Enzo’s; he lives near here. I don’t have her number.” His voice is flat. He’s doing an impression of a stone pillar. I decide to take control.
“Let’s hire another car. You can explain it to the hire company in the morning. I bet they’re insured for this kind of thing.”