“Max has already opened his. He could not wait.”
He could have waited. But Nonna was not the woman to make him. She couldn’t spoil us enough. A snack? It would not ruin our dinner. Dessert? So what if Max didn’t clean his plate. Bedtime? They can certainly stay up a few more minutes—a few more hours.
I followed her into the study. Not a paper was out of place. Every single stray box had finally been cleared away. And no sign of Nonno or Dad. I was on my own. Nonna plucked her purse and a small package off a neat line of luggage in the corner before continuing out onto the balcony.
She eased herself onto one of the white Adirondack chairs and crossed her legs at the ankles. “Here. Open it.”
I eased off the bow, an elaborate work of art surrounded by a mass of curling ribbons. I pulled a small, green box out of the wrapping paper and flipped it open. Inside, I found a gold herringbone necklace.
“Oh, Nonna,” I breathed. “It’s beautiful. A thousand thanks.”
“It’s nothing. Try it on.”
When I finished fastening the necklace, Nonna handed me a small mirror that she’d pulled out of her purse. I gazed at my reflection. The chain hung from a neck streaked with dirt. Untidy wisps of hair, which had escaped from my ponytail, framed a red face streaked with mud. I quickly handed the mirror back.
“I was not expecting to find you such an elegant, well-educated ragazza when you arrived here last month,” Nonna began. “I bought the necklace for her…for you.”
A great, echoing “but” hung between us. I waited.
“Irene, you know I love you well,” my grandmother began. “I would prefer that it was not necessary to say this to you, my treasure, but your parents have not done it, therefore I must.”
“What, Nonna?” I asked.
“Soccer is not a feminine sport.” She could have been repeating the latest pronouncement from the Pope in Rome.
“In America, sí,” I insisted politely. “As many girls play it as boys.”
“The young women here have good reason not to play it. It is not graceful. No. It is dangerous. It is brutal. You cannot deny it.”
Hmm. Shouting and kicking and bloody noses.
“Ah! We are in agreement,” Nonna said, pouncing on my hesitation. “I can read it in your face. Listen, I know that you are the sporting type, carissima, but there must be something else that would please you. Swimming? Skating?”
I shook my head.
“Volleyball? Basketball?”
My jaw dropped. “Basketball is fine, but soccer no?”
“Basketball and soccer are different,” Nonna said.
Not the way I played. “How?” I asked.
She crossed her arms. “They just are. Mmmm. What about tennis? Would tennis please you? There is a club here. I saw the signs.”
I shook my head again. “No. It’s too expensive.”
Nonna leaned forward, her hands clutching the armrests of her chair. “If you quit soccer, your nonno and I would pay for lessons.”
I had picked the wrong excuse. “No thank you,” I said. “Soccer is my favorite sport. I must continue to play.”
“Your team accepts you?”
I hesitated again. “Some of them.”
“And the rest?”
The rest of them would be cheering my nonna on.
“This is a small town, Irene,” she continued. “Who will be a friend to a—a maschiaccio?”
I grinned. I could tell that Nonna hated to even use the word, much less have her granddaughter actually be such a thing. “Another maschiaccio,” I answered. “She is called Giulia.”
“Another girl plays with you?”
“No. She quit a year ago.”
“Why?” Nonna asked triumphantly.
“There are no teams for girls here. She had no future in soccer. I do.”
“What about the present?” Nonna’s voice rose in frustration. “Has my son taught you nothing of the bella figura?”
“Appearances are everything” was Mom’s rather cynical definition of that Italian concept.
“Does the bella figura mean to stop something you have already started?” I asked.
“If you should not have started it at all, sí.” Nonna pounded her fist on the arm of the chair. “Truly.”
“We do not agree, Nonna. If I stopped now, I would seem stupid and weak. Everyone would say—”
“That you are gracious, gentile, well educated, not afraid to admit a fault,” Nonna cut in. “You are such a charming girl, Irene, until you step onto the field.” She wrinkled her nose and held out the mirror. “Look at yourself now. Dirty. Smelly. Hair like Medusa.”
I stood up. My calves knocked the chair backwards. Impolite words and gestures, both English and Italian, were dancing through my head. I had to leave before one of them escaped, before I pitched the necklace and the box and its beautiful bow off the balcony.
“Grazie, Nonna. You’re right.” I waited just long enough for hope to blossom on her face before adding, “I certainly must take a shower. But no, I will not quit soccer. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Povera. It is all the fault of my son. He is mad for the game. If Max had been born five years earlier, we would not be having this discussion.”
I pressed my hand to the bottom of my ribcage and whispered, “That’s not true.”
Or was it? No. I would not—could not—believe that Dad had just been making do with me. He would have coached my teams and kicked the ball around with me in the backyard just the same. I was sure of it.
I stumbled across the balcony and back into the suddenly blurry study.
“Maria Pia!” Nonna called, her tone halfway between a plea and an order. “I’m sorry. Come here, cara.”
Maria Pia was the name of my youngest and most independent-minded aunt, not mine. I would not answer to it. I passed the living room. Dad was describing our view, telling Nonno what he would be able to see if the air was clear. Tall and angular with the same lift to their shoulders, they were as alike as two drops of water.
I snatched a pair of shorts and a flowered shirt off my bed. Nonna had given them to me as a welcoming gift when we arrived in Milan a few weeks ago. Since my grandmother always liked seeing me wear the things she had bought for me, I had laid them out before the game. Now I wanted to grind them under my dirty cleats, crumple them into a ball and shove them into a drawer. After a week or so, the stains would set and never come out.
Instead, I carried them and the golden chain to the bathroom. I would show her. I would be gracious, gentile, well educated, and not afraid to admit a fault. If playing soccer was a fault, well then, I was guilty.
I could have stayed under the stream of hot water all day. There was no tank to empty. Every drop was heated as it flowed rapidly through the riscaldamento. But natural gas was expensive, much more expensive than in the U.S. When most of my anger had swirled down the drain with the water, I reached for a towel.
I wondered what might have happened if Nonna and I had had that conversation about soccer in Milan when we arrived. I might not have been able to stand up to her without the prospect of having to explain to my team why I quit—without having the vision of a wildly celebrating Matteo to stiffen my backbone. I might have wound up with a closet full of tennis outfits, a coach to help me with my backhand, and a determined rationalization that tennis would be a wonderful opportunity for cross-training. I wouldn’t be struggling in a game that I used to dominate. No one would be trying to force me off the tennis court just because I was a girl.
And there was also the real possibility that I might have become an enthusiastic member of the I-Love-Matteo club. I wouldn’t have known any better. And I might have been desperately trying to fit in with Elena’s group instead of being myself with Giulia. No soccer. No Emi. No Giulia.
Over the high-pitched whir of the hair dryer, a knock sounded. I pretended not to hear. A second knock followed, this one more insistent.
“Who’s t
here?” I asked in Italian.
“Me,” Mom said in English. “Let me in.”
I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Mom scanned me. “So you decided to get cleaned up before saying hello to your grandma. A good idea.”
“Um, not exactly,” I said, fingering the gold chain that was hanging around my clean neck.
“Oh no.” Mom came in and shut the door. I saw that she was wearing makeup, jewelry, and a silk blouse that Nonna had given her. “I had hoped to catch you before she did. We had a little, uh, discussion before you came home. Your dad told her to leave you alone—that you were his bella, brava calciatrice. That you’d made your decision and stuck with it.”
“Nonna thought I’d be more reasonable.”
“And?”
I sighed. “I wasn’t.”
“What happened?” Mom demanded. Something in her eyes told me that mentioning Nonna’s theory—how Max could have saved me from becoming a maschiaccio if only he had been born a few years earlier—would be a really bad idea. I shook my head.
Mom crossed her arms. “Your father needs to have another talk with your nonna. Or maybe I will. You’re making a real difference here in Merano. You should see the way the little girls on Max’s team watch your every move. You’re their role model.”
“No. It’s okay. Really. I guess I understand how Nonna feels.” Mom looked unconvinced, so I decided to pull out the big guns. “I mean, how would you feel if I told you I wanted to be a cheerleader?”
Mom’s eyes widened. She cleared her throat. “Um, they don’t have those in Italy, do they?”
“No. I mean when we go back to the U.S.”
“You’re just saying this to make a point, right?”
I smiled.
“All right. I won’t say a word about soccer, and neither will your father.”
It was a good plan. Too bad Max and my nonno weren’t in on it.
13
Calcio al’angolo (CAL-cho all AHN-go-low)
Corner Kick
“I know you were too tired to come to the Irene’s game, Nonno,” Max said at dinner that same Saturday night. “But will you come to watch me play soccer on Monday?”
I stiffened. Mom grimaced. Dad hissed through his teeth. Nonna’s fingers tightened around her knife and fork.
“Gladly,” Nonno said, completely oblivious to the whole only-boys-play-soccer thing. “It interests me to see your team.”
“Nonna?” Max turned his enormous brown eyes on my grandmother and blinked twice.
“Ah, if only I had such eyelashes,” Nonna said. She laid down her knife and reached out to pat Max’s cheek.
“Please?” Max begged.
How much did Max know? How much had he heard? My rat of a little brother always had a better understanding of what was going on than anyone ever gave him credit for.
“Certainly. It would please me to go,” Nonna said, smiling.
Max’s face was at its most innocent as he continued, “Irene’s team follows mine on the field, you know.”
Nonna’s smile froze. “Really. One after the other?”
“There is a short break between them. But Irene always plays with Luigi then,” Max said, batting his beautiful eyelashes at me. From the way he said my teammate’s name, anyone would think that I had plastered “Luigi plus Irene” all over my notebooks and bulletin board.
I smiled calmly. Max the Manipulator wouldn’t get a reaction this time. “Luigi and I both stand around a lot during the scrimmage. He is our goalkeeper.”
Nonno nodded. “Mmm, good idea to practice during the break. So dedicated. All right, how many hours of soccer on Monday afternoon?”
“Three and a half,” Mom answered.
“I fear that is too much for your back, caro,” Nonna said.
“You could go to half of one and half of the other,” Mom suggested with an air of polite helpfulness.
“A good plan!” Nonno said. “Va bene.”
On Monday afternoon, a bank of clouds had once again settled over the mountains surrounding the town. A light mist was falling, but Mom and the nonni sat in the stands just the same. Nonno had joked in the car on the way to the field that if he hadn’t seen postcards of Merano, he would never have believed we had a mountain view.
Mom had insisted that I ride with the family. She didn’t like me biking on wet, crowded streets. But instead of joining the others in the stands to watch Max, I sat in the car writing about just how stupidly all the characters were behaving in I promessi sposi, a classic novel that every Italian student learns to know and hate. I didn’t know how I would ever make it all the way through this long boring love story set in the 1600s. Mom’s Italian grammar handbook lay on the seat beside me to help with the special verb tenses Professoressa Trevisani had warned me about.
The clock on the dashboard read 16:09. Almost ten after four. Time to go. I stuffed my essay, grammar, and I promessi sposi into my backpack and stepped out of the car.
I peered over the laurel hedge at the two fields below. My brother’s group was playing on the smaller one, which was covered by a pale green artificial turf. Carpet, they called it here. The players’ damp hair and identical uniforms made it difficult for me to spot Max. In contrast, the lone girl on his team, with her long, dark braid, was easy to find. I wondered what had happened to the other two. Maybe the wet weather had kept them at home.
A grandfatherly mister, whose sweats matched those of his players, supervised. He coached, refereed, and sometimes even played. A broad grin lit up his face each time he trotted stiffly to the ball for a demonstration of precision passing.
I studied him suspiciously, watching for signs of sexism or favoritism. Did he leave the girl out? Did he ignore her? Did he criticize her more than the boys? Less?
I saw almost no difference in the way the way he treated her except that his smile seemed to broaden and soften each time she handled the ball. The cucciola effect? Yes. Add seven or eight years to her age and a foot or so to her height, and the effect would not be so adorable. I knew.
According to Giulia, it had been this way for years. Girls from the first, second, and even third class of the elementary school would play with the boys. Eventually, they dropped out for dance, swimming, volleyball, basketball, figure skating, riding lessons, or tennis. At least they did here in Merano. It was different in other parts of Italy.
The ball popped out of the cluster of players and rolled toward the sidelines. The mister reached it first. Instead of letting the ball roll out of bounds, his foot connected with it for a kick that Werner would have been proud to claim. It sailed directly to midfield where the girl stood waiting near the centerline.
“Dai, Angelica,” he shouted to her.
I grinned. Dad used to reward players for staying in position in the very same way. Most kids seemed to hover near their teammates instead of sticking with their assigned positions. The herd instinct was hard to overcome. Little kids couldn’t seem to help chasing after the ball instead of sticking with their assigned areas.
Angelica’s braid flicked back and forth as she ran to meet the ball. Her pace slowed as she dribbled the ball upfield.
“Dai, Angelica! Forza, forza, forza!” the mister called. Only one defender stood between her and the goalie. Instead of coming forward to challenge her and slow her down, the boy backed up a few steps into the penalty area. Led by Max, the herd was gaining. They streamed after her in a wide V, like a flock of geese.
Angelica might have heard footsteps, because she decided to take a shot. The goalkeeper lunged to the left just as the ball nicked the defender’s shin and rolled to the right—straight into the goal.
“Brava, Angelica!” the girl’s mister and I shouted in unison.
“Have you taught her to do that, Irene?” asked a voice at my shoulder.
I turned to frown at Luigi. “What do you mean?”
“To kick the ball at someone. She missed his head. But she is still young. It take
s time to learn such things.”
I started walking toward the clubhouse. “Ha, ha. You are so comical, Luigi.”
The sarcasm in my voice was unmistakable. But he smiled, put his hand over his heart and said in English, “T’ank you.”
“It’s ‘thhhhank you,’” I corrected. “Put your tongue under your teeth. Thhhhh.”
“Thhhhhh—ank. Thhhhhh—ank. Thank. Thank.” On the final repetition, he plugged his nose to convert his British accent into an American one.
“Perfetto,” I said.
“Thank you,” Luigi answered. He let go of his nose and switched back to Italian. “It is difficult, you know. Almost as difficult as another small word…oh, how do you say it?”
“The?” I suggested.
“Exactly. A short word, but difficult,” Luigi agreed.
“At least English only has ‘the’ instead of eight or nine words that mean the same thing. Sometimes my mother only knows that she has chosen the wrong one when she reaches the end of the noun.”
“And you? I have not heard a mistake from you.”
“I have been speaking Italian as long as you. It is automatic. But German! Ai, ai, ai.”
“Der, die, das, und den.” Luigi listed some of the German translations for “the” using the voice of Professorin Schneider.
“Irene. Luigi,” the mister interrupted. The nearness and unexpectedness of his voice at my back made me jump. “Before the others arrive, both of you can take turns in the goal.”
I swallowed a protest and coughed.
“What is it, Irene?” the mister asked.
“Nothing. But I have not played goalkeeper for many years—since the fourth class.”
“Don’t worry yourself. A goalie without much experience is better than an empty net, no?”
No. At least not if I had to be the goalie, allowing ball after ball to rocket past me with Nonno watching and Matteo due to show up at any minute.
“Luigi, give Irene your gloves,” the mister said, not waiting for me to disagree.
Luigi peeled them off and handed them to me. I pulled them on and flexed my fingers. Their dry warmth felt good.
It occurred to me as I trotted across the field that I had played keeper at Giulia’s house ten days ago in a game of two-on-two against Emi and one of their neighbors. But it was different on an official pitch with a regulation net behind me.
Defending Irene Page 8