Defending Irene

by Nitz, Kristin Wolden;

Step by Step

  “Ciao, Irene. How’s it going?” Giulia asked from the other side of the wrought iron gate.

  “Ciao, Guilia. You mean Emi has not told you?” I buzzed myself out and joined her on the sidewalk of black tar.

  “A bit. I wanted to talk to you without Barbara. She is my friend of the heart, but she does not know Matteo. Not like we do.”

  I nodded. “She would make excuses and say ‘Maybe you did not understand him.’”

  Guilia nodded. “That is true. So tell me. What happened?”

  As we walked to school, I told Giulia about Matteo’s trick and our argument outside the clubhouse. But I didn’t mention what Emi had said about her and Matteo.

  Giulia brought up the subject herself. “So. Emi told you of Matteo’s plan as well?”

  “A bit.”

  “I’m sorry, Irene,” Giulia whispered. “I wish that I had told you myself, but I never even told Barbara what happened. She could not have understood. So what happened to you yesterday was my fault.”

  My voice dropped an octave. “It was not your fault, Giulia. It was the fault of Matteo, no one else. You prepared me well. He lied to me. He set a trap for me. I did not believe him until Montegna…”

  “But for Nicolo Montegna, the practice was cancelled, true?” Giulia’s lips twitched. “Now I sound like Barbara. But Nicolo never gave me trouble. Never. I’m so sorry, Irene.”

  “Please don’t worry,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

  “Ha! That’s a lie. But listen. I’ll tell you everything now.”

  I was about to say she didn’t have to, but something in Guilia’s eyes made me stop.

  “Two years ago,” she said, “the other squad began to talk about us. Every time we lost a game, they would jeer at us. ‘We know why they lost,’ they’d say. ‘A ragazza plays with them.’ They called us ‘the ragazze,’ ‘the girls.’ This did not please Matteo, so he asked Emi when I would quit. My brother said, ‘Maybe never.’ Matteo bet Emi twenty euro that he could make me quit. Emi said, ‘Ha! I’ll take your money.’ Then Matteo made Emi promise he would not say a word to me or else the bet would not be fair.”

  “What happened?”

  Giulia closed her eyes. “Matteo talked to me at school. He walked me home. In December, we went to the Christmas Market together. In February, we went to the passeggiata together for carnivale. He gave me a necklace for Christmas. A Diddl with a heart for Valentine’s Day.”

  “A Diddl? Oh, you mean that stuffed mouse with enormous feet on your dresser? You kept it?”

  The right corner of Giulia’s mouth lifted in a sly smile. “What happened was not the fault of the Diddl, Irene. Only Matteo.”

  “True,” I said, smiling.

  Finally, a week before soccer began in the spring, Matteo asked me if I planned to play again. I told him, ‘Naturally.’ He said that I should watch him play with the Esordienti instead—that he was afraid I would get hurt. I told him not to worry. Finally, he agreed. Maybe he thought I’d change my mind later. But I went to the first day of soccer, and that was the end of our big romance. At school, Matteo did not even look at me—did not speak to me. Then Emi explained it all to me. He said he was sorry.” Giulia sniffed. “He tried to give me the twenty euro he had won from Matteo.”

  “Ai, ai, ai,” I said. “That’s horrible.”

  “At least Emi tried to warn me many times. ‘Why do you like him?’ he asked. ‘He never pleased you before. You always laughed at him.’ But no one else said anything. Everyone on the squad knew about the bet. And nobody told me. I hated them all.”

  “Luigi knew also?”

  “Maybe yes. Maybe no. He is the son of a mister, you know. He is always the last to hear.” Giulia looked up at me through her eyelashes. “Your nonna was right, Irene. You do have a weakness for Luigi.”

  I didn’t deny it. It was true. I could hardly lie to Giulia after the story she had just finished telling me.

  “Soccer and love do not mix well,” Giulia said.

  “I know.” We were silent for a few steps before I went on, “Giulia, do many players quit after November?”

  “A few. But not as many as in the summer. Everyone must pay for the whole year in autumn. Why?” Giulia’s eyes widened and she answered her own question. “Madonna! You’re not going to quit because you have fallen in love with Luigi?”

  “No! I’ll miss playing with Luigi. But I can’t stand five more months of soccer with Matteo. It’s not worth the trouble.”

  “Not worth Luigi?” Giulia grinned.

  “Enough.” I crossed my arms. “Listen, I am very glad that you feel better, but please don’t take me in circles like that.”

  “I’m sorry. Listen, I have a good idea. When soccer finishes, you will start to play volleyball with me. In January or in February, I will tell Emi that volleyball pleases you so much that you don’t wish to play soccer in the spring.”

  “Matteo won’t believe it.”

  “Who cares what Matteo thinks?”

  “I do, unfortunately. How could you stand playing with him for so long?”

  “Step by step. Game by game.”

  “That sounds like a plan.” I sighed. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Certainly. Let’s see. Let’s go over all the regions and their capitals for our test today.”

  We worked our way from the northwest region of Piedmont all the way south to Calabria and Sicily.

  Elena greeted us as we stepped into the courtyard. “Ciao, Irene. Giulia. How’s it going?”

  “Fine,” I lied.

  “I heard that you made a goal last Saturday. Complimenti.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I also heard that many players gave you a hug afterwards,” Elena’s eyes sparkled. “Also Matteo?”

  Her chorus of friends all said, “Oooo.”

  “No. He gave me a high five. Nothing more.” I wanted to sound casual, but I couldn’t.

  “Ahh. Matteo has done something to make you angry? Have no fear. It will pass.”

  “No, it won’t,” I growled. “He’s a pig. I hate him.”

  Elena blinked. “Why? What happened?”

  “Ask Matteo. He’ll lie to you too. Excuse me.”

  “Wait. Irene—”

  Instead of waiting, I pivoted sharply and slammed right into Montegna. He must’ve been hovering right behind me.

  “Ópla!” he said and grabbed at my hands to keep me from falling. Elena’s crowd murmured appreciatively. Once I regained my balance, he let go.

  Montegna swallowed and said, “Can I speak two words with you, Irene?”

  “Okay.”

  “Come with me.” Montegna led me a few steps away to the corner of the courtyard. “Listen,” he said in a low voice. “I’m so sorry. I heard about what happened yesterday. For me, soccer was cancelled. I didn’t mean to trap you. I forgot that your mister is crazy and makes his team play in all kinds of weather.”

  “It’s nothing.” That common response to an apology leapt to my lips even though it wasn’t entirely true.

  “What Matteo did was not right,” Montegna continued. “It is not so completely horrible to play with you. You are here only for one year, true? And you don’t cry….” Montegna’s rather weak defense of my right to be on the soccer pitch wound down into silence.

  “A thousand thanks,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, stepping back. “Ciao, Irene.”

  “Ciao, Montegna,” I said.

  I heard a buzz from the group of girls behind me.

  “Montegna? She calls him by his last name?”

  “I should play soccer. All the guys are falling in love with her.”

  Falling in love with me? Ha! Barely tolerating me was more like it. I walked quickly away. How was I going to stand soccer for six more weeks?

  Game by game. Day by day. Step by step. And the first step would be practice on Thursday.

  The sky was a cloudless blue. The snow on
the mountains had melted except for a few patches above 6,000 feet. The river was still high and brown as the water drained from the mountainsides into the valley. The air was warm, but I carried my sweat suit in my backpack to wear home from practice.

  As I turned into the gravel parking lot, the light dimmed as though someone had flipped a switch. I braked and looked up. Not a cloud in the sky. But no sun either. It had just dipped behind the Monte San Virgilio.

  I looked over my shoulder. The valley behind me was still in sunshine. I felt like spinning round and chasing the light back along the road, across the railroad bridge and into town.

  Instead I continued toward the clubhouse and locked my bike to the rack. After changing into my cleats, I stopped in front of the glass case to check our roster for the game up in Naturno. My eye dropped down to the list of alternates: My name wasn’t there.

  I would be left off the van? Not fair! Everyone should have to take a turn. Not Luigi, Emi, Werner, or Matteo, of course. But the rest of us.

  I stared at the two substitutes’ names again: G. Bergamo and F. Vaccari. Giuseppe and Federico. I felt like walking back to my bike, ripping off the lock with my bare hands, and heading home. Instead I jumped onto the wide wooden bench and paced back and forth. My being left off the roster was beyond unfair. I had come to every single practice—early.

  I skidded and narrowly kept myself from falling backwards. If I broke my wrist, my season would be over. I clenched my fists and hated Matteo all the more for driving me to this point.

  “Irene, what’s wrong?” Luigi was looking up at me.

  “Nothing,” I snapped.

  “You sounded like a pot of boiling water.” Luigi made a series of sputtering noises in order to demonstrate. “What happened? Tell me.”

  “All right. Look at the roster for our next game.”

  Luigi studied it for a moment. “Okay. I’ve read it.”

  “Understand now?”

  “No.”

  I waved at the board. “Don’t you see? It’s not fair. I’ve already missed one game.”

  “What does that matter?”

  “What does it matter? But of course you can’t understand. You play every minute of every game.”

  Luigi stared at me. Could he fake such a look of utter confusion? “The mister has written your name wrong?”

  “Written my name wrong? What?” I jumped down from the bench and looked at the board again.

  Nothing had changed. F. Vaccari and G. Bergamo were still the substitutes. Then, about halfway down the list, a familiar grouping of letters caught my eye: I. Benenati.

  “Santo cielo! Good heavens! I’m starting. I’m starting!” I spun around in a circle, my cleats pounding against the cement.

  Luigi shook his head. “Madonna! You are truly a mad cow, Irene.”

  I peered through the glass to read my name again. “Uaou! I’m starting! I can’t believe it. It’s not possible!”

  “If you want, I can change it,” a deep voice informed me.

  My stomach dipped. “No. No. Thank you, mister.”

  He swung the bag of balls off his shoulder and pulled one out for me and another for Luigi. “Va bene. Enough chattering, both of you. Dai!”

  I retreated down the steps with the ball tucked under my arm. My legs shook from a double dose of adrenaline.

  “Don’t worry yourself. He was joking,” Luigi said.

  “Oh, sure. It’s clear where you get your sense of humor.”

  Luigi grinned. “Yes, everyone says so.”

  Excitement came creeping back. I was actually starting a game! How had this happened? The answer came to me: Davide. D. Leonardi was not one of the names on the list.

  “Luigi, how is Davide?”

  “His ankle is healing. He returns on Monday. Davide will be missed by us on Saturday.”

  And he was. Especially by me. The first game that I started was the first game that we didn’t win. Matteo was quick to point out that fact after the game.

  “Ecco, Irene. Look. You played the entire game and we ended in a tie. Zero to zero. What does that mean to you?”

  “Your series of making a goal in every game has ended,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Matteo’s nostrils flared. “It’s clear you could not take the place of Davide.”

  “Agreed.” (I had spent the second half of the game in the midfield.) “But no one on our team could do that. Not even you, Matteo.”

  In the weeks that followed, Matteo and I had similar charming conversations before, during, and after soccer. When he charged off on a breakaway with his usual speed and grace, I watched without cheering. When he scored, I walked back to my spot in silence. His whispered insults and shouts of false praise seemed to twist every one of my successes into failure.

  One good thing that resulted from that supposedly cancelled, rainy practice was that Federico had suddenly moved out of Matteo’s orbit. Now he was following Emi. In a few weeks, the youngest of the Esordienti had turned back into the friendly, enthusiastic boy of the second practice.

  I still wished that Matteo would twist his ankle, sprain his wrist, or come down with a mild case of salmonella poisoning from a bad piece of tiramisu. Just for one practice—or better yet, a game.

  I don’t know if I would have made it through October and into November without Giulia. She sympathized. She let me vent. She let me whine. And she never told me that I was being unreasonable. But sometimes, I wondered: How stupid was it for me to let one person poison my entire experience? Two, if I counted Giuseppe.

  Well, picture a drink of two parts sewer sludge and twelve parts water. Shake it up. Fill it with ice. Sound refreshing? Feel thirsty?

  But practice followed practice, and game followed game. I crossed the dates off on my calendar until there were only four more practices and two more games.

  18

  Un bel’ scherzo (oon bell SKERT-zo)

  A Good Joke

  I stood in the goal, defending it from Luigi. Above our heads the four massive stadium lights brightened slowly. Full dark wouldn’t arrive until midway through the practice, but ever since daylight savings time had ended, Signora Martelli always had them turned on by the time I arrived.

  “Ready?” Luigi asked from the centerline. Without waiting for an answer, he drove forward. I watched him, my knees bent, my arms extended, and my feet shuffling to adjust for his every change in direction.

  Stay in the goal or charge forward to meet him? That was the question. It was always the question. This time I waited, coming only a few steps out in order to make the goal look smaller.

  Luigi dropped his head, a clear signal that he was about to shoot. He brought his right leg back and kicked the ball from the top of the penalty area. Whump! In a great curving hook, it flew toward the upper-left corner. I dove, but it was hopeless. I didn’t even get a fingertip on it.

  Still, I was improving. A little practice as goalkeeper might come in handy someday. I only hoped it wouldn’t be in Italy. Other than Matteo and Emi’s turns on that rainy Monday over a month ago, I had never seen anyone but Luigi in the goal. Going into the game as his backup was my worst nightmare, one that I actually had a few times. The game never ended until my alarm clock rang. On those mornings, I didn’t hit the snooze bar.

  As I rolled over to pick up the ball, the air around me brightened. Beams of light slanted across the valley to the north and struck Dorf Tyrol, a small town three hundred meters above the soccer field. It had been in shadow too until the sun had moved far enough northwest to shine through a gap in the mountains.

  Footsteps thudded to a stop beside me. “Goal!” Luigi said. “The sky applauds.”

  “Ha!” I said, and tossed him the ball.

  “Molto bello,” Luigi said, looking north. “Very pretty, like a painting, no? Ready to change?”

  “Sí.” I peeled off the goalkeeper’s gloves and handed them to him. Then I pulled off my jacket and threw it behind the net.

  I starte
d by taking a few shots from close in. Luigi caught most of them and whipped the ball back to me. But a few found their way into corners. Players from the other team started filtering onto the field.

  “Ciao, Montegna,” Luigi called. “It was very entertaining on Saturday, no?”

  I rolled my eyes. On Saturday, we had beaten Montegna’s team, our regular scrimmage partners, in an official game.

  Montegna stared past Luigi, but waved at me. “Ciao, Irene.”

  “Ciao,” I echoed.

  Ever since that day I had crashed into him in the school courtyard, Montegna had made a point of saying a few words to me at every practice: greetings, observations on the scrimmage, even a few compliments.

  “Luigi, that was not very nice,” I whispered.

  Luigi’s eyes glinted. “I know. It was revenge. You did not hear what his team said when they won last spring.”

  Emi and Federico came through the gate next. For once, the mister was not standing over the bag of balls with his arms crossed and his face an unreadable mask. So Emi and Federico pulled a pair of balls out of the bag themselves and dribbled them over to us.

  “Ciao, Luigi. Irene,” Federico said. “I have a joke.”

  Luigi stepped out of the goal. “Tell me.”

  Emi rolled his eyes. “It is not very good. He made it up himself.”

  “It is a beautiful joke,” Federico protested. “Listen, what can Matteo do at any time except during a game?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Luigi?” Federico asked.

  “Wait. I must think a little.” After a few seconds, Luigi shook his head. “I don’t know either. Tell me.”

  “Pass the ball.”

  I giggled. “That’s not a joke. It’s the truth.”

  Luigi snickered. “Matteo can do it, you know.”

  “I have seen it,” Emi said. “One or two times.”

  “I have not seen it ever,” Federico said.

  “Me neither,” I added.

  “It is a beautiful joke. Eh, Irene?” Federico cocked his head at me.

  “Agreed.”

  “Uh oh! The mister comes,” Federico said. He darted away.

  By four-thirty, our entire team had arrived for practice. But only ten players were warming up on the other side of the field.