Flirting in Italian

by Henderson, Lauren

  Now, in an instant, they’re my allies. Shoulder to shoulder, the four of us massed against the detestable Italian girls who are sitting across the table from us, smirking, knowing that we can’t challenge them on what they called us, because it will only make us look paranoid. I meet Elisa’s big dark eyes; she widens them still further in amusement, purses together her thin, pink-painted lips, and tilts her head to the side mockingly, her big gold earrings swinging. Ilaria, to her right, raises a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  You mean bitches, I think savagely. I’ll get you back if it’s the last thing I do.

  Elisa reaches for her wineglass, her bracelets tinkling in a way I’m finding increasingly irritating. She picks up the glass, and then, unforgivably, she turns her head to look at Kelly; the most vulnerable of the four of us visiting girls, the one who’s visibly most socially insecure, least happy in her own skin. Elisa raises the glass to Kelly; and, holding it so that her outstretched arm blocks her mother’s view of her face, she mouths “maiali” again, directly at Kelly.

  Tears form in Kelly’s eyes. Pushing back her chair, she jumps up and blunders from the dining room; I hear her sob as she runs out the door and up the stairs. There’s an awful pause.

  “Ma che cosa—” Leonardo looks at us, his handsome face open and concerned, as ignorant as boys usually are of the evil machinations of nasty girls. “What happens? Why is she sad?”

  I’m already half out of my chair, wanting to go after Kelly, but Catia’s basilisk glare has me snapping back into the seat like a well-trained dog.

  “She is homesick, I’m sure,” Catia decrees. “I will go to see her after we have eaten. Now we will finish our dinner.”

  We all bend our heads over our plates and tuck into the pork in silence. At least, I think wryly, we’ll all remember how to say “pork” in Italian. Forking some potato into my mouth, I meet Paige’s eyes across the table. They’re narrowed, her jaw set tight; she looks not only furious but determined. Paige is clearly as resolved as I am to make Elisa pay for insulting us all. I can’t see Kendra; Leonardo’s in the way. But there’s no doubt in my mind that she’s just as bent on revenge as Paige and I are.

  Elisa may have ridden roughshod over other girls who’ve done this summer course, made their lives a misery, I think angrily. But she’s met her match this time. How dare she make Kelly cry—ruin her first evening away from home?

  I stare at Elisa until she looks back at me. And then I raise my glass to her, and, just as she did, with my arm blocking her mother’s view of my lips, I mouth “maiali” right back at her, watching with satisfaction as she bridles in fury.

  You’ve got no idea what you’ve started, I convey to her very clearly. It’s war.

  I Do Not Do Megamixes

  “Kelly?” I push open the door of our bedroom hesitantly: it’s utterly dark and silent inside the room. “Are you all right?”

  Stupid question, I tell myself immediately. You’re an idiot, Violet. Of course she’s not all right.

  “Kelly?” I say again. “We’re all going out for coffee and ice cream in the village. Leonardo and Andrea are taking us. We were hoping you’d want to come.”

  I hear Kelly shift on her bed; the springs creak a little.

  “No thanks,” she mumbles, her voice thick with tears. “I just want to be alone.”

  “Oh, come on.” I’m not sure if it’ll make her feel worse if I insist, but I really don’t want Kelly to feel abandoned while we all go out to have fun.

  It sounds as if Kelly’s face is buried in the pillow. “I just want to be alone, Violet. Please,” she mumbles again, so miserably that all I can do is take her at her word.

  “Well …” I hesitate. “Don’t be too upset, okay? We all think Elisa’s a total bitch and we’re not going to let her get away with it. I had a word with Paige—she’s sure Elisa tries this on every year with the girls who come on the course. She probably doesn’t like the competition.”

  Nothing but silence answers me. Kelly’s said all she wants to say.

  “Well, if you’re sure …”

  I’m desperate to rush off: I dive into the bathroom, reapply perfume and lipstick, grab my lip gloss for emergency repairs, and run downstairs again, scared that they might have decided I’m taking too long and gone without me. I’m not friends with Paige and Kendra, and I have no idea what they’re like with boys yet, whether they share well with others. They could easily have chosen to take the two boys for themselves, swept them off to the village, assured them that I’m going to stay behind and look after Kelly. I could miss out on all the fun, and they could say, wide-eyed tomorrow morning, that it had been just a misunderstanding, they’d thought I’d decided to stay upstairs with poor Kelly.

  So it’s with a huge wash of relief that I see the four of them clustered in the hallway where I left them, chatting and laughing, the American girls’ colorful print dresses standing out brightly against the white-painted walls.

  “How is she?” Kendra asks as I join the little group and we head out the front door.

  “Not great. I hate to leave her, but she said to go. When Catia went up before, she was crying. Catia just thinks she’s homesick.”

  “Well, we know better,” Kendra says, a martial light in her eyes. “Ugh, that Elisa totally needs a reality check.”

  We’re outside now, walking around the house to the parking lot; Leonardo clicks his keys and a light flashes on a small Fiat. We pick our way over the gravel—we’re all wearing sandals with heels—and climb into the car, boys in front, girls in the back.

  “We’ll get her back,” Paige hisses to me as the car pulls away. “She’s got no idea who she’s messing with!”

  “Shh,” Kendra says, nodding at Andrea and Leonardo in front of us: Andrea’s already swiveling around, smiling at us.

  “So!” he says, as the car bumps over the dirt road and we all squeal and hold on to each other, the seat belts ineffective against potholes. We’re all lightly tipsy on the unaccustomed wine with dinner. “We go for caffé and gelato, and then we go to dance? Si?”

  “Ooh! Dancing! Cool!” Paige says happily, and I brighten up too: I love to dance, and have a pack of friends who all live in central London, near decent clubs, so we go out a lot. I’m relieved I didn’t wear high-heeled sandals tonight, though I thought about changing them when the idea of going out to the village came up; luckily, the ones I have on are strappy silver kitten heels, broken-in enough that I can walk miles in them and dance all night if I want to.

  But it’s exciting just to be out in the warm Italian night, the smooth, velvety air on our skin as we pile out of the Fiat in front of the village bar. It has a big garden in front, with a tall, wide canopy hung with white canvas over long trestle tables, and a low wall on which lots of boys are sitting, checking out all the new arrivals. Fairy lights twinkle from the posts holding up the canopy, to the trellises along the far wall, and the bar beyond is brightly lit, neon strips in the ceiling bouncing light off the shiny tiled floor and the glass cases of cakes and ice cream.

  My heart is racing like a high-speed train. Everyone turns to look at us as we walk into the garden, all the boys on the wall swiveling theatrically, leaning over to stare at us, unashamedly goggling, low whistles following us like a vapor trail. Andrea and Leonardo are smug as peacocks as they shepherd us in, throwing comments over their shoulders at the boys who toss questions at them; I hear the words “inglese” and “americane,” whose meanings I know, but that’s all I understand. I feel suddenly very vulnerable, in a strange country, where the boys can say whatever they want about us and we won’t know what they mean. I’m really glad that I’m not alone, that Paige and Kendra are with me, strong, confident girls who don’t look like they’d be pushovers for the first boy who comes along.

  But wow. The boys. I couldn’t blame any girl for being a pushover in this country. Once we’re settled at an outdoor table, positioned in the center, under a big light—like trophies Leonard
o and Andrea are showing off, I think in amusement—drinking strong bitter espresso from small china cups and eating fresh, sharp lemon sorbet that comes in real half-lemon shells, I can snatch glances around me at the display of sheer male Italian gorgeousness, taking it in with disbelief.

  Boys with short curly hair, boys with shaved heads, boys with long tousled hair. Boys with earrings, or silver chain necklaces, or big leather watchstraps hanging from their wrists. Boys in tight, bright T-shirts over snug ripped jeans or equally snug white trousers. All of them with tanned, smooth skin; lean, muscly arms; sexy, confident stances. None of them seem shy; none of them are remotely embarrassed about staring at us openly as they stroll past, or lounge against the walls, or cock their hips and lean on nearby tables.

  There are other girls here, of course; pretty, thin girls in miniskirts and lots of makeup. But they’re all a very similar type, and the girls at our table definitely are not. Paige is the only tall, fair-skinned blonde; Kendra the only girl darker than a Mediterranean tan. I’m less unusual, and I accept fairly humbly that I’m not the star attraction, though the way I’m dressed clearly marks me as “not from around here.”

  Elisa and Ilaria have come down to the village too. They’re standing at the bar, drinking Campari and playing with unlit cigarettes, deliberately ignoring our table. I sneer at them, but they’re talking to the burly bartender and don’t notice. Boys are whooping as they play table football over by the wall, bouncing the table, spinning their players, making extra noise to draw attention, trying to stand out, get the girls to notice them; there’s a palpable sense of excitement and possibility, of flirting and laughter. Guys keep coming up to our table, ostensibly greeting Leonardo and Andrea, but not even looking at them; they squeeze in on the benches, flashing big smiles at us, shaking our hands. It’s like a male beauty parade: they’re showing off for us, opening their peacock tails to display the bright colors.

  I glance at Paige and Kendra, who look just as wide-eyed and dazzled by all the attention as I feel. Paige, with her bubbly personality and blond curls, is literally surrounded by boys, and I can’t tell if she likes any of them in particular. Kendra is flirting with Andrea and a friend of his, her technique the opposite of Paige’s. Paige is loud, expansive, reaching out to draw more and more boys in; Kendra speaks softly, sexily, so boys have to lean in to hear her, entranced by her spell.

  “I am sorry about my sister,” Leonardo says to me, and I jump, realizing that again, I was lost in thought.

  I’m not sure how to respond, and besides, having him talk directly to me is a bit dizzying; he’s very good-looking, dark and lively and fun, with his sexy stubble and his self-assurance. Italian boys are as confident as grown-up men, I think; English boys are really shy by comparison. I’m not used to being chatted up by boys this happy in their own skin; I like you, you like me, maybe we could have some fun together? says his bright glance, straightforward and utterly charming.

  “She is a stronza,” Leonardo’s saying. He grins. “It is a bad word. I don’t know the English.”

  I grin back at him.

  “Well, why is she such a stronza?” I ask, making him laugh.

  “Good!” He claps. “You have a good accent! She is a stronza,” he says, leaning closer to me, “because she does not like my mother to have the foreigners in the house. She does a cooking course, some yoga courses, it is not just the girls for the summer. But I say, my mother has to fare soldi!” He rubs his fingers and thumb together in the universal symbol for money. “It is normal! My father gives my mother Villa Barbiano, but not much money.”

  “Are your parents divorced?” I ask sympathetically.

  But he looks amazed at the question.

  “Oh no!” he says easily. “Mai. Never. It is not necessary. He lives in Florence, my mother in Villa Barbiano. But Villa Barbiano, it is expensive. She must have people here to make money. And Elisa is—” He struggles for the word and finally finds it. “Proud,” he concludes triumphantly. “She doesn’t like to have people paying to stay in the house. But, you know, she has her car, her pretty dresses. Nice things. She is okay. So I say to her, she must be nice to the people who come. But she doesn’t like to be nice.”

  I can’t help feeling with a tinge of amusement that it’s easy for Leonardo to say—after all, he has the better side of the bargain. If the house were filled with four foreign guys every summer, he might well be grumpy about it, while Elisa would doubtless be relishing the attention. Still, that doesn’t justify her being a total bitch to us.

  I shrug.

  “We’re not so bad,” I say cheerfully.

  “Oh no!” Leonardo laughs. “Not so bad! You are much better—you are very nice! Molto bella!”

  And he picks my hand up from the table and raises it to his lips, kissing it as he kissed Kendra’s when he paid her a similar compliment. I didn’t realize before that he looked straight into her eyes when he did it; wow, it’s absolutely mesmerizing. It makes me feel hot all over. I’m more glad than I can say that I’m sitting down, because honestly I think I would go totally weak at the knees and grab at something for support if I were standing up when he pulled this super-seductive move on me.

  Elisa was right about her brother, I think, having enough experience to recognize when a boy’s flirtation skills are set to automatic pilot. Leonardo isn’t homing in on me with any kind of special interest, he’s just having fun with the girl he happens to be sitting next to at the moment. Leonardo is a big slut.

  But I rather like it.

  Just as I’ve reached that conclusion, and am smiling at my own observation, something happens that is the oddest thing I’ve ever experienced. There’s no way to explain it but by some sort of extrasensory theory, and as a rationalist I don’t believe in any of that stuff.

  Well, not much.

  Because while the most charming boy I have ever met in my life is holding my hand, staring into my eyes, his mouth warm and moist on my skin, I have that particular, prickling sense between my shoulder blades that tells me, inevitably and unmistakably, that someone is staring at me. And instead of ignoring it and smiling back as seductively as I can at the charming boy, as any remotely sensible girl would do under the circumstances, I’m compelled to turn my head in the direction of the stare.

  There are plenty of boys clustered around the wall, laughing, shoving each other playfully, yelling, competing for the attention of the girls. But somehow I know that the one who’s staring at me is the boy leaning against the post holding up the canopy, his shoulders square to it, his head ducked over the cigarette he’s holding, a tiny red point flaring in the shadow as he pulls on the filter.

  I shake my head and say firmly to myself, Smoking’s disgusting.

  I’m still looking, though. He’s tall and slim, I can tell that much. And his hair, dropping over his forehead, is jet-black, as if he were a hero in a manga book, drawn with pen and ink, two or three thick glossy strands separating into perfect dark curves.

  I snap my head back from the lurker in the shadows to the actual boy still holding my hand, only to see that Leonardo is looking over my shoulder in the same direction.

  “Luca!” he exclaims, dropping my hand to wave at someone. “Finalmente!”

  I am determined not to turn. Just in case it’s the same boy. I don’t want to look too interested, or too eager. Besides, he might be really ugly. Or spotty. Or have some silly chinstrap shaved onto his face—

  “Eccolo!” Leonardo’s saying happily, and it would be silly of me, by now, not to turn to face the person who’s strolled over and is leaning aganst the side of the table.

  I look up at him, and my heart stops for a moment.

  “Luca!” Andrea says, echoing Leonardo. “Finalmente!”

  “This is Luca, our friend,” Leonardo says happily as I think:

  Luca. Finally.

  “Ciao,” Luca says, nodding at us, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt tucked in
to black jeans, and silver rings on a couple of his long fingers, the cigarette held loosely between them. His inky hair tumbles over his forehead, and I see, with a shock like a knife to the chest, that his eyes, heavily fringed with thick black lashes, are the midnight blue of sapphires or deep seawater.

  I can’t speak.

  “Hey!” Paige waves flirtatiously at Luca, one of those girl-waves where you open and flutter your fingers while flashing a brilliant smile. I hate to admit it, but Paige totally pulls it off. “I’m Paige. And you’re hot!”

  Oh my God. Paige is brave enough to tell him to his face that he’s handsome, while I can’t even say hello. I am completely pathetic.

  “Questa è Kaiindra,” Andrea says, his arm resting on the back of Kendra’s chair, as Kendra smiles at Luca and says hi.

  There’s a pause. I hold my breath. And then Luca turns his head to me and says:

  “E tu? Come ti chiami?”

  This means “What’s your name”; I know that much. But he’s looking straight at me. His cheekbones could cut glass, and his dark eyebrows, elegantly raised in a query, are two perfect ink-black arches.

  “Violet,” I manage to say. I’m so nervous that it comes out casual, dismissive, as if I don’t give a damn about him. Which, actually, is no bad thing. He nods, taking a last drag on his cigarette and stubbing it out in the ashtray on the table, before he pushes off the table to stand once again.

  “Allora,” he says, nodding toward the road. “Andiamo?”

  “Come no!” Leonardo jumps up from the bench, pulling me with him. “We go to dance!” he says happily. “In Firenze!”