“Ecco,” he says softly. His fingertips touch my skin. “It must be tight.”
He wheels away from me and swings one long leg over the seat, putting the key in the ignition. Over his shoulder he says:
“You must hold on to my waist. And when I lean, you must lean with me. Okay?”
He’s waiting for me to get on. I mustn’t hesitate, or I’ll look as if I’m scared; I hike my skirt up and climb onto the back. The little scooter’s revving up, rattling noisily and cheerfully, like the cat purring on the wall; Luca looks back and says, “Aspetta.”
Quickly, he shrugs off his jacket and hands it to me. It’s leather, butter-soft, like fabric in my hands.
“Put it on. It is not cold, but there is wind when we drive,” he says.
I slip it on, my head spinning. The collar smells of him, as if he’s wrapped around me. And then, in turn, I wrap my arms around his narrow waist, I feel his warm skin beneath the light cotton of his shirt. He’s just lean muscle over bone, almost skinny, but as the scooter kicks into motion, I can instantly tell how strong he is, because he controls it with small, seemingly effortless flexes of his muscles. His shoulders bunch lightly, taking the strain of bouncing an old Vespa with two people on it over a road that suddenly feels much more rutted and potholed when you’re not traveling in a jeep with good suspension.
Dust kicks up from the Vespa wheels, white dust that scatters up to the banks of trees on either side, adding to the pale traces that are already there. It’s like a ghost road, a sliver of moon gleaming through the dark branches, everything black and white but for the yellow headlight of the Vespa swiveling back and forth as we bump down the road, a cone of light showing our way. If I had any idea about not holding on too tightly to Luca, that vanished the instant the scooter shot off; from the first jolt, I clung on for dear life. It’s like we’re the same body, leaning in unison against the curves, my head tilted into his shoulder so our helmets don’t bump, his chest rising and falling with his even breathing, his shoulders flexing with the strain of holding the Vespa steady, keeping us safe.
Being so close to Luca, pressed so tightly against him, synchronized with him, is so heady and intoxicating that it would be enough, on its own, to make me dizzy; but the extra factor of having to hold on to him so tightly as we bounce over ruts and swerve to avoid potholes makes me feel as if we’re in a bubble together, isolated from the rest of the world.
We pull onto the asphalt road, and the ride becomes instantly smoother, faster, the scooter puttering along, cars occasionally whipping past; to me they seem terrifyingly close, but Luca doesn’t tense up, doesn’t flinch in any way, which is hugely reassuring. The yellow cone of light from the headlight is tiny on the black road, and I can barely see anything until we rattle through a village with some streetlights. All the shops are shuttered up, the bar is closed, not a soul about, barely any lights on in the houses. It’s very late, I realize, and a wave of tiredness hits me, a reaction to the excitement of the party, the adrenaline rush of dancing, and the thrill of being on a Vespa with Luca. My body sags, and I find myself relaxing against him, my head nudging more comfortably into the curve of his shoulder.
As if we knew each other really well, as if he were my long-term boyfriend taking me home from a party, our bodies familiar and cozy with each other, I think. It’s a dream. A silly, impossible fantasy. But I’m tired, and it’s late at night, and I let myself indulge in it for the rest of the ride. I rest my head against his helmet and I close my eyes, the scent of him and his aftershave and the petrol fumes from the exhaust all mingling in an oddly intoxicating haze.
The Vespa turns and starts to bump up a gravel drive. I know this means we’re back at Villa Barbiano, but I’m in denial. I keep my eyes shut, my head down, even when the scooter crunches to a halt beside the jeep, and Luca’s leg shoots out to kick down the stand.
I draw in a long breath, and then it catches in my throat as his hand closes over mine, still wrapped around his waist.
“Siamo arrivati,” he says gently.
I have to get off first, I realize. And I’m embarrassed that it takes me a while to unwind my arms. Luca starts to turn and I realize with horror that my skirt is practically up around my waist: this galvanizes me and I jump off so fast I nearly fall over, dragging down my skirt so he can’t see my thighs. I’m wobbling, shaken up by the ride, and I hear him huff a little laugh of amusement as he swings his leg over to sit on the seat facing me, unbuckling his helmet.
“You like to ride on a Vespa?” he asks.
I take my helmet off and hand it back to him.
“Well, it’s bumpy,” I say.
I can’t really see his face, it’s so dark out here. There are a couple of lights on the villa walls, one over the main door, but that’s higher up; the parking lot is around the side, barely illuminated.
He stands up, towering over me, and puts the helmets down on the seat.
“And loud,” he says. “You know what ‘vespa’ means?”
I shake my head, my mouth suddenly dry, because he’s taken a step toward me, and his legs are so long that one step means he’s already standing in front of me, close enough to touch.
“It means ‘wasp,’ ” he says softly. “Because it makes a sound like a wasp. How do you say that?”
“Buzzing,” I manage. “It buzzes.”
“Buzzes,” Luca says, and his accent makes the word sound so funny that I can’t help laughing.
“You laugh at me?” he asks, and though he’s put on a serious voice, as if he’s annoyed, somehow I know he isn’t. “Girls never laugh at me. You are the only one.”
“Well, maybe they should,” I say without thinking.
“No,” he says firmly. “Only you can laugh at me.”
I don’t know what to say to this. I stand there, tongue-tied, which is very unlike me. It feels simultaneously as if we’re very close, and also miles away. I yearn for him to touch me, but I’m scared I’ll slap him if he does. I won’t let him take me for granted. Not after he’s spent the entire evening, as far as I know, with Elisa and not with me.
I think he’s read my mind, because after a brief pause, he asks, “You have a nice time at the party?”
There’s only one answer to this.
“Lovely,” I say, and I actually toss my head as if I were a heroine in an old film, being coquettish with an admirer.
“I danced and danced,” I add airily. “With lots of people. I didn’t see you at all.”
“I see you,” he says, “with Sebastiano. You dance a lot with him.”
I answer lightly, “Oh yes! He’s very nice. I really liked him.”
Luca’s feet shift on the gravel.
“He has lots of friends,” he says rather snappily. “Lots of girls.”
“Like you,” I snap back. “Elisa says you have lots of girl friends too. Foreign girls.”
Luca sighs heavily, and reaches up to run a hand through his hair.
“Elisa—” he starts, and then halts, as if he’s choosing his words very carefully. He sighs again. “Elisa,” he finally continues, “can sometimes be not very nice. Even to her mother, she is not very nice. It is maybe better not to listen to what she tells you.”
“This just in,” I mutter. “Breaking news revelation.”
“Come?” Luca stares down at me, fine streaks of black hair now tumbling over his forehead. “Non capisco.”
“Elisa,” I say in Italian as careful as his English, “è una stronza.”
He bursts out laughing.
“Brava,” he says. “Complimenti.”
And he’s very clever, because he uses the laughter to carry him toward me somehow, on a quick step forward, and the next thing I know he’s taken my hands and is holding them in his.
I don’t know what to do. I look at our clasped hands. It feels as if he’s cleared the ground, swept away Sebastiano and Elisa; has tried to tell me that he saw me dancing with Sebastiano and was too jealous to come over,
and that he doesn’t like Elisa that way.
Of course, he might just be telling me what I want to hear.
“Violetta—” he starts, and I look up at him, which is a huge mistake.
Because he promptly kisses me, and I’m not ready.
I’m still not sure that Luca hasn’t had a lovely evening flirting with Elisa, then decided, on a whim, to pursue me instead. For all I know, he’s going to go back to Elisa and tell her I’m not very nice. I don’t have enough to be able to trust him. I remember Elisa winding her arm through his, taking him out onto the terrace at the castello, and him walking with her without even glancing back in my direction.
My brain says I shouldn’t be kissing him. Hold him off at least once! it advises. Don’t kiss him every time you see him! This is not cool behavior! But it hasn’t sent the message through to my body, which is tilting up toward him, closing my eyes as his lips come down on mine. Our hands are still clasped together, and that’s weakening my awareness that I should stop the kiss, because the handclasp feels magically romantic, a knot held tightly against our hearts. Luca is the opposite of boys I’ve kissed before. He doesn’t push, he doesn’t grab, he doesn’t do anything until I’m desperate for him to do it. It’s incredibly seductive, because it makes me want more and more, more than just our lips parting, our tongues meeting, our mouths drowning in each other. I want everything, I want him so badly. My fingers wind through his tightly, pressing into our chests, and the surge of feeling that rises in my body frightens me with its sheer force.
I’d do anything. I’d do anything with him.
It’s too much. I wrench myself away. If I’m feeling like this, when all we’re doing is kissing, not even with our arms around each other, just holding hands, for goodness’ sake—how on earth would I feel if we were in a room together, with the door closed and no one to interrupt us? What would I do? How far would I go?
I know the answer. And that’s why I panic and pull myself away, untwisting my fingers from his, and blurt out, in a crude attempt to push him away verbally as well as physically:
“Luca—did you know I got sick after I was at your house? The castello? Catia had to call the doctor. I was really sick.”
“Cosa?” Luca looks completely shocked. “I did not know.”
“Stomach pain,” I say, patting my tummy. “I was really sick.”
“Ma cosa dici? Violetta—” He catches himself and goes into English with a visible effort. “With you—”
He paces away, striding in a wide circle, running his hands through his hair.
“With you, it is difficult!” he says finally, halting in front of me. “I do not know what you will say next. Or do next. I find you in my home locked into the passaggio segreto, and you say someone has locked you in, and now you say you are sick after you make the visit, and my mother—la mia mamma!—says you are very, very like my zia Monica, like her gemella—twin—and that is strange—everything with you is strange. I don’t know why it is so. And difficult!”
He buries his hands deep in his hair, the picture of frustration.
“What do you mean, you were sick?” he demands, staring down at me.
“I sort of fainted,” I say frankly. And even though it sounds gross, I add, “I threw up. Lots. The doctor pumped my stomach.”
“Dio mio! Violetta!” Luca’s genuinely horrified. “You are all right now?”
He reaches out and brushes hair back from my forehead, curls that got stuck there under the helmet. It’s such a tender gesture that a lump forms in my throat, and I swallow hard. I nod, and his hand stays in my hair, stroking it gently.
“Oh!” I say, remembering something I wanted to tell him. “I downloaded some albums of that singer you mentioned before. Jovanotti. He’s really good.”
“You like him?” Luca smiles. “He is very good.”
“Yes, I’m teaching myself Italian by translating the lyrics.”
He smiles again. I just want to wrap myself around him and hold on tight. Keep him smiling forever.
Above us, a door bangs in the villa, someone hisses a “Shh!” and we hear footsteps coming along the stone path above us. Whispered conversation, muffled giggles.
“Guys!” comes Kendra’s voice, pitched low and discreet. “Are you down there? We heard the scooter come up the drive.”
Nice and tactful, I think gratefully. If Luca and I were having a major snog, that’d give us enough time to disentangle ourselves and get decent.
“We’re here!” I whisper back. “Did you get Paige to bed okay?”
“Yes and no,” Kendra says quietly, coming down the steps to the parking lot. Andrea’s following on her heels like an obedient dog. “We got her upstairs, but she was all messed up and crying about the pony not being pink, and she woke up Catia.”
“Bollocks,” I say, with feeling.
“What is ‘bollocks’?” Luca asks, sounding very interested.
“Never mind,” I say firmly to him. “Is Catia really pissed off with us?”
“We have to have a meeting tomorrow morning after breakfast,” Kendra says gloomily. “To set new house rules.”
“Oh no,” I sigh.
“Yup. We should go to bed now. I don’t think Catia really cares that much.” Kendra adds cynically, “She’s just going through the motions. But, you know, we shouldn’t look like we’re—”
“Taking the piss,” I finish.
“Taking the piss?” Luca echoes, his accent so funny that I stifle a giggle. Not quite well enough; he hears it and aims a playful smack to the back of my head, which I dodge with another giggle. That’s the thing about Luca. One moment we’re teasing each other, then we’re kissing, then we’re fighting, or being serious. And it can change so fast, it’s dizzying.
No wonder I don’t feel in control of anything when I’m with him. And honestly, cool as he seems, I don’t know if he’s any more in control of what’s between us than I am. One moment I’m doubting him, watching him let Elisa stroke his hair; the next I’m feeling a connection between us stronger than anything I’ve experienced before.
“O-kay,” Kendra says, with an intonation that perfectly conveys what she wants to say. She jerks her head toward the steps.
“We should go,” I say. I look at Luca hopelessly. “Get home safe,” I manage, shrugging out of his jacket, which I’ve only just realized I’m still wearing, and handing it to him.
He takes it and flourishes me an elaborate bow, the jacket dangling from his outstretched hand, which should look stupid, but actually feels as romantic as when he held my hands while kissing me. I know I’ve gone bright red.
“Kaiindra—” Andrea begins, but Kendra’s already walking swiftly up the steps.
“Text me,” she says over her shoulder.
I follow her up. At the top I turn and look briefly at the parking lot. The two boys are standing there, looking up at us. Luca’s staring straight at me, and I have to look away to avoid breaking into a silly smile. Honestly, they’re so gorgeous. The kind of boys you dream of meeting if you come to Italy. Who’d have thought it? How lucky are we?
“Andrea’s really good-looking,” I say to Kendra in a low voice when I hear the Vespa and the jeep start up.
“Whatever.” She shrugs. “The weird thing? I love to, you know, hook a boy on the line, but when I do? I don’t care about ’em anymore. I’m funny that way.”
I digest this. “So you’re not really keen on Andrea?”
She shrugs again.
“Not now. He’s gotten all needy.”
“Wow,” I say respectfully. “You’re very tough.”
“I can’t help it,” she says simply. “I’ve always been like that. I get bored really fast.”
“Wow,” I say again. “You’re like a nasty guy. So look—don’t get upset—but if you don’t like Andrea, do you think you could leave him alone? I think Kelly really likes him, and if you don’t care one way or the other—”
“Sure,” she says casually as
she pushes open the front door of the villa. “No prob. Plenty more fish in the sea.”
I shut the door behind me. And maybe because I’m tired, and it’s dark, and she’s been so nice about leaving Andrea alone, I ask:
“Are you okay about forgetting that nasty comment Elisa made? You know, about you being exotic?”
“Because I’m black?” Kendra wheels around to look at me directly, stopping in her tracks. “Yeah, I was really mad about that. But then I thought, what am I going to do, not date anyone or have fun the whole time I’m here? Elisa would totally win if I did that!” She smiles, her teeth beautiful and white, but there isn’t an ounce of humor behind it. “I had a really good time tonight. Tons of boys hanging off me. And I could see it was really messing with her head—she kept giving me these dirty looks. So I’m going to get as many boys as I can running after me this summer. Just to make Elisa really …”
She pauses.
“What would Kelly say? Narked.” Now her smile’s real. “I want to make Elisa narked.”
I smile back: the English word sounds really cool in her American accent.
“Is there anyone you do like?” I ask as we tiptoe upstairs to bed. “Obviously not Andrea …”
“Maybe,” Kendra says as we reach the top of the staircase. “But I don’t actually like boys.”
I’m so taken aback by this I stop, trying to read her expression, and she laughs softly, turning away to the room she shares with Paige. “Just messing with you a little there,” she says, flashing me a smile over her shoulder that, even in the moonlight, I can see is genuine. “When I said I don’t like boys—I meant, I like men.”
And she whisks herself into the bedroom, closing the door behind her on the perfect exit line.
It’s Much Better This Way
Luca, I am all too aware, has still not asked for my phone number. A few days after the party, floods of texts are still swamping both Kendra and Paige’s phones, and Gianbattista’s already rung Kelly several times, asking her out. The only girl at Villa Barbiano who doesn’t have a boy getting in touch with her is me. Sebastiano wasn’t interested in me that way, I know. He was just a dancing mate.
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