I was so, so careful to wear the right clothes, to say the right things, and to be friendly and upbeat and have a sense of humor. But I started noticing jealousy amping up among some of the girls because of the attention that I was getting from guys. Then, to my complete shock, the Mean Girl comments started. One afternoon while we were all sitting at the cafeteria table, one of the girls I hardly knew spoke up…
“Oh, look! Here’s Alessandra, and now all the guys are going to be coming around—all for her hot Italian-ness!” I’d had to back off the Italy thing, and fast. I so did not want to be tagged as “the Italian” anymore and risk losing my new friends, especially Morgan. Nothing was worth that. It was all about fitting in and being just like everyone else, and that was absolutely fine with me. If only I could really make it happen.
Why couldn’t I be more of the rebel type and simply refuse the nanny job? I asked myself again for the hundredth time. Because I was not a rebel, I was now stuck for the summer, going back to a place I knew I didn’t want to see again, ever. Rebel? That was so not me, and now I would be paying for it. Crossing my fingers for luck, I promised myself that spending six weeks in Italy wasn’t going to make me any more different than I already was.
Five days later, I sat in the World Club, waiting for our flights to Amsterdam and then to Rome, remembering my stupid optimism about being able to deal with Carrie. I’d kissed my parents goodbye, promised to email them on the Cowans’ laptops—since it was too expensive to call or text on my cell phone—and I had my passport, and my bag. I had everything, except excitement and anticipation about the next six weeks; what I felt was more like dread.
I sat next to Carrie in the WiFi hot spot lounge, trying to read my book, while the Cowans worked on their laptops and Carrie talked on her cell phone and texted with her friends. She sat with her back to me—as if that would prevent me from hearing her squeals and shrieks.
So much for conversation with Carrie, but actually, I was fine with that. Her conversations seemed to be pretty much the usual seventh-grade “He said what?” and “She did what?” and I couldn’t pick up anything that sounded like real trouble, just a lot of attitude. She was contained at the moment, as they say in counter-terrorism talk, or so I guessed, and my job right now was easy. Easy—except for the growing worry I felt about going back to Italy.
What would it be like? Would I feel a complete stranger after having been gone for almost six months? How much Italian had I forgotten? The Cowans were counting on me, I knew, and not just to be Carrie’s nanny for the summer. They knew a little Italian, but they spoke French, mostly, so I was tagged ‘it’ for interpreting.
Worse, there was the big problem of organized crime and Dad’s job. Even though my parents had smiled at my worries, saying I’d be safe in Italy, I still couldn’t forget they had warned me not to let anyone know what Dad was doing undercover. To be extra safe, I probably should shut up about his even working at a winery. A feeling of dread seeped through me.
“Oh, my GOD!” Carrie squealed and began laughing hysterically. “No! You are kidding me!” she shrieked. Three other people in the lounge looked up from their laptops, frowning at the interruption. None of them were Phil and Nicole, still typing away, oblivious as usual to what their darling daughter was up to.
“Do you mind?” a woman in a navy suit asked in a cutting tone. Carrie actually heard her and scrunched up her face in reply. I hoped I didn’t look related to Carrie. Her long red hair didn’t look anything like my blonde short cut, and her freckled face hadn’t yet lost its pudgy baby fat. I sincerely hoped mine had. My friends always told me I was cute, but I thought my nose was a little too turned up.
Time to start earning my pay, I thought, cringing inwardly. “Hey, Carrie,” I said in a low voice. “There are people in here trying to work. Keep it down.”
The look she gave me could have stopped a train. “You’re not my mother,” she snapped.
“You’re right,” I said. I wanted to add, “Thank God,” but knew better. “But you’ve got to be quieter.”
“You’re going to be a lot of fun on this trip,” Carrie said, turning her back on me again and, thumbs flying furiously on the screen, began texting one of her oh-so-lucky friends. My face felt warm and I hoped no one had overheard our exchange. I hated to be dissed—not that anyone really loves it. Maybe people could see that Carrie was, as my parents would say, “quite a handful,” and ignore it. If only I could ignore it. Right. The Cowans were paying me to not ignore it.
What else was going to happen in the next six weeks to ruin my life?
Chapter Two
Welcome to Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport,” one of the flight attendants announced. The plane landed, bumping a bit as we braked, and we coasted to a stop in front of the jetway. Like it or not, I was back in Italy. My mouth felt dry and I took a gulp from my water bottle.
The flight had been pretty quiet from LA to Amsterdam and from Amsterdam to Rome. Carrie had slept most of the time and listened to music on her iPhone, and the Cowans had read or worked on their laptops when they weren’t sleeping. I listened to my music, too, and tried to sleep, but my heart kept pounding as thoughts chased each other through my head. When I did sleep, I dreamed in Italian, just as I had the last few nights before we left. Dreaming in Italian was just weirder than weird, and I hadn’t told anyone—most especially my parents.
I’d not heard a word from Morgan or any of my new friends either. I felt awful just thinking about facing them after the summer. Morgan’s disappointed face flashed in front of my eyes. What would I say to them when I came back? Six weeks seemed longer than forever. I knew I should email them from Italy just to keep in touch. I sighed, thinking of my best plans and hopes for finally being able to fit in during my senior year, crushed.
I looked through my mini-dictionary on the flight from Amsterdam just for a quick refresher for phrases like “please check the brakes,” and “the tire is flat,” in case my brain froze up, which it had been known to do under stress. If this wasn’t stress, I didn’t know what was—playing nanny to the twelve-year-old from Hell, and probably having to watch over her clueless parents, not to mention my worries about being called to interpret for six weeks. Lots of Italians spoke some English, though, so it wasn’t as if I’d be totally on my own. I hoped.
I decided to email my old school friends from the years we lived in Bari—Caterina, Maria, and Giuseppa—even though it seemed unlikely that we would be able to see each other. Bari was all the way across the peninsula and they were busy with their studies, even in the summer. It would have been fun to get together. Well, maybe something would work out. Then I sighed, remembering that, of course, I was being paid to nanny the tweenager, not to hang out with my Italian friends.
We gathered up our carry-ons and made our way off the plane to customs.
“Look! Look at them!” Carrie exclaimed loudly, pointing up. I had already forgotten. Up above us on ledges, all around the airport terminal, stood uniformed guards, the polizia, rifles pointed directly at us—the passengers. I had become so used to seeing the police above my head in Italian airports that now I hadn’t even noticed them.
“Are they looking for Mafia? For terrorists? The Camorra?” Carrie asked loudly.
“Shhhh!” Nicole whispered, grabbing Carrie’s arm and hurrying her along through the terminal.
“Carrie, be quiet,” Phil urged her.
“Seriously, Dad!” Carrie exclaimed, ignoring his request. “They’re aiming the rifles right at us!” At this point, I probably wouldn’t have minded doing the same thing myself just to get her to be quiet. Now, people around us were staring and frowning. There had been too many attacks and threats here at Leonardo da Vinci, or Fiumicino as many Italians called it, and the Italians didn’t mess around with security.
We managed to make it to customs without any international incidents, though the stern faces o
f the polizia stared down at us with narrowed eyes. Hopefully, they’d seen many girls like Carrie over the years and figured she was just another stupid American kid.
In the customs area, we stood in the non-EU line.
“We’re not Eeeeu!” Carrie said, making a lame joke. I saw a woman behind us smile. Did she think we were sisters? I hoped not.
Phil and Nicole fussed with getting their passports out. I handed mine to the official behind the plexiglass window and waited. He thumbed through its well-worn pages—I’d gotten my last passport two years ago and it already had plenty of stamps.
He looked quizzically at me and asked in heavily-accented English, “You are American—but you have lived here? Perché?”
“Si!” was the first thing that popped out of my mouth.
Then, in response to the guard’s question, “Why?”—“Mio padre ha lavorato per l’Ambasciata Americana.” My dad worked for the American Embassy.
He actually smiled—a little. Customs guys were notorious for lacking a sense of humor, so this surprised me. “Benvenuta, signorina,” he said.
Welcome, miss. My first welcome back to Italy. If only he knew how much I didn’t want to be here, maybe he wouldn’t have been so nice.
The bomb-sniffing, drug-sniffing dogs passed us, the customs guys passed us and our luggage, and I guided the Cowans through the airport, following the green signs to the EuropCar counter, where Phil had rented a car for our six weeks. I couldn’t figure out why we were going to need a car the whole time, especially when most of Positano had little, winding streets, some for pedestrians and motor scooters only. The town would be difficult to drive through, but that wasn’t my problem. We Americans don’t like to be car-less, I guess.
“Alessandra,” Phil said, looking up from filling out papers at the rental counter, “would you mind just hanging around, in case this man has any questions?”
I stood nearby, hoping that nothing would come up. Thank goodness, the guy spoke English and I did have my little dictionary marked at “automobile,” just in case.
Carrie slouched against a wall, her face in its habitual pout—an expression that I was quickly becoming immune to. In another line, I saw some young guys, Germans, from the looks and sounds of them, waiting to rent a car. One of them had noticed Carrie and I could tell that the three of them were making comments about her. Her jeans and top could have been from any country, but not her shoes, and her attitude was definitely American. That was going to be another problem for me, once we got to Positano—the guys. Mom and Dad had given me the “Watch out for the Italian Men” lecture before I left. They weren’t so much worried about me; they knew I could handle myself, but they were concerned about Carrie. I was, too.
Walking to our car, we passed a news kiosk. Large, black letters jumped out at me and I stopped. Today’s edition of Corriere della Sera had a huge, bold headline: “Nuovo blitz contro il camorra, 11 arresti a Salerno.” I glanced ahead at Nicole and Phil, but they were oblivious, threading their way through the crowds. There was a smaller headline underneath. “Produzione d’azienda vinicola é distruggito.”
Carrie looked at me. “What are you staring at?”
“A headline,” I said, not wanting to translate what it said for her. I’d read silently, “A new blitz against the Camorra; eleven arrested in Salerno.” My mouth felt dry. Salerno was the biggest city near Positano—sure, around the end of the gulf of Amalfi, but we had barely arrived in Italy and already I was reading about the Camorra. What was worse, though, was the smaller headline. “Production of winery destroyed.” This was exactly what Dad had been talking about—the Camorra threatening and intimidating winery owners so they’d sell out cheaply and at a big loss.
“What does it say?” Carrie asked.
“The Pope is blessing the animals,” I lied. I jerked my head in the direction Nicole and Phil had gone. “Let’s catch up to your parents.”
“Why is that such a big deal? The Pope blessing the animals,” Carrie asked. “Your face looks funny.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Not a big deal and we’re going to lose your parents, if we don’t hurry up.”
Carrie grinned. “Now that would be awful, wouldn’t it?”
My heart was thudding in my chest. Wineries and the Camorra. Not a good combination. Actually, a dangerous combination. Please, let it all go away and have nothing to do with Dad—or me. I glanced back over my shoulder at the kiosk, almost wishing I’d bought the paper, but deciding it was better to just ignore the headlines.
“Come on!” Carrie said, in an annoying tone, as she pulled me with her. She probably didn’t want to get lost in the airport without her parents, in spite of what she’d said. I took a deep breath and picked up the pace.
It was unsettling to hear so much Italian around me, and I tried to fight a creeping feeling of dislocation. Because I looked so definitely American, people didn’t realize that I understood almost everything they said.
“D’you know what they’re saying, Alessandra?” Carrie asked, after a young Italian and his girlfriend had walked past us, gesturing and arguing loudly.
“Maybe. Not sure,” I answered, not liking the “Alessandra” part. I had told her to call me Alex and she wasn’t doing it. I could refuse to answer her when she called me Alessandra, but Phil and Nicole called me that too, so it would have been useless. It looked as if Alessandra was here to stay, like it or not, but I’d have to be on my guard to make sure that my name was the only thing to be changed in these six weeks. I was determined to blend right back in when I got home.
We loaded our bags into the Volvo Phil had rented, made sure the air conditioning worked, and we were off. This was the tricky part. Mom and Dad had coached me on how to get from the airport to what is called the ring road that circles Rome, and then the exit for the Amalfi Coast. Reading the signs was easy, and I could sense the Cowans’ relief as Phil navigated the car onto the autostrada and headed for the Amalfi Coast and Positano.
I watched the landscape whiz by and tried not to flinch when Phil had near misses with cars zooming up behind us and swooping into our lane—it is true what they say about Italian drivers. My feelings churned as I looked out the window at the hills dotted with olive trees, the occasional random, crumbling castle, the tiny villages clustered around an ancient church bell tower, and the AGIP gas signs.
Unhappily, everything I saw through my window reminded me that my new American high school existence was fragile and uncertain. It seemed now as if I had never left Italy, and I didn’t want to feel that way. I’d worked too hard to get to where I was now, back in the U.S. with my new friends—at least, I hoped they’d still be my friends when I got back—to let everything be destroyed by an unwanted trip back to Italy.
“Dad?” Carrie asked, jolting me out of my reverie. “Can we stop and get some more bottled water?”
Nicole and Phil exchanged glances and looked back at me. A sinking feeling began to spread inside me.
“You can’t wait till we get to Positano?” Phil asked. “It’s only another two hours.”
“Please, Dad,” Carrie repeated.
Nicole turned around in her seat. “Alessandra, where can we get some water?” she asked.
“Ummm, in one of those gas stations we passed—the AGIP. They have convenience stores in them,” I answered. Maybe they’d just have Carrie go in by herself, or Phil would go with her. I was not excited about finally having to use my Italian on my own trying to get something done. Until I did, I was hoping I could convince myself that I was still really Alex.
Phil got off the A-1 autostrada and pulled into an AGIP. The familiar sign with the impassively staring, yellow she-wolf seemed to mock me.
“Alessandra,” Nicole said, “would you mind going in to get it?”
I couldn’t refuse. Swallowing hard, I answered, “Yes, uh, I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind.”
Maybe I could do this without saying anything in Italian. I handed the cashier the bottles and he rang up the amount. He told me the cost, first in Italian and then in heavily-accented English. I gave him the Euros, and he gave me change. I counted it—it was short by five Euros. Great. Now I had no choice. Had he given me the wrong change on purpose, knowing that I wasn’t Italian?
In Italian, I said, “Scusi. Mancano cinque, signore,”—I’m missing five, sir.
Startled, the cashier looked at me quizzically and looked at the bills in my hand. The people around me all stopped talking. No one expects an American to speak Italian, much less with the kind of southern Italian accent I had, which was—as we said in the U.S.—pretty “down home” for Italy. He gave me a crooked, shame-faced grin and handed me a five Euro bill from the drawer.
“Grazie,” I mumbled, scooping up the bottles before fleeing to the safety of the car. I’d done it. It looked as if I could still communicate with no problem, but I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or worried to know how thoroughly Italian I still might be.
Secrets in Translation Page 2