Expiration Dating (3 page)

It was peaceful, and I felt if I took one step a spell would be broken. The food looked too delicious to touch
even if I hadn’t been full; fruit so vibrant it seemed as if it would explode at the touch of the finger. The champagne bottles were chilling in pieces of art that belonged in a museum.

The
voices of the other students filtered through the still air. There was a collective intake of breath as the others experienced the awesome view. The fountain in the middle of the floor was filled with floating roses and tea-light candles. The tiny flowers drifted without creating a ripple, the flames reaching wispy fingers towards my face. The aura was distilled as one of the students flipped the cork from another bottle of bubbly. A cheer rose, and the crowd surged forward towards the tables. I remained stationary, staring into the water.

“Pretty, huh?” came a voice
from behind me. I turned and glanced up at a tall male. Being a vertical over-achiever, measuring in at five foot, eight inches and a half – never quite five foot nine, I tended to notice height first.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. We
admired the view, our elbows touching by accident. A five o’clock shadow dusted his chin.

“I’m Vince
nt,” he said, extending a hand. His smile seemed friendly.

“Vince, nice to meet you,” I said. “Did you just get here?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve been in Italy for the last six months going to school, but I had to come to orientation again since it was a different program.”

I detected a slight lisp
.

“It’s
very
nice to meet you. I’m Dana, brand new to Italy, and from my experience with the metro today I will need 
a lot
 of help getting around,” I flirted.

“Where are you from?” he asked, folding his arms in
accusation.

I hesitated,
“Minnesota.”

“A
hhhh!” he let out the loudest shriek I’d heard, flailing his hands like he had spirit fingers, attracting the attention of several bystanders.

Definitely gay
– bummer.

“You sound just like home! I’m from Minnesota, too.” He hugged me in a vice-like grip and instructed me to speak. “I don’t care what you say, just talk! Oh MY GOD. Your accent sounds like home!”

“Are you from Uptown?” I asked.

He scrunched his lips, dipped his chin and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “You know it.”

“God, it’s awesome to have someone here I can talk to about familiar stuff.” I shifted my knees in excitement. “You know the corner of Lake and Riverside? I worked at that bar
on the corner.”

“Drank. The name of the bar is
Drank.
Girl, you’ve probably served me, I’m wasted there all the time.” Vince grabbed another bottle of Italian beer from the cooler.

“Where do you live
, here?” he asked.

I did my best to explain the name of the metro stop, failing miserably. I was
in the middle of describing surrounding buildings when his eyes lit up in recognition. “Oh, honey,” he said. “I live seven stops off the Red Line from you. We’re close.”

Vince grabbed my hand and swished his hips down the hall, not stop
ping the conversation once for air. “Let me introduce you to my roommates.”

I fell quiet as h
e approached the largest man in the venue. The man was wearing a blue polo, which could’ve been custom made for a polar bear. His hair was shaggy and greasy. As I got within smelling distance, an overwhelming whiff of old cheetos mixed with sweat engulfed my nostrils and attacked my senses. I’m not sure cheetos expire, but if they did I imagined they’d have a similar scent.

“This is Cesare, one of my
flat mates,” he said of the cheeto-man. He pronounced it
cheh-sar-ay
. Gesturing to the tall brunette next to Cesare, he said, “and this is Josh.”

I smiled at
Josh, thinking he looked like a Muppet. I couldn’t figure out which one – it’d come to me. I shook his hand, wondering what sort of iron stomach he possessed that enabled him to live in the same house as Cesare without vomiting continuously.

“
Dana’s from Minnesota!” Vince squealed.

“We can be friends,” I joked to Vince, “as long as you’re not from
Minnetonka.”

Vin
ce guffawed in understanding.

“Cake-eaters,” I said
as an explanation to the others. “Rich, snobby people with nice houses and way too much money.” I looked around during the awkward pause that followed. “So… you said Cesare. Is that Italian?”

“Yeah, my last name is
Antoni. I don’t
exactly
look Italian, but at least here everyone can pronounce my name. In America everyone just calls me Caesar. Like the pizza,” he said.

“I’ve heard much worse. Actually, I hate the nam
e Andrew. It’s one of those names where everyone you meet seems to be a jerk. I could never name my kid Andrew.” I eyeballed Vince. “What?”

He was giving me funny looks, his eyes darting over my shoulder.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Uhm, I just wanted to introduce you to my other roommate. He shares a room with
Josh,” Vince coughed.

I turned around, surprised to find an attractive man,
no evidence of cheeto fumes or Muppet-like features. It was obvious he was athletic. His shirt was off,
probably in preparation for the spa, I hoped,
and he had well-defined muscles. It was unfortunate his height stretched only three inches above my hair. Not quite tall enough if I were to wear heels, I deduced. His nose was a little large, and his hair was sandy blond and slightly too curly. I had a feeling I’d seen him before.

“Nice to meet you, I’m
Dana,” I introduced myself with a handshake.

“Drew,” he said
. His voice was clipped – I froze.

“Drew, as in Andrew,” I
said. He nodded, unsmiling. “Sorry, I just… well, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I worked as a camp counselor and every naughty kid in my group seemed to be named Andrew, and I…”

I stumbled through an explanation
, “I like Drew. Why don’t you stick with Drew?”

Vince tried to
smooth over the disastrous introduction, “Andrew’s also from Minnesota! What a small world. I think we’re the only three in the program!”

I hoped my eyes conveyed gratitude to
Vince.

“That’s
fantastic!” I said. “Where are you from?”

“
Minnetonka,” he said.

Chapter
Five

             
“Well, then,” I said turning, my cheeks pink as the rose candles.

I started to slouch away
from the group, but Emilia nearly ran me over, grabbing my elbows and spinning me around.

             
“Dana, I have been looking all over for you.” She turned to Andrew, “I wanted to introduce you two, but I see I’m too late. I go to school in Seattle with Andrew.”

She flipped her gaze back to me.
“We came here together.”

That’
s where I’d seen him before; the man on the plane who’d helped me with my bag. Emilia recognized the awkward silence and excused us to change into our swimsuits.

             
“What was that about?” Emilia quizzed. She unzipped her jeans and hugged a towel to her shoulders. We tied our bikinis, both attempting to be discreet, as other females wandered around the locker room with a confidence I envied. Some girls had no shame.    

             
“Andrew overheard me making fun of his life.” I shrugged. “His name and hometown, to be specific.”

Emilia
winced. “He’ll get over it.”

I could tell she meant to
ease my discomfort, but I didn’t care
that
much. I felt bad, but that was all. Emilia pointed to a girl changing in the far right corner. The girl wasn’t shy, having shed her clothes seconds before in front of strangers. She flailed her arms, chatting buck naked.

We burst out in silent laughter
, shoulders shaking. She had a dark star tattooed right above her, well, her girl parts. We dubbed “Her Un-shyness” Star, a name with a nice ring to it. Much better than Sarah, or Michelle, or whatever her real name was. We shoved our feet into the spa supplied sandals, threw a towel over our mouths until we reached the spa zone, and laughed until we cried.

Wiping tears of giddiness,
we scooted to the hot tub and soaked in peace, musing aloud the type of girl that tattoos herself down there. By the time we emerged, the steam and wine had mixed in pleasant proportions, and we flirted with drunkenness. Emilia and I sauntered to the next station and exchanged stories over a mud massage. By the time we hit the sauna and showers it was as if we’d been friends for ages.

              I opened my eyes the next morning to sunlight laser beams piercing my retinas.

What
’s the point of curtains if they don’t block sunlight?
The transparent cloth fluttered as if mocking my pain.

My head begged for darkness
. I peeked through a small gap in my eyelids and realized there was another figure in the room. I shot into a sitting position, regret flowing through my veins immediately. I cradled my head before croaking, “Who are you?”

The figure near the window looked up at me
in silent concentration. She was framed in the glow of daylight, taller than me and more…cushy. She held a pencil in hand and a discolored notebook on her lap.

The sound of scratching pushed me
deeper into self-pitying misery; she was sketching. I rallied myself, realizing that I was
really
living in Italy, now – I was sharing a flat with a real, live artist. I laid my head back on the pillow, dazed.

             
“Hey, are you my roommate?” I asked, trying to give off an air of education after my garbled words a moment before. Here was a cultured artist in my room, and I could barely speak. I cleared my throat again, realizing the idiocy of the question.

“I’m
Dana. Glad your flight arrived. I heard it got delayed in London.” The girl studied me for a moment and went back to sketching. I sighed as my head hit the pillow. I’d try again later. Apparently, she was a tortured artist.

             
“I’m Maggie,” she said with a slow, careful voice.

             
“Nice to meet you, Maggie,” I said without looking up. Hey, I was tortured this morning, too. I stayed there, a mummy in my sheets for another fifteen minutes until I heard Emilia bustling about, much further along in the getting-ready process. I dragged my feet out of bed and moved past Maggie who was still sketching.

             
“Whatcha coloring?” I asked.

             
She didn’t answer, but my curiosity had been piqued. I glanced over her shoulder.

             
“Those are some nice mountains,” I said. I folded a towel over my arm, ready to hit the shower.

             
“The Alps.”

             
“Holy shit, you can see the alps?” I dropped the towel on the floor. “Where?”

             
Maggie’s gaze traveled over the same mountain range Laura had pointed out the day before.

             
“That’s incredible,” I said. I gathered my towel and strode into the hallway, passing Laura as she headed out the door.

             
“Laura, you didn’t tell me those mountains were the Alps!”

             
“Yes, I did,” she said. “I pointed and told you
gli Alpi
.”

             
“Hmph,” I said, turning on the water. “Guess I should’ve figured that one out.”

Damn these short Italians!
I stood crouched in the shower, too tall for the water spigot. Six months of squatting while showering. The shower head was just my height; it stared me down, squirting water straight into my eyes. I emerged from the steamy bathroom rubbing my red eyes, further pissed when I saw Emilia relaxing at the kitchen table, dainty as ever. She took a sip of espresso.

             
“How do your lips look like that, already?” I fumed. Her red lips didn’t even stain her coffee cup. Some people were just born more elegant than others. It was obvious Emilia was a
dress up for the plane
kind-of-girl. My stomach growled, “Is there more coffee?”

             
Emilia stared coolly at me, “There’s an
espresso
machine on the stove you can use.”

             
“Exxxpresso, sorry,” I mumbled, clanking around the kitchen looking for coffee fixings. After about ten minutes of puttering around, confused, Emilia put me out of my misery and demonstrated how to work the espresso pot. I hoped I had clanked around enough to invoke a headache for her. Shared suffering was so much less depressing.

             
“Where are the travel mugs?” I asked Emilia. She opened the kitchen cupboard and revealed an array of miniature teacups. They looked like a thumb thing that you use for sewing. Thimble, was that the word? There was also a row of shot glasses. I picked one up.

             
“You’re telling me, you want
me
to take shots of espresso,” I half-asked, half-stated. “Whatever happened to good old, twenty-four ounce cups with creamers, flavors,
fixings
?

             
“Dana, we’re in Italy. They drink espresso out of essspresso glasses. With an ‘S.’ You drink it with breakfast, over a croissant, civilized. And Jesus, do I have to dress you? You can’t wear sweatpants in Milan,” Emilia seemed to have reached the end of her fuse already.

             
“Yoga pants,” I muttered, “are not sweatpants.”

             
“Are too,” she countered.

             
“Fancy sweat pants equal real pants.” Emilia huffed out of the room. She probably had to go fix her lips after her tizzy. I turned back to the stove. “Hot! Why didn’t you tell me the pot was hot?” I shouted after her.

             
“It’s metal, idiot,” came her muffled retort from the bedroom. I rolled my eyes and took a shot of espresso. At this rate, it would be the only thing helping me survive the day.

             
My roommates walked through the front door, threatening to leave me behind as they headed off for the first day of school. I couldn’t let that happen or I wouldn’t find my way to class, so I raced out the door holding two bags, a glass for espresso, and one eye’s worth of mascara. The other eye would have to remain naked, nothing I could do about that.

Emilia
looked me over, noted the yoga pants and mascara (or lack thereof) and mercifully said nothing. We crammed into the elevator, jostling for a position near the door. Laura worked part-time at the school and had offered to bring us the first day.

“Where’s our fourth roommate?” I asked
Laura.

“She studied here last semester. She is traveling now, but should be back by this afternoon.”

“Maybe she knows Vince,” I said. I hoped he’d be in my class; I could use a face from home today.

             
Receiving more than my share of stares on the metro, we arrived at the Study Abroad building. I was shocked when Laura announced we had arrived. There was nothing to distinguish this building from the others around it; no school sign on the door, special gates or crossing guard to wave us in. Laura buzzed us in, using a code that I promptly forgot. We entered a landscaped courtyard, surrounded by marble stairs parading into an old building.

There were t
wo entrances; we went through the door on the right. Amid various shouted greetings from faceless Italians, probably drinking espresso in their offices, we walked single file through a narrow hallway. We broke into groups based upon our class schedules.

My schedule had
beginner Italian listed, which was located in the basement. Maggie was in the same class, or so I suspected because she followed me down the stairs. She had yet to string a sentence together in front of us. Emilia and Laura headed towards another part of the building for a history class.
Italian history, imagine!
I’d assumed all countries studied American history. I needed to shut my mouth shut before I exposed
all
of my ignorance regarding Italian culture.

             
Maggie and I were the last ones in the room, and she moved with surprising speed to nab the seat furthest to the side of the classroom. Neither seat was ideal, but the only remaining one was front and center. I took it, reluctant, and looked around to see who was in my class. As I looked around, I recognized a few faces from the dinner. I swiveled my head the other direction and ended up face to face with Andrew.

Not the face from home I’d hoped to see.

“Hey, I’m sorry about last night,” I started to apologize, but was interrupted as the teacher clapped her hands and began jabbering in Italian. I suspect she was trying to get our attention and welcome us to class, but I have never understood why language teachers speak in
that
language on the first day of class. When she didn’t switch to English in the first five minutes, I was concerned she actually didn’t know English at all.

             
After some hand gestures and scribbles on the chalkboard, she switched mid-sentence to English, explaining that within a few weeks we wouldn’t be allowed to speak anything but Italian in class. Since all I knew were a few swear words, I needed to learn fast. Then, she told us to pair up for an exercise.

“Do you have a partner?” Andrew asked.

I was caught off-guard. My head had been pointed the other direction, surveying my limited options. I tried to disguise my guilt when I met his eye.

“I’d love to,” I said

              “No better option?” he asked.

             
“I didn’t think you’d want to be my partner after the other night.”

             
“You’re forgiven.” He smiled, and we proceeded to be partners for the rest of class, asking each other clumsy questions in Italian. I learned that Andrew’s name is Andrew, he’s from Le Seuer, and he has a sister named Ana.

             
Class ended with an assignment, or so I thought. No way to be sure as she gave instructions in Italian. The class trooped upstairs and headed next door to the espresso café. Like a flock of sheep, we were afraid to separate and brave the metro alone. I grabbed a table and gestured for Andrew and Maggie to join me. Another girl from class already sat there.

Her face wore a sour expression, face outlined with blond ringlets. It looked as if she’d tried to tame them, resulting in a slicked back afro, complete with a curly nub at the nape of her neck. She wore jeggings, a bonus point in my book – fancy leggings are the offspring of fancy sweatpants.

             
“Anyone sitting here?” I asked, plopping myself down.

             
“Nah, go ahead,” she said. Andrew and Maggie sat.

             
“You’re in class, right? What’s your name?” I asked. She looked like she could use a friend, and some happy pills.

“I’m
Megan.” I waited for her to expand, it never came. I was stuck at a table with mutes.

Andrew caught
the uncomfortable silence and contributed to the conversation. We chatted aimlessly about class, Italy, the differences we’d already begun to notice between Milan and our hometowns.