Taking Tuscany (12 page)

Day two of open season, I intentionally sit at the back table, in the darkest corner of the lunchroom, hoping not to be detected by the beehive in case they decide to swarm again. Somehow Dominic finds me and sits down. Is this some kind of setup? Do they send him over here first to distract me, then come in for the sting?

This time Dominic wants to know if I've been invited to Annalisa's birthday party.

Are you serious?
I'm not exactly on her top fifty favorite people list
.
“Um, not that I know of.”

Sure enough, just like clockwork, here comes the swarm, making a beeline right for me
. Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

Once again the birthday girl is leading the pack. “
Ciao, Dominic. Viene alla mia fest venerdì sera?
” Are you coming to my party Friday night?

Dominic looks at me, then back at Annalisa. “Is Angelina invited?”

Her fake smile begins to quiver. “Um, well, s-sure she is. You are coming, aren't you, Angelina?”

This is where I have the choice to tell Annalisa to buzz off, or go ahead and play this game.
Hmmm
. “Of course I'm coming, Annalisa I wouldn't miss it for anything.” I've been dying to see what goes on at these parties that I'm never invited to.

“Then, yeah, I'll come,” Dominic says.

“Great …” Annalisa walks away looking miffed.

Now I'm stuck—but I'm still curious enough to go.

I'm heading down the hall on my way to class when someone runs up behind me and grabs me by the arm, “
Ciao, amica!
”
Hey, friend!

“Bianca!” I throw my arms around her. “
Mi sei mancata molto
.” I've missed you so much.
If you only knew.

“We returned home from holiday late, but here I am. Hey, I just heard Annalisa talking about her party. Are you really going?”

“Amazingly I am. But she didn't want to invite me—she had to, so Dominic would go.”

“It doesn't matter.” Bianca waves a hand in front of her face. “Let's go together. Annalisa's mom and mine are friends, and every year her mom makes her invite me, and mine makes me go. But no one ever talks to me, so I always feel like an idiot.”

“Great, we can be idiots together then.”

It's amazing how much difference one good friend can make. I think it's true what they say, that friendship helps the world go 'round. I'm not sure who said it; maybe I just thought it up. But without Bianca, I'd be yelling, “Stop the world, I want to get off right now!”

Friday evening Bianca's car pulls into our driveway to scoop me up for the Sweet Fourteen party at Annalisa Tartini's. After making a mad dash for Mama's vanity, I sneak a dab of her Carnation perfume.

“A. J., Bianca's here!” Mama yells up to me.

Tweaking my crooked French braid one more time, I look in the mirror and flash myself a smile. Yep. The gap is still there. Better, but there. Trying to will my front teeth to move together is like trying to get two continents, oceans apart, to converge. Braces aren't an option because Mama thinks it's cute. Another nonnegotiable.
Oh, well, even if I look like a dork, I'll at least smell good.
I hustle down the stairs and out to the car. Bianca hops out and climbs in the backseat with me. “
Mmm
, Carnation?”

“Yep. My mama's.”

“Mine wears that too.”

Bianca's mother turns around and smiles at me. She is an absolute French beauty. Graceful and petite, unlike Bianca, who is tall and lanky. They both have cool natural red streaks in their hair. Bianca's is cut really supershort, all spiky, and shows off her big green eyes. Mama says Bianca's the kind of girl who is still growing into her beauty. She has the kind of features that teeter between awkward and gorgeous. But Mama says you can bet your booty that Bianca will probably knock everyone's socks off when she's older. Right now she is on the verge of beautiful, with brains to go with it.

Annalisa is just the opposite. She looks good now, but I think her glory days are numbered. She has a cute baby face, but because of her big teeth, she kind of reminds me of the horse who won the Kentucky Derby. And she is, basically, not a nice person. But Bianca is a true friend. Annalisa started being mean to her when Bianca left the beehive to be my friend. I'm still trying to figure out why Annalisa hates me.

The Tartinis live on one of the nicest estates in Siena. They own Tartini Vineyards. Annalisa's Sweet Fourteen party is sure to be the talk of the town, same as her Sweet Thirteen and Sweet Twelve parties—the ones I was not invited to. The Tartinis are known for throwing
grande feste,
really fancy parties. Pulling up alongside the huge water-spewing lion fountain in the circular drive, I get the feeling this will be no exception.

“
Buona sera, signorinas.
” Some guy who looks like a butler holds the car door open for us while we tumble out. Another house servant directs us to the pool cabana below. The entire pool area is lit up with colored lights that reflect off a twenty-foot rock waterfall that splashes into the pool. A row of torches lights the way to long tables displaying fancy ice sculptures and
piled sky high with gourmet snacks—including a cake that looks like something made for a royal wedding. Except—rather than a bride and groom—on the top tier stands a single plastic princess, presumably Annalisa.

I recognize most of the party guests from school, although no one acts as though they recognize Bianca or me. We're not exactly drawn into the center of the action. “Come on,” Bianca says, and points me in the direction of the hot tub.

We shed our clothing down to our swimsuits and plunge into the warm bubbles. Bianca tells me all about her “dreadfully boring”
summer in the south of France, and I share my harrowing parasailing adventure with her. After a good laugh I volunteer to go on a quick food run, while Bianca grabs us a few sodas. We reunite in the hot tub, happy as two pigs in a poke, left to ourselves.

Our private party lasts only until a few of the guys decide to join us. Why is it every time a guy comes near me, the beehive is right on his tail? Sure enough, as soon as Nicholi and half the soccer team hop in to join us, the little stingers are right behind them. They all pile in as well. I take this as a cue to hop out, before they start making fun of us. “Boy, I'm getting hot,” I remark, and make my graceful exit. Bianca follows after me.

We duck into the cabana dressing room, change into dry clothes, then slip back out to look for a new place to stake out. “Angelina!”

Dominic hails us over to a table in the game room where a lively card game of
scopone
is going on. “We need two more players to start a new game.”

Bianca nudges me on the way over. “Count me in,” she whispers.

Looks like it's me and Bianca against Dominic and Dario. As soon as we're seated, the birthday girl shows up and announces we're all playing Spin the Chianti Bottle instead.

Great.
I have never kissed a boy in my life. I glance over at Bianca, who appears as enthused as I am. Annalisa volunteers to go first since it's her birthday. She gives the bottle a spin. If it's possible to rig a Chianti bottle to land on the right guy, she'll be the one to do it. It's no secret to anyone who she'd like to lock lips with. When it slows to a crawl in front of Dominic, he leans to the left, and it lands on Frog Lips Fabio. I smile, while Annalisa has to pretend she's okay kissing a guy with frog lips.

As the bottle works its way around the table, I'm feeling more nauseous by the minute. It's Dominic's turn. The bottle spins wildly out of control, then, as if in slow motion, it inches its way toward me. Before it has a chance to stop, I jump up from my seat like I sat on a thumbtack, and announce, “I have to go to the loo!”

What an idiotic thing to do! I cannot believe I did that.
I'm probably the only one here who's never kissed a boy before. I don't care. Annalisa's party is not where I want to lose my virgin lips.

Once in the loo I'm afraid to come out. Everyone knows what a chicken I am. I can just picture Annalisa out there making fun of me …
bock-bock-bock-bock
. Can I help it if I've spent the last three years at a girl's school instead of at coed kissing parties? I start to look for a window to escape through but I'm three stories up. My luck, I'll land on my head, break every bone in my body, and still live to endure the humiliation.
Disfigured Yankee lives after jumping from loo window to avoid being kissed in Spin the Chianti Bottle game.

After ten minutes of turmoil, someone knocks. “Angelina, it's Bianca. Let me in.”

I turn the lock and allow her to slip inside with me. “I feel like such an idiot. What am I going to do?”

“Relax. You're not the biggest idiot here. You should have seen what Annalisa just did. As soon as you left, she barged her way into the spot you gave up, so the bottle would stop on her. Dominic took one look at her puckered-up lips, said he was late getting home, and headed for the door.”

“Really?”

“Really. You're off the hook. You were both spin the bottle dropouts, but the game is over, so come on out. Everyone's having cake by the pool.”

I crack the door an inch and peer out. Sure enough, the coast is clear. Bianca and I make our way out to the balcony over the pool where we can see but not be seen. It's nice to know I'm not the only one afraid of being kissed. It's not so much I'm afraid as I just want to be in love first, and that hasn't happened—in Italy anyway.

11

Gone to the Dogs

The reverend mother hails me over to a stack of wood pallets. In the time it takes me to ride over to her, she's scaled the pallets and is waiting on top to mount Caesar. Where did these nuns learn to climb so well anyway? There are definitely stories to uncover here.

The mother gracefully swings on behind me, habit and all. She's amazingly agile for a sixty-year-old nun. Once she's all straightened around, she gives Caesar a “
Corriamo
!” Off we ride into the night: a Yankee and a Franciscan nun, running through the moonlit hills of Tuscany.

The Secret Lives of Nuns

Entry: September 1972

Something's fishy. Where did these two nuns learn to ride so well? Most people only walk when they first get on a horse. These two nuns love to run like the wind. Besides that, they can scale walls and wood pallets faster than a jackrabbit can jump. Somehow these two nuns are connected—in more ways than meets the eye. Were they, perhaps, former horse jockeys? Are they undercover nuns? spies? KGB? CIA? FBI? the mob? Or, simply two common, everyday nuns who both happen to be in love with horses and extremely athletic. Doubtful. Very doubtful. I plan to get to the bottom of this. Nothing a little detective work can't solve. Agent A. J. is nominated for the job [I draw a little sketch of me in a trench coat with a curved pipe like Sherlock Holmes]. I second the motion and accept the challenge. If nothing else, it will help take my mind off my otherwise miserable teenage existence.

There is nothing as dreadful as walking into the lunchroom after having chickened out in spin-the-chianti-bottle at Annalisa's birthday party. Passing by the hive, I see the drones are all a buzz. Their beady little eyes dart back and forth from me to their queen; whisper, whisper, giggle, giggle. I may as well just hop up on top of their table and announce,
Here I am, the girl who doesn't smoke, kiss, or cuss!
Let's just get it all out there right now, have a good laugh, and move on.

Instead I make a beeline
for Bianca, who is waiting faithfully for me over in the social reject's section.
“Dimmi, amica
,” I say, sliding in next to her. Tell me, girlfriend. “How is it that the birthday girl can throw herself at a boy who runs away from her, and she is hailed the queen, and I'm the one who gets made fun of?”

Bianca ponders the question, and sighs. “The world is full of injustice, dear Angelina. I think it's because she has perfect hair.”

“Ah, of course. That would explain it.”

We both laugh. “One day, A. J., we, too, shall have perfect hair and the world will be ours. Until then, want to split a Bavarian cream puff with me?”

“Sure.”

I'm trying not to drool while Bianca pulls the gorgeous, gooey, fluff-puff apart and slides half of it to me. As I'm about to devour it, Bianca whispers, “Buzz alert.”

“
Buongiorno, Angelina.
”

I whip around and find myself graced by the presence of
la primadonna,
the queen bee, herself. She informs me that everyone at her table is having fun coming up with new names for me. I'm touched, of course. I glance over at her drones, who are looking on with smirky little faces. The boys are watching with keen interest as well, minus the smirkiness.

“
Sei un pauroso, Yankee
,” Yankee chicken, she spews, with her scrunched-up, troll-doll sneer.

I think of Rosa Bella, and I try to say,
God bless us, every one
,
but instead my arm involuntarily raises and I watch, like a bystander, as my cream puff suddenly leaves my hand, sails through the air, and splatters in Annalisa's shiny locks.

A collective gasp goes up from the drones, along with a burst of laughter from the boys. Part of me is mortified, the other part is gloating, and I'm not sure which side to root for.

“
Peggio per te
.” You'll be sorry, she hisses, just as the bell rings.

I get the feeling she's right.

On my way to the afternoon assembly, I make a pit stop at the girls' loo, only to find half of the bee colony primping in front of the mirror. I dart inside a stall and lock myself in, hoping to wait out their glamour session. No such luck.
Do I skip the hand-washing bit and dash for the exit? No, that's just one more thing they'll announce all over school: The Yankee doesn't wash her hands after using the loo.
Reluctantly I unlock the stall door and head for the sink. And so does the colony.

When I turn to leave, I'm surrounded.

“
Ciao,
Yankee.” Annalisa is standing in my way. “Have you ever wondered what you'd look like with short hair, Yankee?”

“No.”

I'm waiting for a pair of scissors to appear. Instead Annalisa puts her arm around my shoulder. “You know, I think you'd look really good with short hair, don't you all agree?” She tightens her grip on my shoulder while her three worker bees paw at my hair.

Tia holds my hair up to my ears. “Definitely better short,” she remarks.

They finally let go, then file out behind their queen, laughing.

Annalisa turns back and smirks at me. “
Ciao.
”

I'm standing in front of the mirror with four wads of gum stuck in my hair. I get the feeling that by the time I get all of this out, I'm going to know what I look like with short hair.

Thank goodness the only thing I'll be missing for the afternoon is a school assembly, and maybe no one will notice that I'm missing. Looking both ways down the hall, I make a run for the side door, and just keep running. Instead of running home, I end up in Angelo's barn, in front of a dusty, cracked mirror in his washroom. There are some things I cannot tell Mama, knowing that the reaction would be worse than the problem.

After half an hour of tugging, twisting, and snipping away with an old pair of garden shears, I finally give up. Dropping the shears, I pull what's left of my hair, gum still intact, into a ponytail, then take off down Poppy Hill.

I show up on the doorstep of the convent in desperate need of a visit with Sister Aggie. Sister Superior greets me at the door and says she'll ask permission for Sister Aggie to break from her chores. I'm told to wait in the
atrio,
an indoor garden of bright lilies in a sunroom near the entrance. It helps add some life to this cold, drab monastery.

Sister Aggie returns shortly, looks at me oddly, and directs me out to a small table on the patio. “We'll have some privacy here.”

I stare across the table, expecting Sister Aggie to comment on my hair, which is obviously sticking out in all directions.

“So, Angelina, what's on your hair … er … heart?”

“Well, it's like this …” What I thought would be just a few words, turns into a blow-by-blow account of my entire mess of a life. I launch out with Annalisa's party, followed by the embarrassing names at school, and work into the cream-puff incident. “I don't know what came over me … it was like part of me wanted to do the right thing … but … there was this other force … and before I even realized what was happening, I threw the cream puff at her instead. It almost felt like … I'm wondering if maybe I'm …
possessed
or something … ?”

Sister Aggie has an expression on her face that is not easy to read. “Angelina,” she says, “you love dogs, right?”

I nod.

“There's an old story about a man who said he often felt a tug-of-war going on in his soul. He said it felt like there were two dogs inside of him, a white dog and a black dog, that were always fighting with each other. Does that kind of describe what you were feeling?”

I think about that for a minute.
Good dog—bad dog …
“Yeah, that's pretty much exactly what I was feeling. Which dog did he say usually wins?”

She looks over at me and smiles. “The one he feeds the most.”

Ah.

“You're not possessed, Angelina. You've just described our struggle with human nature. Saint Paul admits to having the same problem.”

“What do I do about it?

“Well, you feed the white dog, and you starve the black dog.”

“Like how?”

“Have you ever heard, ‘As a man thinks, so is he'?”

“I think so.”

“There are two ways of looking at everything under the sun. God leaves it up to you to decide how you're going to react to life. Feed the white dog; life is good. Feed the black dog; things won't go so well.”

“So, white dog, black dog; good dog, bad dog; good and evil?”

“That's it. Sometimes it's easier said than done, but you should notice a difference in your thinking when you apply it. And the way we think affects our actions.”

Anything that can keep cream puffs from flying and hair on my head is worth a try.

Sister Aggie tilts her head to one side. “Angelina, did … something happen to your … hair?”

Oh, that.
“Revenge, Sister. Revenge of the cream puff happened to my hair.”

“Ah.” She smiles. “Let's see if we can't fix you up a little before you go.”

What took four mean girls two minutes to do takes four kind nuns and a bottle of olive oil an hour to undo. I'm struck by the difference in the feel of hands intending harm versus hands that minister love. Black paws, white paws.

Walking out the front doors of the convent, I linger a minute. Just standing on the front steps of a place like this fills me with something good. It feeds my white dog.

Passing by Angelo's farm on my way home, Angelo comes hobbling out, terribly upset. “
Cucciolo di Ci-ci.
” Ci-ci's puppy, he says.

Something's happened to one of the puppies. I follow Angelo out to the stall, and realize there are only three puppies. The runt is nowhere in sight.

“
È persa
?” Lost? I ask.

Angelo nods.

I take a quick look around the horse stall and corral, then tell Angelo I'll be back with my brothers to help look for him. It's turning dark and cold—too cold for a small puppy to be out on its own.

I run home and round up Dino, Benji, and J. R. to come help in the puppy search. This is one of the few favors I've asked where they've hopped right to it, no questions asked. Babies and puppies are a few of the things considered sacred to our family. Even Mama's concerned. She helps the boys round up their jackets, then whisks us out the door. “What's that in your hair?”

“Olive oil,” I tell her as I whip past. “The nuns say it's good for you.”

“Maybe on a salad, but in your hair?”

“Makes it soft,” I yell back, and keep on running.

When the four of us reach Angelo's place, we spread out to cover everything within a puppy-roaming range. Mama Ci-ci anxiously herds us around the property, nudging us on in the search. I'm wondering why she can't sniff the little guy out.

After nearly an hour of searching, it's too dark to see anymore and the temperature is dropping quickly. I hate to tell Angelo that it's about time for us to go home, and I can't stand leaving, knowing the lost little pup is still out there … somewhere. It suddenly dawns on me to try praying. After all, God knows exactly where he is.
Lord, It's me again. I know I've been feeding the wrong dog lately—the black dog had a big meal today—and I'm sorry. But there's this lost little runt out there right now, and if you could just help …