Wish You Were Italian (32 page)
Read Wish You Were Italian Online
Authors: Kristin Rae
Get a makeover
See Pompeii
Swim in the Mediterranean Sea
Have a conversation with someone in only Italian—FAILED
Eat a whole pizza in one sitting
A few more days pass and Mom finally dives headfirst back into work, arranging for the gallery to be opened sooner than they originally planned. Dad’s in California meeting with some photographer about displaying his work. Apparently I inspired them to support more than one type of art. I’m even preparing some of my Italy images for display. There just might be perks to working in the family gallery after all.
I lounge alone on the deck surrounding the pool. I like the chair that Gram always sat in. It makes me feel closer to her somehow, more connected, to touch things she touched. To sit where she sat.
The morning sun warms my skin more than I expected, and I’m just about to jump in the pool when my phone buzzes on the little table next to my chair, a sound I’m still getting used to after not hearing it all summer. Chiara’s name illuminates the screen.
“Chiara!”
“
Ciao, Pippa! Come stai?
”
“Oh, it’s so good to hear Italian, I can’t even tell you.” I sigh. “I’m okay. It’s been tough.”
“I am still so very sorry. I feel as though I should be there with you. For you.”
“I wish you were here too,” I say, fighting to keep the emotions under control. “How are you? Are you in New York yet?”
“Yes! I arrived early this morning and this is the soonest I could call you. We are in the same country once again!”
We laugh together. “Are you so excited to start school?” I ask.
“
Sì!
But I must tell you, it is hotter here than it was back home. Truly miserable.”
“It’s warm here too, but the wind helps.” I adjust the phone on my sweaty ear. “Hey, Chiara?”
“
Cosa?
”
“I thought you said you didn’t see Darren after I left.”
“I did not see him. I am sorry—”
“But I got a note in the mail from him. On the back of a picture he took of me in Rome.”
“
È vero?
What did it say?”
“Only that he missed me.”
“That is sweet,” she says. “But how—you gave him your address somehow?”
“No …” My eyebrows press together. She’s not breaking.
My phone beeps in my ear that I’ve got another call coming through. It’s a number I don’t recognize so I let it go to voice mail.
“Chiara, if you’re keeping this a secret for him or something, I think it’s safe to tell me now.”
“I promise to you. I did not know what you had planned. I only wish I had been there to meet him for you.”
“Well, this is all too weird then,” I conclude, truly stumped. Surely my home address isn’t that easy to find on the Internet. I mean, I spent hours looking for Darren to no avail. Apparently he’s not that into social networking.
“
Sì. Questo è strano
.” Chiara mutters something in rapid Italian to someone on her end, then says, “
Mi dispiace
. I must go now. Liana and I are going to shop in the city!”
“Okay, have fun! I miss you,” I say.
“I miss you.
Addio
, Pippa.”
We hang up, and I click on my voice mail button from the missed call.
“Wow, there’s a voice I miss hearing. It’s Darren. I really want to talk to you. You can call back this number. It’s my cell. Hope to hear from you soon. Bye.”
Holy. Crap. He has my number too!
I press CALL BACK and my pulse pounds in my ears. But it’s a short ring. Straight to voice mail. No. This is not happening. I hang up and try again. It goes to voice mail even faster this time, but I let it run so I can hear his voice.
“Hey, this is Darren’s cell. Leave a message and I maybe might possibly call you back. If you’re lucky.”
I clear my throat just before the beep. “Hi, Darren. It’s Pippa. I was actually on the phone with Chiara when you called. I can’t believe you have my number, but I’m so glad you do. I can’t wait to talk to you. Call me. Bye.”
I program his number into the contacts and listen to his message a few more times. Then I stare at my phone for ten minutes before I allow myself to get in the pool. Turning the ringer all the way up, I nestle it in the middle of a beach towel so I can reach it without getting out of the water. Just in case.
“Pippa!” Mom shouts to me from the back door. “Another letter from Italy.”
In what feels like slow motion, I race through the water and up the ladder to meet her. She sets the envelope and a sandwich with carrot sticks on the table.
She studies me, looking me over from head to toe as I dry off. “You’re so tan.”
“Spent a lot of time outside,” I say slowly, fingers crossed that she doesn’t want to talk too much about my summer of lies.
“And I don’t think I told you yet, but I like that dark hair on you.” She grabs a carrot off the plate and crunches. “Your roots are coming in, though. Maybe next week I can take you to get it touched up? Maybe bring Morgan too? We could get mani-pedis.” She finishes her carrot and smiles. The first smile I’ve seen from her in ages.
“That sounds great, Mom.”
“Hey, Pippa! Mrs. Preston.” Morgan appears from inside the house. “I rang the bell but no one answered, so I figured you were back here.”
“Hi, Morgan,” Mom says. “We were just talking about the three of us going to get makeovers next week. How does that sound?”
“Uh … great! I’m free!” She takes a seat across the table from me under the umbrella.
“Excellent, I’ll make the arrangements.” With a pointed look to me she adds, “But I don’t want you to think I’ve forgotten all the trouble you’re in. The coach always turns back into a pumpkin.”
I crinkle my nose. A small part of me thought she might let it go. “I know.”
She smiles, satisfied with her new parenting style, and heads for the house. “Would you like a sandwich too, Morgan?” she calls before opening the door.
“No, thanks. I already ate.” She waits for Mom to disappear inside before shooting me a
Who is this woman and what did she do with your mother?
glance.
“I know. I keep waiting for her to slip back to her old ways.”
“You think she will?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” I say, munching on a carrot and fingering the padded yellow mailer. “Bring your suit?”
“You know it.” She flashes me a pink strap near her neck. “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Your tan is amazing.”
“Right? I hope it lasts. Hey,” I say, investigating the penmanship on the address. “This isn’t Darren’s writing.”
She leans onto the table. “You got another one?”
“Yeah, but this one’s different.”
I pull the tab and peek inside to find a smaller envelope. Inside that one is a stack of euros. I count it out. Six hundred.
A Post-it note is stuck to the last bill. It’s written in Italian.
“Can you read that?” Morgan asks, on the edge of her seat.
I read it slowly, piecing together what I know with guesses at the words between.
“I think it says: ‘Pippa, I’m sorry about everything and I want to thank you. You have helped me more than you can know. You have helped me become a better me. A thousand thanks. With love, Bruno.’”
“You can read Italian!” she squeals. “That’s so unreal.”
I read through the note again, gaining confidence in my interpretation.
“It’s seriously pretty. Like from a board game,” Morgan says, investigating the bright green bills. “Why did Bruno send you money, though?”
“I lent him some.” I can’t help but smile. There might be hope for him after all.
We swim for a little while, then lie out on the lawn chairs. Morgan’s engrossed in some biography, and I bring out the red leather journal from my trip, opening it to the next blank page. I’d decided to write out the entire story of my summer, starting at the very beginning when my parents announced I’d be going. So far I’ve written up to the part where I see Darren in the metro.
My phone blares on the little table between us and we both jump. I hastily mute the ringer, then nearly drop it when I see the name.