Wish You Were Italian (7 page)

Ham and cheese “panino
”

Temporarily forgetting the tiny bed at the hotel is anything but soft, I fling myself onto it with a thud. I unwrap a hazelnut candy I bought called
baci
—Italian for “kisses”—and turn it over with my tongue until the chocolate melts away, leaving behind little bits of nut to crunch.

I boot up my computer and after loading all my new pictures, I give the Internet a shot and find that I still have access. There are e-mails from both Morgan and my mom, but I open Mom’s first, out of fear and the need to get it over with quickly like ripping off a Band-Aid. We haven’t exactly gotten along since she told me I was spending my summer learning about art and the ins and outs of being an effective gallery guide.

“You’ve always wanted to go to Italy,” Mom said, a hand on her hip.

“Yeah, as a family to do touristy things. Not to sit in a classroom while someone prattles on about old paintings that all look the same!”

“But it’s such a great opportunity for you!” she said, entirely too animated like she was trying to convince us both. “Think of all the background knowledge you’ll gain. You have to understand the early works to see their influence today. It’s our dream to have our own ga—”

“No, it’s
your
dream to run a stuffy art gallery and host parties and be the queen of Chicago’s social circuit. It has nothing to do with me! I want to study something real, like photography.”

“Pippa,” Dad chimed in with the even tone of a mediator. “If you don’t want to go—”

“Oh, she’s
going
.” Mom straightened as tall as she could get, towering over him with her power. “Arrangements have been set.” She turned to me again, still in giantess form. “Do you have any idea what it took to make this happen?”

“Apparently your firstborn,” I muttered.

She heard me.

Yeah, it all went really well. I’d definitely be grounded right now if I weren’t in a foreign country.

To:
Pippa Preston

From:
Mary Preston

Subject:
Re: Ciao from Italy

Hi, Hon,

Glad to hear you made it without any problems. How’s the school? Are they treating you well? I’m confident you will have a great time this summer. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.

I have to run. In the middle of a huge estate acquisition.

Love,

Mom

I roll my eyes. It’s even shorter than I expected. Although she didn’t mention herself in every sentence, so I should be impressed.

I formulate a quick and equally dissatisfying response, deleting the angsty parts like “Don’t worry about me, just take care of your work crap” until it’s even more vague than the last one I sent. I don’t know why I keep hoping for her to be different, but I do.

Next I check Morgan’s e-mail, which is longer than Mom’s and sprinkled with exclamation points. It’s just what I need to see.

To:
Pippa Preston

From:
Morgan Arrant

Subject:
Re: I’m in freaking ITALY

WHAT?! You’re actually LYING to your parents? Who are you and what have you done with the real Pippa? Not that I blame you. I’m still surprised you actually got on the plane in the first place. You should have seen yourself at the airport. You were a MESS! And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Just tell me when you get to school so I can stop worrying.

Let’s get down to business. What do the boys look like? Are they GORGEOUS?! Have any of them tried to lure you up to their apartment yet? Shove their tongue down your throat? Kidding aside, be careful out there by yourself. You may not know this, but you’re kind of adorable. Remember our mantra for all things scandalous: JUST SAY NO.

I know you’ve taken a million pictures by now, so pick out a good one and shoot it over. I need proof that you’re really in another country. I just sighed. Did you hear it? It’s our last summer of youthful freedom and we’re missing our Summer-o-Rama! I need my Pippa! Okay, venting over.

My jealousy knows no bounds,

—M

I sigh too. Morgan and I had planned out the summer before our last year as slaves to mandatory schooling—because college is essentially voluntary. Even though neither of us has a choice in whether we’re going or not, we at least have a say in
where
we’re going. As soon as we move our tassels from one side to the other, our classmates will scatter like ants on an abandoned picnic spread. Two things I know for sure: Morgan and I will be going to the same college, and it will be far, far away from
home. Far from the gallery of forced servitude, from the monotony of what my life has become.

Even just being in Rome for two days, I’ve gotten the itch. This is only a glimpse of what’s out there. Just one tiny corner of the world. I have to get
out
. I have to see more, and take pictures of all of it.

In my reply, I tell her she’s paranoid worrying about me so much, that I’m perfectly safe. I gush about the pretty boys—especially the
polizia
in their uniforms—and send along a hastily edited photo of the Colosseum. I also inform her that I’m skipping out on the art program altogether and ask that she please keep her mouth shut.

I realize only when I click send that I didn’t mention Darren and Nina. I’m not sure what I would have said.
So I met this American couple who showed me around Rome for a little bit. We shared pizza, then the boyfriend bought me ice cream and walked me home. Then I randomly saw them again today but I was on the metro train—that you made me get on—and they were on the other platform so I couldn’t talk to them and I’ll probably never see them again
.

My wide eyes stare at the worn bedspread but focus on nothing. Morgan led me to the metro. If I hadn’t gotten on it precisely when I did, I wouldn’t have seen Darren, and he’d be one day further away in my memory.

But I did see him. And he saw me.

I clutch the journal in my hands. Maybe there really is something cosmic about this trip.

Chapter Ten

“Mommy, I want to throw another coin in the fountain,” the child sitting next to me squeaks. His mother hands him one before he skips down to the edge of the Trevi Fountain, or Fontana di Trevi.

“Jude! Don’t forget to turn around!” the woman hollers above the crowd. “Now throw it behind you!” She mimes throwing it over her shoulder.

Jude smiles and tosses the coin in the air, just as his mom’s camera flashes, brightly illuminating the muscular Neptune sculpture and his loincloth—more than most of the sculptures around here are wearing. For the first time tonight I notice that every third person at the base of the fountain is also throwing coins into the pool behind them. Clearly this is more than the typical wish on a coin.

I lean toward the woman and ask her what it’s all about.

“Oh.” She laughs and waves her hand like either what I said was silly, or what she’s about to tell me is. “They say if you throw a coin into the fountain, you’ll return to Rome one day. You have to hold it in your right hand and throw it over your left shoulder or it won’t work.”

Jude climbs back up to where we sit, but leans against a railing to face us, eying me curiously.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi. I saw you throw in your coin. That was a good toss!”

His face lights up. “I’m coming back to Rome five more times!” he exclaims in all sincerity.

“I’m not sure it works like that, sweetie.” His mom gathers their things and stands. “Come on, let’s go find Dad and head to the hotel. I know someone who needs a bath!”

“Another coin! Another coin!” He grips the bar behind him and leans forward, butting his blond head against his mom’s stomach as he chants.

She fishes a coin out of her pocket and hands it to him. “This is the last one. Make it good.”

He stares at the dark circle in his open palm, then holds it out to me.

I’m not sure what he’s waiting for, so I smile and say, “This will make six times.”

He brings it closer. “Your turn.”

His mom is beaming at him. I try to remember the last time my mom was so visibly proud of me and come up with nothing.

She nods for me to take it and Jude leads me down to the fountain, instructing me to turn around. We count to three and I toss the coin over my shoulder, with Jude next to me pretending
to. Should I feel a tingle of magic work through me? Is my next foray to Rome written in the stars now?

“How long have you been here?” the woman asks.

“Just got in yesterday.”

“Oh, lucky! We’re headed home tomorrow already.” She glances at the Trevi one more time, eyes tired but bright. It’s love. She smiles at me. “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”

I stuff my hands into the pockets of my shorts as I watch them disappear into the crowd. A few coins clink between my fingertips and my eyes dart to the pool of the fountain. Before I realize it, I’m back at the edge, coin resting in the center of my sweaty palm.

This wish isn’t for Rome.

Looking around to make sure no one is watching, I hold my hand out over the water and turn it over slowly, but the coin doesn’t fall. It’s stuck to my palm.

I keep my hand steady and close my eyes.

I wish to fall in love with an Italian
.

Darren’s face flashes across my mind. Definitely not Italian. Definitely not available. But it’s too late. I open my eyes and turn my hand over. The coin is gone.

The girl I bought my pastry from yesterday is working again this morning, wearing the same uniform—black shirt, white apron, and white cap—like she never left.

“
Giorno
,” she says as I walk up to the counter. Her smile lets on that she recognizes me.

I reply with more confidence than before, “
Giorno.
”

She cocks her head to the side, studying me. “Something is different.”

My eyes close for a second as I laugh to myself. Oh, how I’m different, let me count the ways: I’m in Italy. I’m lying to my parents. I met a super nice yet unavailable guy I can’t seem to stop thinking about, and just when I convince myself I’ll never see him again, I do, all thanks to instructions I followed from a friend who isn’t even here.

She shifts closer, leaning onto the counter. “You met someone.”

I blink at her. “What?” I try to play dumb, but Darren is still on my mind and I bite back a smile.

She smirks and wipes a cloth across the already clean counter. “I recognize that look.”

I don’t like that I have
that look
. I need to make it go away. It’s useless.

“I think I need a latte. And chocolate,” I say, dropping a handful of euros onto the counter.

“You want a glass of milk, or you want coffee?”

“Milk?”

“
Latte
is milk,
un caffè
is coffee.
Un caffè con latte
is coffee with milk.”

“How on earth do you keep all that straight?” A tired sigh escapes my lips. “I have so much to learn, I don’t even know where to start. So how about
un caffè latte, per favore
.”

“
Brava!
See, you are learning already,” she says through an ear-to-ear grin. “I was fortunate to grow up speaking both. Much easier. I speak Spanish and some French, too, but not so good.” She points across the little room. “Sit. I will bring them to you.”

“
Grazie
,” I say as I shuffle over.

“
Prego!
”

I set my bag on the floor between the chair and the wall, and place my camera on the table. A small tray presenting two cups of coffee and a plate of pastries appears, and the girl sits across from me, handing me a napkin. A lovely melody flows from her mouth, but I have no clue what she’s saying, if she’s even talking to me. I stare at her, unsure of how I’m supposed to react.

She finally puts a hand on her chest and speaks slowly, “
Mi chiamo
—my name is—Chiara.”

I turn her name over on my tongue. Key-ahr-uh. “Really? That’s the name of my hotel, the Albergo Santa Chiara.”

“By the Pantheon,
sì
, I know of it.
Come ti chiami?
” she asks, apparently determined to teach me Italian.

I remember enough Spanish to note the similarity to “
¿Cómo te llamas?
” “I’m Pippa.”

“Pippa? This is a whole name?”