Wish You Were Italian (9 page)

Laughter erupts from my mouth so loud that Chiara and I both start.

“
Che cosa?
” she asks.

I tighten my lips to hold in another bout, breathing slow and steady through my nose.

“Pippa, what?”

I wave my hand at an imaginary fly.

“You worry you made the wrong decision.” It’s a statement. Somehow this girl already knows me. “I do not want to influence you poorly, but the decision has already been made, no?”

I nod, not exactly sure if that’s the right response to her confusing question.

“Then why anger yourself about it now?”

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, pulling my shoulders up to my ears and tucking my chin to my chest. “It’s the Pippa way.”

Chiara pulls my shoulders down and gives them a shake. She’s right up in my face. “The Pippa way might be the wrong way. You have chosen, now you must live your choice. Regret changes nothing. Only makes you sick. Keeps you awake at night.”

“O, wise one,” I say with a slight bow, struggling to deflect with humor. “How old are you, anyway?”

She stands straighter. “Eighteen.”

“So I have another whole year to go before I see things so clearly?”

Her head shifts to the side as she searches my eyes. “I do not think it will take you quite that long.”

She winks and it makes me yearn for Gram. Her presence alone would settle any nerves. She’s really the only one I’m upset about deceiving.

“Why not tell them the truth then?” She presents her cell phone to me in the palm of her hand. “You can. Right now.”

I stare at the tiny phone, blood pumping and stomach churning. But I shake my head. I’m not ready for that much honesty. And the punishment that’s sure to follow.

Chiara continues, “Then you have to let go of what holds you back. Free yourself from it.” She takes my hands in hers and spreads my arms out to shoulder level. She sings the word, “
Volare.
”

“I know that song. What’s it mean?”

She closes her eyes and lifts her head toward the sun, stretching her arms out even farther. “To fly.”

So I fly.

I fly back to town on the metro line, leaving my worries behind on the steps of St. Peter’s, the largest church in the world. The pope can deal with it all for me.

From here on out, I’m not regretting this decision. I’m going to enjoy every minute, every catcall, every gelato scoop, sunset, pizza slice, and spaghetti strand. I’ll check in with everyone intermittently so they don’t get suspicious, take my prize-winning photographs, and have the experience of a lifetime. The kind of summer people only dream of. I’m going to live it.

Chapter Twelve

The train brakes squeak and Chiara hooks her arm through mine. “This is our stop.”

I look at the display at the end of the car but don’t recognize the name. “I thought I needed to get off at Spagna.”

The doors glide open and she sneaks us through the mob, unharmed. She keeps her arm in mine, but I don’t mind it there. It makes me feel local. Like I belong.

“Would you like to have dinner with my family?”

There’s a renewed spring in my step as we walk a few blocks from the metro and turn down a narrow, vine-draped street that I would have passed by without noticing. Chiara unlocks an unmarked door and leads me to the second floor to her family’s apartment.

The space is small, but clean and organized. The scent of garlic makes my mouth water. The cramped, lemon-yellow
kitchen along the far wall is teeming with women, each with a utensil hovering over a different bowl or pot. First impression tells me this is Chiara’s grandmother, mother, and sister.

The three women look up when the door closes behind us, utensils are abandoned and hands rise in the air. Excitedly chatting in singsong phrases, they swarm me. The shortest of the women takes my hands in hers and leads me to a chair at the dining table.

“You are Philippa?”

“Pippa, Mamma.” Chiara rolls her eyes and leans toward me. “Stuck in her ways. She might not call you Pippa.”

I giggle, completely overwhelmed with the warm welcome into a real Italian home. And touched that she already talked to her family about me.

My first impression was correct. My hostesses are Chiara’s grandmother Anna Maria, who speaks no English; her mom, Cristina, who looks only slightly older than Chiara; her sister who might as well be her twin, Liana, already twenty but still living at home.

The front door swings open and two young boys bounce in and run to Chiara’s mother, shouting, “Nonna! Nonna!” A tired-eyed woman saunters in behind them, and Chiara introduces her as Maria, her oldest sister. I’m starting to wonder if all Italian girl names end in the letter
A
.

Dizzying Italian words fly around me, and Chiara leans in to tell me that normally dinner would wait for her sister’s husband—her family always tries to eat together—but he’s stuck at work. I can’t even remember the last time my family shared a meal.

Even with Chiara’s father away in New York, the tiny apartment is bursting at the seams. It’s a little overwhelming for this only child, but there’s something comforting about witnessing it. Chairs of various sizes are brought in from other rooms, and somehow we all fit at a single round dining table. I tuck my elbows to my sides as I tear at a hunk of bread and guzzle a glass of water.

“Philippa,” Cristina says as she sets out the first course, or
il primo piatto
. “You are young to travel Italia alone.” Her tone is more curious than reprimanding, and I’m grateful. I’d hate to have to return to the Vatican and strap all my anxiety back on.

The fettuccine wraps around my fork, taking a basil leaf with it. “I’m used to being independent. I was brought up that way.”

“Good.
Va bene
.” She reaches across Chiara and pats the top of my hand. “You will be strong.”

I can only smile in thanks and wonder what it is about this family. I already love them.

The boys fling noodles at each other and one of them lands on my arm. Maria removes it and tosses it back at them, clucking until they sit still and eat with their forks instead of their hands. I turn my head to hide my laughter and catch eyes with Chiara.

“I so needed this,” I say with as much sincerity as I can muster. “You have no idea.”

She beams at me, because she does know. She’s got me figured out more than I do.

Our second course,
il secondo
, is sliced beef, asparagus
drizzled with olive oil, more bread, and cheeses. I’m already feeling satisfied from the pasta, but it all looks so good, I can’t help but take a little bit of everything. And I hadn’t even considered dessert, but Liana waltzes in with a chocolate torte. I don’t ask for fear of being rude, but I’m curious if this is a special meal for company or if they eat like this every night.

After
il dolce
is finished and the plates are stowed in the kitchen for later, Maria and her boys file out with hugs and kisses to all, even me. Liana emerges from a room down the hall shortly after, dressed in a tight red skirt and matching flowy top with a glitzy, beaded strap around the neck. Her black heels rap the floor with every step, raven hair rhythmically caressing her shoulders.

“Not even dead would you see me dressed like that,” Chiara says to me after Liana leaves, one hand propped on her hip. “My legs are not that nice. I want her legs,” she huffs.

“I want her hair.”

She clasps a section of my hair and lifts it up, letting it fall back down strands at a time. “What is wrong with your hair? It is perfectly fine.”

“It’s perfectly boring. I plan to get a makeover as soon as possible.”

Cristina’s voice beckons us to the sitting area. “What is next for Phillipa? Where do you travel to after Roma?”

“I was actually hoping to get opinions on that.” I shift, and a spring in the couch squeaks. Anna Maria opens her eyes briefly but dozes off again immediately, nestled in a cushy recliner that takes up a big portion of the living room.

Chiara chimes in, “Pippa’s plans changed last minute,
Mamma. She is deciding what she wants to do with her summer days here.”

“Ah. Difficult to find rooms now,” Cristina says, absentmindedly running a finger along the rim of her wineglass.

“So I’m learning. My hotel told me I have to leave tomorrow because they’re booked.” And in reality, one of those youth hostels is probably all I can afford from now on. I shudder at the thought of sharing a tiny room with who knows how many smelly people. And sharing a bathroom.

Chiara and her mom speak to each other rapidly, leaving me to study the tattered upholstery of the armrest. I’m torn between trying to decipher what they’re saying and tuning them out because they obviously don’t want me to know what they’re saying. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The only word I pick up is “Mamma.”

Cristina turns to me. “We would like to invite you to stay with us.”

“Oh.” I look around the humble apartment, wondering where they would fit another sleeping person. “That’s so generous of you.”

“We would love for you to stay,” she says.

There’s a flutter in my gut. They actually want me here. I want to say yes.

“
Per favore
, Pippa.” Chiara leans forward, excitement radiating from her. “We insist! And remember I am helping my aunt with her restaurant in Cinque Terre?”

“Yes. What—”

“I leave the day after next.” She stands and clasps my hands as if she’s leaving this instant, and her face glows even more. “I
want you to come with me! There will be plenty of room with my aunt.”

I sit up straight on the edge of my seat as the brilliance of her idea floods through me. Free lodging in one of the most beautiful places to photograph in the country? I’d be stupid to pass up this opportunity. And even better, I won’t have to spend my entire summer alone after all.

Chapter Thirteen

ASSIGNMENT NUMERO CINQUE: BE YOU Now, I have a feeling you’ve been a more reserved version of yourself thus far. Am I right? But with that last assignment, you’ve already faced your fears, so now reap your reward and live! Be the Pippa that I know you to be for your new Italian friends so they’ll love you as much as I do (but not so much that they keep you, because I totes need you back)
.

Make an effort today to become more of who YOU want to be
.

We have a whole day to kill before we hop on a train bound for Riomaggiore. I’ll miss Roma, but the pull of Cinque Terre is so strong, electricity buzzes through every part of my body.

After Chiara shuttles my luggage and me back to her apartment in a little two-person gray cube on wheels—the “car” she
shares with her sister—we walk to a shop without windows and pause outside the lacquered red door.

Chiara puts a hand on each of my shoulders. “Are you ready?”

“For what?”

A dark beauty in a tight sapphire dress slinks out of the door and passes us without a glance, her voluminous hair trailing behind. The scent of cherries wafts through the air. Jealousy courses through me.

Chiara catches the door before it closes all the way and ushers me inside. The cool air breezes by us as it rushes for the opening. Goose bumps pop up all over my skin, but it’s not from the chilled air.

“For this!” She waves her arms like she made everything inside the trendy hair salon appear by magic.

My stomach drops. Why am I so nervous?

I’ve never done anything to my hair except for the summer I wanted to be blond like Morgan, and Mom wouldn’t spend money on highlights.
Too much upkeep
, she’d said. So I took matters into my own hands and tried a poolside remedy: lemon juice. Sure it was lighter, but it took weeks to get moisture back in my crunchy hair. After that, I swore I’d never try anything else.

“You are slow to make decisions,” Chiara says. “You are bored with your hair, no? Mamma always says that if I complain about something, I must find a way to change it.”

“But what if it’s something you don’t have control over?”

“Then you find a way to live with it.” She grabs a fistful of my hair. “But this is only hair. And the control”—she points to a man dressed in all black approaching us with a smile—“has you for the next two hours.”

Angelo’s dark hair is shorter on the sides but long and spiky all down the middle to the back—a faux-hawk. He’s beautifully put together, like the exotic bad boy I’ve always wanted to like.

Chiara takes charge and rattles off to him with over-the-top enthusiasm, but he matches it, and together they pull me to a chair stationed in front of a giant mirror with a bright red frame. Neither of them asks me anything. They stare into the mirror while Angelo gently runs his fingers through my hair and Chiara mimes what she’s saying with her hands.

A head full of foil, a shampoo, cut, blow-dry, and one energetic styling later, Angelo swivels my chair toward the mirror, finally allowing me to see.

My eyes blink repeatedly. It’s my face, yet it looks nothing like me. My hair … I thought he cut it, but it almost looks like there’s
more
. It falls all around my shoulders, ends curling slightly every which way. And the color! It’s the dark chocolate I’ve always wanted but never thought I could pull off. Bangs reach from far back on the side of my head and swoop across my forehead above my eyes and down the right side of my face. It shines, it bounces.

“It’s perfect,” I say through quivering lips.

Moisture pools at the edges of my eyes and drips down one of my cheeks. I stand and reach for Chiara, pulling her into a hug. I feel one of my tears soak into the shoulder of her shirt. It doesn’t quite bind us by blood, but it feels close enough. I’m so grateful I walked into that bakery when I did. Somehow I know we’re going to be friends even after this summer is long gone.

Darren’s face comes to mind again, and I imagine his jaw
dropping in reaction to my transformation. I shake my head to clear it and look back into the mirror. I catch eyes with Angelo and tear up again.