CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (6 page)

“You think so, eh?” Puccio growled at
him.  “Well, why don’t you and your fantasy team just bl....”  He cut himself
off, held back by the presence of the young ladies.

 Lucrezia, on hearing those words, threw
off the torpor which had held her back all evening.  She had an itch that
desperately needed to be scratched: Matteo had protected Marika and not
her
there in the stadium, and this was unacceptable.  The question, “
How can he
prefer that absurdly pathetic thing to me?
” had been racing through her
mind all evening, cackling like some evil witch.  Competing with Marika would
be something new, and if Marika had fallen in love with her prey, so much the
better... it would make it all the more exciting.  And the fact that the prey
himself was so gorgeous, and so hard-to-get, was just the cherry on top.  “Don’t
worry, Puccio!”  It had become a question of principle, a fight to the last
woman standing: that insignificant insect had to be crushed under her Prada
heels.  “We aren’t scandalized by a simple blow job!”  Then she brought her
hand theatrically to her mouth.  “Oh, Marika, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were
listening.  Cover your ears so you don’t hear any more of these dirty things! 
We all know that you failed that subject time and again.”

All faces turned toward Marika, a bit in
sympathy, but more out of curiosity to see how she would stand up to this
attack.  But Matteo beat her to it.  “Lucrezia, babe, if you’re looking for
some action, I can always drop you off on Zara Street with the other
street-walkers... it’s on my way,” he said, smiling venomously.  The group
broke into laughter, while Matteo asked Marika to hop in the car... in the
front seat.

Lucrezia didn’t dare object.  She thrust
her hands into her pockets and plopped down into the back seat, fuming.

There was a sort of mystical peace in the
car on the way home, similar to what you feel when you pass a difficult exam,
or are sick on the day of a pop quiz.

When they reached their highway exit, it
was already past midnight, and it took them another fifteen minutes to get to
Lonigo.  The first to be dropped off was Lucrezia, then Carlotta.  Then it was
Marika’s turn.  Before she closed the car door, she shyly asked Matteo – though
it was hardly the first time – if he could pick her up after school tomorrow.

While she was trying to justify herself,
saying that she had to leave her scooter at the mechanic’s for a problem with
the ignition, he interrupted her.  “No problem.  When do you get out?”

“After fifth period.”  Smiling ear to ear,
she said goodnight to both of them.  “Thanks!”  Walking on air, she entered her
home, anxious to tell her parents – who were obviously waiting up for her in
the living room, pretending to watch a serious nighttime news program – all
about her exhilarating evening.

NOT EVERYONE IS BORN TO BE A SHOWGIRL

Monday, third
period.  A high-pitched voice rose from the front of the class.  “Everyone, I
expect your essays, and I repeat,
essays
– not summaries – on Carlo
Goldoni’s
The Mistress of the Inn
by Wednesday.”  The lit teacher, Mrs.
Costa, was the typical lit teacher; no longer young, clothes out of date and
totally out of fashion, hair wound up in a straw-blond ball around a pencil,
and wrinkles in her face from too much exultation over Dante’s genius.

While she valiantly kept up her effort to
assign their homework, the whole class was a hum of energy, waiting for the
break period.

The second the bell rang, freeing them,
Marika rushed down the hall to meet up with Carlotta, who was languidly leaning
against the handrail, sucking on a sticky raspberry lollipop.  Marika caught
her breath and looked around herself carefully.  “Matteo’s picking me up today.” 
The butterflies in her stomach began flying just at the thought of it.  “I’m so
nervous!”

“Even though you’ve known him since you
were in diapers?”

“I know... but everything’s so different now,
so new, so electric!”

Carlotta sighed, “Oh my sweet cousin, what
am
I to do with you?  Come on, show some guts and make a move!  I have
the distinct feeling that he won’t say no, trust me.”

“Yeah right!” Marika objected, her face
falling.

“I can ask Dario to say something to him
if you want.  He’d never say no to me.”

“Don’t even joke about a thing like that!”
Marika blurted, alarmed.  “I’d have to move to the Pitcairn Islands forever.” 
She blushed just thinking about it.

The Pitcairn Islands – the subject of an
improvised lesson earlier in the day on the history of film by a substitute
teacher desperately trying to tame his students – are an archipelago of four
volcanic islands in the South Pacific; they are a British territory, though
only one of them, Pitcairn, discovered in 1767, is inhabited.  Population,
roughly 50.  The island was the refuge for the mutineers of the
Bounty
and their Tahitian consorts, a true story brought to life on the silver screen
by Hollywood.

Brrriiiiiiing!!!!

“See you tonight at my place, then.” 
Feeling romantic, she said, “We’ll watch
The Holiday
again.”

“A classic!” Carlotta agreed, heading down
the hallway toward her classroom.

Marika followed her, dreamily, her head in
the clouds.  “Two more periods, and then....”

“What a drag,” her cousin muttered as she
entered class, watching Marika disappear into the last room on the right.

One hour of math, then one more of
religion... they felt interminable.  Her palms had gotten sweaty, and her level
of concentration was less than zero.  Everything revolved around him, around
Matteo, who would soon be at her side.

At the end of class, she rushed down into
the atrium with all of the other students, her legs quivering and her breath
getting shorter and shorter.  “
What’s happening to me?
” she asked
herself nervously.  “
Come on, Marika, snap out of it!  It’s only Matteo
.” 
But the sound of that name in her head was like an electric shock running down
her spine.

She took deep anti-panic breaths until she
located the Alfa Romeo parked outside.  He was radiant, leaning against it with
his arms crossed.

It was a splendid day.  A warm wind was
blowing, sweeping away all clouds and haze; the only mark in the blue sky was
that of the golden early autumn sun.

Matteo was wearing an aviator-style,
tobacco leather jacket over tapered, button-fly jeans.

He was an unbelievable sight: so handsome
he could drive you crazy, and sexy, way too sexy for him to ever notice a girl
like her.  “
Guys like Matteo don’t go for girls like me; since the beginning
of time they have gone out with cheerleader types, not with the girl-next-door
.” 
It was thoughts like these that revealed Marika’s inherent lack of
self-confidence, in spite of what she really was.

Her vision of reality was clouded by the
insecurities of her age and by the ideas of her generation.  If she had lived
during the time when art was inspired by feminine beauty, she would have been
somebody’s muse, because Marika had a rare, natural, immediate beauty, a true
beauty complete with small imperfections.  A round, slightly elongated face
with high cheekbones gave her a naive, innocent look.  Her lips were full and
well-shaped, the color of ripe cherries, while her hazel eyes with amber and
pistachio specks were accentuated by long dark lashes and luminous light brown
hair.  Her body was graceful and shapely, and she stood at about 5 feet 6 inches
tall.  For years now she had been in a constant battle with her scale, and on
bad days she often felt crushed by the comments of those who thought she wasn’t
thin enough for the popular standards of a size 0 model.

Every time she argued bitterly with the
mirror, her father would scold her for thinking of the world in only two sizes,
heavyweight and flyweight, forgetting about the other sizes known as “ideal
weight”.  “
And it’s only natural to put on a few pounds during the winter
which you will lose during the summer
,” he would continue, blathering on.

She was irrationally convinced that no one
found her attractive, much less someone like Matteo.  How many times had she
heard the guys in her group, like Valerio, go on and on about the physical
qualities a girl should have in order to be considered beautiful: super-skinny,
waif-like, mannequin-esque... just like Lucrezia!

At the school doors, she noticed the
provocative glances of her classmates who were staring at him like a
cream-filled doughnut at breakfast, while he raised his hand halfway above his
head and signaled Marika before getting back behind the wheel.  Those same
gazes, equal parts envious and complimentary, accompanied her all the way to
the car.

“Hey, Matt!” she said, smiling and excited,
sliding into the passenger seat.

“Hi.”  The engine started and the car
slowly drove past the crowd of students lined up for the bus.

“Didn’t you see Livia?” she asked him,
pointing at the short, gabby brunette.  “She was waving at you.”

“No.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t
see her.” And his indifference toward other girls was like a drug for her.

The drive home lasted on average just
under fifteen minutes, and the first five were spent in silence, listening to
Vasco Rossi.

“Are you coming on Saturday to watch us
play against
Dogado
?”

“Of course,” Marika said, relieved that
the embarrassing elevator silence had been broken.  “Same time, same place?”

“We’ve absolutely got to win,” he said,
ignoring her.  “
Dogado
is a bunch of losers at the bottom of the
rankings.”

“Well then, keep lobbing those perfect
passes towards Marcello’s head!”  She reveled in being able to show off her
soccer knowledge.

“Marcello’s not the only one who can
score, you know.”  He took advantage of a red light to turn an accusatory stare
on her.  “Until proven otherwise, I boast a pretty-good average of goals per
game for not being a forward,” he upbraided her, pretending to be angry.

Unable to think up a quick defense, Marika
tried to make up for her awkward technical advice by saying, “I didn’t mean
that, I was just trying to....”

“I’m kidding!”  Matteo burst into his
infectious and open laughter, looking her again in the face.  “Don’t worry, I
know you’re my greatest fan, though don’t ever tell my brother I said so.”

“
If you could only know exactly how big
a fan I am,
” she thought, unconsciously puckering her lips.  “As you wish...
I’ll let him believe that he’s the biggest die-hard around.”

He smiled at her, then launched into
another discussion based on his team’s recent performance.  “Last week I felt
really good: no mistakes except for a couple of clearings at most.”

“I know, I was there.”  She glanced out
the window at the pedestrians.  “But you have to stop being so selfish with the
ball.”

“I know, I know... you’re right, but all I
want to do is score.  It’s the only thing I can think of out there.”  He was to
die for, so gorgeous in the amber colors of the fall sunshine.  “And last week
half of the team was missing.  After the first few stolen balls, I started to
get nervous.”

“On the other hand,” she sighed, “the
stands were full of people yelling, ‘Go Zovigo, take it yourself!’”

“Really?”  Pleased with this news, Matteo
begged her to go on.

“Are you kidding?” she said forcefully.  “In
truth, I was hoping you would do it too.  Even though by playing like that, you’re
going to get fouled again and again,” she admitted, using her hands to imitate
chopping wood.

“Tell me about it,” he confirmed.  “Their
number 6 came at me with his leg raised like a hatchet!  If he gets me better,
he breaks my leg!”

“I was so afraid that you had really hurt
yourself.”  The worry that she had felt at that moment was tangible in her
words.

Turning onto Palladio Road, they spied
Ferdinando Vendramini, Marika’s father, mowing his enormous front lawn. 
Pulling to the side of the road, Matteo rolled down the window and said to him
politely, “Hard at work, sir?”

“Hard enough.  It’s a crummy job.  With
all these flowers everywhere, I have to be extra careful.”  He caught his
breath and emptied the bag full of cut grass.  “Otherwise, someone here will
call the environmental cops on me for vandalism,” he said, eyeing his
daughter.  “By the way, thanks for driving her home.”

“No problem, sir.  I get out after fifth
period too.”  He put his sunglasses back on, which he had removed out of
respect while speaking with Ferdinando, and turned the key.  “See you later,
sir.  I’m going to get home for lunch.”

“Sounds like a good idea.  Marika, ask
your mother if lunch is ready.”  He looked impatiently at his daughter, who
made no move to enter the house.”

“Goodbye!”  Matteo eased the car into
gear.  “See ya, Marika.”

“Bye Matt, ...and thanks!” Marika howled
after the car, her voice rising two octaves.  “See you Saturday at the match!”

“
To be or not to be, that is the question;

Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles...
”

After lunch, Marika made time for a chat
with Carlotta and a couple hours of studying, the bare minimum required for
reviewing her English lit –
Hamlet
– and finishing her math homework on
exponential equations.  At 6:20 she hollered to her mother, “Mom, where are my
flip-flops for the pool?”

“I put them out to dry on the balcony.  Go
ahead and grab them, they’ve been out there since this morning.”  Paola
Vendramini stretched her stiff back and pointed toward the door.

“Where?!?” Marika whined, exasperated. 
She had lost track of time on WhatsApp with her cousin and had only 10 minutes
to get to the bus stop and catch the bus to Lonigo.  From there, it was about a
half-mile walk to the sports complex, a walk that she usually made while
listening to the most recent downloads on her iPod.

The
Rocket Splitters
synchronized
swim team was made up of five girls, more or less the same age, who were in
love with the sport but far too old to even think about competing seriously in
it.  The coach, Ambra Frison, a former professional just past thirty, was tall
and slender, with long dark blond hair that she kept in an elegant chignon at
the base of her neck, intense pearl gray eyes, and thin lips.  She taught them
the pleasures of underwater dance, passing on the art of synchronized 
choreography through basic moves and simple musical segments.

After ninety minutes of K
ip, Ibis, Cyclone, Porpoise, Heron, and
Albatross, Marika returned home, where she devoured everything placed in front
of her, awarding herself a respite from her usual low-cal regime.  Sated and
satisfied, she read through a few pages of
Eclipse
while waiting for
Carlotta to arrive for the promised movie night between girlfriends, a ritual
that they had been doing since long before the advent of pay-per-view films.

The television in
the living room was blaring out the theme song to one of the popular early-evening
game shows, replete with a bevy of scantily dressed showgirls, turning letters,
dancing to music clips, and laughing vacuously at the host’s innuendos. 

“Mom!”  Her
mother jumped.  “Are you still watching that trash on TV?” Marika asked  sarcastically,
hunting around absentmindedly in the pantry.

“Are you
kidding?  I wasn’t even watching it, I just turned on the TV at random to have
some company while I ironed
your
shirts.”  She changed topics, taking
refuge in her usual maternal lecture about how “
this house is not a hotel
.”