Defending Irene (4 page)

Luigi's lips twitched and then widened to a smile. He opened his mouth, but a roar from the sidelines stopped him.

“Don't chatter!
Dai
, Luigi!”

I pressed my lips together, annoyed that the
mister
had yelled at my teammate. Practice hadn't even started yet. Even worse—and this is going to sound completely stupid—he hadn't yelled at
me
. What kind of coach would treat two players so differently? He sounded more like a father yelling at his son. And then it hit me: Fornaio. Luigi Fornaio. The
mister
was Luigi's dad. I should have guessed it earlier. Luigi had practically said so. But to me, Luigi had seemed so much more like a fresh wad of Silly Putty than a chip off the old block of granite that I hadn't been able to see it.

This was still just a guess, and I had to know for sure. I waited a few minutes before timing my ball to fly into the orange netting a few seconds before that of Luigi's.

“The
mister
is your
papá
?” I asked Luigi in a voice I hoped would not carry.

“Of course. This surprises you? Everyone says we are as alike as two drops of water.”

Not to my eyes.

I defended myself. “At the first practice, you called him ‘the
mister
.'”

Luigi shrugged. “My older brother Renzo did the same. My
papá
has coached the
Esordienti
for years. It pleases me to play on his squad finally.” He broke off and pointed. “Look! Here come the others. Like I said: neither early nor late.”

Eleven boys trotted onto the field. Matteo led the group with an easy loping stride. It hit me again just how gorgeous he was with his black curly hair and eyes of startling blue. The
mister
dumped half the balls onto the ground and kicked them one after another toward his players.

The boys raced each other for a chance at the balls, laughing, pushing, and tripping each other. This friendly competition continued between them as we practiced shooting into an unguarded net. But no one touched my ball. It and I could have been invisible except that everyone stayed well out of my way. I felt like a magnet in a school science experiment, repelling rather than attracting the charged metal filings.

Then, after four or five minutes of this, Emi darted in front of me. With a friendly “
Ciao
, Irene,” he tackled my ball and made off with it. I grinned.

Practice was certainly taking on a confusing Alice in Wonderland air. I was happy when someone stole my ball and upset when the coach didn't yell at me.

I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. It felt good to have a short rest. My heart pounded in my chest. The same fast beat pulsed in my throat. I took a few deep breaths. One. Two. Three. Luigi was defending the goal now and returning as many balls as possible back to the attackers. I tensed my muscles and made a break for a nearby loose ball.

Before I could reach it, someone slammed into me, knocking me to the ground.

I pushed myself onto my elbows and blinked. The mister was standing with his back to the field, talking to Signora Martelli. “Excuse me, Irene! I did not see you!” Matteo's blue eyes were wide with well-faked sincerity. Ah, I thought. While the cat's away, the mice dance. He held out his hand: an offer of help.

I wanted to slap it away, but that was exactly what he wanted. And if I ignored him completely, he'd probably like that too. So I took his hand and let him pull me up. He braced his feet and grunted.

“How strong and kind you are. A thousand thanks,” I murmured, batting my eyelashes for good measure.

Matteo let go. I was ready for that, so I stayed on my feet instead of falling back into the dirt. He pointedly wiped his hand on his shorts. Afraid of girl germs?

“This is not a sport for a
ragazza
here,” Matteo hissed. “Do you want to make us lose?”

“No, I want to help us win. I am not so terrible.”

“There are better places to meet boys, you know. No one will fall in love with you here.”

I put my hand to my heart. “Thank heaven! You have reassured me so much.”

Matteo muttered something. It sounded like one of the Italian words that Dad had always refused to teach me.

A whistle sounded, a long blast followed by two short ones. Matteo whirled to face the
mister
. I half-expected the man to yell at Matteo for chattering, but instead, he spoke to the entire team:

“Leave the balls and come here.”

We all did as he ordered except for one boy, who began tapping the abandoned balls into the empty goal as he slowly worked his way toward the
mister
.

“Federico! I said leave them!”

Federico jerked in surprise. His right foot hung in the air above a ball, and he only narrowly managed to stop himself from kicking it. Then, head down, he sprinted to the line forming behind the
mister
. I tried not to smile.

Something told me that Federico was as new to the
Esordienti
team as I was. He was taller than Emi, but there was a suggestion in his rounded face and the way he moved that he was a younger player—a good younger player with lots of promise. Had he been promoted ahead of the others his age?

We all followed the
mister
along the sideline at a brisk trot, making a sharp right at the centerline to stay on our half of the field we shared with the other team.

Practice had just started and I was already hot and tired. It had been impossible to pace myself with Luigi practicing at one hundred percent. I lifted my eyes to the massive cloudbank hiding the mountaintops. It sent out a few shifting
tentacles, but otherwise, it hadn't moved. There would be no relief from that direction.

On our second lap, just as the
mister
turned the corner toward the opposite goal, a boy dashed down the small hill leading from the clubhouse. He slipped through the gate and onto the field, falling into line two spots ahead of me. He seemed to be trying to sneak onto the field without the
mister
noticing.

“Dah-vee-day! Where were you?” someone whispered.

Davide shook his head. His hair was wet, almost dripping. A scent like that of a freshly cleaned bathroom followed him. I sniffed. Chlorine? Had Davide lost track of time at the pool? His head and shoulders drooped and his steps dragged by the time we finished the fifth lap. Yes, I decided.

The
mister
left off the skipping that afternoon, as well as the exhausting dribbling drill. Instead we took turns shooting against an empty net for a while. Then Luigi entered the goal for a new drill.

The
mister
called out pairings: Matteo against Emi, Gianlucca against Roberto, and so on. After matching me with Davide, the
mister
placed the ball on the chalked line surrounding the penalty area and stepped back. Emi and Matteo sat on the ground a few steps away from the centerline with their hands in the air. The whistle sounded. Both scrambled to their feet and pelted toward the ball. Emi had a quicker start, but Matteo won the race to the ball. When he slowed down in order to control it, Emi caught up and tackled, tripping Matteo and sending him somersaulting across the dirt.

The whistle blew. “Foul, Emi,” the
mister
called. “A penalty shot for the other team. Too costly.” Then he put the second ball down and blew the whistle for the next pair to come forward. Emi and Matteo trotted to the end of the line.

I watched as my teammates took their turns. It became clear that whoever reached the ball first would be on offense while the other person became the defender.

My turn arrived. The whistle sounded. My legs tangled as I scrambled to my feet. Davide beat me to the ball by three strides. Luigi deflected his shot easily.

As I waited for my next turn, I studied the other players, trying to figure out the best way to get to my feet. Davide braced his hands against his knees and panted.

Our second turn came. I sat down a few feet away from Davide, my knees bent and my feet flat on the ground. I held up my hands and waited.

Tweeeet!

The heels of my hands drove into the ground behind me, pushing me forward. I made it to my feet ahead of Davide and reached the ball first. I would be the forward, the attacker.

Luigi positioned himself by the near post, ready to block any shot. In a game, I would have looked to pass the ball. But now I sent the ball slicing across the penalty area. Luigi dove forward, trying to cut it off. He missed. It crossed the white chalked line only inches from the far post.

Goal!

Luigi plucked the ball out of the net and flung it to the
mister
—his father. I could still hardly believe it.

“Nice shot, Irene!” Emi said as I passed him on my way to the end of the line.

“Buona notte!”
Matteo protested. “Good night! Luigi must be in love with her to let her score like that.”

“Clearly,” said Matteo's shadow, Giuseppe. “Irene plus Luigi.”

“Irene Fornaio,” Davide muttered, giving me Luigi's last name instead of my own.

My surge of pride disappeared. Protests flashed down out of my brain and onto my tongue. But I clamped my lips shut. Don't answer. Don't answer. Don't answer. Any reply to that rat could only make things worse.

I had three more respectable shots on goal, but I still found myself on the sidelines as my teammates lined up on the field for the scrimmage. At least Davide had joined Federico and me, the two newest members of the
Esordienti
. He lay spread-eagled on the ground nearby, but he sat up at the kickoff as Emi passed the ball to Matteo. The two forwards drove ball down the field.

“Bello!”
Federico said, turning to me. “They play so well. You do too. That surprises me.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said. Someone else could have turned the same words into an insult, but Federico had all the sincerity, enthusiasm, and grace of a St. Bernard puppy.

“What class do you frequent?” he asked.

“The second year of middle school. And you?”

“I am in the fifth class in the elementary school. Or at least I will be next Tuesday.”

So he was younger.

“My friends in the United States started school two weeks ago,” I told him.

“No! In August? The month of vacation?” For a brief moment, Federico pulled his eyes away from the game to look at me. “I cannot imagine it. August is…well, August.”

I knew what he meant. Half of Italy shut down for vacation in August.

“Well, we finished on the last day of May,” I explained. “This is the longest summer vacation of my life.”

“Really? Very interesting. What do you think of—” Federico broke off and shouted,
“Dai,
Matteo.
Dai!”

Matteo had broken away from the defenders in the penalty area. He shot the ball. It hit the crossbar and bounced out. Matteo got the rebound and tried again. The goalkeeper dove and fell on top of the ball. He wound his arms around it to protect it from Matteo, who stood above him looking for a third chance.

“
Uaou!
Matteo is such a good player.” Federico sighed with delight and envy.

“I know.”

At a break in the action, the
mister
put Davide in for a midfielder. Within five minutes, Davide was clutching his side and moving no faster than a trot.

“Lengthen your legs, Davide!
Dai!
” the
mister
shouted.

Davide ran a few steps and then slowed to his old pace. At the next whistle, the
mister
pulled Davide and put Federico in the game.

Davide stumbled off the field. The
mister
was there to meet him. “What's wrong today?”

“Nothing,” Davide said.

“You are already dead tired. Without breath. Are you sick?”

“No.”

There was a short pause before the
mister
continued, “Tell me, why were you late?”

Davide mumbled something and studied his dusty cleats.

“What? Louder please.”

“I forgot the time.”

“Really? And where were you?”

“At the pool.”

“Ah, I see. There's a game Saturday, you know.”

“I know.”

“Is it right that you should go?”

Davide hung his head.

I held my breath, waiting. Would a space open up in the van? I had come early. He had come late. I had scored in the drill when we'd faced each other. He had not. Wasn't that worth something? I bounced on my toes, feeling hopeful.

The
mister
pressed his lips together. He glanced away from Davide. And our eyes met. His right eyebrow lifted in surprise. His nostrils flared. Oh, no. My face and ears burned as I turned away. I knew better than to watch a coach chewing out a player on the sidelines.

The
mister
'
s silence stretched for several seconds. “You can come as a substitute, Davide. Do not expect to start.”

“Thank you, Mister,”

The man raised his voice. “Irene!”

“What?” I turned.

“Go two times around the field. Not too fast. Jogging only. Then I will put you in.”

Laps? Davide had gone to the pool. Davide could barely stand on his legs. And
I
was being punished with laps? Not fair. Not fair at all.

It's not fair. It's not fair. The chorus repeated itself in my brain. Thunder rumbled in agreement, the echoes bouncing back and forth across the Adige River valley until it sounded exactly like a bowling ball spinning down an alley.

I was sitting in a white plastic Adirondack-style chair on our covered balcony with my feet propped up on the wrought iron bars. Since our apartment didn't have air conditioning, the coming storm made it fifteen degrees cooler outside than in my room. I found it a much more comfortable place to sulk after soccer practice.

The wind danced through the purple leaves of an enormous hundred-year-old tree, whose highest branches were even with my fourth-floor balcony. But not a breath of air touched me. The wind came from the other side of the building, from the mountains. The storm, which had threatened for the entire practice, was finally arriving.

The leading edge of rain swept past trees and buildings, blurring their edges before hiding them completely. And then, with the sound of a hundred cats racing across a ballroom, it rolled past me, wrapping around my balcony. Privacy.

For a minute or two. Then the door to the balcony swung open and Dad stepped outside.

“
Ciao
, Irene.” He lowered himself into the chair next to mine and sighed. “What a long day.”

“Davvero,”
I agreed, thinking about my second soccer practice. “True.”

“I know why you're out here,” Dad continued.

My head snapped around. Had Dad started reading minds? I hadn't said anything to Mom, and I certainly hadn't said anything to Max.

But Dad was staring at the branches whipping in the wind. “
Bello.
Truly
bello
,” he went on. “I have never seen a storm like this one in Missouri. Or such a view.”

I leaned forward, pretending to peer through the mist, and said in a puzzled voice, “I don't see anything.”

“
Ma dai!
You know that which I meant. To live here is to live in a botanical garden. Don't you think?”

“Sure.”

I must not have been enthusiastic enough because Dad frowned. “Everything all right? How did soccer go today?”

“Well enough,” I said.

Two dents appeared between Dad's eyebrows. “What happened? Tell me.”

Dad couldn't read minds, but he could read my face. Lying wasn't an option. I took a deep breath. “There's a game Saturday.”

Dad's face brightened. “Where? At what time?”

“Scena. At two o'clock.”

“Good. I know that town. It isn't too far from here. I can come. Write it on the calendar.”

“It's not necessary. I'm—I'm not going.” My voice quivered.

The dents deepened. “Why not?”

“There are only fourteen seats in the van.”

Dad seemed to know there was more to the story. He said nothing, waiting for me to break the silence.

I did. I told him about what Signora Martelli had said and about the coach letting Davide go in spite of his poor performance in practice. When I finished, Dad rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “Maybe it is better that you do not play this game,
cara
.”

“How?”

Dad tilted his head. “You don't believe me? Listen, if Davide hadn't been allowed to go, he would have blamed you instead of himself. Can't you imagine it? I think it is already difficult enough for you at soccer.”

“
Davvero.
But I still wanted to go to the game. You know, soccer was supposed to be the easy part about living here.”

“I'm sorry,
cara
. I did not expect this. Other problems, but not this.” He leaned back in his chair. “But wait. I have an idea. We will go to the game and watch it together.”

“No! I meant to play. I already watch them enough.”

Dad nodded, but he wasn't agreeing with me. “Yes. We will go. We'll watch them warm up to prepare you for next time. It is a good idea, no?”

“No,” I said again. I could hardly think of a worse one. Watching from the sidelines was always bad enough, but from the bleachers? How could I stand it?

So when I met Giulia outside the pool entrance the next day, I expected some sympathy. Instead, she exclaimed: “It is so
bella
that your
papá
wants to help you. Like a dream in a box.”

A daydream? More like a nightmare. But luckily, before I could say that, I remembered how Giulia's dad was less than enthusiastic about her playing. So I said, “But it is a bit strange, isn't it?”

“More than a bit,” Giulia said. “No one has ever done it. Never.”

I groaned.

“But you are an
Americana
. The people do not expect normal things from you.”

“My
papá
is Italian.”

Giulia shrugged. “
Sí.
But how many years has he lived in the United States? This is very good. Matteo and his friends will not find it so easy to push you off the team.”

“Were you pushed off the team?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “No, not really. I made the decision to quit.”

Not really? There was a story there. I was sure of it. Giulia was gazing over my shoulder, a look of indecision on her face. Then her expression brightened. “Look! Barbara has arrived. Bar-bah-ra!
Ciao!
Over here!”

Barbara waved frantically at us before weaving her bicycle through the crowded racks.

I smiled and waved back, still nervous despite the girl's enthusiasm. I could tell from the way that Giulia spoke about her that Barbara was her
amica del cuore
, her friend of the heart, her best friend. Giulia said that the two of them had been in the same class together since preschool. Their families even went on vacation together.

“Ciao,”
I said to Barbara after Giulia introduced us. “A pleasure.”

Barbara grinned. “A great pleasure, Irene!
Uaou.
So tall. Too bad that you don't wish to play at volleyball. We have need of another spiker. Giulia sets, you know.”

“But I haven't played very often.”

“
Sí.
But you are the sporting type. For you, it would be very simple to learn. I used to do gymnastics. Now I am too tall to be a serious gymnast.”

“So Barbara makes somersaults whenever possible at volleyball,” Giulia murmured.

Barbara rolled her eyes. “Giulia is so jealous. Let's go.”

We paid at the window and walked through the brown stucco bathhouse before stepping back into the sunshine. Barbara led the way around the Olympic-sized pool to a set of three empty wooden deck chairs on the other side. As we walked, I looked around. A pair of gigantic water slides emptied into smaller pool. Down the hill and past some trees, there was a big wading pool.

The atmosphere seemed much more laid-back than an American pool. Lifeguards chatted instead of gazing intently into the water. The shallow end wasn't roped off. People swam just about anywhere they wanted except in an unmarked, open spot in front of the three diving boards. One lifeguard supervised at the top of the slide; no one watched at the bottom.

Following Giulia's example, I kicked off my shoes and spread my towel on the deck chair.

“First the
trampolino
?” Barbara asked, waving at the diving boards.

Giulia squinted. “The lines are not too long. Okay.”

Barbara headed right for the three-meter springboard. When Giulia and I fell into line behind her, she turned to me.

“All right, Irene. Giulia tells me that in the United States you have parties at school during the evening. It's true?”

“Sí.”

“With music and dancing and lights? Like a disco?”

I wrinkled my nose. “A little. Except it's in the school cafeteria.”

“But there are lights and dancing and
ragazzi
all the same. Right?”

I nodded.

“
Bello.
And a DJ?”

“Sí.”

“
Uaou!
You have danced with boys at the party?”

“A few.” I blushed, remembering the way my friend Lindy used to pressure one of the boys I liked into asking me to dance. It had been very embarrassing.

“Really? Tell me everything. Oh, wait. It's my turn.” Barbara bounced up the ladder.

“I'm sorry, Irene,” Giulia whispered. “Barbara is crazy about boys. But otherwise, she is a good friend. You can count on her.”

“Sí, sí,”
I said.

Barbara paced down the diving board like a dancer, her shoulders back and head erect. She took one bounce of the end and rose almost straight into the air before bending at the middle for a jackknife. She entered the water in a straight line with pointed toes. An “ooh” of approval went up from the lines at both diving boards. She swam to the ladder in a fast, smooth front crawl-stroke.

My turn came next. I waited for the board to stop vibrating before stepping cautiously along its rough surface. By the time I had reached the end it had started bouncing again. So I waited again. Once it stopped I made the simplest of dives and splashed over to the side of the pool. Barbara was waiting for me, ready to start in with the questions again.

I distracted her by asking her about the boys at school. Her analysis was detailed. Luigi was cute, but a clown. Montegna was quiet and intelligent and
molto bello
. Very good-looking. Matteo was fascinating and
molto, molto, molto bello
. I finally got her off the track by telling her about malls and multiplexes. (There were only two movie screens in Merano. One was German, the other Italian. But both showed American movies.)

An unofficial diving competition started between Barbara and a few of the boys. Style meant nothing to them; only height, splash, and number of spins, bounces, or twists mattered. Giulia and I didn't even try to compete.

Finally, Barbara walked very slowly to the end of the diving board. Once the gentle bounce had faded away, she put her palms down on the edge of the board and did a handstand. Her body made a straight line from her pointed toes to her wrists. She held the pose for five long seconds. Then she pushed off with power and dropped straight down. Her forehead, nose, and chin skimmed past the end of the diving board. Her shoulders, hips, knees, and toes safely followed.

“Point!” Giulia whispered.

Two turns later—after the boys had failed to come up with a new challenge—Barbara observed that the lines were too long. How about some volleyball?

We used a lightweight plastic ball. Laughing, we bumped, set, and spiked the ball at each either. A chubby three-year-old hovered on the edge of the pool deck, eager to chase any ball that came his way.

Take some athletic girls. Add water. Bake in the sun for four hours. Instant friendship. Why couldn't it have been like this on the soccer field? The long list of reasons depressed me.

On Saturday afternoon, I tried to think of Giulia's positive attitude as Dad and I walked across the parking lot in Scena and past the enormous, empty, white team van. My neck hunched down between my shoulders. An invisibility cloak—that's what I needed.

I don't think anyone on the field noticed us as we found a place on the bleachers—they were too busy stretching their hamstrings. But it was just a matter of time.

For the next twenty minutes, Dad and I watched the warm-up. While the
mister
shouted instructions, encouragement, and praise, Dad dissected everyone's playing style and likely position. He took pictures with a digital camera and promised that I could send Lindy pictures of all my new teammates.

“Matteo is marvelous,” he told me. “Playing with him will make everyone better.”

I shrugged and looked over at the other team. The coach roared at his players in German. To me, the hard consonants and nasal sounds of German against the rhythms and pure vowels of Italian sounded strange. But such a match-up was common here. I knew from all of the tourist brochures Mom had thrown my way that the Adige River valley had belonged to Austria's South Tyrol until the end of World War I. While the signs, stores, and government forms were all bilingual, the local German-speakers had their own schools and their own soccer teams.

If I had been down on the field, any rude remarks about a girl playing would have flown right over my head. Of course, I could think of someone who would be more than happy to translate every insult and even make up a few of his own.

Dad stood up. “I want two words with the
mister
.”

“Please, no.” I grabbed his arm.

Dad grinned. “Ah, Irene, do not have fear. I will not be one of those crazy American parents who ask of the
mister
: ‘Why isn't my daughter playing?'”

Dad clambered down the bleachers. I watched as he attracted the
mister
'
s attention, introduced himself, and waved a hand in my direction.

The
mister
smiled. I hadn't thought that he could. More surprising still, he laughed at something Dad said. Luigi and his father. Alike as two drops of water? For the briefest of moments, yes.