Kitty Kitty (4 page)

According to my translation program, this is the essay I wrote to introduce myself to my Intermediate Italian class during our third week here:

I got a B-plus on the essay because although my verb tenses were “reckless,” my vocabulary was “surprising and muscular.”
I didn’t tell Professore Rossi that I learned most of it from my
ChiPs
-watching rather than from class. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Despite the fact that the Grissini Palace was like Crazy Zoo, Proudly Displaying All Aspects of Crazy, Twenty-four Hours a Day, I loved it there. As soon as I arrived inside its walls I could tell that something was UP. I was trying to figure out what when I saw Camilla, standing behind her desk, waving me over.

Camilla had a dark brown bob and a round face with wide-spaced blue eyes and looked more like a little porcelain doll than a real person. She was twenty-five and from a distance her face was so sweet you wondered what she was doing working in a place like Crazy Zoo, but when you got up close you could see that there was a hint of the insane around those eyes. Usually she was energetically bouncing from minding one person’s business to minding another’s, but today she looked almost as zestless as her fish.

Even though my desire to escape the lobby—aka the Place Where Dadzillas Roamed Free—was extreme, she looked so sad that I detoured toward her. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Oh, Yasmine, it is awful here today. The Save Venice people start to arrive. For the big events this week? And they all want to know where the ice machine is. Why do you Americans love ice so much? Is it because you are hot-blooded?”

“I don’t know, it could—”

“
Sì
, I bet that it is,” she rushed on, musing to herself. One nice thing about chatting with Camilla was that you didn’t have to prepare any material because her superpower was to be able to hold both sides of a conversation by herself, complete with interruptions. “I wonder if I should date an American boy. I did date a Canadian once. Are they different from Americans?”

“I imagine that—”

“This one, he wasn’t crazy for the ice. He did like—” She cut herself off there, looking at me as if she’d just noticed my presence. And as if what she were seeing was not exactly a gorgeous dessert tray. Pained is what her expression was.

“I do not mean to be rude, but I am not sure that this hairstyle is the most good for you,” she said finally. “It looks like you have been picked at by the birds.”

My desire for flight suddenly million-troupled. “Birds. Ha-ha. I was just trying out something new. Well, it looks like I have to—”

“I suggest you do not try this new thing out,” she said. “Yes, I tell you as girlfriend to girlfriend, if I were you I would go to your room and fix it before your surprise tonight.”

If I’d still had any lingering thoughts about who Arabella was or if she was okay—which I did NOT—this reminder of Things to Come would have erased them. “How do you know about my surprise?”

She snorted. “My job is knowing. Also, this morning after
you go, the Sherri! came to arrange for the airport transfers. You are going to have the colossal fun, no?”

And was clearly about to say a lot more when her phone started ringing. Muttering, “I bet this is another looking for ice,” she answered it, and I dashed to the elevator.

As it went up, I started a to-do list in my mind:

Get to room without being seen by Dadzilla.

Do not do anything to antagonize-slash-upset
Dadzilla.

Avoid all encounters with the insane (except Dadzilla).

Practice Surprised-n-Grateful expressions for when Dadzilla announces trip.

Pack clothes and presents for pals—(chocolate shaped like a salami for Roxy; pink silk Fortuny scarf and Italian hand sanitizer for Polly; Dylan Dog comic for Tom; light-up gondola for Jack).

Apply pore-shrinking mask.

Go to San Francisco.

¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡KISSING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Just thinking about getting to see my tiny pals and Jack made me all giddy, and by the time I reached my room (crossing off the first item! Only six things between me and KISSING) I was refilled with all the
dolce vita
I’d had before my high-speed-chase plus aerial-assault experiences.

Of all the things I loved about the Grissini Palace, the one I loved the very most was my room. Not only did it have an ornate old-fashioned key and a door that locked—which, although I suspected he had a secret key of his own, still placed at least some barrier between Lo Zilla and myself—it was also the most beautiful room I’d ever seen anywhere. My first thought every time I walked in was that Polly would break up with Tom to date my room if she ever laid eyes on it.

It was like a room for a princess, with two beds, both covered with a rose silk spread and a striped pink-and-white silk canopy that attached to a gold crown above each one; a white marble floor with tiny pieces of pink pearl inlaid in a swirly border around the edge; a silk carpet embroidered with bows; a tiny marble balcony; and walls painted to look like pale-green-and-cream-colored marble, except in two places, where there were tiny little dancing dogs chasing butterflies.

For. Real.

The only bad part of my room was that the balcony was on the back side of the hotel, overlooking a little side canal
where gondolas were kept overnight and where, on weekends, Venetian teens came to make out. In fact, as I looked down now, even though it was broad daylight, a couple paused to kiss and run their fingers through each other’s hair. Right under my balcony. Taunting me.

That is the kind of city Venice is. Although I was deprived of love, love was not deprived of my company. I’m sure it was there all week long, but on the weekends it really made itself felt. Which was why, although it meant at least a day and a half off from school, I usually sort of dreaded them. Because being alone in Venice, which every year is voted “most romantic city in the world,” is bad. But being here with MAKING-OUT TEENS UNDER YOUR WINDOW when your boyfriend and his incredibly kissable lips are infinity miles away, possibly meeting a girl who hiked Mt. Everest barefoot and has a sexy scar on her thigh from doing battle with a mammoth that she’d love to show him—that is just cruel.

This afternoon, though, when I looked at the kissing teens, instead of feeling lonely or sad or jealous or depressed or in need of kissing or like my life was an unremitting toothache,

I felt happy for them. And grateful, because they reminded me that I should deep-condition my hair.

Six hours fly by when you have packing and pore-shrinking and Surprise-Face practicing to do. I’d just finished my required homeschool half hour of PE (courtesy of my
How 2 Break-dance Like Da Pros
DVD) and was changing into my
second-most Trouble-none-of-that-here-esque outfit (Polly Catalog 10b—white-and-brown-striped button-down shirt, purple-and-brown sweater vest, denim skirt, brown cowboy boots with owls embroidered on them, and long amber beaded necklace—because Trouble hates a sweater vest) when the phone rang.

The only person who ever called me was my father, so I put on my most charming voice. “Yes? How may I be of service to you?”

“Jasmine, thank God I got you,” said the voice on the other end that clearly did not belong to my father. “It’s a matter of life or death.”

“Arabella?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you okay? Where are you? Why did you disappear like that today?”

“I had to. It was the only way to escape from him. If he was busy, then he couldn’t follow me to Prada.”

“But there was nothing to be afraid of, that guy was just trying to—”

“You talked to him? What did he say? Did he say who he was working for?”

“
Working
for? He wasn’t working for anyone. He’s a gondolier. He was just returning the change that you left at the gelato shop.”

“That’s a lie,” she said.

“But he had the money.”

“I didn’t leave my change. He just said it to cover up his true motives. That he was following me.”

Oh, look who just pulled off the Hint of Insanity Highway at Paranoia Plaza!

“Um, maybe,” I said. “Are you sure? Did you recognize him?”

“No, of course not. Why would I?”

“If you didn’t recognize him, how do you know he’s the one who’s been following you?”

“I told you, I never see him, I just know he is there. Waiting for me.”

“Let me see if I understand. You’ve never seen anyone. You just sense him.”

She made an impatient noise. “Yes. Did you see anyone else? Talk to anyone? Did anyone follow you?”

“A reporter followed me and asked some questions, but I didn’t say anything. Why is a reporter following you?”

“What kind of questions? What exactly did she ask you? Things about my family?”

Apparently this was a one-way game of Twenty Questions. “She just asked me my name. Why?”

“What did you say? Did you tell her where I live?”

“I didn’t tell her anything—I don’t know anything. I don’t even know what part of Venice your apartment is in.”

“Good. Then they won’t be able to get it out of you.”

“Who? What are you talking about? What’s going on, Arabella?”

“Something deep and dangerous.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I can’t talk now. They could be anywhere. Listening. Meet me tonight at Club Centrale at ten P.M. and I’ll explain everything.”

Of course. Because a secret assignation with a paranoid person convinced that the Someone after her might try to Get Something out of me was just the kind of thing Model Daughters sallied forth to engage in when they were supposed to be tucked into bed.

What Arabella was suggesting was clearly in violation of both my Not Leaving the Hotel and Not Associating with the Insane (except Dadzilla) policies. But I felt guilty completely turning her down. “I can’t come out to meet you tonight, but if you want to come here, or tell me what’s wrong, maybe I could—”

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I told you, I can’t discuss it now. You have no idea what it’s like knowing that anyone could be the ONE.” She said it like it was written in all capital letters.

“The ONE what?” I asked.

“The ONE who works for them.”

Oh, that ONE. I should have known. “Do you know why they are following you?”

“I think so, but I’m not positive. I asked someone the wrong question. Somewhere down the line I asked the wrong question. I wish I knew which one because then I would
know
.”

“Know what?”

“Everything.”

My bafflement quota is high but I’d pretty much reached it. “Okay. Um, what about going to the police? They could help you. Retrace your steps, figure out what question you asked where, maybe—”

“The police,” she snorted. “Did they help you today? Arrest that man?”

“No, but that was because he was only trying to—”

“Exactly. The fortune-teller told me not to trust the police and she was right. They are probably in on it!”

“Fortune-teller? The one who said you were in danger?”

“Yes. And then the cat, my landlady’s cat, looked at me funny. That’s a sign! And—”

She broke off and when she came back she said, “I have to go, that’s my other line. Don’t forget: ten o’clock. I’ll be in disguise. You won’t recognize me, but I’ll recognize you.”

And with that sharp turn onto Delusion Drive, she hung up.

While Delusion Drive is very scenic, one visit per day is probably ample, and I’d already had mine when I got to explain to the police that my invisible friend was afraid of being murdered by a gondolier. It was sad that Arabella seemed to have bid sanity farewell, but it was not my problem. I already had plenty of Crazy in my life. Or at least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.

I didn’t have too much time to dwell on it because at that moment there was a rough pounding on my door followed by
my father’s voice bellowing, “Jasmine, it is time for dinner. Unlatch this door or I will break it down!”

Hello, Dadzilla! What exuberant charm you have!

On any other night I might have been tempted to see if he really could break down my door or if he was just all chat, because that is the kind of thing a daughter should know about her father, but not on Surprise Night.

Instead, I practiced both the wide-eyed-wonder and hands-clutched-adorably-to-chest one last time, and went out the door with a glad heart and a carefree step.

Never do this.

The dining room of the hotel was more crowded and bustling than usual, and I kept myself busy wondering which of the Save Venice people had disreputable secrets in their pasts. But as soon as I finished ordering pumpkin tortellini in sage and butter sauce (which I highly recommend if you ever find yourself at the Grissini Madhouse), Sherri! got my full attention by saying, “Hurry up, Cedric. It’s almost time!”

As though I’d written the script myself, my father said, “Jasmine, we know you’ve been lonely, and since next week is the week that seniors at your school get off to visit colleges, we thought it would be pleasant for you to have some time with friends.” I was just getting ready to clutch my hands and raise eyes filled with loving gratitude when three horrifying things happened:

• 1) I looked across the room and saw two girls my age, with perfect brown hair and perfect makeup, wearing high-collared lace shirts, pinafore minidresses, Mary Janes, and bonnets enter the dining room.
  
• 2) One of them looked at me and started waving.
  
• 3) My father went on: “So we invited your aunt, uncle, cousin Alyson, and that nice friend of Alyson’s to spend the week with us here in Venice.”