Love & Gelato (7 page)

But journaling . . . that was a constant. A couple of times a year she'd splurge on one of these thick artists' notebooks from our favorite bookstore in downtown Seattle, and then she'd spend months filling it with her life: photographs, diary entries, grocery lists, ideas for photo shoots, old ketchup packets . . . anything you could think of.

And here was the strange part: She let other people read them. And even stranger? People loved to. Maybe because they were creative and hilarious and after you read one you felt like you'd just taken a trip through Wonderland or something.

I walked into my bedroom and stood at the foot of my bed. Sonia had left the journal right in the center of my pillow, like maybe she was worried I wouldn't notice it otherwise, and it was weighing down the bed like a pile of bricks.

“Ready?” I said aloud. I was definitely not ready, but I walked over and picked it up anyway. The cover was made of soft leather and had a big gold fleur-de-lis in its center. It didn't look anything like her journals back home.

I took a deep breath, then cracked open the cover, half expecting confetti to come shooting out at me, but all that happened was a bunch of brochures and ticket stubs fell out onto the floor and I got a whiff of something musty. I picked up all the papers, then started flipping through the pages, ignoring the writing and focusing on the photographs.

There was my mother standing in front of an old church with her camera slung over her shoulder. And there she was grinning over a gigantic bowl of pasta. And then . . .
Howard
. I practically dropped the book. Okay, of
course
he was in her journal. It's not like I'd appeared out of thin air, but still. My mind totally resisted the idea of the two of them together.

I studied the picture. Yep, it was definitely him. Younger, longer-haired (and was that a
tattoo
on his upper arm?), but definitely Howard. He and my mom were sitting on stone steps and she had short hair and Old Hollywood lipstick and this
I've been swept off my feet
kind of look.

I sat down on my bed with a
thud
. Why hadn't she just told me her and Howard's story herself? Did she think that her journal would do a better job? Was she worried I wasn't ready to hear their story?

I hesitated for a moment, then shoved the journal in the drawer of my nightstand and shut it with a loud
slam
. Well, I wasn't ready.

Not yet.

A car alarm burst into full vibrato somewhere in the cemetery and the sound rained down on my head like a thousand tiny Glorias.
This headache brought to you by Jet Lag & Stress.
Thanks, Italy.

I rolled over and looked at the clock on the wall. Three p.m. Which left me with so much time to kill, it was ridiculous.

I slowly got out of bed, then went over to my suitcase and made a halfhearted attempt at organizing my things—shirts in the right-hand corner, pants in the left, pajamas over there. . . . I'd done a horrible job packing, and it was all basically a jumble. Finally I settled on putting a couple of pictures of my mom and me into my room's empty frames, then laced up my shoes and headed for the front porch.

I didn't have a plan of where to go, so I just sat on the porch swing and rocked for a while. I had a good view of the memorial. It was a long, low building with a stretch of engravings that I would bet money went by the name of Wall of the Missing. Out in front of it was a tall post with a statue of an angel holding an armful of olive branches. Two men stood taking pictures in front of it, and one of them noticed me and waved.

I waved back but jumped up and headed for the back fence. I really didn't have it in me to handle another Jorgansen situation.

The back gate was easy to find, and as I headed out I realized that Sonia hadn't been kidding—the hill behind the cemetery was
steep
. For the second time that day, sweat dripped down my back, but I forced myself to keep running.
I
will
conquer you, hill
. Finally I reached the top, my legs and lungs on fire. I was just about to keel over when a
thud-thud
noise made my neck snap up. I wasn't alone.

There was a boy playing with a soccer ball. He was my age, maybe a little older, and he was at least three months overdue for a haircut. He wore shorts and a soccer jersey and was juggling the soccer ball back and forth from knee to knee, singing quietly in Italian to whatever was playing on his headphones. I hesitated. Could I sneak away without him noticing me? Maybe a tuck-and-roll-type escape?

He looked up at me and we made eye contact.
Great
. Now I had to keep going or look like a weirdo. I nodded at him and walked quickly along the path, like I was late to a meeting or something. Totally natural. People were probably always hurrying off to important meetings on the top of Italian hills.

He pulled off his headphones, his music blaring. “Hey, are you lost? The Bella Vita hostel is just down the road.”

I stopped. “You speak English.”

“Just a little bit-a,” he said with an exaggerated Italian accent.

“Are you American?”

“Sort of.”

I studied him. He sounded American, but he looked about as Italian as a plate of meatballs. Medium height, olive skin, and a distinct nose. What was he doing here? But then again, what was
I
doing here? For all I knew, the Tuscan countryside was crawling with displaced American teenagers.

He crossed his arms and scowled. He was imitating me. Rude.

I dropped my stance. “What do you mean by ‘sort of American'?”

“My mom's American, but I've lived here most of my life. Where are you from?”

“Seattle. But I'm living here for the summer.”

“Really? Where?”

I pointed in the direction I'd come from.

“The cemetery?”

“Yeah. Howard—my dad—is the caretaker. I just got here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Spooky.”

“Not really. It's more of a memorial. All the graves are from World War II, so it's not like there are burials going on.” Why was I defending the cemetery? It
was
spooky.

He nodded, then put his headphones back on.

Guess that was my cue.

“Great to meet you, mysterious Italian-American. Guess I'll see you around.”

“I'm Lorenzo.”

I blushed. Apparently Lorenzo had sonic hearing. “Nice to meet you, Lo-ren—” I tried to repeat his name but got stuck on the second syllable. He'd made this rolling sound with the
R
that my tongue refused to do.

“Sorry, I can't say it right.”

“That's okay. I go by ‘Ren' anyway.” He grinned. “Or ‘mysterious Italian-American,' that works too.”

Argh.
“Sorry about that.”

“What about you? Do you go by ‘Carolina,' or do you have a nickname too?”

For a second I felt like I was in a dream. A weird one. No one but my mother or teachers on the first day of school ever called me by my full name. “How do you know my name?” I said slowly. Who
was
this guy?

“I go to AISF. Your dad came in to ask about enrollment. Word spread.”

“What's AISF?”

“The American International School of Florence.”

I exhaled. “Oh, right. The high school.”  The school I'd theoretically attend if I decided to stay longer than just the summer.
So
theoretical. Like not even in the realm of possibility.

“It's actually kindergarten through high school, and our classes are really small. There were only eighteen of us last year, so new students are a big deal. We've been talking about you since January. You're kind of a legend. One guy, Marco, even claimed you as his biology partner. He totally bombed his final project and he kept trying to blame it on you.”

“That's really weird.”

“You don't look anything like I thought you would.”

“Why?”

“You're really short. And you look Italian.”

“Then how'd you know to speak to me in English?”

“Your clothes.”

I looked down. Leggings and a yellow T-shirt. It's not like I was dressed as the Statue of Liberty or something. “What's so American about my outfit?”

“Bright colors. Running shoes . . .” He waved his hand dismissively. “Give it a month or two; you'll totally get it. A lot of people here won't go anywhere unless they're wearing something Gucci.”

“But you're not wearing Gucci or whatever, right? You're in soccer clothes.”

He shook his head. “Soccer clothes are exempt. They're about as Italian as they get. Plus, I
am
Italian. So everything naturally looks stylish on me.”

I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

“Weren't you supposed to transfer to AISF in February?” he asked.

“I decided to finish out the school year in Seattle.”

He took his phone out of his back pocket. “Can I take a picture of you?”

“Why?”

“Proof that you exist.”

I said “no” at the exact moment he took the picture.

“Sorry about that, Carolina,” he said, sounding very unsorry. “You should really speak up.”

“You're saying my name wrong. It looks like ‘Carolina,' but it sounds like ‘Caro
leen
a.' And I go by ‘Lina.' ”

“Carolina Caroleena. I like it. Very Italian-sounding.”

He put his headphones back on, then tossed his ball in the air and started playing again. Ren definitely needed some etiquette classes or something. I turned to walk away, but he stopped me again.

“Hey, do you want to come meet my mom? She's basically starving for American company.”

“No thanks. I have to get back soon to meet up with Howard. He's taking me into Florence for dinner.”

“What time?”

“I don't know.”

“Most restaurants don't even open until seven. I promise we won't be gone that long.”

I turned back toward the cemetery, but the thought of facing Howard or the journal again made me shudder. “Is it far?”

“No, just right over there.” He pointed vaguely at a grouping of trees. “It will be fine. And I promise I'm not a serial killer or anything.”

I grimaced. “I didn't think you were. Until now.”

“I'm way too scrawny to be a serial killer. Also, I hate blood.”

“Ew.” I looked back at the cemetery again, mentally weighing my options. Emotionally challenging journal? Or visit with a socially inept potential serial killer's mother? Either option was pretty grim.

“Okay, I'll come with you,” I relented.

“Nice.” He tucked his soccer ball under his arm and we headed for the other side of the hill. He was only about a head taller than me and we both walked quickly.

“So when did you get here again?”

“Last night.”

“So you're pretty much jet-lagged within an inch of your life right now, right?”

“I actually slept okay last night. But yeah. I kind of feel like I'm underwater. And I have maybe the worst headache of my life.”

“Wait until tonight. The second night is always the worst. Around three a.m. you're going to be wide-awake and you'll have to think of weird stuff to keep yourself occupied. Once I climbed a tree.”

“Why?”

“My laptop was out of commission and the only other thing I could come up with was playing Solitaire and I suck at that.”

“I'm really good at Solitaire.”

“And I'm really good at climbing trees. But I don't believe you. No one is good at Solitaire unless they cheat.”

“No, I really am. People stopped playing games with me when I was in like second grade, so I taught myself how to play Solitaire. On a good day I can finish a game in like six minutes.”

“Why did people stop playing games with you when you were in second grade?”

“Because I always win.”

He stopped walking, a big grin on his face. “You mean because you're really competitive?”

“I didn't say that. I just said I always win.”

“Uh-huh. So you haven't played a game since you were like seven?”

“Just Solitaire.”

“No Go Fish? Uno? Poker?”

“Nothing.”

“Interesting. Look, that's my house. Race you to the gate.” He broke into a run.

“Hey!” I took off after him, lengthening my stride until I caught up and then passed him, and I didn't slow down until I hit the gate. I whirled around triumphantly. “Beat you!”

He was standing a few yards back, that stupid grin still on his face. “You're right. You're totally not competitive.”

I scowled. “Shut up.”

“We should play Go Fish later.”

“No.”

“Mah-jongg? Bridge?”

“What are you, an old lady?”

He laughed. “Whatever you say, Carolina. And by the way, that isn't really my house. It's that one over there.” He pointed to a driveway in the distance. “But I'm not racing you there. Because you're right—you'd win.”