Love & Gelato(14)

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 ‘Caroleena.’ And I go by ‘Lina.’?”