One Step to You (The Rome Novels #1)(26)

“I know.” Silvia gave her a quick smile. “I’m reviewing.”

Babi smiled at her. For all the good it was likely to do her. Because, in cold hard fact, only a miracle could save her now.

“Ciao, Babi!”

“Pallina! How are you today?”

Pallina set her book bag down on Babi’s desk. “Fine, but with a quart of blood less than I started the day with!” Pallina rolled up the light blue blouse of her uniform, displaying her pale white arm. “Look here!” She pointed to a bandage that was ever so slightly stained blood red at the center. “That’s nothing. You can’t imagine, that doctor, the work he had to do to find my vein. He stabbed me all over, pinching my arm because he said that would help to bring the vein out.

“The only positive thing about all this is that, afterward, my mother took me out for breakfast at Euclide café. I had a delicious maritozzo pastry with whipped cream. By the way, did you get my package?”

“Yes, thanks!”

“Well, it’s just that your doorman has the expression of someone who always wants to know what’s in every package you drop off for him. He’s worse than an X-ray machine. So he didn’t eat the Lazzareschi pastry?”

Babi smiled. “No.”

“Have I been forgiven?”

“Almost.”

“Why almost? What, was I supposed to get you two pastries?”

“No, you need to track down my Vespa by eight o’clock.”

“Your Vespa? How am I supposed to find your Vespa? Who knows where it is. How am I supposed to know?”

“Don’t ask me. You always know everything. You’re well connected in the circuit. You’re Pollo’s woman, after all. One thing is certain, when my father gets home at eight o’clock tonight, that Vespa has to be in the garage…”

“Lombardi!” Signora Giacci was at the door. “Go to your seat, if you please.”

“Yes, excuse me, teacher.” Pallina picked up her book bag.

Babi stopped her. “I have an idea. I don’t need to find my Vespa anymore, at least not right away.”

Pallina smiled. “That’s good. It would have been impossible anyway! But how are you going to handle it? When your father returns home and doesn’t find the Vespa in the garage, what are you going to tell him?”

“But my father is going to find the Vespa in the garage.”

“How is that going to happen?”

“Simple, we’ll put yours there.”

“My Vespa?”

“Sure, as far as my father’s concerned, they’re all identical. He won’t notice a thing.”

“Okay, but how am I going to…”

“Gervasi! Come on up and let me see your signed notebook.”

Babi brought her the notebook, already open to the signed note. Signora Giacci checked it. “Well, what did your mother say about your failing grade?”

“She grounded me.” It wasn’t true, but she might as well let Giacci think she’d had a full, crushing win.

In fact, Signora Giacci swallowed the bait hook, line, and sinker. “Well, good for her.” Then she spoke to the class. “It’s important that your parents appreciate the work we teachers do and that they support it wholeheartedly.” Nearly every girl in the class nodded in agreement.

She turned back to Babi. “Your mother is a very understanding woman. She knows perfectly well that, what I do, I’m doing entirely for your own well-being. Here.” She handed back her notebook.

Babi went back to her desk. A strange way of looking after my well-being, flunking me on my Latin test and sending home a disciplinary note, she thought to herself.

Signora Giacci reached into her old suede briefcase and pulled out the Greek assignments, folded in half. Those papers unfolded, reckless and rustling, on the teacher’s desk, spraying over the class the magical thought that they might all have received at least a passing grade. “Let me warn you all that it’s been a bloodbath. You should all just hope that Greek isn’t one of the subjects at the final high school exams.”

Everyone relaxed. They all knew for certain that the subjects this year were going to be Italian, Latin, mathematics, and philosophy. They all pretended not to know though. In reality, they could just as easily have been a class of consummate actresses. Dramatic roles, assigned by the situation of the moment.

“Bartoli, F. Simoni, F. Mareschi, D.” One after the other, the girls went to the teacher’s desk to retrieve their assignments in silent resignation. One of them went back to her desk with a smile. It wasn’t clear why. Maybe she was just putting on her game face.

“Alessandri, D. Bandini, D plus.” There was a sort of funeral procession. They all went back to their seats and immediately pulled out the paper, trying to figure out the reason for all those red marks. Most of the time it was a pointless exercise, just like their utterly unsuccessful stabs at translation.

“Sbardelli, C minus.” A young woman got up, making a V for victory. In fact, for her it was. She regularly got Ds for her classwork. That half a grade higher constituted a major achievement for her.

“Carli, C.” A pale young woman, with thick-lensed eyeglasses and greasy hair, invariably accustomed to getting at least an A minus, turned pale. She got up and walked slowly to the teacher’s desk, wondering what she could have gotten wrong.