Read Wish You Were Italian Online
Authors: Kristin Rae
Wish You Were Italian (8 page)
“It’s short for Philippa. But—”
“Ah,
sì!
Philippa!”
“Yeah, I go by Pippa, though.” I take a timid sip of coffee, the burning liquid as bitter to my mouth as my proper name is to my ears. “Chiara is a pretty name. Does it mean anything?” I ask, stuffing the pastry in my mouth to combat the coffee flavor.
She circles the rim of her cup with a finger. “Every name means something. Mine means clear or bright.”
My eyebrows pinch together. “Those don’t exactly mean the same thing. How can something that’s clear be bright? Wouldn’t it just be clear?”
The corner of her mouth twists upward. “You haven’t seen the Ligurian Sea.”
“Where’s that?” But somehow, I already know the answer.
At the same time, we say, “Cinque Terre.”
“
Sì
.” Chiara grins and props her elbows on the tiny table, cradling her chin in a hand-hammock. “So tell me, Pippa. How did you meet this someone?”
She’s not Morgan, but something about her makes me spout my whole story from the beginning. At times I wonder if she’s actually listening, but then she makes an exclamation I don’t understand, yet somehow completely agree with. Maybe it helps that Chiara is an outside party, unattached to everyone I mention. I don’t have to worry about the truth of my unfiltered words getting back to anyone important.
By the time I finish my tale, I’m practically weightless. I hadn’t realized before how much I was holding in.
She leans back and exhales. “That explains why you came in by yourself.”
“Yeah. Sucks, right?”
“Do you believe that it does?”
If I hadn’t come over here by myself, my story over the past few days would be totally different. Darren wouldn’t have been a part of it even once, and now I’ve seen him twice. I’ll always remember my first day in Rome with him in it, and that most definitely does not suck.
“Not anymore, I guess,” I finally answer.
“And now you have the whole summer to do as you please, here in Italia.”
“Looks that way.” I twist the cooling coffee cup on the saucer and sigh. “Have you ever done anything this crazy?”
“Crazy? I think it is brave! What fun, no?” She’s nearly lifting off her seat. “Secrets and lies! Scandals and intrigue!”
“What are you talking about?” I cover my mouth with my hand to suppress my laughter.
She giggles. “Just trying to make you feel better. I can tell you have doubts.”
My smile droops. “That’s some insight you’ve got.”
“Practice.” She shrugs. “So what is next for the summer travels of Pippa?”
I pull out my guidebook and flip to the Rome section for reinforcement. “There are still a couple of things in Rome I want to see for sure before moving on. Catacombs, the Vatican—”
“Oh, you must see la città del Vaticano! Tomorrow! I will take you.”
I snap my head up to meet her dark eyes. “What? I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Who is asking? I am offering.” She deflates a little. “Unless you prefer to be alone?”
My heart warms and my smile spreads. A real local to show me around the Vatican.
“It sounds great.”
ASSIGNMENT NUMERO QUATTRO: FACE YOUR FEARS I know you well enough to know that by this point, you’re struggling with a few things. You’re out of your comfort zone, surrounded by a language you don’t understand, studying for a job you don’t want. They say you should face your fears head-on. Write some things down that you’re afraid of or intimidated by, then write a way you could get over each of them. Example: I am, as you know, illogically afraid of naturally occurring bodies of water. And to get over this, I could fall in love with someone who lives on a yacht. See? It doesn’t even have to be realistic. And, go!
Fear: sneezing while driving and getting in a wreck
Remedy: learn to sneeze with eyes open (I will prove that it’s not impossible)
Remedy: learn to be patient
Remedy: learn to talk to her
Remedy: stay in Italy indefinitely
The slow-moving line wraps around the outer wall to Vatican City, but Chiara leads us past everyone to the entrance where the tour groups gather. She approaches a woman who is clutching a clipboard and a thin wooden rod with strips of colorful fabric dangling from the top, similar to what the other tour guides are sporting. Chiara and the woman smile and kiss each other’s cheeks, but I can’t tell if they know each other or if that’s just the way things are done here.
Chiara waves me closer and we’re absorbed into the tour, shuffling through the entrance ahead of the mile-long line.
“How did you do that?” I ask after we hand over money for the entrance fee. The guide wanders to the counter to buy tickets for the group.
“I simply asked if she had room for two more!”
We’re given headsets so we can all hear the guide without her yelling, and it’s only after I finish adjusting the volume that I realize she’s speaking in French. I catch eyes with Chiara and frown.
“Oops!” She puts a hand to her mouth.
We dissolve into laughter and I return my headset. There’s
no point in a French soundtrack to my Vatican experience. At least we’re not still waiting to get in.
Chiara relays anything interesting that’s mentioned, but for the most part, I bring up the rear and observe my surroundings. We’re led through immense halls lined with tapestries and frescoes, past statues of all sizes, some missing limbs, noses, ears, breasts, or
other
parts. We climb up stairs, down stairs. My calf muscles are killing me and even my right arm is sore from lifting my mammoth of a camera up to my eye every couple of minutes.
There is one thing this place doesn’t lack: art. I’m practically drowning in it. Everywhere I turn is another reminder of my lie. Another needle to the chest.
I finally remember to breathe when we get to an open courtyard.
“You are bored,” Chiara says. “I am sorry it is not an English tour.” She pulls the headphones off and drapes them over her shoulder.
I manage a smile so I don’t appear ungrateful. “I’m trying to be interested in all this. And it is beautiful, but … I don’t know.” I fan my hand in front of my face, hoping I can pass it off on the heat. “It’s miserable out here. Hard to concentrate, you know?”
The fabric-strip beacon flutters near the door to another building and our group lines up behind it. I stifle a groan, pinch my shirt at the neck and repeatedly pull it away from my body, pumping wind down my chest and stomach.
“Here,” Chiara says, pressing a few buttons on her cell phone. “A picture will make you feel better.” She holds the phone out in front of us, putting her head against mine like we’re old friends.
We take half a dozen photos together with serious and goofy faces, but I get distracted when I spot a head of thick, dark curls about twenty feet in front of us. My heart pounds so hard, it makes me dizzy for a second. I clutch Chiara’s wrist.
“Chiara. I think that’s—”
The guy turns and catches eyes with me, smiling to reveal a mouthful of braces. So not Darren. And this kid might only be, like, fourteen.
Chiara clears her throat. “That is the guy you met?”
I let go of her. “No. Not even close.” A long sigh morphs into laughter. When did I become such a girl, freaking out over a boy I don’t even know?
“We should rest.” She points to a bench that just cleared at the end of the walkway. “We can always catch up with them later, or continue without them. I know where the important parts are.”
We’re facing a tarnished statue of a pinecone with two peacocks standing guard. I don’t get it at all. Even if someone explained the symbolism to me, why decorate with it? It’s a pinecone.
Mom will never understand this about me. She could probably look at this pinecone and know what it means without anyone telling her. She’s got the brain for it. I don’t. She pretends this fact doesn’t exist and continues pushing me into things she likes to do, all in preparation for a career she thinks she can make me want.
But I can’t let that happen. I won’t.
The Sistine Chapel is dim and a musty sort of cool, which is a surprise considering how many people are crammed into the
space. A camera flash briefly illuminates the room and a strongly accented man at the front yells, ‘
No foto!
”
Chiara points to the ceiling and my eyes follow the lead. There it is. Right. Up. There. The most famous painting I’ve ever heard of. God giving life to Adam.
“
Incredibile
, no?” Chiara whispers.
I swallow hard and my eyes mist over. There are no adequate words. “
Sì
.”
My neck struggles with the position of my head but I can’t look away. Michelangelo was in this
exact
room, way up there on scaffolding, so much higher than I imagined. If he was close enough to the ceiling to paint with a little brush, how did he know it would look this perfect from down here? That’s probably the sort of thing I’d be learning at that summer program.
Did I really write to them from a fake e-mail account, posing as my mother to get out of it?
My face flames and sweat dots my hairline. It itches, but my arms refuse to let me do anything about it. The crowd blurs into a dull shifting mass, pressing in on me. I look back up at the ceiling for stability, but it only makes me dizzier. Colors swirl together. God shifts his eyes from Adam to me.
Murmurs and whispers amplify, joining my accelerating pulse until there’s a stampede in my ears. My heart might explode.
What have I done?
Chiara grabs my hand and supports my weakened body through a maze of people and doorways until we’re outside. The brightness burns my eyes, but I welcome the awakening.
“What happened? You looked as if you might fall over.”
I avoid her question and instead gaze up at the weathered, bluish dome of St. Peter’s Basilica looming over us from high above all the other buildings in the city. Is the pope in there praying for liars like me?
