Kissing in Italian

by Lauren Henderson

  “They sent me away,” I say. “This isn’t really about getting Kendra away from Luigi—that was just a convenient excuse. It’s about getting me away from the whole di Vesperi family.” I take a deep breath. “Which means—which really does mean—”

  “It’s just a theory,” Kelly says quickly.

  Which means that Luca really is my brother and the principe is my father. A father who doesn’t want me around—who positively wants to get rid of me, so much so that he’ll pay Catia to bundle me away.

  I texted and emailed Mum, of course, to say where we were going. I was dying to ring her, and it would have been the perfect excuse. But I couldn’t bear the idea that my call might go to voice mail—that she might freak out, seeing my picture pop up on her screen, and not pick up, because she isn’t ready to talk to me yet. It’s the first time ever that I’ve imagined Mum not wanting to hear my voice, and it’s such a painful image that I pushed it away at once.

  Or tried to. Because it keeps on coming back. Especially because all I got in response was a text saying:

  Lovely, so glad you’re going to Venice! Have a wonderful time. Will see you very very soon darling, hold on. Love you SO much, please just hold on a tiny bit longer!

  Which wasn’t exactly the satisfaction I needed.

  “Hey!” Paige bursts into our room, a huge smile on her face. “Are you two ready?” She’s so revved up that she’s forgotten she’s pretending Kelly doesn’t exist, and as soon as she continues I realize why.

  “We’re going to the beach!” she carols. “And you know what that means? Tons of boys! Plus, lifeguards! Hot Italian lifeguards!”

  A Really Worthy Adversary

  Wow. Lounging by a private pool in Chianti with a couple of boys hasn’t prepared us in any way for an Italian beach in the full height of summer. It’s packed as full of tanned and oiled Italians, their skins as dark as cherrywood from this long hot summer, as the narrow Venetian streets are with tourists. Catia’s picked a stabilimento, which has a bar, an open-air restaurant, and its own stretch of beach; you have to pay for lounger and umbrella hire to get in, and the guy who’s leading us to our group of chairs weaves through a throng of happy, swimsuit-wearing, chattering Italians who are standing around in groups everywhere, waving their hands as they talk, pushing back their hair, and all looking so cool that by the time we get to the loungers, we’re relieved just to sit down in the shade and get our bearings.

  This is glamour central. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say confidence central. It’s like walking into a party where everyone knows everyone else. You look around and slowly realize that people are in small groups, that there are couples together and maybe even some lone singles, but the overall impression is utterly intimidating.

  “They’re all so—” Kelly starts.

  “I know,” I say.

  It’s totally unlike any English beaches I’ve ever been on, or any Scandinavian ones; when we visit Mormor and go to the lake in Norway, the locals are much more reserved. And covered. With a lot of the guys here, I just don’t know where to look. There are a lot of Speedos. I didn’t expect that. Leonardo and Andrea, by the pool, always wore looser swimsuits, sort of like boxers, and Evan has those typical baggy American shorts—American boys seem much shyer than Italian ones about showing off their bodies, as far as I can see.

  “See! Told you!” Paige sings out, pointing up at a wooden tower, on top of which a lifeguard is lounging, smoking a cigarette, talking on his mobile phone, his skin tanned so dark he might be Indian, wearing nothing but a tiny, shiny pair of red Speedos.

  “But Paige, his swimsuit!” I object.

  Paige tosses her head.

  “Actually, Violet,” she says, “I think you’re being really sexist. Why should girls be able to wear bikinis if boys can’t wear Speedos? Boys like to tan too!”

  “My dad calls them budgie smugglers,” Kelly volunteers, and I snigger at this.

  So does Paige, when she figures it out. Then, however, she shuts it down, because it came from Kelly. Turning away from us pointedly, Paige pulls off her T-shirt and skirt and lies back on the lounger in her pink crocheted bikini. I sigh. This whole snubbing of Kelly is already exhausting me, and if I feel like that, how must Kelly be reacting? Before, with the four of us, there was always a good flow of conversation. Kelly and Kendra might have the occasional flash of competitiveness, but it would be only a momentary hitch, easily caught up and smoothed over by myself or Paige.

  “Paige,” I say, standing up, pulling off my dress and draping it over one of the struts of the umbrella, “let’s go and see how warm the water is, okay?”

  Paige glances to her side, at Kendra, but Kendra’s just lying there, sunglasses on, not doing a thing or saying a word.

  “Okay,” Paige says, standing up and stretching to draw attention to herself, which has the desired effect. Thank goodness, at least I tan fast, so I don’t feel like a small white garden gnome toddling along beside her. I’m not as dark as the Italians, but I blend in well enough. I’m bravely wearing my polka-dot bikini, and as long as I remember to keep sucking in my tummy, I feel relatively fine.

  “Paige!” I hiss, momentarily distracted. “Look—those girls are topless!”

  “Wow,” Paige says, looking over in the direction I’m indicating discreetly. Three girls are strolling along the edge of the water, in the damp sand, wearing nothing but small bikini bottoms. “You wouldn’t see that back home!”

  “Not in England either,” I assure her.

  “Though,” she adds, “those girls can get away with it because they don’t have much up top. If you or me tried to walk around topless, we’d be going boing-boing-boing like yo-yos.”

  I snigger at this vivid image. The sun is deliciously warm, the sky’s blue as an Easter egg, the sea is aquamarine, the sand is golden and bouncing back heat, and the Adriatic Sea, when we dip in our toes, is pleasantly cool, just enough to be a lovely contrast to the heat all around us. It’s a perfect day, and we’re in Venice. Even if we’re all—apart from Paige, as usual—struggling with our own issues, we should all be blissful in this moment, and when I open my mouth, that’s exactly the point I plan to make.

  “Paige, look,” I say. “This is gorgeous, right? We’re the luckiest girls in the world.”

  Paige, who’s eyeing a group of boys complacently, nods in agreement. We walk into the sea, oohing and aahing with the initial chill as the water rises higher up our legs.

  “So can we just drop this sending-Kelly-to-Coventry thing that you two’re doing? You’ve made your point, okay? She gets it. She knows she was wrong and she’s said she was sorry.”

  “Sending to Coventry?” Paige asks.

  “Not talking to her.”

  “Oh, a freeze-out! Why is it called—”

  “Paige! This is important! I don’t know why it’s called that, okay? Just start talking to her again!”

  Paige drops down suddenly to her bum.

  “Ooh!” she exclaims, water lapping around her chest. “I love to sit in the sand and splash around! I’m not a big swimmer,” she adds cheerfully.

  She’s so infuriating. It’s like talking to a slippery eel. But if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I plop down next to her, gasping in my turn; I’m considerably shorter than she is and the water’s up to my chin. I tilt my head back and submerge my skull completely, bubbling air out through my nostrils. It feels wonderful to be underwater after all the hot sweaty traveling of today. When I come up, I spit out a stream of salty water, pretending I’m a dolphin.

  “You’re so brave to get your hair wet,” Paige says, primly patting her own pinned-up locks.

  Sometimes I think Paige is actually a lot cleverer than she seems; she’s doing a brilliant job of distracting me from the serious talk I’m trying to have with her.

  “Paige!” I yell loudly, casting around me for a way to make her listen. I glance back to see if Kelly and Kendra have heard me shouting, and I see Kendra still
lying there, slumped on her lounger, unmoving.

  “You don’t need to shout,” she says. “I’m right here. Oh, look at those cute kids!”

  “Look at Kendra,” I say strongly. “Just look at her, okay? Does she look like she’s all right?”

  Paige glances back for a second.

  “Well, of course she’s not all right,” she says, sounding a bit more sensible. “She’s all messed up. You should hear what that creep told her. He was in love, she was the only one he’d ever felt like this about, she was the most beautiful girl in the world—you know.”

  I don’t, actually. No boy has ever said those words to me. But I nod as if one has.

  “I mean, she had no idea,” Paige continues. “None at all. And it was bad enough finding out, but like that?”

  She doesn’t need to lower her voice; the wash of the waves, the happy chattering of the Italians all around us, the seagulls squawking overhead, means we can talk normally, which is a real relief.

  “Did they—um—how far did they—um, you know, did they actually—” I’m asking this completely out of curiosity, it’s none of my business, but Paige doesn’t snub me for it.

  “No,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Could you imagine? But they would’ve. He kept pushing for it. And she sort of wanted to.”

  “Yuck,” I say reflexively, thinking of hairy old Luigi. “Right,” she agrees.

  I go in for the kill now that we’re on the same page.

  “She must be in pieces,” I say. “Which is exactly why I’m asking you to start talking to Kelly. Don’t you see, it’s just drawing things out for Kendra? If she’s holding on to a grudge like this, and you’re egging her on, she won’t get over this whole Luigi thing. She needs to recover, not dwell on it.”

  Paige shoots me an unexpectedly sharp look.

  “You sound like someone on daytime TV,” she says. “Next you’ll be telling me she needs closure.”

  Paige, I decide in that moment, is clever. Not academic-clever, but she’s smart. I should be careful not to underestimate her. I think this whole bouncy-blonde thing is an act she puts on to get what she wants.

  “Well, doesn’t she need closure?” I ask. “I’m not saying it won’t take time. Probably loads of time. But rubbing in what Kelly did over and over again isn’t going to help Kendra in the long run.”

  “It’s sort of helping in the short run, though,” Paige observes, pinning up a lock of hair that’s fallen down.

  Paige is turning out to be a really worthy adversary. I’d be impressed if it weren’t so frustrating. She turns to look at me face-on. Suddenly I feel that we’re rival generals, armies massed behind us, negotiating a peace treaty.

  “Kelly doesn’t have all your advantages,” I say, my last card to play. “She’s poor, she’s not posh, and she doesn’t have your confidence. I’m not defending what she did, but you can understand, a bit, how she’d feel jealous of Kendra with all the boys after her.”

  “Andrea never would have looked at her, whether Kendra was around or not,” Paige says with devastating frankness.

  “So have a bit of compassion, okay? It was really hard for Kelly, crushing on someone she couldn’t have, watching him pretty much throw himself at Kendra’s feet. And Kendra’s so gorgeous,” I say. “Think about it.”

  I hope I’ve wrestled Paige to a draw, at least. But I sense that I shouldn’t push this any more.

  “He hasn’t been in touch with her,” Paige says, changing the subject a little, signaling that the Kelly subject is no longer up for discussion. “Not at all.”

  I know she means Luigi and Kendra.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” I ask, a little confused. “Wouldn’t it be worse if he was still in touch with her?”

  “Well, nothing’s pretty harsh,” Paige says, sighing. “She got really beaten up by this. Not even a ‘goodbye, I’m so sorry, I had real feelings for you,’ you know? Nothing’s basically ‘I was just using you to have a good time.’ Which makes her feel extra stupid.”

  I nod. I feel really sorry for Kendra, but what can I say? Like Luigi, I have no words.

  I need to move; I’m feeling restless. Standing up, I promptly scream as what feels like a pound of wet sand falls out of my bikini bottoms. It must have worked itself in there while we were sitting in the sea.

  “Hahahaha!” Paige cracks up laughing. “It looks like you pooed yourself!”

  “Yes, thanks, Paige—”

  “It really does! It totally looks like you—”

  “Thanks, I think we all get the point!”

  I dash into the sea as fast as I can, more gobs of wet sand tumbling down my legs, looking and feeling almost exactly like—well, like poo. When I’m waist-deep, I pull the bottoms down and shake and scrape out a big handful of sand. Without any hesitation, I throw it directly at Paige. To my great satisfaction, it lands bang in her cleavage.

  “Hey! You have poo on your boobs!” I say happily.

  “Aah!”

  Taking this in the spirit in which it’s meant, Paige scoops it out and hurls it back at me. I jump back, giggling, as she crab walks deeper into the sea, stands up, and starts fishing handfuls of sand out of her own bottoms to throw at me. We’re both laughing now, not aiming to hurt or hit the other one in the face, just letting off steam, and it feels wonderful. The stress, the tension, the perpetual worrying about who I am fade away; I realize that negotiating with Paige on Kelly’s behalf has helped too.

  Remember this, I tell myself. Looking after other people. Visiting somewhere new. Splashing around in the sea, throwing wet sand at another girl’s boobs as you both scream with laughter. These are all really good ways to distract yourself from freaking out about things you can’t do anything about.

  Up above, on his tower, the lifeguard’s standing up and looking down at us, hands on his hips. Laughing too.

  “Vai bionda!” he’s calling. “Go blondie!”

  Paige hears it too, and understands—she’s called “bionda” here so much it might as well be her name. Turning around, she waves at him flirtatiously, which distracts her enough that I can bend down into the waves, grab a fresh handful of wet sand, and chuck it so it splatters all over her back. She screams, the lifeguard laughs harder, and people look in our direction, Paige hamming it up hugely, loving the attention. Boys start drifting over; she’s a magnet, and she adores it.

  But on their loungers, Kendra and Kelly haven’t moved. They’re still lying down, showing no signs of coming to join us. Our once-happy group has splintered in all sorts of ways. But at least Paige and I are enjoying ourselves while Kendra and Kelly slump depressively in their own separate misery bubbles.

  Please don’t let this last, I pray. Please let everyone cheer up. I don’t have the energy to make Kelly feel better—it’s all I can do to put a smile on my own face.

  “Ciao, ragazzi!” Paige is saying to a couple of smooth-skinned, darkly tanned boys who’ve got up the courage to approach her.

  “Ciao, bella!” one says back eagerly.

  Oh, I think wistfully, if we could all be as light and easygoing as Paige, the world would be a much happier place! Paige wouldn’t have thought twice about it if she’d spotted a portrait that looked just like her in a museum! She’d have said “Cool,” taken a photo, made it her Facebook profile for a few weeks, and then forgotten about it completely. She’s not only the queen of this beach, she’s the queen of living in the moment, not worrying about things she can’t control.

  That’s what you should be doing, Violet, I tell myself. Live in the moment, okay? Stop looking over at your phone on the lounger, wondering if Mum’s about to ring or text. You’re in Venice on the beach in the summer sunshine! Enjoy it!

  Paige and her new friends are throwing around a big stripy ball, the boys’ lean bodies jumping and twisting in the air like slim brown dolphins, Paige’s boobs jiggling in a way the boys doubtless intended when they produced the ball. The lifeguard’s attention is so focused on the content
s of her bikini top that a whole family could be eaten by sharks, screaming for help, without his having the faintest idea.

  Live in the moment.

  “Hey,” I yell. “Chuck it to me!”

  And I run up the wet sand toward them.

  Not Exactly Birds Eye Fish Fingers

  Catia specified two things we absolutely had to bring to Venice—a swimsuit and sensible shoes, because we’d be doing a lot of walking. But you don’t realize how much that’s truly going to entail in a city where, most of the time, walking is literally your only option. The water-buses actually only go down the Grand Canal; all the other canals are too narrow, have bridges too low, for them to pass. The taxis are expensive, and not practical for nipping around town. You can’t bicycle—there are way too many bridges. You absolutely, positively have to walk, and often you have to walk extra far because of the difficulties of getting over the canals at the right place. The buses zigzag back and forth, so you can use those, and they also have these cool crossings with gondolas called traghetti; if you need to cross the Grand Canal between bridges, there are little piers at which you wait until a group of you has built up. Then a scruffy gondolier—not in the full stripy T-shirt, black trousers, and straw hat—will hand you into the gondola, in which you stand up, balancing, as he poles you over to the other side. The trip itself barely takes a minute, but we love it; we’d do it again and again if it didn’t cost a euro per person each time.

  We also like it, to be honest, because it involves standing still. Yesterday by the beach was blissful relaxation; today has been nonstop rushing. Catia’s hired a local guide to whisk us around, and, I suspect, instructed him to tire us out so thoroughly that we wouldn’t have much energy for sneaking off with lifeguards, boys from the Lido, or art teachers. Certainly, though the guide’s a man, Catia has picked one who won’t be any temptation to a group of single teenage girls. He’s a skinny, hollow-chested academic type who wears a sweater and tweed jacket even in this hot weather.