Wish You Were Italian (24 page)

I swallow down the lump. “I know. It’s fine.”

We sit in silence a moment before he points his pinkie at me and wiggles it closer and closer to my face. We erupt into laughter and Tate jolts awake, giving us the stink eye, which makes us laugh even harder. I’m clutching my stomach when Nina plops back down in her seat.

She appraises us with wide eyes until a smirk plays at the corners of her mouth.

“Now,” she says, “that’s more like it.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

It takes a change of trains in Naples and a bus ride from Sorrento to get to our home base of Positano on the Amalfi coast, but we make it before dark. I wish I could say all the weirdness is gone, but I can tell Darren’s holding back. When he smiles, I can’t see his twisty tooth.

For dinner, we inhale sandwiches from a street-side cart and Tate navigates our way to the hotel. I expected them to want to save money and crash in a youth hostel, but thankfully Nina put her foot down. She’s scared of bed bugs.

The hotel is small, much smaller than the one I stayed at in Rome. The four of us cram into the little hallway, waiting for the big brass key to click in the lock.

“I don’t think this is the right key,” Tate says. “Why’s it so clunky, anyway?”

“Because this hotel is ancient. You have to have finesse,” Darren says, irritated. “Here, let me do it.”

As soon as he takes over, the door swings open and we enter a musty room crammed with bulky furniture that uses up most of the floor space. There’s just enough room to walk between the foot of the beds and the desk, the armoire housing the television, and a taller piece I’m guessing serves as the closet. A row of narrow windows just below the ceiling allow in muted natural light.

“Well, that’s cozy.” Nina giggles. “I get the one by the bathroom.”

We push the rest of the way into the room and I see there are four twin beds, as requested, but with maybe an inch of space between each one.

“Then I guess this one’s mine,” Tate says, dropping his backpack on the floor and throwing himself down next to Nina. He bear hugs the pillow and yawns. “Wake me up when it’s time for breakfast.”

Wordlessly, Darren sits at the edge of the next bed, which leaves the one between him and the wall for me. I’m going to have to sleep next to Darren. For THREE nights. What if I dream about him? What if I say something during those dreams? What if he says something in
his
sleep? What if I roll over and bump into him?

I set my camera and backpack down on the desk, dig out a pink tank top, matching pajama shorts, and my toiletry pouch, and get ready for bed in the bathroom. When I come back out, Darren’s sitting at the desk, elbow propped on it, head supported in his hand. He’s already changed into a pair of red-and-white plaid pants and a black T-shirt. For some reason, the sight of him in his PJs gives me a little thrill.

He motions toward the beds. “They’re passed out.”

I glance at the fully clothed spooning figures and look away before my cheeks get the better of me. The clock on the desk shows that it’s only 8:25. I know traveling wears you out but I feel completely wired.

“Are you ready to go to bed or …?” I let my voice trail off and swallow. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about sleeping one bed over from him.

“You want to go for a walk?”

I pinch the fabric of my shorts as if to say,
In these?
and frown.

He looks down at my bare legs, then meets my eyes. “Just throw on your sneakers.”

There’s a flutter in my chest, but I imagine myself squashing the little winged creatures. No butterflies allowed. I can do this.

Positano reminds me of the villages of Cinque Terre, but I notice right away how much larger this town is. The hills are steeper so there’s basically one street that snakes through the town, running in zigzag fashion, and the buildings—similar in colors and style—are broader so they appear even more stacked on top of one another.

We stroll the winding street just as the sun slips behind a mountain, ducking under unruly branches of red and purple flowers and dodging locals speeding by on bicycles. Darren hasn’t said anything, but I take the opportunity to control the conversation before he does. To keep it in the safe zone.

“So tell me about yourself,” I say, mentally rolling my eyes
for sounding like an interviewer. “Where’d you grow up? What’s your favorite color? Biggest fear? All the basics.”

He laughs, kicking at a cluster of broken flower petals on the ground. “I’d hardly put my biggest fear in the basics category.”

“You know what I mean. I feel like I don’t know that much about you, in the broad scheme of things.”

“Well, in the broad scheme,” he begins, “I grew up all over the world, my favorite color changes every day, and I’m terrified of green eyes.”

I raise my brows and imagine my eyes shooting him with green laser beams. “That’s—” I stop myself from saying
weird
. “Why?”

“It’s just this feeling I have.”

“My eyes are sort of greenish,” I say through a nervous laugh. “Am I that scary?”

He looks at me and we both slow to a stop. A Vespa shoots past, swirling our hair in the wind. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, so I don’t either. I get the impression he’s trying to subliminally relay his answer to me. That I’m supposed to know what he’s thinking. I don’t.

Suddenly he brushes my hair off my shoulder before continuing up the street.

“I mostly grew up in New Mexico,” he says. “Arizona and Nevada too, with brief stints in Italy, Ireland, and a few countries in South America. Now we’re in Texas.”

“Oh.” That sounds very, very, very far away from home.

“My parents both work at Texas A&M. So that’s where Tate and Nina go, and where I’ll start in the fall.”

“And you’re studying the same thing, following in their footsteps,” I say. “Do you want to be a professor too?”

He shrugs. “Maybe one day. I’d like to travel more first though, work on dig sites in places like Greece or Central America. Ancient civilizations are buried everywhere. It’s, like, no matter where you walk, you never know what could be under your feet. I want a job that lets me see all the things I want to see before I get stuck behind a desk.”

“I know what you mean. I can’t wait to see the world and document it, photojournalist style.” An image of the two of us traveling together pops into my mind: him digging up the world and me taking pictures of it. I squash those butterflies too.

“Yeah?” he asks, his smile finally revealing teeth. “I can see you doing that, like for
National Geographic
or something.”

“You haven’t even seen any of my pictures,” I scoff. “Besides, can you imagine how competitive a job that would be? Those photographers are incredible. They have years of experience under their belts. I’m not even eighteen years old yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve got time,” he says. “You know what someone said to me once? Figure out what you love doing, then figure out how to make money doing it.”

I turn the thought over in my head. “I like that.”

He smiles, plunging his hands into his pockets. “So tell me about you. Who is Pippa, in the broad scheme of things?” He winks.

I return the smile. “Well, I’m an only child, born and raised in Chicago—”

“Ah, Chicago. That’s the accent.”

“I told you before, I don’t have an accent.”

“To
your
ears you don’t.” He laughs. “But it’s definitely there to the rest of us.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he says. “It’s cute.”

Oh, I might die. A boy used the word “cute.” And when describing something about me. I can’t look at him.

“Well, I can’t really hear your accent,” I say.

“That’s what happens when you move all the time. I can sound like I’m from wherever I want.”

“Prove it. Let’s hear a British accent.”

“I think technically it’s called an
English
accent, and no. I don’t work on demand.”

I give Darren a little shove. “Come on, pansy. Just a wee little sampling,” I say, attempting the accent myself.

He bites back a laugh. “That was … rubbish. And Scottish, if we’re being picky.”

“Hey!” I say, shoving him harder like I’m twelve.

He pokes my shoulder with his pointer finger and I rock back. I reach for him again, but he slides out of the way then takes off down the street in a run. Without hesitation I chase after him, hanging on to my camera to keep it from banging against my chest. He disappears between two buildings and when I round the corner after him, I’m met with a steep wall of concrete steps. A single light illuminates the way from the top. Darren’s already a quarter of the way up, taking two at a time.

“Where are you going?” I call to him.

He grips the rusty handrail, gasping for breath. “I have no idea!”

The narrow space feels private and secluded, forbidden
even. I search for a no trespassing sign and when I turn back to the base of the steps, Darren’s standing in front of me, hand outstretched.

“What?” I ask, staring at a thick callous on his palm.

Without a word, he snatches my hand and tugs me up the steps, our winded laughter echoing against the walls. At the top, he leads me over an iron railing to a vacant balcony and we look out to the darkening sea far below. Wispy clouds are just visible overhead, hints of pink from the setting sun fading fast.

“It’s beautiful here,” I say. “Reminds me of Cinque Terre.”

Darren grips the railing and leans back, arms locked. “Would you rather have stayed there?”

“You’re not seriously asking me that,” I snort, narrowing my eyes at him.

All the muscles in his face are relaxed as he meets my gaze. “I’m serious,” he says quietly. “Would you rather be there? With him?” He doesn’t look away. “I hope you didn’t feel like you
had
to come or something. Just because we asked you.”

I blink and shudder as the memory of Bruno’s last kiss plays out in my mind. I really wish I would have punched him now.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally breaking eye contact. “It’s none of my business.”

“No.”

He meets my eyes again. “No to which part?”

“No, I wouldn’t rather be with him,” I rush to spit out.

“Really? Because that’s not the impression I got before we left.”

“That didn’t mean anything. Not to me.” I suck in a nervous breath. “And not to him either. That’s just what he does.”

“What else does he do?” His tone is harsh.

I clench my teeth together before saying, “Nothing,
Dad.
”

He forces a half smile and his eyelids drift closed. “I’m sorry. I just have a weird feeling about the guy.”

Tell me about it. The dude read my
journal
. He knew I wanted to fall for an Italian all along. He thought he could
be
that Italian. Was it a game to him? Was anything he ever said real?

“You really didn’t see me trying to push him away?”

“You did?” Darren scratches along his jawline. “I guess I was too angry to notice that.”

“You were?” So it was more than awkwardness. He was angry. The butterflies are back, flapping their stupid little wings in my chest.

He nods and looks away from me, eyes focused past me to the sky as it wanes into a deep-blue blanket dotted with pulsing stars. Bells from a church ring out in the distance.

“I’m glad you chose to come with us,” he says, still looking out over the black sea.

With a sigh, I grasp the railing and follow his gaze. “Me too.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

ASSIGNMENT NUMERO NOVE: THE PERFECT MAN We talk about boys a lot. Especially who’s hot, who’s not, and why. But if the movie actors of old have taught us anything, it’s that good looks go away. The perfect man needs more than a cute face and big biceps, because even those muscles will one day shrivel. But good character, hopefully, will not
.

List five attributes of the perfect man:

1. loyal

2. trustworthy

3. smart

4. funny

5. real

I don’t want to accidentally find myself on Darren’s pillow in the morning, so I curl up on my bed, back pressed against the wall. The room is dark, but as my eyes adjust to the outside light coming in through the small windows, I can see Darren sprawled out on his stomach across the entire twin bed. Half of his face disappears into the pillow, mouth slightly open, his sheeted figure slowly rising and falling.

I remind myself that I’ve been living in the same apartment as Bruno, and he’s actually made a move, but I’m a mess of nerves. This feels nearly scandalous, practically sharing a bed with Darren. I turn over to face the wall instead. I can’t look at him. If I don’t look, he’s not really there.

Just as my mind swirls with near-sleep, someone’s breathing evolves into a soft snore. I concentrate on the gentle rhythm across the room and identify the offender as Nina. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. I mentally count my toes, telling each one to fall asleep, working up to my ankles, shins, and knees, but it just makes me aware of the soreness of my calves and then I can’t stop fidgeting.

Quietly as possible, I unzip my backpack at the foot of my bed and feel around for my journal and the tiny book light. Keeping on my stomach and facing the end of my bed, I clip the light onto the cover of the journal and turn to my next assignment.

In my periphery I see Darren’s feet move. I quickly press the button on my book light, straining to listen as he wrestles with his sheets, presumably to get comfy.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, so close his breath causes a stray hair to tickle my cheek.

I startle, leaning away and curling the wisps behind my ear.

“Are you writing in your diary?” Even through the whisper I can tell he’s laughing.