- San Francisco State University Digital Repository

I DON’T
A5
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A written creative work submitted to the faculty of
San Francisco State University
In partial fulfillment of
the requirements for
the Degree
Master of Fine Arts
In
Creative Writing
by
Kacy Cunningham
San Francisco, California
May 2016
Copyright by
Kacy Cunningham
2016
CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL
I certify that I have read I D on’t by Kacy Cunningham, and that in my opinion this work
meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the
requirement for the degree Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at San Francisco State
University.
Chanan Tigay
Assistant Professor of Creative Writing
Department Chair of Creative Writing
I DON’T
Kacy Cunningham
San Francisco, California
2016
Codi Grace always wanted more from life than her friends: more adventure, more love,
more experience.
Dissatisfied with the mundane and ordinary, Codi, 22, travels to
Europe where she hopes to better understand herself, meet like-minded people, and find
what’s been missing in her life. Instead, she turns strangers into enemies, mistakes onenight-stands for love, gets arrested in a foreign country, and nearly loses her best friend.
She eventually settles in Florence, Italy to study abroad for a year. Here, she finds the
last thing she wanted: true love. Now, Codi must learn to balance her selfishness while
surrendering to love. I Don’t is a novel that explores how we become who we are while
looking closely at personal history, female sexuality, and self-discovery through travel,
lust, and love.
I certify that the annotation is a correct representation of the content of this written
creative work.
Chair, Thesis Committee
Date
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to my parents, Rhonda and Brian Cunningham, for always telling me I could
do anything. I couldn’t have written this without your love and support. Thank you to
everyone at San Francisco State University for reading, critiquing, and encouraging my
work, especially Chanan Tigay, Maxine Chemoff, Peter Omer, Toni Mirosevich, Paul
Hoover, Andrew Joron, Steve Dickison, Nona Caspers, Loria Mendoza, Austin Messick,
Nate Waggoner, Jenny Alton, Ari Moskowitz, Ploi Pirapokin, Dirk Petersen, Dylan Brie
Ducey, Sofia Lopez, Lara Coley, Yume Kim, Kendra Schynert, Jenna Feest, Maia Ipp,
Kayla Eason, Jen Cross, Heidi Van Horn, Philip Harris, and Sean Barnett. I am grateful
for supportive literary communities, particularly past and current curators of Velro;
Jennifer Lewis, Monique Mero, and Veronica Christina of Red Light Lit; Fred
Dodsworth, Sandra Wassilie, and Charles Kruger of Bay Area Generations', Evan Karp at
Quiet Lightning; and Marguerite Munot and Jose Hector Cadena of Voz Sin Tinta. I am
eternally grateful to Katie Crouch for saying the words that led to me writing I Don ’t: “I
want to read that book!” Thanks to all the readers out there, especially you kind strangers
who have come up to me after a reading to tell me that you were moved. You motivate
me to keep writing. Thank you to my best friends, Brandi Dominicci, Erica Pfafflin,
Kaitlin Bennion, Loria Mendoza, Jenny Alton, Dirk Petersen, Bekah Rosado, Mary
Hable, Rachel Emily, Jamie Semanisin, Kiara Papa, Lenay Ruhl, Cooper Shanahan, and
Max Largent for listening to my ideas, reading chapters, supporting my impulses,
keeping your hearts and doors open, and teaching me about love and friendship every
day. Finally, thank you to Riccardo Ciglia. Without you, this story wouldn’t exist.
v
1
Chapter 1
Then there was Francis.
I had decided to live in Paris for the summer because I knew I’d meet like-minded
people who used words like rendezvous and lovers (plural!) regularly. “I just feel it in
my bones! I just know” were my actual words.
Instead, I butchered the French language, cursed the constant drizzle and slippery
cobblestones, and I spent too much of my time missing Justin, my latest and longest
boyfriend. I sat in the Starbucks across from the Moulin Rouge, facing the attraction.
My first day, after standing at the foot of the Eiffel Tower in awe, I took a train to
Blanche, the nearest Metro station to the Moulin Rouge so I could see the birthplace of
the can-can. I loved the idea of being at the birthplace of a dance, such a sensual,
intimate, and passionate art form.
The famous red windmill was motionless. I remembered being a child in
Wisconsin, counting bam after red, decaying bam, dreaming of a bigger, more exciting
world than the one I knew.
As beautiful and intriguing as the Moulin Rouge was, both physically and
symbolically, the locals were what drew me back daily. They were more disheveled than
the typical, well-dressed, well-mannered Parisian. To me, unkempt appearances were the
result of prioritizing differently than the rest of the world. Saying no to makeup and up­
dos and inside voices was evidence of rejecting general conventions and societal norms.
Surely, they were too passionate to be bothered with the task of primping when they had
2
passions to pursue. I convinced myself that artists and writers and musicians surrounded
me, and I wanted to be one of them.
Before leaving the states, I had decided that I would document my overseas
experience by journaling. Photography had always been documentation enough for me,
but I had started to let go of the idea that they were mutually exclusive. I liked the idea
of looking back and reading my thoughts moment-to-moment, when experiences were
still fresh in my mind.
I tapped my pen on a blank page.
I fit in okay. Parisians liked Starbucks well enough, it seemed, and many joined
me at the clouded windows, frowning at the drippings from the awning and the growing
puddles in the street.
Once, I was leaving Starbucks at closing - it was Sunday so it was still early when a slender man on a rusty blue bike passed in front of the door as I exited. He had
light brown hair, and he wore a stained t-shirt and black work pants rolled up at the
ankles. We smiled at each other. I clutched my journal to my chest, exhilarated. Would
he be my first real French kiss? But then he looked away. I looked down, thinking what
the fuck is wrong with French people? Less than a block ahead, his bike chain fell off.
He leaned to the side, looking down at the bike and saying very loud, very angrysounding things. I was getting closer, walking uphill. He crouched down in front of the
bike, cracking his knuckles repeatedly. Finally, he gave up and let the bike fall on its
side, kicking the front tire, which creaked as it spun before slowing to a loopy spin. Now
3
standing, he turned his neck from side to side, and he tried unsuccessfully to tuck his hair
behind his ear. Again and again, he was trying and failing to tuck the hair.
When I was in front of him, I stopped. I allowed myself to smirk only a bit, ever
amused by the universe.
“Hello,” he said, and I was so glad he spoke first.. .and in English.
He walked the bike, it was between us, and besides exchanging hellos and names
we didn’t speak. We glanced sideways at each other often, and I walked carefully to stay
in sync with him. I wasn’t sure how well he spoke English, and I didn’t want to speak in
rapid-fire English like a typical American might, assuming that he understood, because it
would be embarrassing for both of us if he didn’t, and then the walk would end.
The thick clouds over us disguised the time of day, but I felt night approaching by
the absence of open storefronts. I wasn’t surprised that he lived in Montmartre - he
looked like he came straight off a poster for a struggling artist - but I was shocked when
he stopped in front of a tall white building with gold trim. Many neighboring buildings
were off-white, cream, and gray, but this was white-white, wedding white, and the paint
was fresh, not peeling and flaking like the others. White like the dome of the Basilica of
the Sacre-Coeur. The towering architecture didn’t compare to the other homes on this
street. I looked up as a streetlamp flickered on prematurely. I still half-expected him to
be pausing to light the half cigarette tucked behind his ear. But no, he took out a key that
fit into the heart-shaped, gold-leaf lock. The heavy, wrought iron gate opened easily, and
he waved me in. Blood-red roses wilted among overgrown bushes in the courtyard. In
4
the back, dark green vines laced the building’s exterior, concealing that pristine white
almost completely. The place looked remarkably different from the front gate to the
back. The only gold thing in the back was the doorknob, and even that looked tarnished.
With his hand on the doorknob, Francis half-turned to look at me. Not like we
had looked at each other while walking. His eyes were wider, mischievous.
I willed myself not to blink. I looked back with, I hoped, the same intensity. I
wanted to see a real Montmartre apartment and spend time with a real Parisian. I could
hear my friends back home, especially Darcy. As much as they enjoyed my stories, they
never related. They didn’t understand me. I don’t blame them; / didn’t understand
completely. I only knew that I wanted this, whatever “this” would be.
We were silent.
I nodded, and he mirrored me, nodding too. When you have adventure,
spontaneity, and raw desire, who needs a common language?
The door opened to a dim, narrow stairwell. He scooped the bike over his head
and carried it up four flights of steep stairs. The door to his apartment was unlocked.
Upon entering, he kicked some dirty clothes out of the way. The ceiling soared overhead,
and a gorgeous archway marked every room’s entrance. Between the living area and
kitchen was the most exquisite entry: overlapping roses beautifully carved from
baseboard to ceiling. The design looked smooth, the roses like ripples in soft wood.
There were no sharp edges; no centimeter had been neglected. I had never seen anything
5
similar in America, not even at Aunt Maggie’s. Throughout the apartment, the natural
wood was in pristine condition, gleaming under track lights.
An open, uncorked bottle of red wine was on the counter, but he pulled out two
Newcastle bottles of beer instead. It seemed odd to me, this Newcastle exchange. Not
Paris-like at all. I could’ve been anywhere.
Francis flicked off his dirty socks and his bare feet slapped on the hardwood
floor as he crossed the room to turn on the radio. Political reports rambled out in two
layers, English with loud French translation. He switched to a station with instrumental
music, and he took my hand and led me down the hall, carrying his beer by its throat.
In the room at the end of the hall, presumably his bedroom, a twin bed was on the
ground, very low and sagging in the center. Half the sheets had been ripped off,
revealing an off-white bumpy mattress. Next to the heaped pillows was a small window.
Some rusty nails stuck out from the wall where coats and scarves hung, but there was no
other furniture, just that lumpy mattress on the floor.
He gestured for me to sit on the bed, and when I did he elbowed the door shut.
The window had no view, only looked out at the neighboring building’s stone exterior.
The sleek grayness of it all made the room seem colder than it was, and I shivered. He
took this as a cue to warm me up. He sat behind me, his legs around my body, chest
pressed against my back, alternating between stroking my arms and massaging my neck
and shoulders.
6
I’ve had many one-night stands. I like them. There’s something magical about a
one-night stand. Like a wedding: all that hope and excitement and romance in one place,
usually in one room. For the youngsters (myself included), I suppose it’s like clubbing.
Dancing. The lights are pulsing. Hell, the whole place smells sweaty. It’s a collection of
voices, and you can try but you won’t hear one single voice even when you strain, even
when they’re screaming at you. The music throbs, which makes it seem like the walls are
throbbing, and the floor tilts because everyone’s been drinking and smoking and trying
new things in the tiny bathrooms. But everyone believes that this night means something,
that they’re in the middle of something big and great. Yeah, they’re a part of something,
and they ride it out, this night, straddling the moment and holding on tight.
His underwear was white and tight. He rolled awkwardly to the end of the bed,
like a dog, and he stood up tall and stretched. His skin against that stark white looked
ashy, grayish. I told myself it was the light, that little window’s fault. He finished his
Newcastle in one swig, watching me all the while as if to make sure I was watching him.
He put the empty beer bottle on the floor and came to me. He took my face in his
hands, turned it, and I let him. He kissed my cheeks, my forehead, my neck. At last, he
kissed my lips. I tasted tobacco and espresso. His cheeks smelled like aftershave, and I
touched one cheek’s scruff with the back of my hand. We moved across the bed. After
he inched my shirt over my head, my elbow sank into a deep slump and hit one of the
springs hard. I was determined not to let anything spoil the moment so I kissed him
harder. On his back, he stuck his legs in the air and wiggled out of his underwear. I
7
hadn’t seen a naked man since Justin. This was a beautiful penis. Not that Justin’s
wasn’t. After two-ish years, 1 was used to Justin. What was once mysterious had
become normal, routine. Francis was well proportioned, thick and long but not
overwhelming in either direction. 1 realized f was staring. Probably an ego boost, he
grew harder and started kissing me again. We were sideways now, facing each other and
smiling through kisses.
I heard a shuffling in the other room, a movement near the front door. We
continued kissing. Of course he had roommates. Even if it was a tad run-down
compared to the front and first floors, this was prime real estate. 1 pulled him closer.
The front door slammed, and high heels clicked on the wood floor. The footsteps
grew louder, came nearer. Francis bit his bottom lip, kissed my nose quick, and rose.
He fished through strewn clothes to find those bright white undies. He said something I
didn’t understand and pointed to the small window.
1 shook my head, still in bed.
Fran?ois moved to the door, gripping the doorknob, and he pushed his back
against the door. The bronze doorknob shook violently in his hand. I looked to Francois
for how to react. He worked my beer toward him with his foot. He burped quietly and
smiled at me, shrugged, pointed at the window, and shrugged again.
“What about the window?” 1 hissed.
He put a finger to his lips. He pointed at the door then the window.
8
“Is that your g/r/friend? You have a girlfriend?” He shrugged and smiled again.
“Does she live here?”
“Shh,” he said and pointed to the window again, eager and repeatedly.
I got up and pulled on my shirt. “I’m not going out the window! It’s not even a
window. This is unbelievable.”
He was covering his mouth and laughing into his hand. On the other side of the
door, it became still and quiet. No heels, no rattling doorknobs.
“I’m leaving,” I said and smoothed my hair.
He grabbed my wrist when I got to the door. His jaw clenched, he looked
worried. I feared he would point to the window again. Instead, he nodded once without a
smile, searching my face. His eyes and fingertips roamed over my face. No one had ever
looked at me so closely, not that I could remember. What was he thinking? What did he
see?
He kissed my lips softly, frowning after the kiss.
The door opened into what seemed emptiness. But there she was —the girlfriend,
sitting on the armchair of the leather loveseat. She was stunning with long black hair and
bright, clear eyes. Her face looked relaxed, but she chewed on her thumbnail. She
uncrossed her long legs and stood. We stared at each other. I played with the hem of my
t-shirt. How was Fran?ois attracted to both of us? I was at least five inches shorter than
her; I was blonde and she was brunette. She was mysterious, and I was, I don’t know,
normal.
9
She walked slowly to me then circled me once, fast. She stopped when we were
face-to-face. She smelled so strongly of lavender, not like shampoo or detergent. Like
she worked in lavender fields.
Someone like her would work in a lavender field.
She spoke fast, asking questions, none of which I understood. The bedroom door
opened again, and Francois crept out in his underwear. She stared at the two of us,
looking us up and down. I expected to read disgust from her expression, but I didn’t.
She smiled and whispered something to Francois.
“Stay,” he said to me.
Standing directly in front of Francis, she turned her back to him and gathered up
her dark, silky hair. He began unzipping her tight dress very slowly. They smiled at me.
Is there such a thing as two too many boobs? I smiled back. I was going to find
out.
I took a step toward her, holding strong eye contact, trying to imitate her bedroom
eyes. As her dress fell to the floor and she stepped out of it, her dark hair, her thick,
beautiful, dark hair slipped over her shoulder, and I imagined it draped over F rancis’
body. I looked at him in his white underpants. Nothing is black and white. I looked
away from them, trying to blot out the thought Who cares if everything is black and
white? This wasn’t the place for an interior debate on absolutism. For once, I wanted to
get out of my head and just let go. I wanted to exist, exist without constantly
10
overanalyzing my surroundings. My head pulsed with the beginning of a migraine, and I
blinked slowly to try and steady my nerves.
I always liked the idea of sharing a bed, but was this right? She was long-legged
with chiseled features. She made me feel like I was back in eighth grade with an overbite
and too-tight, too-short gym t-shirts that no one would call flattering. Did I really want to
be in bed with her and revert back to my preteen self? Could I enjoy myself? If only she
had a big gap in her front teeth, or a beer gut from all his Newcastle...
They sat on the loveseat together, limbs twisted, breaking their kisses to glance at
me.
I wanted to be like her. I wanted to unzip my dress so carelessly, glamorous and
confident. I pulled up my shirt - yanked is a better word, for it got stuck around my head
in my haste. I yanked off my shirt, and they stared, not with attraction per se’ but in, I
think, amusement. She nodded at me, encouraging, and I slipped off my jeans too,
standing before them, fully nude.
I felt like a virgin. I was freezing cold, but the room was warm enough. I had
done this before, I reminded myself, coaching myself. But I hadn’t, not with two
partners. Had they? I didn’t know how to ask in French, and I didn’t want to ask in
English and risk making her feel excluded. Francis turned the music up and our
collective silence wasn’t so awkward.
11
She walked to me again. We stood, backs very straight, facing each other, mere
inches between us. With one finger, she traced my breast, the outside of it, and chills
shot up my body again, stronger. I looked down. Well, at least my nipples looked good.
I thought that Francois would initiate the actual intercourse, but he didn’t. It was
her. This made me more comfortable, and happy too, because I told myself that we, as
women, were in control. We were in charge. As we kissed and touched - so much soft
skin - 1 felt like I was in a feminist play.
Fran<jois tasted me first but entered her first, and then the music seemed to fade,
as the room became all moans and groans and meeting lips and smacking thighs and slips
of sweat-slicked skin on foreign, beautiful skin.
They fell asleep together, immediately after, holding each other on the floor.
They really were beautiful people. I didn’t want to wake them by turning on the light to
find my clothes so I grabbed the nearest garment, Francois’ button-down, and I wrapped
myself in it like it was a robe.
I went to the fridge, opened it and stared. With the Newcastle missing, the
contents looked so French: a block of brie, cherries, grapes, some roast in a pot,
uncovered. I closed the fridge and grabbed that bottle of stale red on the counter. I never
drank beer or red wine, truth be told, but it seemed silly to follow any rules now, even my
own. To have restrictions while abroad felt counterproductive. Don’t people go abroad
to free aspects of themselves, to give themselves permission to try new things and
redefine themselves in the process?
12
I went to the bedroom alone and sat on the disheveled mattress in the dark. The
window was still open, but the sounds from the street were muted, traffic and voices like
distant memories.
My mom always warned me that blondes are never taken seriously. What sort of
bullshit curse is this? A year ago, I dyed my dishwater-blonde hair. “Chocolate brown”
is what the box said, but the box lied because my hair was black. Black like hers,
actually. I let it fall over my face, and I lined my eyes in darker, thicker eyeliner to look
more mysterious. The word “smoldering” came to my mind as I sat in the shadowy
comers of dingy cafes on side streets in Madison, Wisconsin. But in every mirror, I saw
how my light eyes flickered, anxious, bright, full of hope and desires. I can do this, I
thought out loud once, gripping a sink in the bathroom of one of the cafes. I looked
myself in the eye. I can be a brunette, dammit. How hard can it be? Don’t be so
shallow! I remember strutting out of the bathroom and ordering the darkest blend the
cafe offered, an Ethiopian variety. I sat back in the dim comer and sipped. And I
wrenched the napkin in my fist, trying hard not to spit out the bitterness.
In my imagination, a blonde leaned over the counter, asking the barista to put on
some music and turn it up loud. When he obeyed, she asked him to dance. If he refused,
she would have danced alone anyway. I had realized all at once that I was fantasizing
about being that blonde. More than that, I simply wanted to be someone else. I wanted
to be blonde again, and even blonder. I was so dissatisfied with life, how the day-to-day
grind was mundane and ordinary, and I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted
13
because I didn’t even know what more I wanted. At least I could control my hair color,
and I could get closer to my fantasy. I remember how defiant I felt as I folded the napkin
in a neat square, pushed the strong coffee away, and walked out of the dark cafe into a
beautiful, sunny day.
There was an Aveda Institute nearby the cafe so I began walking, putting the
word “smoldering” out of my mind and accepting that one can be both blonde and bright.
Let people judge, I thought. Maybe all blondes don’t have more fun, but this one sure
will.
I shifted on the saggy bed, remembering how empowered I felt that day back in
Madison. I squared my shoulders with rediscovered confidence. I may be in a foreign
country, but this body and this mind were mine, all mine, and I knew who I was at my
roots. Right?
If one-night stands are like weddings, the moming-afters must be like marriage:
headache-ensuing, tiring, and lackluster. My actual skin smelled like stale beer. The
charm was gone. Francis rubbed at his neck, trying to relieve a kink, and we all
stretched our backs with ugly expressions on our faces. The girlfriend had treated me
nicely, even when her boyfriend petted then mauled me, but it was clear that I should go
now. The party was over, and the hangover had come. I had fallen asleep in their bed,
and when I woke, she had already gathered my clothes and was folding them, placing
them on the loveseat armrest. She wouldn’t make eye contact with me. She clutched a
silk robe around her waist, and she kissed Francois very often.
14
The morning was cold. Even with the windows closed, I felt the icy draft.
Francis walked me down the stairs. He pulled out a thin, gauzy scarf from his jacket
pocket and roped it around my neck. “I know it’s not much.” He shrugged.
It was gray and white and actually helped warm my otherwise bare neck. I
calmed the voice inside me that was appalled, that said, I’m not a whore! I don’t need a
token or payment for last night. I smiled and said, “It’s great, thanks.”
“Okay,” he said on the top step, rubbing his hands together. He clapped once, a
sort of conclusion. “Good to meet you!”
I nodded and turned to walk out the front gate. Good to meet me? That was it?
“Stay well,” he said.
I waved behind me without turning around.
So, that was that. The door shut, loud and sudden, like his stupid clap. Once
again, I hadn’t known what I wanted so I couldn’t ask. Did I imagine brunching with
these two? Did I want to be friends? No, no, that wasn’t quite right. Still, he had made
those final moments feel so.. .final. And the cold weather hadn’t helped, for that matter.
The sun glinted on the gold trimmings, and the stone buildings dotting the block
seemed to rise particularly high - or maybe I was particularly small. I took a deep breath
as I walked, trying to calm my anxious heart. Another deep breath, and then, then I
smelled her. I walked slower, breathed deeper. Her lavender scent was following me! I
looked behind me, but I was alone on the sidewalk with the pigeons. Surely I wasn’t in
love with her. She was gorgeous, and yes, she showed me some moves. I’d never known
15
people actually did that position other than in pomos; what was it called, reverse cowgirl?
She made it look easy, flawless. The scarf! I thought it was a token of love from
Francois, a last moment between us. I tore the scarf away from me. I didn’t know
lavender could reek, but this reeked of lavender.
But, it was cold outside, and the wind hissed around my face. I sighed. She had
weaseled her way into my walk home, the last thing I had expected. I thought I would
briefly pine over Francois, think about what could have been if I were staying longer, if
he were single...
Two elderly women clucked their tongues at me as they passed me on the
sidewalk. They knew. Everyone could smell the lavender, and everyone knewl No. I
realized too late that actually I was wobbling in the center of the walkway, taking up all
the room in my half-drunken walk-of shame.
A man flew by on a bicycle, and I thought irrationally that it was Francois. I
laughed out loud at myself, pushing the scarf up to my face, and I inhaled. How had I
gotten here? How had I become who I had become?
16
Chapter 2
My family says I’ve been restless since the day I was bom. My mother tells
stories about how when I learned to crawl, she had to lock the garden gate because she
would find me trying to escape. When I could walk, I packed up some Oreos in my back
pockets and headed out the front door, chin high.
“And where are you going?” my mom asked.
“I’m running away,” I whispered. “Please don’t tell Dad until I’m gone.”
I picture an Oreo-crumb trail behind me.
Everyone thought it would wear off with age. Boyfriends called me a whirlwind,
begged me to calm down, experimented with different ways to ask me to smoke weed.
But I don’t think it’s youth - it’s more. Like a chemical imbalance, like a disorder I had
ignored and refused to treat and so it’s festered and grown. And even when I broke down
and smoked the damn weed or ate those terrible-smelling (but not-bad-tasting) brownies
at parties, my mind still rushed on, only I was physically quieter, less vocal; but inside, I
was further lost in a world I couldn’t understand.
Justin had cried, grabbing my shoulders in bed. “Can’t we just sit here
sometimes? Can we not plan where we’ll go next week or what we’ll do tomorrow?
Please,” he said. “Please, please, please.”
I told Justin when we broke up that I simply couldn’t be the kind of girl he
wanted. Find yourself a simple girl, I said. “I’m never going to like chicken wings or
beer. There are many great girls who would love that, I guess. They seem to, at least.
17
But it bores me to death and I end up biting my nails until I bleed, afraid that I’m not
living, really living, enough.” Am I alone in this? “If you want someone to change your
life,” I told him and countless others, “I’m your girl. But there’s no way a pitcher of beer
and BBQ are going to do that.” Who knows, maybe I have it all wrong, but that average
life feels wrong deep inside of me. So wrong, like even my blood rejects it.
You see, it is appealing at first: so much passion and ambition rolled up in a
curvy but petite blonde. The thing is, it’s a daily thing, a constant fight. I just want the
next day to be better than the last; is that so much to ask? “How can we be better today?”
“Let’s change the world!” “Where should we go? Right now?” Yes, yes, these are all
things I’ve said on a perfectly random Tuesday at 2pm. Oh sure, it’s all very charming
and exciting, but it’s as exhausting as it sounds. I wallowed after every breakup.
“You’re whatl Tom’re tired?” I’d say. “You said 7 was the whirlwind. Imagine being
the whirlwind! Think about how / feel!”
Initially, I found the word alone - whirlwind - insulting. Like a tornado? I’d
think. I’m, like, being compared to a natural disaster? Does that mean I’m a disaster by
nature? Reflecting, I think it means, simply, that I am - or, was - destructive, which is
pretty accurate. How sad. And yet, how can we build if nothing is destroyed first? So, I
accept this word, but I embrace the idea that from destruction comes construction. Ask
Justin, ask them all. It wasn’t a burden. We had our fun, we did. We had fun on our
midnight excursions, the impromptu road trips and weekday adventures, and the eight*
hour philosophical arguments on the floor. Didn’t we?
18
If I ever went to a therapist - which I wouldn’t because it would mean admitting
that I can’t solve my own problems, and I’m definitely not ready to admit that - but, if I
went to a therapist, the first thing I would say with certainty is that I felt loved as a child.
Very loved. Though they separated later, my parents never fought. Around the holidays
and my birthday, my father quizzed my mom about money, but these were minor spats,
they told each other, and they told me, and I told myself. Minor spats.
We didn’t live lavishly, but I never had to think about money so I guess we were
comfortable in a way I couldn’t comprehend or appreciate back then. We didn’t go out
much. We never ate out, for example, but there were always good dinners at home and I
had clothes that I liked enough. But my Mom? She always wanted more. We went to
Aunt Maggie’s often, where she would vent and talk for hours about really dull stuff, like
how much she truly enjoyed dining and shopping.
“I want a new dress from Marshall Field’s every season,” she said. She also
wished we took exotic, yearly vacations. She said these things softly, even though Dad
never came over to Maggie’s. I just sat on the floor of the long porch, sitting between
them, while the two of them sipped Earl Grey tea and tapped their toes lightly on the
ground at different speeds, rocking in Aunt Maggie’s new antique rocking chairs.
“You’re overreacting, Brenda,” Maggie said, pulling out a nail file from the
pocket of her stylish shirt-dress. “Ride it out.”
If my aunt were famous for one phrase, it would be that: “Ride it out.” She says
now that her marriage was a miserable episode she’d never wish on an enemy, but I never
19
knew. No one did. Aunt Maggie was very fashionable, bags from Bloomingdales strewn
around the living room, new jewels adorning her hands. We didn’t know that after every
argument, after every affair, she went on a shopping spree. They “rode it out,” Aunt
Maggie and Uncle Tom, vacationing and spending as much as possible. Later, they went
through marriage counselors like cartons of milk, but they were doomed when Uncle
Tom’s money ran out. The ride was over.
Something to note is that while I felt very loved, I don’t have many memories
with both my parents. That is, the three of us. They owned a restaurant, Rick’s Respite,
in those early days of my childhood, so one parent stayed home while the other managed
the restaurant.
Mom took me to the park down the road practically daily. She packed a basket
with only things she knew I liked: cheese sandwiches, baby carrots, seedless
watermelon, Saltine crackers. We sat on a fleece blanket and she read to me from classic
books. She explained plots, concepts, and theories. She told me to learn these things, for
they were “essentials,” and they would help me determine who I wanted to become,
which would be the “basic make-up of my constitution.”
“Codi, focus. Do you agree most with Nietzsche, Goethe, or Socrates so far?” I
was six. I was always getting distracted by the playground noises in the air. That and the
smell of the wet grass that I picked and stripped while she read. It was all very
overwhelming.
20
She taught me other things too. In the springtime, we reclined in the growing
grass and watched the clouds move. Birds navigated and disappeared into the white
puffs. Clouds combined and broke apart and reconstructed themselves. The speed and
ease, the working of the clouds, mesmerized me.
She asked me what I saw.
“Horses,” I said. “White horses.”
“Yes,” she said. “What else?”
And I told her. I pointed to the castles I saw, and the river nearby where children
swam away from the castles.
“Why are they swimming away from home?”
“They like to swim.” She let me spill the contents of my mind. I created worlds
in the skies above us, and my imagination expanded. Storm clouds became stone castles.
Sunsets were the colorful swishing skirts of international dancers coming together for a
concert. The thin gray-white fog was the dirty veil of a bride on a long-awaited wedding
day.
Because I spent less time with my Dad - he usually worked days - 1 found him
more entertaining. He took me to the park too, but when we went, we went straight for
the playground. The only reading material he brought was the cartoon section of the
newspaper, which I got to look at on the walk over, while he guided me by hand around
traffic and holes and cracks in the sidewalk. Later, he used the paper to hack and spit
21
loogies, crumpling the paper in his thin jacket pocket. This wasn’t gross at the time. It
was normal.
We went for the swings, both of us, running for that swing-set like we were the
same person. He pretended he couldn’t shake his massive weight faster so I always beat
him to the swings, where I got my choice of fine leather seat and rusty chains. Red­
faced, smiling so much my cheeks stung, and I couldn’t control my laughter when he
arrived, hunched over, hands on knees. He lurched after me, saying loudly, “Hey! That’s
my favorite swing!” And he’d try to grab at my legs but I kicked around like crazy.
My parents never treated me like a kid, not really, and especially not my Dad.
For as long as I can remember back, he took the swing next to me, never bothered
pushing me.
His mother, my Grammy, had died the year before. He didn’t talk about her, but I
understood the unspoken importance for me to keep the rhythm between us on the swings
so I pumped and kicked hard to stay level with him as we swung back and forth, forward
and back. He talked a lot about the bad business at the restaurant, something about how
they were at 70% to payroll and many ingredients were “86” and people kept asking
about asparagus but didn’t people know that asparagus was seasonal?
“I hate asparagus,” I said.
This made him laugh, a laugh suspended mid-air. He stopped kicking and let the
swing slow, smiling upward with an open mouth, quiet chuckles bursting out. “That’s
my girl!” Then he resumed swinging with fervor, hooting and howling every time he
22
reached the “high point” before me. A strange contest, swinging, for who can say who is
in the front and who is behind? I said nothing to this small injustice, just kicked and
kicked, feet over my head, body stiff and straight in the air to get higher. It felt like our
own world. No one was there to tell us to be quieter, to stop howling, or to share the
swings. If there were kids waiting to use the swing-set, we didn’t know. Dogs could
have barked at our ankles and we wouldn’t have noticed.
I was eight and a half when the city found a gas leak under the restaurant. “He
said we’ll have to close for a month! An entire month for them to get in under there.
And it could be longer. Longer! That’s what he said.” My Dad was hysterical, pacing
the length of our driveway. Mom stood in front of the closed garage door, arms-crossed.
I had just gotten a puppy - a golden, curly-haired Cocker Spaniel puppy that I named
Annie - and I walked her in slow circles in the front yard, wishing Mom would pace with
Dad. Or at least uncross her arms.
“There’s no way. There’s just no way,” he kept saying.
I didn’t know it then, but my Dad had invested all of his inheritance in the
restaurant. All that money his mother left him - gone. I think it was more about pride
than money, though I’m sure the financial loss hurt too.
It was during this period that I caught my Dad, my hero, crying alone for the first
time. I walked out in the sunny backyard. His back was to me; he was sitting on the
tabletop of my short picnic table, crying silently but heavily. Sometimes when I think
back, I think he buries his head into my shoulder as we hug and I tell him over and over
23
that it’s okay. In reality, he wiped his eyes and taught me a powerful lesson: it’s possible
to smile no matter what. He shrugged and said, “What do you say, kiddo? Should we go
to the park today?” His shoulders were slumped forward, his eyes so puffy.
“Not today, Dad,” I said. “I can play here.” He nodded, smile leaving, and he
lowered his eyes to the ground again. I knew what my role was so I ran around the yard,
new fallen leaves crackling under me, our puppy a couple steps ahead of me, drool
dripping from her open mouth. My Dad watched, silent, but smiling.
This is how it was: my days divided by time with my mom and time with my
dad. We didn’t take family trips; we didn’t spend Sundays together the way other kids
complained about at school. I’m not being a dramatic-daughter-of-divorce. It’s true. We
didn’t even settle down to watch an occasional movie together. They were such vastly
different people, and that fueled passion for a while, but not forever. Dad was in bed by
9pm, awake at 5am, when he went for an hour run down Snake Road in Lake Geneva.
Mom stayed up late, most nights after midnight, reading, watching television, thinking,
dreaming, smoking. Oh yes, she smoked; he didn’t. She drank a bottle of wine every
night; he didn’t touch a drop. He was a recovering alcoholic and had stopped drinking
when he was thirty years old. He exercised daily; she loathed exercising. I feel like she
fell in love with a man she didn’t like very much.
Shortly after I discovered Dad crying in the backyard, he came home with a stack
of brochures, slapping them on the dinner table.
24
“What’s this?” my Mom said, pushing them aside and putting down the meatloaf
she made for supper.
“Our future!” he said.
“It looks like Florida.”
“It is Florida!”
She sat down at the table and we followed. “What are we going to do in Florida?”
Dad shook Tabasco all over the meat on his plate. “Real estate is cheap and I
found-”
“I wish you’d try the meat first, before you go drenching it in hot sauce so you
can’t even taste it.”
“I use hot sauce on everything. I love hot sauce.”
“What did you find?”
“Okay,” he said, putting the Tabasco down and talking with his hands. “Picture
this: a beach bar, one story, near the ocean. Well, it would have to be the Gulf of
Mexico. It’s much cheaper on the west coast of Florida. And we’ll serve everything
from pizza to burgers to oyster poor boys and gator bites!”
“Real alligator?” I said.
“Sounds scattered,” my Mom said. “And you’re pretty ambitious for a regular
Tuesday afternoon.”
“Aren’t you going to look at the brochures?”
“We’re having dinner now,” she said, and we all went ahead eating.
25
Sure, I’ve seen a lot of love. Mostly, I’ve seen self-love. My Mom loved her
books, her theories and ideas. She had big dreams but couldn’t quite get past the fact that
Monday came and Tuesday followed and you have to keep moving and in order to do that
sometimes you have to stop dreaming so big. I have memories of her folding and
refolding laundry so slowly, or forgetting to rinse soapy dishes before putting them back
in the cupboards. Like she was mourning, but she never spoke of sadness. Part of me
really believes that their divorce was the result of something so simple that finally pushed
her over the edge. Everything was building, building, until she couldn’t stand it - him anymore.
She used to leave tomatoes on the window ledge so they would ripen in the sun.
My Dad would cut one in half then place the other dripping halfback on the ledge. She
never said anything to him, but I saw her shaking her head, looking at the gushing
tomato. “Codi? You know not to put tomatoes here after you cut them, right?” I
nodded. “You know what happens when you do that, right? They rot!” And she threw
the soft, squishy tomato half in the garbage with such violence that red particles and
seeds splattered on the white wall behind the trashcan.
My memories are like lace, like overlapping, thin sheets of lace. I recall bits of
speech, a scent, an emotion; and from that one piece of information I’m given, I try to
climb back to the whole memory. Lace, though, is delicate and I must tread carefully to
remember. If I rush back, I lose it completely. Sometimes I know when it’s unraveling,
when the holes grow, and fabric slips somewhere I can’t quite reach.
26
Chapter 3
To be honest, it was that one particular guy. I really liked this one with his
constant stubble even after a late morning shave (late morning because he never saw
early mornings). Then there was his wide, angular jaw, dark eyes, and narrow nose. He
had a good profile and great posture, something I’ve always admired. Good posture
means confidence. Things went south mostly because I grew bored. Like I said though, I
liked him. A lot. Afraid to let go of him completely, I thought, okay, okay, we’ll still
sleep together but I won’t sleep over. This “open relationship” thing was a new trend so I
told him I wanted to change my Facebook relationship status to “open.” He didn’t care.
He didn’t have a Facebook account.
After sex with Justin, I left him in his bed to watch cartoons on the little TV that
used to be in his family’s kitchen. He kissed me quick then lit up his pipe to smoke
himself asleep. There was no sneaking around. I told him I was going to a party or a bar
or a friend’s house. He didn’t mind. It was great. I went out, I flirted, danced. I never
slept with anyone else, but there were options, and that’s what I’m addicted to: options.
Justin, even without the sleepovers, started complaining in his passive aggressive
way. “No BBQ again tonight? You’re such high maintenance.” And, sure, he laughed it
off in the moment, but what he was really saying was, “You really exhaust me and I just
want some BBQ sauce on my dinner without being hassled about it.”
Marijuana is dangerous, not because it makes you violent, but because it enables
laziness. And marijuana in Florida is a double dagger. Florida is already like an eternal
27
spring break, but add marijuana and it’s a sticky, endless summer, where today’s goals
are lost and tomorrow’s projects are forgotten by the time it’s tomorrow. Justin had
wanted to be a history professor. He had ambitions, he had goals. Instead, the couch
swallowed him after he smoked a bowl of weed and ate two bowls of Apple Jacks, and
then he stayed there, all day, wasting a day without even realizing it. It was just a day,
sure, but it added up.
I was going places, real places. I felt like he was dragging me down with him.
He used rent money on weed and lied about it, forcing me to pick up extra shifts at the
restaurant to make up for his inconsiderate addiction. I went to school and worked full­
time, and he was an unsuccessful shoe salesman and couch potato.
One day, I came home to a cloud of smoke, and he was passed out, Family Guy
croaking on the TV, That was the day I fell out of love with him, but I didn’t even know
what to say. I felt so exhausted. How could this be living? How could this be a
relationship?
He moved back home. He had been living with his mom for a while, two months
maybe, when I began to understand that he wasn’t going to change, at least not anytime
soon. I decided it was really time. I called him as I merged onto 1-95, northbound. After
four rings, I cleared my throat, preparing to leave a message, but then I heard him suck in
a breath.
‘“Ey,” he said, like he was constipated.
“You’re smoking againT
28
“You coming over?”
I sat up taller, my hands poised at ten and two. “As a matter of fact, yes. I am.” I
relaxed my elbow to rest on the center console, but it was scorching hot. This common
thing, the hot plastic, infuriated me. I glared ahead and held the steering wheel more
firmly. “I’m coming to break up with you.”
He was coughing. “What?”
“I’m breaking up with you.”
“Now? Over the phone?”
“No, no, not now.” Even idiots deserve an in-person breakup. “I’m about twenty
minutes away.”
“Wow, there must not be any traffic. Oh, hey, can you stop by Subway? I’m
starving.”
“Subway-no. I... No!”
“McDonald’s?”
“No.”
“It’s down the road. I’ll pay you back. 1 get paid Friday.”
“Justin!”
“Please?”
“You know it’s only Tuesday.”
“I haven’t eaten all day.”
“You’ll be fine. It’s just noon. What are you going to do until Friday?”
29
“My mom owes me some money.”
“Oh. Well. I’ll see you soon.”
“Four cheeseburgers, hold the onion!”
“Goodbye.”
“Love you!”
We had found the one-bedroom apartment we rented on the beach together.
Viewing our enthusiasm from afar, I bet we looked like we just found gold. After signing
the lease, Justin insisted we pick up paint swatches and tape our favorite colors to the
walls. We took handfuls of samples and decided to tape them together to make a rainbow
stripe across the plain white walls. On our way home from Home Depot, Justin
suggested chocolate chip pancakes for dinner, which seemed so ironic. We had signed
our first lease, proud of our adult status, but we were going to eat chocolate chip
pancakes like we were kids. We stayed at that IHOP for over four hours. I barely
remember what we talked about, but I remember eating and laughing with my mouth
open. I never believed in love, but this felt pretty damn good.
Honestly, the apartment wasn’t a bit glamorous, with or without the paint-sample
stripes. It had been recently converted from a tackle and bait shop. The small building,
hovering on the edge of a canal, had cement walls that still smelled like raw fish.
Wedged in the bedroom window, the one air conditioning unit sputtered and hissed more
than anything else, and when it finally blew air, it was cool at best.
30
I sometimes showered three times a day, never able to feel clean or dry. But, I
tried not to complain. Across the room from each other, we used to smile with red
cheeks; our bare limbs sprawled on the tile floor. Gallons of water were always
uncapped and within arms’ reach, and a pile of the empty jugs was heaped near the door
in a laundry basket, ready to be refilled. When my mom made her dutiful weekly phone
call, I said, “It’s great! I think people are naturally happier in the sun!” And, “Oh, it’s
not as bad as you hear. You get used to the heat.”
“I don’t think like I used to,” Justin had said on one particularly hot day.
“I used to have dreams,” I said. “I don’t dream anymore.”
“Everyone dreams. You just don’t remember them.”
I shook my head, frustrated. He never really heard me. “No. I don’t dream. I
wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat instead.”
He had shrugged and lit a joint. “You can’t have everything.” He was always
shirtless. He had grown out his hair so he could tie it in a knot behind his head, the ends
damp and beginning to curl.
I was in his mother’s driveway now. I killed the engine and watched a heron pace
around the plastic flamingo mailbox. As I walked, the too-green grass crunched under
me. I saw Justin through the window, smiling at a cartoon.
I let myself in through the screen door.
31
His back was to me. “Howdy,” he said, turning to look at my hands, looking for
food. He grunted and crossed his arms over his chest. “Just because you don’t like fast
food, doesn’t mean I can’t.”
The L-shaped sofa took up the entire living room. His mother insisted it had once
been navy, but the sun had bleached it and it was now a splotchy gray. I walked around
the coffee table and sat away from him, on the other half of the L.
“They use real beef now.” He scratched between his legs. “I read it. I read it
in.. .an article.”
“We need to talk,” I said.
The laugh track cheered from the TV and Justin chuckled with a closed mouth.
Wisps of smoke pooled around him.
He held the red, white, and blue pipe in midair.
“You know I don’t smoke,” I said.
He winked. “People change.” He lit the pipe and sucked longer.
I looked at the entertainment center, littered with porcelain dolphins of various
sizes. How to begin? “I saw your mom got rid of the fake plants out front.”
“Yeah.” He banged the glass pipe on the coffee table. Tap-tap-tap. Resin rained
down and he twitched his toes when some landed in the hairs of his feet. “Is this about
the cold-cut man?”
“W-what?”
32
“You know who. I heard how you asked for honey ham. And now I’m up here
and you’re down there...”
“The butcherT
“Is that what you call him?”
I shook my head and rubbed my throat, willing myself to stay composed. I
considered getting a glass of water ~ I was so thirsty —but I shook my head again, sitting
straighter. With my hands awkwardly in my lap, I said, “Can you turn down the TV?”
He exhaled, coughed. “You’ll never guess who called me last night. Moose! He
convinced me to download The Skype. It’s fantastic! Grade A, really. I could see his
nose hair!”
I sighed.
“He looked good! He was in a suit. A powder blue suit.”
“Powder blue?”
“I know! He was sitting there, eating a peach, and it was like he was in front of
me. Anyway, he and Chels just got back from Devil’s Lake. Said they saw a bear! And
when they were camping, they were, you know, doing it and, get this! A squirrel got into
their tent! A squirrel! Can you imagine?”
I wondered what kind of shitty tent they had, but I was silent, chewing my bottom
lip.
“We should go camping,” he said.
“Shut up! Just stop. You don’t get to do this.”
33
“Do what?”
“I don’t want to hear your stupid stories.”
“Stupid?”
“And for Chrissake, call him Ralph! Ralph, not Moose. You’re not thirteen
anymore.”
He picked up the remote from the floor and pressed mute.
In the quiet, I waited for him to say something, anything, but when he didn’t, I
sighed. “I’m tired,” I said. “I’m so tired.”
“You’re twenty years old,” he said. “You don’t get to be tired.”
“Twenty-one. But that’s not the point.” I licked my lips. They were so chapped.
“You can’t talk about being tired. You don’t know tired.”
“And you do?” I laughed.
“Whoa, I have dreams! I’m going to be a businessman! I’m going to open a bar.
And a restaurant! And an ice cream place too!”
“Yeah, well, you know what - that takes money, Justin! You won’t have me to
keep the lights on.”
“What does that even mean? Is that another snotty witty-cism? Are you done
looking down your nose at me?”
“Oh, come on.”
‘“Keep the lights on.’” He snorted. “Wait, is that some kind of sex joke? You
said I was a god!”
34
“It wasn’t a goddamn witticism, Justin. Who was the one who apologized to
Progress Energy month after month for our late payments because the money just - poof!
- ‘disappeared!’”
“I told you. I don’t know where the money went the last time. I really don’t
remember —” He slumped into the sofa cushions.
“I just - 1 can’t do this.”
“Okay.” He leaned forward. “I’ll start small. I’ll get a hot dog stand. And
turkey dogs for you! Nothin’ but the best for my babycakes! Not much electricity
needed for a wiener cart, am I right?”
I nodded once. “I should get on the road.”
He stayed where he was. My heart thumped. I ached everywhere, my head and
shoulders most of all. I just wanted sleep. I was at the screen door again, thumb on the
worn gray button to push it open.
“Wait,” Justin said.
My hand was still on the door but I stopped and closed my eyes, drawing in a
breath of relief through my nose. This was it, what I’d wanted all along. Of course he
loved me - 1 hadn’t really doubted that. I turned to face him, smiling, but the room was
empty.
He was probably washing his face - it had looked rather greasy. Or maybe he
was putting on a shirt. Maybe he’d written a speech or a letter so he wouldn’t forget
anything he wanted to say.
35
I pictured him, fresh-faced, clean shirt, papers in shaky hands. He would fall to
his knees, wrap his arms around my legs and beg, beg me not to leave. “Please. I love
you.” He’ll say, “I’m sorry. I’ll pay the electric.”
But when he reappeared, he was still shirtless and, if anything, he looked
sweatier. One of his hands was closed tight. I relaxed. This is good. It’s a key. A
bracelet? Something matching? We’ll be together, after all! I was smiling big. His
hand was still clenched tight, and he used the back of that hand to wipe the perspiration
from his forehead.
When his eyes finally met mine, he didn’t smile back. He didn’t flinch.
Time slowed for me as he moved that closed hand toward me. I reached out,
palm up, aligning my hand perfectly under his. I cupped my hand and fingers.
He released his fist fast and said, “Don’t forget your necklace.”
The chain felt so weightless. I looked down but still didn’t feel its weight. He
had given it to me the year before. It was a small peace sign on a skinny silver chain,
except it wasn’t silver at all, but nickel. It had tarnished and smelled strong, like blood.
Like rust. One line of the peace sign, the one that cuts the circle in two, it still seemed
silver. The last time I wore it, my neck turned green and I had rubbed and rubbed at the
faint line on my skin, wondering if it was a bruise.
I stood there, stupidly, chewing the inside of my cheek.
He turned, like a wounded animal.
36
Then we were in each other’s arms, shedding clothes like they were sins, and we
fell onto the bed, so naturally, and we combed over each other’s familiar skin. I think we
knew. I think we knew it would be the last time.
I slept over by accident. We had showered, eaten, then screwed all over again. It
was easy, and we collapsed into each other, even though I knew it was a mistake.
In the morning, brushing our teeth together, I felt trapped in the bathroom with
him, and I gagged on my toothbrush.
“You hungry?” he said, spitting.
“Sure,” I said then cursed myself for not thinking before speaking.
We ended up at IHOP, down the road from his Mom’s. Yes, we had been there
before and, yes, it had been somehow romantic, but this was different. I was disgusted. I
saw the grotesque, fruit flies around the ice tray near the Coke machine, sticky surfaces
shining in the sun that blared through the filthy windows.
His appetite was tremendous, and the way he ate was terrifying, how he gnawed,
using his hands to fold pancakes, syrup dripping down his hairy arms. Had he always
eaten like this? Why couldn’t I remember? New bursts of anger shot through me as I
became increasingly frustrated with my memory’s failings.
We ate in complete silence. I diced up my scrambled eggs in tiny bites, and still I
couldn’t swallow more than two forkfuls without feeling sick.
I tried to recall another time when I had nothing to say. I had not one thing to say.
And he was just shoveling food, oblivious to me, oblivious to the silence.
37
“You gonna eat that?” He pointed, tilting my plate and spooning up the eggs fast.
When the server passed us, I smiled. “We’ll take the check, please.”
“Do you want dessert?” he asked.
I could have killed him. See the headline: “Stoner murdered by syrupy fork in
chain restaurant.” Another “Only in Florida” news segment for the nation.
“No. I don’t want dessert,” I said, passing my card to the server. She gave a
strained smile and power-walked away from our table.
“We can split it, babe. I mean.. .1 can pay you back on Friday.”
“I hate you, do you hear me? I woke up today, and then I was brushing my teeth,
and I just knew.”
“You should’ve eaten more. I get cranky when I’m hungry too.”
“You don’t get it, Justin. I don’t love you anymore. I don’t know if I ever did.”
“Oh, don’t say that.”
“I mean it!” I was being cruel, but I couldn’t stop. I was so furious all at once.
“This was the worst breakfast of my life!”
“You like IHOP. We like IHOP.”
“I can’t sit through another silent breakfast and pretend that everything’s okay.”
The server dropped off my card and receipt to sign. “Thank you. Best $24.50 I’ve ever
spent,” I said. “I am done. Do you hear me? Done!”
I walked out of IHOP dramatically, but when I got to my car, I realized he didn’t
have a way home. I rolled my eyes, started the engine, and waited.
38
He came out, walking leisurely, using a toothpick on his teeth. He got in the
passenger seat like nothing had happened.
The car ride back to his mom’s house was silent too.
Then we sat in the driveway, still saying nothing.
Rain started, and we both knew Florida rain, how it picked up fast and turned into
a downpour. He reached for the door, opened the door. The engine was still running,
and my hands remained on the wheel like I was about to make a getaway.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he got out fast.
My anger disappeared and was replaced by sadness. I watched his figure, that
body I knew so well. He faded into the clouded haze of rain. The front door creaked
open and closed hard.
I reversed, careful, breathing steadily, but at the stop sign, my body heaved
forward with the sobs I fought. I had wanted it to work, I did. But a part of me always
knew that it wouldn’t. Just like my parents. Had I ever seen love prevail? And besides, I
had wanted him to be a character. I had read him the role and he agreed to play the part;
but then, after the casting was complete, he started being himself, not the character. We
both made mistakes. Perhaps the worst was to call the high we felt love. We were both
at fault, I knew that. It was about more than IHOP and the smoking and the rent. We
were incompatible, but that dirty adult word wasn’t a part of our vocabulary.
39
I was still at the stop sign, checking my rearview mirror, hoping I’d see a figure
emerge, hoping I’d recognize him as he got closer, hoping he was coming to say, “Wait,
wait, I love you. We may be incompatible, but there’s love here.”
He wasn’t coming. I realized I left the necklace again, but I knew he wouldn’t
return it now, not in the rain, and not after that breakfast. The necklace was long gone,
and there was no use in waiting for love at a stop sign in the rain.
I couldn’t believe the way my chest actually hurt. I was a sap, pulling my car
over on the highway shoulder, rolling up the tinted windows. The traffic whizzed by,
which just made me cry more; the world was moving on, unaware of this minor tragedy.
I ended up getting mad at myself for crying, for missing Justin when I initiated the
breakup. I hit the steering wheel, and then I began all over again, this sad-mad business,
with fresh tears.
Two days later, I went back to Justin’s to suggest we stay friends. In that familiar
driveway, I relived the sharp sense of hope I’d had when he first moved back home. The
decision to move home rather than get an apartment of his own seemed extremely
promising. He didn’t want to be on his own. He needed me, and I wouldn’t admit it, but
I liked being needed. He couldn’t survive alone, not without me. It’s temporary, I told
myself. He’s just moving home until he realizes just how badly he needs me.
Was I just as delusional as I was then? I hoped not. At the dining room table, his
back was to me, headphones on, music blaring, and my hope died. I saw a squeezable
bottle of BBQ in the center of the table, like a centerpiece. His slim mother appeared in
40
an apron, a steaming plate of BBQ chicken in her hands. “Codi,” she said. “Hi! Won’t
you join us? I made Justin’s favorite.”
Justin took his time turning around to look at me, and when he did, he didn’t meet
my eyes. His jaw was clenching and his eyes looked past me. “She can’t stay, Ma,” he
said and turned his back on me.
Losing Justin was hard because I lost his family too. They were a great family.
His mom did our laundry, color-coding and folding and everything. His step-dad
dropped off canned goods every other week with a shrug: “I was in the area.” They were
these regular people, but with really good hearts. And they were always veiy
encouraging of me and my dreams. To this day, I miss them. All of them.
Break-ups, however devastating on the heart, can be good for the mind. It had
been my first real relationship. I was nineteen when we met; Justin was twenty-five. I
kind of thought that eveiyone was like me and wanted to travel and explore and talk all
night about the inner workings of the universe. It was a rude awakening to find out that
Justin didn’t want to do those things, not at all, not with me. This break-up, then,
concluded to me that he didn’t love me enough to join me on my adventures and see the
world with me. Pretty obvious, but it was a real dagger. I mean, not only did he not want
to see the world through the lens in which I saw the world; he simply did not want to see
the world with me. Likewise, I didn’t love him enough to eat BBQ every night, watch
cartoons in bed, and find beauty in only the smaller, everyday things. Now I think
41
balance is probably best, but I couldn’t be rational. I was young and deluded by
hormone-overdoses that I called love.
The great thing about being heartbroken is you stay busy and, therefore, you’re
extremely productive. I asked to complete my midterms two weeks early. I picked up
extra shifts at the restaurant, saving money for my big Euro-trip. I finally got around to
reading Les Miserables (talk about bad timing), and I cracked open the thick hardcover
Shakespeare book I had been hoarding for years. I was a better friend, calling old
friends, having lunch with new friends, getting groups of friends together for weekly
dinners. I had a daily schedule where I was moving, always moving. So that’s closer to
the truth, closer to the real reason I decided to go abroad that summer between my junior
and senior years of college. I had to keep moving in order to avoid the pain of realizing I
had tried to love Justin, and maybe he had tried to love me, but it wasn’t enough.
42
Chapter 4
“You whatT Darcy jerked forward, her mouth the only thing in the Skype video
view. “You have to get tested. You can’t just have a threesome with some Parisian
rando-s. You have to be careful. Tell me you at least used protection.”
“I’m not stupid,” I said.
“Well.. .you could be smarter when it comes to.. .these things.”
I raised an eyebrow, and she sat back so I could see her face again. She wanted to
say that I could be smarted when it came to men, and she was right. But she’d had some
stupid men in her life too. Her mouth quivered, and I knew she was fighting off a smile.
“It was good,” I said.
“I didn’t ask,” she said, and she looked away. When she looked back, she was
grinning. “How good?”
Besides my parents, Darcy knew me better than anyone. We met when we were
five, and we were inseparable. That is, until my parents separated and I moved back up
to Wisconsin with my Mom. Even then, we wrote each other notes and letters eveiy
week, and we talked on the phone almost daily.
While I was ripping out pages from Aunt Maggie’s travel magazines, Darcy was
planning her dream wedding with computer paper and colored pencils. She loved the
idea of marriage and kids, and she missed the joke every time I said she would have two
and a half children. “If I’m lucky,” she said.
43
I never considered marriage, at least not to one man. Let me explain. When my
friends and I were little girls and we played with Barbie, their dolls always had one Ken.
Cute. Sweet, really. But I’ve always been more of a realist than my friends, and my
Barbie had a Doug, Jake, Brad, Jeremy, Brian, Tyler, and Richard.
Darcy was disgusted. “You can’t have seven Kens!”
“I don’t,” I said, and I started to list their names again: Doug, Jake, Brad, Jeremy,
Brian...
“Enough!” Darcy put up her hand, disgust becoming disappointment. She
exhaled dramatically. “You can keep two.”
Why is this the compromise? It’s somehow secretly sexy to have one spouse and
one lover, as if two people can satisfy all of one person’s needs, as if love should be
given only to two people in your life at a time. I gathered my seven Kens in my arms and
left my friends, saying over my shoulder, “I’d rather play with myself!”
I ended up playing with myself much more than I expected. Turns out Darcy and
Leanne weren’t the only ones who felt that way. Most guys didn’t much like the idea of
being one in seven either.
Despite our differences, Darcy is the closest thing I have to a sister, and we have
kept in touch, though it has certainly gotten harder since the Barbie days. While I had
been falling in and out of lust with Justin and exploring Paris in search of people like me
and a place that feels like home, she settled down in the same city in Florida where she
was bom. She married, like we knew she would. The hubby’s name is Bob - 1 never
44
liked that name - and she just had a baby. When she first told me about the pregnancy, I
reacted the way I would have wanted her to react. We do that too often, don’t we? React
and love the way we want the world to react and love, but we should think about what the
recipient wants and needs. I didn’t do that. I told her to breathe deep, take a seat. “Don’t
cry,” I said, and then I borrowed one of my mother’s favorite lies: “Everything will be
all right. We’ll take care of it.”
“We?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I’m happy to drive you and I’ll find a good place - out of
town, of course...”
“I’m keeping the baby. Bob’s excited.” She started crying, light tears over a
happy face.
I cried too, obnoxious, hiccupy tears. I was losing my best friend. But more than
that, my best friend was losing her youth. What about all the things she wanted to do but
hadn’t yet? All the places we talked about going and seeing, all those trips and talks and
adventures? What about Paris? Didn’t she realize that babies were the craziest
commitment? And they were expensive! Didn’t she know she’d have to be less selfish,
maybe even - god forbid - selfless? We were twenty, in our prime, and she was
becoming so.. .typical. She was a breeder-in-progress, prepared to push aside her own
life to welcome a new life.
Even I had to admit that there was something noble and beautiful in its simplicity.
“You’re really happy? You promise?” I said through my blubbering.
45
She smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I really am.” She leaned forward, and I leaned toward
her. Her elbows on her knees, hands reaching for mine. My elbows too rested on my
knees and we gripped each other’s hands, not holding them, but gripping. She nodded at
me, didn’t say anything else, but I could hear what she was thinking. Everything will be
all right. And I nodded back, closing my eyes to try to remember this moment, how our
arms reached out, how our hands clasped so tight, how our arms and hands created a
bridge.
Our different personalities created obstacles, as one of us usually had to
compromise. Her idea of fun was baking together, maybe watching a sitcom if I stayed
over too late. We had a lot of coffee dates, but Darcy didn’t even drink coffee. She got
unsweetened iced tea. I always tried the latest sweet coffee drink - caramel macchiato,
pumpkin latte, iced mocha, vanilla bean espresso smoothie with chocolate chip whipped
cream.
It’s hard to remember all those coffee date conversations, but I know I talked a
lot, probably too much if it had been anyone but Darcy. I was always dreaming out loud,
and she just smiled and listened.
“Do you really think you want to settle down overseas?”
“Who said anything about settling down?” I asked, spooning up the whipped
cream from my drink. “Live, Dare. I want to live abroad. I want everything!”
“I know. You want the world.”
“Damn right! Don’t you? Doesn’t everyone?”
46
“Not like you. You want everything, you want to go everywhere..
I nodded eagerly, happy to finally be so understood.
“You want to know everyone.”
“Exactly!”
She looked at her engagement ring. “Aren’t you afraid?”
“Not at all. What do you mean?”
Darcy shrugged and sipped her iced tea. “I guess I’d be worried with all that
desire, I don’t know, that I would end up not knowing anything. You know, in the end.
Like you try to grasp too much and what if you end up with nothing?”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem!”
I’ve always believed so fiercely in what I believe in that others believe that it’s
what I believe too. I really thought that what I was saying was true, that there was no
way that someone could grasp too much or have too much desire, like there was no way
that someone like me could end up with nothing. If I became able to identify what I
wanted in life better than anyone I knew, how could I not get what I wanted?
I was there, after all, for the birth of her firstborn. When the nurse said that only
immediate family was allowed, Darcy said, narrowing her eyes but keeping her laboring
voice calm, “She is family.” Then her head fell back, forehead slicked with her damp
bangs. Her Mom held her right hand. Her husband, stroking her left arm, kissing her
forehead, he cooed. Her sister Esther, who has always mostly ignored me, smiled at me.
We were together, like a real family. Darcy’s mom handed me the camera.
47
“Here we go,” the doctor said, and I was at the foot of the bed, camera between
me and the vision, but still. A dark swirl of thin hairs. It was a head. I blinked, but I felt
the world spin, like how you have more drinks than usual and you realize you’re trashed
when you try to stand. No, no, no, I thought, but it was too late. I fainted just as Scott
James was bom.
When I came to in the hospital corridor, I was alone with the nurse who had tried
to get rid of me. She patted my head with a damp washcloth with one hand, looking at
her feet.
“It’s a boy,” I said to no one. Then I looked to the nurse. “He’s healthy?”
She nodded.
I cried and tried to hug her, tried to celebrate new life, but she stood, folding the
washcloth in a neat square. “We’re glad you’re all right. It was quite a fall. Stay here
for awhile.”
“Can I see her? Can I go back in?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “I know you’re not really family. You’ll have to
ask the doctor.”
I cried harder. She was right. I wasn’t real family, and I had missed such an
important moment. Was Darcy mad at me? Once again, I had taken the limelight from
her, but she had to know that it was unplanned! I was sweating. I had a strong,
immediate urge to tell her I loved her unconditionally, that I loved her like family.
48
Her mom walked toward me. “Honey,” she said, hugging me tight. “Why are
youciying? Are you okay? He’s perfect.”
“Is she mad at me? Does she hate me? I know I steal the attention, I love the
spotlight, but I swear--”
She hugged me again. “He’s perfect. Everything’s fine. No one’s mad, honey.
Darcy wants to see you.”
Darcy looked younger than ever before. She was beautiful, as though through
giving birth she had been reborn. He was sleeping next to the bed in a small plastic box
thing. I smiled through my tears.
She patted the bed, and Bob moved. I got onto the twin-sized hospital bed next to
her.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She stroked my hair from my face. She had always been so maternal. This made
sense. Suddenly, everything made sense. “Shh,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I love you,” I said, looking at her.
She smiled. “I love you too. Isn’t he perfect?”
Darcy and perfect baby Scott had to stay overnight, and the rest of us went to her
and Bob’s house. Everyone was exhausted, but I felt newly exhilarated. I thought we
should have champagne. “We should have a party,” I said, and though they returned my
smile, their expressions fell into yawns. I stayed up late that night. I took a long bath,
gathering bubbles in my hands and blowing them up to the ceiling. I drank the bottle of
49
champagne on my own. How could they all just sleepl A new life was in this world! A
new life in our lives. I wanted to celebrate even more, I wanted to do something grand,
make a sort of announcement. I resigned to refilling the tub with more hot water.
In that tub, I knew I needed to flee this familiar world. These people, I considered
them my family, yes, but they weren’t quite my people, my tribe. I wanted to find the
people who celebrated life and love like me. Also, I couldn’t get that image out of my
head. That moment when the head appeared. It was a beautiful thing, of course, but it
was terrifying and amazing, and I couldn’t face that my body was capable of that too, and
I couldn’t wrap my head around everything, around procreation and evolution. It made
me slightly sick to consider that our sole purpose on this planet was, ultimately, to
reproduce. Surely, we were more than mere animals. And yet, what scared me most is
that when I watched it all unfold, something very odd took place inside of me. A pull,
maybe. I smiled on the scene before I fainted. For a minute, it didn’t seem so bad,
because there was pain, yes, but there was support and love and life, all the things I
wanted to believe in so wholeheartedly, all the things I wanted my life to be.
50
Chapter 5
My ancestors are from Ireland and England so I assumed the UK would be
foreign but still somewhat familiar. I spent the most time with my mom’s side of the
family, which is full of prudes. All of our conversations are over a decadent spread of
food with an appropriate amount of expensive, vintage wine in the good crystal. There
are a lot of “Hmms” and “Oohs” exchanged, which is to say a lot of judgment. They
mean well, though. Or, I think they do. They want what’s best for you because they
want what’s best for the family. I expected that the British were all like this, solemn and
formal, polite to the point of being silent with tight lips and raised brows. I expected
them to embrace me, like an extension of my family.
I was amazed by the layout of the University of Cambridge, the architecture and
roadways that were clearly so well thought out in advance. Still, for someone like me,
this place, a palace really, was teasing me to play and frolic, what with the forbidden
grass, many locked gates, and segregated boys and girls’ dorms.
At the first dinner, which was cafeteria style, I didn’t see too many interesting
people. To clarify, I didn’t see many people that didn’t look like they hailed from the
middle west of America like me. The dean said a few words, obviously the same words
he said every year, about how lucky we were, about how the staff believed in us, et cetera
et cetera. Behind him, one locked door jiggled in its frame, interrupting his speech. A
carefully dressed man sauntered from the main entrance over to the locked door. He
smiled at the dean in a private way and pulled the door tighter into the frame.
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The dean frowned.
“Hullo?” a voice called from behind the door. The heavy door shook again.
The man turned and barked: “This is not the entrance!”
The dean shrugged, welcomed us to Cambridge, and we began to eat in a roar,
getting to know each other quickly, extending buttery hands across the tables and making
introductions. Then the front door, the main entrance, squealed open. People paid little
attention, but the man who had stayed at the other door took long strides to greet this
newcomer.
The man had medium-length shaggy brown hair, and he wasn’t beautiful by any
standard. But there was something about him, something charming. He looked around
the room with calculating eyes, searching faces the way I had. His eyes landed on me,
and I froze, careful not to divert my attention. I smiled only slightly, but his wandering
eyes continued.
The door man spoke in angry whispers, his pointer finger in the air.
He dropped his saggy backpack on the ground near the entrance pillar and made
his way toward the line of hot food. I stood and got in line behind him, but he didn’t
notice. He left his backpack where it was and went to a table in the back with a near
empty bench. I sat down next to him, slowly.
I smiled broadly now. “You missed the Dean’s speech,” I said.
He glanced at me and nodded. He picked at his food, like he was coming out a
coma. There was a sliver of blue paint dried in his hair. I looked closely to make sure it
52
was indeed blue and not a particularly dark and shiny silvery gray strand. No, it was
definitely blue.
“Can I help you?” Such a thick accent, and it wasn’t British. Australian! He
turned his entire body to face me. I had leaned closer to him in order to better look at his
hair. His painted hair.
“I’m a big fan of Australia.” What was I saying? I tried smiling again, a small
laugh escaping my lips in my nervousness, but he wasn’t amused. “So you paint?”
His fork stopped midway to his mouth. “You’re American, yes?”
I straightened up, proud. “I am! Yes. How did you know?”
“I see you have a nice table full of Americans up there.” He nodded to where I
had been sitting. “You should return to them,” he said flatly and he continued to pick
through his food.
My cheeks burned as I stood, leaving my plate of new hot food. My fellow
Americans were in a feverish political debate over Bush, and one was saying that we
needed more leaders like Clinton. I took note of the girl who said so, Megan, because I
happened to agree; but I didn’t have the energy to partake in this discussion. It was one
I’d had day-after-day back home. Couldn’t we talk about other things? My elbows were
on the table, my face in my hands, and no one bothered to inquire because for all they
knew I was always this broody.
53
I saw the mysterious painter weave around our table carefully. He had to walk in
front of our table to pick up his bag. I glared at him. What did he see when he saw me?
Why was he so repulsed and rude?
When he picked up his bag, a wooden box fell out from the open zipper and many
colored pencils spilled to the floor. The Americans were refilling their glasses with the
table wine. What can I say? It was natural to move to the floor and pick up the pencils. I
bundled them in one hand and used the hairband on my wrist to wrap them. My hand
extended toward him, but I didn’t say a word.
“Thanks,” he said, a different look on his face. His cheeks were more rouge than
before, the hollows under his eyes not as noticeable.
I nodded and turned to go back to the table.
Life isn’t like a movie. I will never know if he stayed in that doorway for a beat
longer to watch me walk away. I can’t see his face, if he was grateful, sad, what? I
stopped. Life isn’t enough for me. I need to know. I need to see. I turned on my heel.
He wasn’t watching me but opening the door to leave the cafeteria. I closed my eyes. He
got under my skin so easily, treating me like no male had ever before. I grabbed my
purse and chased after him.
“Hey!” I called after him. The cobblestone was slick from the recent rain and my
new Oxford shoes didn’t have ridges so I was slipping past him even though I tried to
stop. He must have seen the terror in my eyes because he grabbed my arms. I twirled
around him while he held me up, just like we were ice-skating.
54
He laughed softly. “You’re something else,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He shook his head. “I’m Daniel.”
“So formal. Can I call you Dan?”
He made a face.
“Danny?”
“Mm.”
“Daniel is so...stiff.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I think you mean stuffy.” We laughed together in the
drizzle. “I prefer Daniel, if you don’t mind.”
I did mind, but I reminded myself to pick my battles. “Daniel it is.” I smiled and
asked Daniel to dinner.
It was late, as our dinner wasn’t just dinner but also dessert, two bottles of wine, a
long walk, and a three-hour talk on the smaller, wooden bridge over the Cam. In the
forbidden wet grass outside St. Catz, where my dorm room was, Daniel gave me my first
full-body orgasm, and he never even penetrated me with his penis. I know! He
strummed me like an instrument he had owned all his life. I went to touch him, but he
refused. He said that he just wanted to please me. And then he did, again.
Baths became our thing. All those full-body convulsions were exhausting so we
would run to the bathhouse in the lower level of Building K. There was a private room
where we locked ourselves in and steamed up the lone window. I leaned my head against
55
his chest, and I blew the bubbles from my hands into the air. He was thirty, eight years
older than me. But as beautiful and necessary as baths are, I was aching for more.
“Can we meet everyone out and go dancing?”
“I have to study,” he said.
“Please,” I whined.
“I have to do laundry.”
“Just until midnight?”
“I don’t like dancing.” When I frowned, he kissed my forehead and said, “You
go.”
I leapt up and dressed fast, skipping to meet up with the rest of the Americans.
I’ve got to hand it to us: we know how to have fun.
Everything was going well, so well. My stomach hurt from laughing, I was
dancing with Sam and Alexa, the music was good. And then, I felt eyes on me.
Dangerous eyes. He was at the bar, watching my every move. Uh oh, I thought, but it
was too late. He held out his hand to dance with me, and I couldn’t resist. He didn’t
speak a lick of English, only his native Italian. I was a goner.
In the alley where he took me, I asked his name breathlessly.
“Guiseppe,” he said, and I smiled up at the night like we shared a secret.
“Codi!” It couldn’t be. “Codi?” It was Daniel, calling me like I was his lost
puppy. My back was against the brick building, leg hiked up, ready. Guiseppe was
oblivious, and Daniel was approaching.
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I pulled up my panties, yanked down my dress, and took Guiseppe’s hand. “Let’s
go,” I said. He said no, but he held my hand anyway and ran with me.
My shoes slapped too loud so I stepped out of them, leaving them in the street.
Guiseppe laughed, let go of my hand to take off his shirt, misunderstanding. He threw
his shirt to the side and smiled at me. I did my best to smile back. The wet cobblestones
were cold, almost greasy. I ran on my tiptoes, wondering how lovely we must look, a
trail of my blonde hair behind us, Guiseppe shirtless. I looked at his feet - he was
barefoot too. I worried about our hygiene for a minute, but we had to keep running.
I started running when my parents split. My Dad didn’t like to talk on the phone
much. He said it was too hard. “I miss you so much.” He tried to move up to Wisconsin
once. He stayed for two months then broke his lease. He isolates the experience with
one anecdote. “I had just gotten off the plane and rented a car. I drive upstate - 1 always
fly into Chicago. That’s where I’m from, you know - and I get across the stateline, into
Wisco, and there are my babies, my little girl and Annie, the dog I got for her when she
was a kid. I get out of the car, right, and the first thing - get this - my welcome to the
beautiful state of Wisconsin: Annie runs up and I think, oh wow, she remembers me,
mutts are smart - but no. You know what she does? She runs up to me and she takes a
big dump right there, right next to my feet. How’s that for a welcome!”
But wait. I see a white sky that looks like snow but it’s too warm. I see bits of
asphalt under my feet as I kick. It smells like meat, and the hotel behind us is longer than
it is tall, and the wood is old and blackening. We’re in Lake Geneva, and my mother is
57
still in the car, windows up, smoking and filing her nails. I am bouncing on my toes. Of
course! Of course, he followed us. Of course, we’ll be a family again. How could he
stay in Florida if I’m up here? He’s my best friend. He’s way more fun than mom. And
I remember the highway, the roar like insects at work. And I knew when he turned into
the parking lot, somehow I knew it was his car, long and older but with fresh paint. I
wore blue jeans and a navy collared shirt that I thought made me look older and mature.
I had brought my report card in my back pocket. I had all A’s again. A-pluses actually.
He got out and looked at Annie first. He laughed, laughed and laughed, laughed
louder than the traffic of the highway, and he bent down to pet Annie, careful where he
stepped. I crumpled the report card in my right, clammy fist and stuffed it deeper into my
back pocket. When he finally hugged me, I hoped that people could edit their memories
because I intended to forget this episode. Maybe I could have, if he didn’t insist on
recounting the damn story at every family get-together.
For so long, I’ve exaggerated and enhanced every memory that I have difficulty
knowing what was real or who anyone really is. I don’t know what I’ve dreamed up and
imagined anymore. Maybe you can’t forget about people or memories completely, but
you can try - and if you’re diligent in your efforts, you’ll get pretty close.
Daniel knew it was me. I was wearing a suede dress only two shades darker than
my skin so I looked naked and soft. No one else dressed like that in Cambridge, not even
the other Americans. I wasn’t hard to spot - and usually, that was purposeful. During
that run with Guiseppe, I told myself that I had not intended to meet a Guiseppe. I was
58
dancing, just dancing. But Darcy dances too - and she never dresses like Pocahontas and
finds herself pushed against brick walls in damp alleyways with foreign men who repeat,
“Bella, bella,” like that’s all the communication necessary. Still, I felt innocent in the
moment. Didn’t Daniel have laundry? Homework?
Guiseppe and I made it to St. Catz, panting and smiling from drunken adrenaline.
We rumbled into my door like a tornado picking up debris. We were filthy. My skin was
sticky with spilled citrus vodka.
The dorm was a single-unit, a studio style apartment that I had all to myself, but
there was a communal bathroom down the hall. I let Guiseppe into the room then
excused myself. The walls moved, the tiles shifted, the sink shook. I was drunk in a way
that even I wasn’t accustomed to, and I was afraid. I felt like I was spinning with the
bathroom, spinning out of control. My hair was knotted at the back of my neck, and my
cheeks, splotchy, eyes bloodshot and watery, and my mouth was so dry. I thought of
Guiseppe. I suppose I had forgotten about him. What if he stole—What could he steal?
My cheap clothes? My jumbo bottles of chardonnay? Let him. I pictured Guiseppe as
he pushed me against the brick and then I pictured Daniel in the bathtub and then Justin
in our kitchen. We were like carpenters. We made that kitchen ours, right? Right? Shit,
I was talking to the bathroom tile, speaking aloud. But really I was yelling out to the
universe. Tell me I’m not wrong. I’m not so wrong. He was in there. Would he be
naked already? I gagged then steadied myself. I looked at the sink drain with its bits of
59
rust and leftover tooth crumbs. He will probably be satisfied with a blow job. He’s
expecting to come. You brought him here. You idiot! You brought him here.
Inside the dorm and we’re kissing and it’s blurring, but I’m trying my hardest to
stay present, to stay here, to not black out or pass out or freak out, and then the door.
“Open this door now! Open the fucking door, Codi! I know you’re in there. Sam
told me everything. Who is he? Answer me, Codi. Open up or I’ll break the fucking
door down.”
Oh, Daniel. Please. Just a blow job? I wanted it too. Then it’s over and I’ll
come back to you. Oh god, who am I?
One weekend, I went to London with three friends, Alison, Isaac, and Mitchell.
We rode on the roof of the red tour bus, posed next to the phone booths for pictures, ate
lunch across from Big Ben, and skipped across the London Bridge, arms linked, all in our
first two hours there. Our last night, we saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Globe
Theatre. Alison was reading from a Lonely Planet book, deciding where we should have
dinner. The play had just finished, and already my friends were in travel, go-mode. I
looked around at who I suspected were locals or at least from the UK: they were all
seated, still clapping. And then I saw a man, two rows down from us. He was sobbing!
Sobbing silently, but sobbing nonetheless. He didn’t bother wiping his face. He had
dreadlocks pulled away from his face with a rubberband. His olive complexion and dark
eyes intrigued me. Where was he from?
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Alison followed my eyes. “What is wrong with him? My God, the British are
sensitive. Are we thinking traditional pub food or something fancier?”
“I’ll be back,” I told them. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure what I was about to
do, but I knew that I didn’t want to discuss fish ‘n’ chips. So here I was, stumbling down
the row, bumping into strangers’ sideways bent knees. A seat had become open two
away from his, from the crier’s. I took it, sat down hard. The clapping had finally
stopped. But people still sat, now in silence, an awe passing through the theatre.
I sat on the edge of my seat, cleared my throat, and looked to the man. Nothing.
He just looked ahead, his sobs under control but his eyes still leaking.
I shifted, sniffed a bit, and looked over again. “Ah,” I said loudly. “How great
was that!” And he looked at me. I smiled awkwardly.
He looked ashamed, swatting briefly at his cheeks before scrambling up from his
chair, collecting a large brown bag of groceries and walking down the aisle toward the
illuminated EXIT. I pushed my way down the row and aisle after him. My friends stood.
Alison put her arms up in the air.
He bumped the door open with his hip, and an alarm sounded. It was the
emergency exit. I paused then pushed it open a second time.
“Wait!” I said. “I’m sad too.” What was I doing? Jesus, had I completely
forgotten how to flirt? This guy was obviously not into me. Period.
And yet I wanted to know him. What exactly had made him cry? And cry
publicly.
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“Please just wait a minute!”
He stopped at the street comer. The light was red so we couldn’t cross. People
crowded around us.
“Cosa vuoi?”
“I knew you weren’t British,” I said and smiled. “My friend, Alison, she said you
were British, but I didn’t think so.”
“Do I know you?” He bumped the bag up higher on his hip and looked me over.
“You don’t work at Globe?”
“No? I just went for the play. A Midsummer Night...”
“Yes, okay.” He relaxed visibly. The light turned green, and people rushed past
us to cross. We both began walking slowly, not speaking.
“I’m Codi,” I said at last.
“Francesco.” He smiled.
And I smiled to myself. “Is that so?” Another Francis in another language.
“I am learning the English.”
“Oh? Do you like it?”
“Oh, yes. It pleases me very much.”
His accent was so thick I had to listen intently, a way I’d never listened to anyone
before. “What are you doing in London?” I asked.
“I study,” he said and smiled again. “I mean, here, I study the English language
here.”
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“Great! You’re doing very well.”
We smiled, but didn’t look directly at each other.
“Do you like coffee?”
“Sure I like coffee.”
“Let us get a coffee then!”
It should be noted that my friends and I, we didn’t have cell phones while in
England. We had convinced ourselves that it added to the adventure, and we mostly
stuck together. We all knew the street address of our bed and breakfast in case we got
separated. My poor friends didn’t know where I’d run off to or with whom or why.
When you’re selfish to your bones, you don’t think these things through. But it would be
a lie to say I didn’t think about it at all. Of course I feared that they would wait outside
the Globe, Alison with her book against her leg, finger closed on a page she wanted to
show us. Isaac and Mitchell cursing the new cold that comes with darkness. I can see
Isaac pacing, genuinely worried.
Yes, I was selfish. Sometimes you need to do something, you’re not even sure
what that something is, but you’ve got to try to find it, you need this something to feel
alive, to feel more like you, and I think, or I thought then, that that was more important
than having friends who are upset for a night.
Francesco walked with his hips first, like an upright animal. He smiled at me in
spurts. We came to a tall dark blue building, no cafe in sight. I looked to him, and there
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must have been questions in my eyes because he said, “Here is where I live.” He licked
his lips. “My room I rent. I make coffee for us?”
I nodded, my heart beating faster and louder in my chest. I had the feeling he
would serve me more than coffee. I nodded more eagerly.
Minutes later, we were shedding our clothes in the hall before his shared kitchen.
“My room,” he said, pushing me ahead. He kissed my neck and collarbone. He kissed
hard, and my body yearned for him.
All of a sudden, in his room, he turned from softer touches to rough caresses. It
made me think of a cat being pet hard but still purring under the hand. I did a quick scan
of the room and noted with satisfaction that while there was a mattress on the floor, like
Francis, there was also a desk and bookshelf too. He bent me over then, touching and
petting, a hand in all my crevices and then he pushed his way between my legs. I
couldn’t believe how fast everything happened. We were on the ground, scratchy
carpeting littered with crumbs. There was the bay window in front of us. I could see the
fat moon through the sheer curtains.
After, he wrapped his body around mine. I watched the moon, but it didn’t move.
He confessed that he was a poor man with nothing but this room to offer. “I am only a
peasant,” he said, “from the southest of Italy.” He said he had snuck into the Globe
without paying. In an even quieter voice, he said that he had stolen the groceries. He
giggled into my naked shoulder, moving his feet to rub the tops of my feet with his toes.
“I am lucky to meet you,” he said.
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I stayed there, his limbs woven with mine, until he fell asleep. Something in me
broke. I felt manipulated. I had perceived him so differently, but I wasn’t upset that he
was a peasant, only that he didn’t tell me until after we’d been intimate. I felt like I was
recovering from too many drinks, lugging around the kind of regret that you can’t decide
the cause of, and I stepped into my jeans and out of his room. I wanted to keep living in
the dream we were co-creating. In the kitchen, two guys sat on bar stools with great
bowls of cereal in their hands. They looked up at me as I shut Francesco’s bedroom
door. One nodded at me and smiled. The other one, dressed already, said in a British
accent, “Cheers! Coffee?”
I tried to smile back at them, but I could only stare. I shook my head no, walking
backwards to the front door. I glanced at Francesco’s closed door and gave the guys a
small wave, but they had already returned to their cereal.
Back in Cambridge, Alison, Isaac, and Mitchell were unusually busy with
schoolwork. I could take a hint. I told them I was sorry, and I was, but I didn’t want to
go into details when they asked about where I went, what I did. Alison asked if he was a
good kisser, and I was upset that she automatically assumed I kissed him. I felt removed
from myself. Not only was I not sure who I was, I wasn’t sure I liked who I was.
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Chapter 6
Besides the statues, Francois was unfortunately the only man I saw naked in Paris.
When I returned to America, I called him my French lover, far from the truth, but I still
love how it sounds. Back home, graduation loomed, suddenly a real thing. I felt
unprepared for the world, as I was just beginning to understand how big the world really
was. Alone in the dorms on a particularly dull Wednesday, I bought a one-way ticket to
Rome on a whim. The flight left in twenty-seven days. In less than a month, I would be
in Italy! I knew my parents would be skeptical and judgmental so I avoided the
conversation altogether by emailing them the itinerary, a smiley face in the subject line.
The ticket cost ate up my savings. I hadn’t enrolled in classes or figured out housing
arrangements; and yet, I was completely confident that everything would work out.
Short-term, I adapt well. Drop me off on an empty highway, and I’ll find shelter. Lock
me in a room with foreigners and I’ll still make friends despite the language barriers. I
just believe humans are good, overall, so I try my best to make connections, lasting or
not.
The Mediterranean, I thought breathlessly, on the flight. I should have started in
Italy to begin with. Italy was such a mystery to me. So much history and culture and
beauty. France was too pretentious. Where were both the gypsies and the affluent in
long, sweeping, colorful skirts, strolling through piazzas, looking up at churches? Have
you ever really watched French people walk? They have impeccable posture, I’ll say
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that. I should have gone to study them, to study poise, but that’s not where I was in my
life. But Italy? Oh, yes, Italy would be a great fit. I just knew it. I could feel it.
I’ve always been geographically challenged. For the longest time, I couldn’t
figure out the difference between Atlanta and Atlantic City. I still get confused about
where Egypt is - Africa, I know, I know. But what about Panama City? It’s in Florida,
right? How confusing! Wouldn’t one think it was in Panama! And what’s with the two
Kansas Cities? If those examples aren’t bad enough, I also confused London and Paris’
whereabouts quite frequently...as an adolescent. On my high school graduation, I
mentioned to my great-aunt that I would like to see Paris, England and London, France. I
wish I could say that was a joke. So, you can understand my issues with Italy. Everyone
talked about how small Italy was. We vacationed in Florida when I was a kid, just my
parents and me, and my Dad kept saying how long Florida was. “Ten hours, at least,
from tip to tip! That’s bigger than all of Italy.” We were staying in Clearwater Beach.
We rented a car, but once we had parked at the hotel, we walked everywhere, restaurants,
parks, shops, ice cream parlors, drug stores, ocean, coffee shops. It was all right there.
Italy must be teeny tiny, I thought then, and I guess the sentiment stuck all that time.
Because when I landed in Rome, I was surprised to find out that I couldn’t walk to
Florence.
Of course my first stop was Rome. A train took me from the airport into the city
center. It was 3pm and not very crowded at all. When I exited the station, six men leapt
from leaning against their cabs, motioning to their taxis as if the cars weren’t identical.
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“I speak English!” one said.
I went to the first cab in line, following American etiquette.
“Can you take me to this hostel?” I asked, pointing to my handwritten list of
hostels with partial street addresses. Luckily, he too spoke English.
He seemed to circle the block twice, but I couldn’t be sure as I was jet-lagged
with the kind of drowsiness that prevents even the possibility of an argument. He
stopped at a familiar doorstep, and I knew we’d passed it before, circling at least once. I
handed him a tip anyway, giving him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he got turned
around easily.
Inside, I didn’t see anyone, just a tall desk. “No vacancy,” a deep voice bellowed
from the desk.
The cab was still outside. The driver waved me in, not bothering to get my door
like at the station.
“It’s full,” he said. A statement, not a question.
“Yes,” I said, looking over my list. “Maybe this one?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the list then turned to the road again. “You come
all the way from America to Italy, and you make no plan, no reservation?”
My cheeks burned. Who was he to question my travel methods? I thought it
would be easy. Besides, I’d saved up for this trip! I could even afford one of those twoand-a-half starred hostels. I had over $1500 in my checking account, thank you very
much.
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“All of these places will be full,” he said, driving faster. Panic rose in my throat.
Where were we going then? He looked at me from the rearview mirror. “It’s summer,”
he said, frustrated. “Italy is busy in the summer. Everyone knows. It’s Roma!” He hit
the steering wheel once.
The tires squealed as we curved on a roundabout. Scooters zinged around us. He
lit a cigarette with the windows still rolled up, and I coughed quietly into my sleeve. The
automatic window was broken or locked. I unclasped my seatbelt and leaned across the
seat to try the other window. He slammed on the brakes as another cab jerked away from
the curb and in front of him. My right shoulder slammed into his seat, but he didn’t
acknowledge me. I pushed myself back to my seat, put my seatbelt back on, and held my
breath. He leaned on his horn.
“Where are your parents?” I opened my mouth to tell him I was twenty-two, not
twelve, but he continued. “You think it’s smart to come alone? A foreign country,
alone? It’s Europa, yes, but...”
“You know, any hotel will do. We can go wherever. You can even drop me off
somewhere downtown.” He braked behind another car, honking at the car and inching
toward its bumper to tap it lightly. “It’s lively here. I can find something, don’t worry.”
He pulled over, fast. “We just had our first baby. A boy,” he said and strained his
neck to look at me. “We want more. I want a little girl. But you can’t go around alone!
It’s not safe.”
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I looked down, pretending to feel the weight of his words, pretending to feel
reprimanded. He sounded ancient. I wasn’t going to wait for my parents or some measly
boy to get his shit together and accompany me on my adventures.
He turned back to the front, signaled for the first time with his blinker, and pulled
back into the heavy traffic flow. I felt like he might take me back to the train station, try
to force me back to America where he thought I’d be safer. Even though I was in his car,
my fear disappeared. He was insane the way the majority of the world was, but he didn’t
seem like a physical danger.
“I am taking you to Giorgio’s,” he said. I looked at my list, confused. “He’s a
friend. He has private, single rooms that never rent. Too expensive. He will be happy
about you.”
“How expensive?”
“Isn’t your safety worth any price?”
When we arrived, Giorgio charged me twenty euro, pricey compared to the ten
and fifteen euro options with bunk beds and bed bugs, but cheap-cheap for a private
room. I caught the cab driver nod and wink at Giorgio as he left. It wasn’t until much
later, when I changed in my private room that I realized I never paid my second fare.
Once I was in clothes without sweat stains, I went for my first Italian meal. The
streets were lined with English-speaking tourists who complimented the dishes. I wanted
to find a smaller place with less flare, less touristy commotion. Off the main streets, I
found an even narrower street with two lampposts out, creating a dimness I hadn’t yet
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seen in the city. In this darker path, I saw the shadows of people kissing against the
burned out lamp poles. I saw my own shadow, taller than I’ve ever been. Rome was this
labyrinth of streets and shops and restaurants and cafes and museums and churches, my
God! The churches! A small woman wiped down two wooden tables on the sidewalk,
softly singing to herself. If the tables weren’t there, I wouldn’t have known it was a
restaurant.
“Are you still open?” I asked in nervous Italian.
“Yes,” she said, unstartled, even in the dark. “Sit.” She brought a candle, a paper
menu, and stood in front of me with two bottles of water.
“Naturale, per favore.”
She nodded; but when I smiled, she didn’t smile back.
There were only three items on the menu: bruschetta, spaghetti, and tiramisu. I
ordered all three (when in Rome!). She poured a full glass of red wine for me and left the
carafe of house wine on the table. Even though it was a red, it was light. I spun it in the
glass like I knew what I was doing. There was no acidic bitterness that I’d grown to hate
about red wine. There were traces of cherry and an earthiness in the aftertaste.
The dead lamp across the street flickered on then off, like an excited child trying
to stay awake. I sat back in the chair and breathed in big gulps of air, happy to be alone
in this beautifully foreign place.
The bruschetta had the perfect balance of garlic, fresh basil, and finely diced
tomato atop the freshly baked crostini. The spaghetti heaped over the plate, touching the
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table. I gladly accepted the ground black pepper and flakes of parmesan on top of the
mound. The meat had been browned and seasoned wonderfully, and the pasta was
cooked al dente, something I could never achieve in my own kitchen. I used the fork and
large spoon to swirl the pasta like a true Italian, and I twirled and twirled until the dish
was spaghetti-strand-free. After the pasta, I was full, but dessert wasn’t served
immediately. I sat back again, enjoying the last of the wine from the carafe.
In the street, off-center, there was a terrible gash in the cobblestones that no one
bothered to conceal with concrete or tar. A gauze-like bandage was patched over the
missing stones to hide its ugliness. Or maybe it had a more practical purpose, to lessen
the automobiles’ bumps along the street? Even as I squint through the night and lack of
street light, I know that it is a blemish that locals have learned to avoid, swerving to the
other side of the road, into oncoming traffic, if only briefly. In any city, you’ll find many
things abandoned. We begin to see these flaws as character.
I was beginning to feel the hunger that comes from being drunk when the tiramisu
arrived. I didn’t need any more food, but this was decadent. It was fluffy, melting in my
mouth. I moaned a little with my first bite, and the woman raised her eyebrows.
“You like?” she asked me.
“Oh, I love it!”
And now she smiled.
The next morning, I rented a bicycle and rode through the maze of Rome, getting
happily lost. “Buongiomo!” I said, whizzing downhill and waving to every passerby.
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“Buongiomo!” I said to a man sweeping outside a flower shop. “Buongiomo, signorini,”
I said to a pack of schoolchildren with colorful backpacks. “Buongiomo, sole!” I said,
smiling up at the sky. “Buongiomo, strada!” I used up my total vocabulary saying hello
to the people I passed, to the world and the sun - even to the dogs. Yes, I really said,
“Buongiomo, cane!” to which an old man grumbled back at me, “Oh, stai zitta!” I didn’t
care. I laughed, outstretched my arms, and said, riding without steering, “Buongiomo,
mondo! Buongiomo, tutti!”
When was the last time I had let myself go so completely, when I did something
that made me feel more alive, more free than maybe ever before? Only the crazy-hungry
will understand this specific madness I describe.
I had a map in the back pocket of my jeans, but I didn’t use it much. I rode on,
smirking at the comer McDonald’s like we shared an inside joke. I was pedaling uphill.
The road veered, and tour buses passed dangerously in front of me, stopping, pausing,
rumbling along. I realized I was getting close. And then there it was - the Coliseum!
It’s not like those golden pictures taken at sunset where it seems like the structure is
whole. It’s broken, very obviously and prominently destroyed. These are ruins, after all;
and yet, here it is, still standing. Still beautiful. The structure is like a puzzle with some
missing pieces; we know the full face. We can imagine it whole and unblemished, but I
like how it is, caked in history’s brutality with stories carved and scratched into the
surface, proving that wounds and scars don’t equate defeat.
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At last, in Florence, I found that you really could walk almost everywhere. You
can start walking anywhere in the city and you are bound to run into a bronze copy of
Michelangelo’s David or the infamous Ponte Vecchio or the Uffizi Museum or Santa
Croce, where the statue of Dante still stands proud and unblemished. This city was at the
heart of the Renaissance, and artists and writers flocked to this small town to create.
Sure, you have to wade through the tourism, but it’s worth it. Climb up to Piazzale
Michelangelo and watch the sun set into the Amo River, all of the terracotta roofs
illuminated by the last rays of the sun. Looking down at the whole area from this high
point, the Duomo stands out most of all. And all of those red dusty tiles give the illusion
that we’re back in time too, that we’re participating in a history of art so special and
sacred.
I liked the smaller places in the city too, the alleyways and one-table pizzerias.
Florence is built as a grid system so the streets are even artfully set so that everything
runs together, similar to Rome. My third day in Florence, I woke early with the intention
to go to the Univerisita di Firenze and try to enroll in their language and art history
classes; but instead, I stumbled along these skinny streets. It was morning, and yet, the
stone buildings are so close together, the streets remained shaded. I found a parking lot
of scooters next to a man’s letter shop. I wandered in and there were all kinds of
stationary and envelopes, little devices that you filled with water so you needn’t lick the
envelopes. The man sat in a comer looking over a yellowed letter with a microscope, not
addressing me nor I, him. Next door, a toy shop with painted wood objects. The biggest
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and best painted was a life-size Pinocchio doll. The shop, though, was cluttered and very
brightly lit so I didn’t enter. Italian couples and friends passed me, and I tried to catch a
bit of what they said, but they spoke too fast, walked too fast, and disappeared before I’d
been able hear even one word and skim my Italian pocketbook for a translation.
I found a cafe in a small piazza behind Piazza della Signoria ten minutes from the
house I would be sharing with five girls who would arrive by the end of the week. I
looked forward to being the first, able to scout out places to take my new best friends. At
the cafe, I very slowly ordered a double espresso. It was easy Italian, but I was proud
nonetheless. I wandered outside where the tables were basically in the street, but most of
the piazzas were sectioned off to cars so it was relatively safe, though scooters sometimes
zipped past. Above me, a pigeon cooed from a window. A woman in a beige nightgown
strung laundry on a line further up, and there were three Italian flags, all in a line,
billowing together in the light breeze. I sipped the creamy, smooth espresso.
Before my exquisite coffee break, I had made my way to the Universita’ where I
had registered for three classes, Italian language, art history, and photography. The
registration was much easier than I anticipated, requiring only credit card and passport.
After, I had chosen my room in the house I would be sharing with five women. I decided
to take the smaller of the two rooms, where there were two twin beds instead of the
crowded beds in the other room. On the top floor, all of my footsteps had echoed, and I
had worried about disturbing my neighbors below even though it was still very early.
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From my table, I could see three streetlamps in a perfect row, their orangey
yellow lights coming on, creating halos in the near-dark. It was only August, but already
there was a chill to the night. I heard a man call further down the road, from a place I
couldn’t see. He called out loud - in agony? Fear? I couldn’t tell. I hugged myself. I
thought I heard the word auito, help, but I don’t think he really said anything at all, just
cried out into the new night, into the street.
I’ve always had the only-child curse of guessing what everyone’s feeling and
thinking. At the grocery, I analyzed every cashier’s wrinkles. “I think that one’s
pregnant,” I would whisper not so discreetly to my mother. “I wonder if she lives alone.
I bet her boyfriend likes her stepsister!” I got louder as the drama ensued in my
imagination. My mother smiled behind us, at the other people in line, and she smiled at
the cashier, who stared down at me, the wrinkles deepening, which was all the proof I
needed.
I imagined this man had just been abandoned by his lover. He crawled out from
their bed because he couldn’t stand the sweet smell of their shared sheets, and he couldn’t
fathom life continuing in the morning: the shops reopening and the street being swept
clean and children living joyously. So how could he sleep? I saw him rolling down the
street, standing up, but running into walls and turning and turning, his shoulders knocking
into dumpsters and doorknobs. He probably slipped on some neighboring steps to one of
the houses on the block. They were the short, cement steps, close to the doorways, easy
to slip on when one’s rolling down the street’s walls, willing away sleep.
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Painfully, I thought of my father. I didn’t encourage nostalgia, but it surrounded
me suddenly and strongly now. I pulled my sweater tighter around me, like pulling a
blanket up higher to my face. When I left, he had been in a maniac episode again:
“What d’ya gotta go to Italy for, huh? Stay here, why don’t ya? Take a load off. Christ,
I get tired just talkin’ to ya.”
He had a terrific laugh, big teeth in a big grin, and the sound escalated slowly then
stayed, suspended in the air, longer than you expected. A laugh you remember.
I loved visiting him in Florida, where he stayed when my Mom moved us back up
to the Midwest. He only had a one-bedroom apartment, but he called it a cottage. It was
across the street from the beach, and actually it was a disservice to call it an apartment.
He had added a porch to the front, a nice wrap-around one like Aunt Maggie used to
have. Of all the additions, this was the one he was most proud of, as he picked out the
light oak and stained it himself. He sat out there, summer and winter too, his stomach
always shamelessly exposed. He talked to anyone who came around: mailman, pizza
deliverer, dog walker, neighbor, parking cop. His personality, really, was contagious,
and people grew curious about this man who did yoga at 6am in his driveway, read
yesterday’s paper at seven, and spent the rest of the day talking to strangers from the
perch of his porch.
Whenever I went down to see him, he introduced me to at least three women.
They were all attractive, but all too skinny, and they weren’t entertaining on their own as
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far as I could tell. Still, they seemed crazy about my father, and for this I liked them
enough.
My mother didn’t date more than twice a year. She said I needed stability, and
that if she was going to take up a hobby it wouldn’t be like my father’s “endless flirting.”
But that wasn’t fair, and I think some part of her knew that. He was coping the best way
he could. You stay busy by drinking like her and fucking like him; it’s distracting. I get
it. He was heartbroken too, in his way, but he was also free. They had both been living
such separate lives, but they had been living those lives together. He self-diagnosed
himself with S.A.D., Seasonal Affective Disorder, so when she started packing for
Wisconsin, they both knew those lives wouldn’t continue to be lived in tandem. I
understood. I saw that they both wanted things that the other wasn’t giving them, so of
course I thought they needed distance. I just didn’t know that distance would be over
1,000 miles.
When I was a child, in the early ‘90s, divorce was just getting popular and it got a
real bad rep real fast. All my friends grew bitter toward their parents, swearing they’d
never marry. I think they failed to see that their parents were individuals, first and
foremost, way before us, way before marriage, and maybe commitments weren’t meant
to last forever, I first voiced these thoughts on the wooden climbing tower with the red
slide at Liberty Christian School, which went from Kindergarten to high school.
Darcy dropped her jaw. “My mom says a promise is a promise!”
The other kids agreed, quoting mostly from their mothers.
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I remember having an urge to push them all down the slide. I knew it would be
hot on their legs and their skin would stick on the plastic. I wanted - 1 still want - to tell
them to wake up. But what Darcy’s mom said was beautiful: A promise is a promise.
How can I blame anyone for believing that; or, for wanting to believe in that?
Night seemed to be falling much faster than usual, and I realized that the weather
was changing too. A small raindrop landed on my eyelash and I blinked it away like it
was an eye drop. The atmosphere had changed. Rain was coming. I drank the rest of the
espresso in one gulp, moving into the street just in time, just as the rain started to come.
Whenever rain comes down fast and hard, those unpredictable storms that swoop
in, turning the blue sky blacker than night, whenever it rains like that, I make a point to
go outside. If I’m in class, I sneak out the door, drop my books. If I’m working, I
pretend I smoke so I can take a smoke break, steal a drag from a stranger. I stand under
that rain, let it tap-dance on my face. The drops, when fast, get harder, even painful, but I
let it seep into my pores anyway. In Florida, these rainstorms are particularly wicked:
rain that comes at an angle. Screaming rain. All around me, the smell of earth. The
ground muddies at the wet touch, stirs up magically, a perfume of soil and primitive
desire.
Of course, after the rain, I am drenched, clothes uncomfortable to every bend in
the body. My shoes are often ruined, squeaking and spitting out water with every step. I
strip, wrap myself in a beach towel, blanket, sweatshirt, whatever’s in my backseat. I
always think the thudding in my heart will calm, but you know what? It doesn’t. It’s
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more than a cleansing. It’s a reminder of who I am. I feel, and I want to feel. I want to
shake my senses awake. I want the visceral, the rain, the taut chests, the curve of a naked
man’s body (which I’ve learned to not point out before sex). It’s all this and more, when
the rain comes.
In St. Petersburg, there’s a church that’s been abandoned, just two turns down
from the main strip, Fourth Street. It’s a standard white building with a flat roof, but it
does have a second story, unlike most of the buildings in the area. It doesn’t particularly
look like the Spanish-style churches nearby, but there’s the give-away wood cross
sticking out of the mushy land in the frontyard. Around the back, a playground, also
abandoned, for the swings’ chains are so rusted that the rust has begun to peel. The
staircase is on that side of the building, in the back, and it’s against the exterior with a
thick wall hiding the steps from view unless you’re right in front of the stairs. So, you
can sit on these steps and go unseen from the street or playground. Someone would have
to be looking for those stairs to see you.
I started going there when I was nine. Nine was a special age because I was
allowed to ride my bike to school - it was only four blocks from home - and this meant
that I could also take my time getting home. We moved down to Florida when I was six.
I didn’t mind. I got exposed to two worlds! And, of course, I knew we’d return to
Wisconsin - Grammy, Aunt Maggie, Sam, JJ, Casey, everyone was there. The problem
was my mom; she did mind. I don’t really remember Dad asking her if she wanted to go
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or what she thought, and then it was just decided, and she didn’t really protest. I don’t
think either of them liked confrontation very much.
For me, Florida was home to Disney World and water parks and banyan trees and
beaches, beaches galore. Still, early on, I felt the strain my mother endured. I heard her
voice crack on the phone with my aunt. She turned away so I couldn’t see her face, but I
didn’t need to. I wanted to bounce up and down and beg to talk to my aunt, tell her about
the wax rhino I won at Adventure Island, but I had to leave my mother alone. I had to
tame my childness in my childhood. In the world I was stuck in, in the home created by
my parents, the water was constantly rocking but rocking only ever so slightly. Someone
had to be an anchor. Somebody had to be predictable. Dad with his big ideas and
booming voice, his early mornings and early bedtime because he exhausted even himself.
And Mom’s quiet smoking and drinking and rewashing the clean laundry, forehead
creased while reading or watching a mystery. You’d think with so much Florida heat,
there would be fights, yelling, something! If anything, it just added to everyone’s
exhaustion.
Buildings fascinated me. I would find a stick and trace the building’s exterior if it
looked vacant. I would feel the bumps in the walls, the scars from weather, the
purposeful holes for electric sockets. I wanted to understand how something was
established, how things became, and I wondered what being grounded meant. That wood
cross in the churchyard: crooked. Most of that grass was artificial. The soil was either
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starved and hard, thirsty, or squishy with sewage sprinkler water. This habit, this
practice, stick-to-wall, is how I found the steps.
The first time, I held an imaginary camera to my face. Like the one Mom used to
document all our family trips, demanding us to smile, smile.
“It’s too hot to stop for pictures,” my Dad said at Disney.
“Can’t you put an arm around your daughter and look happy for a minute?”
She got the picture she wanted. We both smiled. But what about that stuff
shifting in our bodies, that pain, that ache, that fear of what’s coming or what’s ending?
I fake-photographed the steps and the cross at length. The sprinklers came on, but
it’s not like the rain that I love because it’s inconsistent and stinky. I took refuge in the
stairwell, and that’s when I realized no one could see me from the street. I found such
joy in this, this hiding place, and I let myself fold over my knees and let go of pain, ache,
fear, tears streaming over my prickly knees, down my dirty shins. Even when the tears
got caught in my throat and I choked out loud, it didn’t matter; the sprinklers sputtered
and hissed much louder.
I’m glad it wasn’t a real camera because the pictures were too real, not the flimsy
prints Mom stuck up all over the house with fat American smiles. My film would show
Dad in their bedroom mirror when he thought I was watching the television and not him.
How he flexed his chest and his left bicep. He took off his wedding ring, put it on the
dresser, pausing only briefly, touching it a beat too long, trying but failing to preserve its
power. He was shirtless in his pajama pants, digging for a shirt in the second drawer, and
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I saw him work to open his eyes wider, fighting his fatigue. He pulled the shirt over his
head and I looked fast back to the TV.
Sure enough, he turned, smiling. I know no one else who can smile like my Dad.
I’m so glad he’s my Dad because his smiles deceive in such a beautiful way.
“I get up for a second and lose my spot in bed?”
“Sh,” I said, pretending to care about the show.
He gripped his chest, stumbling back into the dresser. “Ouch,” he said. “It’s
happening. My little girl is growin’ up! Oh, it hurts, it hurts!” Then he jumped onto the
bed like he was canon-balling into water. “Old man incoming!”
Oh, we laughed. We laughed together like the world wasn’t so bad, and ours
wasn’t. But bad is relative, and there were cracks and ugly creases and I couldn’t iron for
shit. Where was my mom? I didn’t even think to stop, to call her in. I didn’t think of her
during these regular bursts of bliss with my Dad. It felt good to be laughing, to be happy,
and I was focused totally on me, on what I was feeling. But where was she? Why didn’t
she join? Why didn’t he call her? I was the kid, dammit. I was just a kid. And yet, I
feel so responsible. If I’d just called out for her, if I’d only stopped laughing for a
moment...
As days swam past, I couldn’t judge them well; but with distance, I began to see
patterns and problems, holes in the establishment, scars from the weather.
“I’m buying a Jacuzzi tub if I want, Brenda,” my Dad said in hushed anger.
“It’s all about you!”
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“Keep your voice down. She’s sleeping.”
I climbed out from under my covers and went to my door, trying to block out the
light from streaming in from under the door, that sliver of light from the kitchen. I kept
thinking if I could just fill that crack between door and carpet, I wouldn’t hear, I wouldn’t
see, and I could sleep.
Dad got the Jacuzzi like he said. He put it out on the back screened-in porch. He
took his coffee and paper, sometimes even his dinner, in with him. He invited us to join,
but I felt like I needed to align myself with Mom. I felt like it was about more than the
Jacuzzi for her, but I didn’t know how exactly. Even for me, it was an intrusion of my
play space.
One of the many weekends that Darcy spent with us, I told her I wanted to wreck
the Jacuzzi. She didn’t ask why or argue. This is why she is my best friend.
“Let’s put all the soap we can find in,” she said.
We emptied dish soap, laundry detergent, bubble bath, shampoo, hand soap, and
dog shampoo into the hot tub. Then we turned on the Jacuzzi so the jets started up.
“Get in!” I said, and Darcy looked skeptical, but she followed my lead.
Mom wasn’t home, she was at the grocery store, and when Dad got out of the
shower, he looked happy to see us enjoying the Jacuzzi. He smiled and walked out to the
porch, toweling the back of his neck. The bubbles were growing already. They came
just to the edge, about to spill over. His smile drooped.
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“Something’s wrong,” he said, and Darcy and I couldn’t help ourselves. We
started giggling.
“Get out, girls,” he said.
Darcy looked at me and I shook my head no.
“Something’s wrong,” he said again. He pulled the plug just as the first bubbles
spilled over the edge of the tub wall. “Shit. Why are there so many bubbles?”
“We wanted to use your new Jacuzzi to take a bath,” I said.
Betrayal crossed his face. His eyes widened and he pinched my armpits.
“You’re hinting me!”
He pulled me up and out of the hot tub. He spanked me, in front of Darcy. I
screamed, hollered out. It wasn’t that he hit hard, but he was hitting me. Through my
tears, I saw Darcy standing in the Jacuzzi, bubbles all around her. My Dad let me go and
I scrambled away to sit against the porch door that led outside, sobbing.
“Get out, Darcy,” he said, and she did. Bubbles fluttered up, smacking as they
popped. Everything was a bubbly blur.
*
On these hidden steps of the white-washed, empty church, I dreamed of travel.
My cousin Sam was in Mexico again. She sent me a postcard from Puerto Vallarta. I
kept it in the bottom of my backpack. She said that she and Paul were having a great
time, but she missed me. I didn’t know Paul, and I felt viciously jealous. Why didn’t she
take me to Mexico?
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Sam had been a junior in college in Virginia before she went down south. Rumor
was she’d shaved her head completely bald. Mom said she donated her hair, but I forget
where. My aunt called a lot in that period, asking if Sam had called us. She wanted the
postcard. I hung up on her. But she had sounded genuinely afraid to lose Sam forever.
Sam returned to the states when she ran out of money. My Mom said she could
stay with us, which outraged my aunt but Sam seemed grateful. She had a tree tattoo
across the entirety of her back now and her head was prickly with new fuzzy hair. And a
man was at her side. They laced their middle fingers together. Paul. I knew right away.
I wanted to hate Paul. Sam smiled at him more than at me. She laughed at the
stupid things he said. I’d never seen her so slap-happy. She’d always been so interesting
because she was a balance of happy - witty and so very funny - but she was disturbed
too, upset by the world’s injustices. She was philosophical without calling her musings,
theories.
Paul asked me what I thought of Mexico.
I shrugged. His hair was dark and knotty, what I now know are dreadlocks. I was
unbelievably intrigued by them. They looked like pipes or rods. And they looked
painful.
“Do you like my hair?” he asked. Sam laughed.
I turned away from them to pet Alice, our big, fat, orange cat.
“You can touch them,” he said, crouching down next to me.
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I turned back to him, amused. Could I? I had never touched any man but my
father. Maybe a cousin, pushing him into the water at Blue Lake.
Sam was stroking the back of his head like he was her dog.
I looked to Sam and she nodded. I reached out my hand. Much softer than pipes.
“Aren’t they heavy?”
“Not really,” he said.
“Don’t they hurt your head?”
They laughed, but it was a nice, non-adult laugh. I felt good because their
attention was on me.
“They don’t hurt. Say,” Paul said. “Do you like turtles?”
“I guess.” I shrugged, wanting to keep petting his strange hair.
“Well,” he said, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with me. “We have quite the
turtle story.” Paul patted the carpet, and Sam sat too. I looked back and forth from them.
Maybe I had to win over Paul to keep Sam around. I was prepared to listen to the turtle
story and love it, if it meant keeping Sam close.
I struggle to recall the specifics of the story. They were sleeping on the beach and
woke to their tent shaking only slightly. They thought they were being robbed or that a
black bear had sniffed out their food. Sam got out, the warrior woman she is, and she had
a knife in her right hand and full can of beans in her left. There was no one around, but
the tent still quivered. Sam wandered to the back of the tent, still flexed in preparation
for battle, and there was the culprit: the smallest turtle she’d ever seen, burrowing next to
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their tent. I don’t know if that was the end, but that was the gist of it. Not the best story.
But here’s what stands out:
Sam said, “It was a can of stewed tomatoes!”
Paul said, “It was my knife not yours! You lost yours at the market, remember?”
Their retelling and reliving of the turtle story, how they spoke so fast then fell so
silent, smiling into the past... I wished I was a part of the memory, and I wondered if I
was, through their retelling somehow. Sadness was behind their soft, fading smiles.
Maybe the memory wasn’t just a memory. Maybe they realized the turtle story wasn’t
just a memory. Maybe they realized it wasn’t a very good story. But it was their story. I
think they were sad, most of all, because their relationship was still in Mexico, stuck in
Mexico. They wouldn’t have any more turtle stories living on our porch in St.
Petersburg, Florida.
Paul made friendship bracelets with me while Sam looked for a waitressing job.
Paul’s grandparents were wealthy and so he didn’t have to work. Sam talked to Paul less
and less. My family is a collection of strong, independent women who prove they don’t
need men by living happily-ever-alone.
I was at school when they broke up. It was October. Autumn in Florida is the
most beautiful time of year. But Sam was bundled up on the futon of the porch.
I did my best to ignore the heaped blankets, tried to not think about or ask about
Paul.
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“I was the only one who remembered all the states at school today! Next, we’re
going to recite all the state capitals.”
Sam sniffled. “That’s great,” she said. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes were
bloodshot and the thin skin under her nose was terribly chapped.
“Have you been crying?” I asked.
“What about Darcy? Did she know all the states too?”
“No! Darcy wanted me to help her, but I said no way! I’m not a cheater. She
forgot Vermont.”
“Do you mind if I take a nap?”
“Are you okay, Sammy?”
“Don’t call me that! I just want to be Sam. My name’s Sam, not Sammy. Why
does everyone call me Sammy?” Her tone was harsh, angry, slippery with her saliva, and
her words came out fast like they’d been on the tip of her tongue all day.
“You seem really sad...”
“Codi, please, please, please leave me alone. Just leave me alone.”
My chest hurt. I always called her Sammy. It felt like a personal criticism. Like
I mistook one of the states on the west coast for an east coast one. No. More. I felt
rejected. My ears drummed into my skull. Alice chased a lizard before it ran up the
screen wall of the porch.
“Come on, Alice,” I called, backing away from Sam.
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Alice growled and pawed at the screen. Sam called the cat over, and Alice
jumped up on her stomach, already purring loudly. I took long steps back into the house,
leaving the porch door open behind me.
I left on my bike, not planning to return until after suppertime. Let her explain to
my worried parents what had happened, what she’d said. I went to the steps and cried,
cried because I missed Paul and I missed how Sammy - Sam - had been around him.
I got hungry and so I returned home just before dinner. No one was concerned.
“How was your bike ride, sweetie?” my Mom asked from her side of the couch.
“It was okay,” I said. I never used words like okay or fine, but my Mom didn’t
notice.
“That’s nice. It was a great day. And how was school?”
“Fine.” I pushed the junk on the coffee table onto the ground and slammed my
math textbook on the table.
“Sh,” Mom said. “Sam’s taking a nap.”
I stared at foreign math equations, my body buzzing, and I hoped for rain.
As I got older, which is to say as I got more comfortable with my voice and my
opinions, I grew annoyed with Sam. With the same intensity that I had looked up at her
with admiration, I now grew impatient with her latest open-ended philosophical question.
Who cared what the meaning of life was? Let’s talk about some of the meanings, really
talk about them. Let’s tell stories. I’ll start!
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She was always taking over every conversation at every family gathering so of
course I was overlooked. In fact, my family still called me Baby Codi, like I was
eternally six. A family composed of strong women is beautiful, and I’m grateful for them
and to be included in this family, I am, but it was Mom’s way at home (in Florida and in
Wisconsin), and it was Sam’s way when the family came together, and whenever Gam
opened her mouth, it was her family, her stage, her way.
I knew that if I wanted to be respected among these strong females, I would have
to come up with a compelling story to break the ice, to be seen as more than Baby Codi.
I paid attention. I listened to the stories they told, I read the back flaps of these women’s
novels, and the common denominator was love. Everyone loved a good love story. I
looked back and forth from my parents. Was that love? How was I going to recognize
love if I’d never seen it?
I left the nest, driving back down to Florida. I said I wanted to go to college down
there, but everyone rightfully suspected that was a lie. No one chooses to go to college in
Florida. I wanted to get to know my Dad. Get to know him now that I was an adult, I
mean, and I knew that if I didn’t do it now, I may never get the opportunity, because the
moment would have passed and I’d be living somewhere that would be mine and I’d
likely be working. I would be busy so there wouldn’t be the appropriate amount of time
necessary to get to know each other.
Leaving that flock of strong-willed females in the Midwest was exciting, actually.
I had been well-trained to be a strong woman, and now I didn’t have to compete with my
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mother, cousin, and grandmother. At eveiy party, in every classroom, I stole the crowd,
and I loved it.
Only after I met Justin did I feel like I had a worthy story to captivate my family.
So, I returned for one of the family reunions in northern Wisconsin, and I leaned across
the dinner table like a pro when a brief lull fell while everyone ate, and I said, “I want to
tell you all about my first love.”
Sure, the ending was sad, but that just allowed them to relate to it more fully.
Who hadn’t loved and lost?
At Christmas, I threw out the love theme and started to entertain with the stories
that worked so well at school: sexcapades. But my Mom didn’t want to hear the fun
penis details, and Sam was growing prudish, being fifteen years older than me with her
first baby on the way. I decided I preferred being the center of attention in my normal
environment back in Florida rather than holding the spotlight among my small family of
seven women and two husbands that sometimes got “stuck hunting.”
Back in Florida, even my friends grew bored with the endless strings of sex tales,
no matter how I detailed every position and moan and oddity. The sexcapades had run
their course too, and I needed new material or I’d be overlooked and someone else would
take the spotlight.
I added multiple partners, a nice way to say I started cheating. My thought was,
more drama, more attention, and I was right.
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Before I left for Italy, my friends and I gathered for a going-away party at a bar
overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. Fruity, blended drinks sloshed on the deck as we
reminisced, as if I was already gone. I was going to study abroad, sure, but they all knew
I had a one-way ticket, and none of us - not even me - were convinced I’d return.
I held up my drink, proposing a toast. The cute, colorful umbrella tipped and
tumbled. “I hope that’s not a sign for my trip,” I said, and everyone laughed. I thanked
everyone for coming, for their friendship, for the memories, and then I said, knowing I
needed to go out with a bang, “You wait for my return.” I said, “I won’t be alone. When
I come home, I’ll be married!” Laughter. “I’m serious, have you seen Italian men? I’m
going to snag myself an Italian stallion. Oh yes, I’m going to meet my husband in Italy!”
We all cheered, tapping plastic cups, laughing it off like, “Oh, there she goes again, isn’t
she funny!”
Like I said, I’ve said and done a lot for attention.
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Chapter 7
Florence didn’t feel all that foreign because I met so many Americans. Most were
also studying abroad, but some were sexy expatriates with serious family money. One of
my first weeks in Florence, after I’d become official with the university, our program
director offered to lead my roommates and me around the city after orientation. It had
just gotten dark, and we were headed toward the Duomo, a tourist trap, but Mr. Shavo,
who insisted we call him Gus, swore there was a decent gelateria on a side street nearby.
I was sure he bored us all terribly, but I didn’t know these girls well yet, and they weren’t
rolling their eyes or smirking to themselves like I was. Decent gelato? He wasn’t Italian.
Not by a long shot. He was a fifth generation Greek, he told us proudly, and this was
only his third trip to Italy in his entire fifty or so years alive.
Two local boys were at an intersection, rolling tobacco and leaning against a
closed shop’s glass window. One of the boys looked up and saw me watching them.
“Ciao, bella,” he said, stereotypically. I was already behind the group, and no one
seemed to notice.
I stopped and faced them. “Ciao.”
At least they were giving me their undivided attention.
The other one kicked his foot against the glass to stand up straight. He smiled,
clearly the more attractive of the two. “Ciao, bella, ciao,” he said. “Come ti chiami?”
I pulled out my new Nokia phone, not answering him, and handed it to the other
boy, who smiled and pushed down hard on the comically large buttons. Supplied by the
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exchange program, it was a rental phone, an old-school Nokia complete with a big blue
number pad that lit up and chimed obnoxiously every time you pushed a button. He gave
the phone back to me, stepped closer, and asked in English, “You smoke?”
I nodded yes, even though I didn’t smoke, even though I despised the taste of
cigarettes.
My friends and Gus had stopped now and were watching me, arms crossed over
their chests, judgment in their eyes. I didn’t care. At least I had an audience.
The local boys went to kiss my cheeks, but I turned and kissed them both on the
lips, lingering with the last boy who could have actually been the first boy. It didn’t
matter. They were cute enough, and I had kissed my first Italians!
Gus had turned his body in the opposite direction and I could see him shaking his
head back and forth. Americans really were such prudes. I ran up to them. “You didn’t
have to wait,” I said. Gus wouldn’t face me. I put my hand on his arm. “You were
right,” I said. “I love Italy!” He pushed my hand away like it was poisonous. And then I
saw the look. The girls all exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. But they weren’t
rejecting Gus, they weren’t rolling their eyes with me; they were rolling their eyes at me\
“You need to be careful,” Gus was saying. “Careful,” he repeated, like English
had become my second language. He shook his head at me again. “I am responsible for
you, do you understand? For all of you. This is the kind of behavior that leads to trouble.
This is the kind of thing, young lady, that leads to suspension. It’s this.. .carelessness.”
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“Let’s just get that ‘decent’ gelato,” I said, walking fast, walking ahead. Young
lady? What was this, the 1800s?
But Gus had stopped completely. “I’m tired,” he said quietly. “It’s just two more
left turns. Go without me.” In my direction: “And be--” He paused. He was going to
tell me to behave! “Be careful,” he said and turned to leave.
The girls walked after Gus, begging him to join. They called him not just by his
first name now, but G.
“Oh, come on, G,” Lindsey said. “It won’t be the same without you. Please
come.”
He walked on though, shrugging and putting a hand in the air.
We walked in complete silence, taking the two left turns, and arriving at the
gelateria quickly, where the smell of freshly baked waffle cones filled the air. I ordered
three scoops: banana, coconut, and rice. I’d never had any of those ice cream flavors and
couldn’t wait to try them.
“G says Italians only get a small cup, which is only one scoop.” Lindsey again.
I leaned toward her. “But haven’t you noticed? I’m insatiable.”
I laughed, but the others didn’t find this funny or amusing. They took their small
cups containing one scoop outside and ate in a huddle.
I sounded bold that night, so confident and sure of myself. But I saw how they
looked at me. Like I was different. Dirty and vulgar, like I would taint them with my
presence alone. I wasn’t one of them. I don’t know why that always has to hurt so much.
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I didn’t even want to be like them until I realized that I wasn’t. They all came to Italy
together. They were sorority sisters from Ivy Leagues with summer houses and pedigree
horses. They attended polo matches, took ballroom dancing classes and called it fun.
They borrowed each other’s silk scarves, and they wore their grandmother’s pearls. And
now they had me in common too. They had formed an alliance against me. Me in my
yellow dress that showed too much cleavage. And yet, we had to live together.
Lindsey threw away half of her small gelato, looking me over in disgust.
“What’s wrong?” Michelle asked.
Lindsey’s eyes were still on me. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
In America, I made friends easily. I was an only child, forced to learn the art of
friending early. But I also wouldn’t disguise who I was in order to have a play pal.
I’ve always been good at daydreaming and fantasizing so that even when my
reality wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t unbearable. But I hated my “home” in Florence. The girls
chirped constantly, on Skype with their boyfriends back home or their worried parents,
talking until four in the morning, talking negatively about this experience. During the
day, they bantered with each other over whose dirty spaghetti bowls were in the sink.
I left most evenings to have aperitivo at different bars. It was a good deal, about
eight euro, and included a Negroni or house wine with the spread of appetizers. After I
finished my glass of pinot grigio and two small plates, I walked up to the Amo and
meditated on the bridge, watching the sun sink and the moon glint through the smoky
clouds. Walking further up, past the river, I started my trek up to Piazza de Pitti. From
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the Piazza, I saw an empty walkway below, between two tall stone walls, an alley. The
path weaved up and around, and somehow it made me think of ski paths from when I
took snowboarding trips with friends during Christmas breaks up in Wisconsin. As if on
cue, the streetlamps flickered on and the path was doused in glowing light, just like those
wintertime ski tracks. Far off in the distance, the vineyards faded, Tuscan fields of grape
clusters surrounded by green vines climbing up iron poles and short fences. The cold
seeped up to those of us who braved this nightfall, and I paced if only to stay warmer.
On the other side of the piazza, not too far below, I knew a cemetery stretched. Those
crooked slabs of cold stone with knifed engravings only made me shiver more.
I began the walk back toward the river, back to my side of the city. Many of the
lamps on the broad staircase were shaded by the bushy trees; others had burned out and
failed to be replaced since I’d arrived a month ago. I stopped directly under one of the
rare shining lampposts and sat on the stone railing. I pulled my knees up and hugged
myself. Do you know this feeling - homesickness for a home you’ve never known?
Perhaps that is too harsh. Perhaps I only don’t know it yet. Why must I ache so, never
satisfied with contentment, always a small bag packed and a folded map in the glove
box? It’s not wanderlust, for this is a love of mine.
The next day, a Wednesday, all the other girls groped and clutched their
stomachs, wailing about the starts of their periods. I too had just gotten my period, but I
didn’t want to whine about it together. I couldn’t take it anymore. We hadn’t directly
chosen each other as roommates, and yet we had chosen to embark on this adventure so
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we had made the decision to live with strangers. Of course, there was the possibility that
we wouldn’t get along. Of course. But I didn’t think it would happen to me. I’ve always
been too damn empathetic and emotional so I link up easily with other women’s
menstrual cycles, but this time disturbed me most of all because these weren’t girls I
liked or even admired. In the past, it was always with friends. We could each chocolates
together, joke about it over rom-coms. I couldn’t do that here. In fact, I couldn’t be here,
not in this moment of feminine syncing and emotional exhaustion.
I decided to take a cab from my Florentine residence to the airport. I didn’t have
class for the next couple of days so all I asked myself was, “Why not?” At the small
airport, I smacked my bag on the ground and handed my passport across the high
countertop.
“Where are you flying to today?” the airline cashier asked.
I shrugged. “You tell me!”
She wasn’t amused. “Where to?” she asked.
“Anywhere!” I said, hoping she would share my enthusiasm.
She didn’t. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head as if to say,
“Americani.” Looking down at the screen, she finally said in a bored voice, “There’s a
flight to Amsterdam and back. 400 euro.”
“Perfect!” I said, and being American after all, I charged it on my credit card.
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On my way to the tiny airplane bathroom, I noticed there were three American
girls sitting ahead of me, two in one row, the other in the aisle seat behind them, always
leaning forward to hear what the two said.
After I used the restroom, I walked up, mentally preparing to say hello. I was
suddenly very nervous about being rejected. “Mind if I join you guys? My, uh, my
friend bailed on me so I’m taking this trip solo.” White lies never hurt anyone much.
They were quiet for thirty whole seconds. They looked me over, looked at each
other, then all but one smiled wide. Of course, the one who didn’t smile was the one with
the empty seat.
“You poor thing!”
“That’s terrible. I’m Molly, this is Kelsey, and that’s Tess. Tess, scoot over so
she can sit!”
“Thank you,” I said, sliding in next to Tess.
The girls in the front, Molly and Kelsey, turned around. “Oh my gosh, not at all!
We’re sorry for you.”
“Yeah, that’s awful.”
“You’re so brave though.”
“Totally. I don’t even eat alone.” Molly giggled. “I would never, like ever, get
on a flight alone - and to a foreign country like Amsterdam!”
I resisted the urge to correct her, but Tess said under her breath, “Holland.”
Maybe we would get along, after all.
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“Tess, speak up. You always mumble! Anyway, we were just talking about our
friend, Eve - Evelyn - she bailed on us too! What a coincidence!”
“Wow,” I said. “Yeah.”
“Kelsey’s getting married next month,” and then Molly squealed and pulled
Kelsey’s hand toward me.
“Beautiful,” I said, and it was. A huge diamond that glittered under the small
reading lights of the plane. “Congratulations.”
“You can try it on if you want,” Molly continued.
“Oh, that’s okay.”
“We all have. It’s okay, really. Kels doesn’t mind. Let her try it on,” she said to
Kelsey, nudging her in the ribs.
“No, really, that’s okay. It’s probably bad luck.”
They froze. Tess shook her head and opened a mini bag of pretzels.
“They don’t need luck,” Molly said.
Kelsey shook her head.
“They have love”
“Of course. I didn’t mean—”
Molly took my left hand and put the ring on my finger.
It looked unnatural. My hands were dry, my nails short, jagged, unpainted.
“It fits perfectly,” Molly said. “Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe you’re next!”
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I smiled and gave the ring back to Kelsey. The two of them settled back into their
seats.
Tess smiled at me, knowingly. “That was fast,” she said.
“What was?” I was feeling so tired, and I was starting to think this whole white
lie/new friends thing was a mistake.
“You’re already one of us.”
We napped for ten minutes before getting shaken awake by the obnoxious
turbulence.
“So is this a bachelorette party for Kelsey?” I asked Tess.
“She didn’t want one. She’s very religious. But yeah, I guess it’s sort of like that.
Molly really wanted to plan something but Kelsey kept refusing because, you know,
people talk in small towns - we’re from Connecticut. And Kelsey is way prim and
proper, I’m sure you can tell. She’s a perfect lady, and she’ll be a perfect wife to Ralph.
But Molly thought, nonetheless, that she should still let loose and have fun one last time.
So here we are.”
I nodded.
“But since you asked me, I’ll tell you my take on the whole thing. I think this is
the last girls’ weekend we’ll really have. I know Kelsey says that she’ll still make time
for us and I believe her...” She was whispering softly so I leaned in closer. “But we’re
growing up and I doubt we’ll put our savings toward four nights in Holland again. So I
think this is our last chance to really enjoy each other’s company. After this, after the
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wedding, everything will shift the way everything must. We’ll have to redefine ourselves
because one of us chose official redefinition. I think that’s why Eve refused to come.
She doesn’t want to stop being the way we’ve been: carefree. Sure, shallow even. So
she’s not coming, not to the wedding either. Some people don’t want change. And when
the closest people around you change, your change is inevitable.”
I was nodding, but I didn’t know how to agree or comment without sounding
phony.
“I’m just rambling,” she said. “I’m slap happy from the lack of sleep. We’ve
been traveling for over twelve hours now.”
“No, I understand. And everything you said - it made a lot of sense.”
She nodded, took my hand and gave it a squeeze before closing her eyes and
leaning into the window for another short nap.
The flight from Florence to Amsterdam is just over two hours so none of us felt
well-rested when we landed. I was happy to not be alone this time, navigating a new
country yet again; but I was particularly grateful for Molly, who made us link hands and
weave through the airport and train station, which was in full flurry. She hailed a cab and
offered to pay for the fare to our hotel. I said that I had planned to stay a hostel, but she
said, “Nonsense.” And we drove on, toward downtown Amsterdam.
Our hotel was on one of the tree-lined canals, next to a bakery and away from the
brothels. Molly joked that her hardest job had been finding a place that didn’t advertise
the red light district “within walking distance.” The water was murkier than I expected,
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and it seemed like everyone biked to get around here. Hot dog vendors called out in
Dutch then in English, wheeling down the cobblestone street. Kelsey wanted something
sweet so we headed to the bakery.
As soon as we pushed the door open, smoke was everywhere. People sat at round
tables where only two chairs fit comfortably, and music beat above, staticky and with
more bass than lyrics. We all made eye contact and laughed, even Molly.
The first glass case contained trays of dark chocolate, milk chocolate, chocolate
chip, and white chocolate brownies, as well as sheet trays with various cookies on the
bottom shelf. The other five cases stored glass pipes and hookahs.
The girls were still in front of the first case. “Let’s get one of each!” Kelsey said,
the most enthusiastic I had seen her.
We took a table in a second room, a room with mirrors covering the walls. I
wandered. There was a backdoor where the redhead with dreadlocks who sold us the
brownies leaned into a much older man. I found the restrooms, where two very blonde
girls smoked and fixed their lip liner in the cleaner bathroom mirror. Two American
boys in varsity sweatshirts laughed as they rolled a marijuana cigarette, weed spilling out
from the paper. They looked up at me, eyes red and laughing. I pulled up a chair,
offered them a piece of my brownie.
I was straddling the chair, leaning into the smoke. If I could have been removed
from this moment, would I recognize myself?
“Where you from?” the guy in the blue sweatshirt said, inhaling.
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“Can I have a hit?” I asked and they both nodded.
“Here she is!” Molly said, leading the other girls. The cigarette was in my hand,
and I didn’t know them well enough to know if they would be put off by the scene. I
smoked anyway.
“What about us?” Kelsey said. “I’m getting married!”
The guys applauded. Molly pulled chairs around the little table, the skids of the
chair legs louder than usual. I turned my chair and sat normally. Everything turned hazy
and swollen, the conversations moving so fast I barely contributed. Molly bought more
marijuana, the boys taught Kelsey how to roll a joint with a twenty dollar bill and we
smoked from it, watching the money singe.
“Fuck America,” Kelsey said.
Gray sweatshirt boy had pulled out a bottle wrapped in a paper bag at some point
and we were all drinking from it. It’s a slushy pit of a memory, where sentences floated
around and laughter was a constant, Domino-effect-style: Kelsey began and soon we
were all laughing. Once we had tried all the brownie flavors, we couldn’t fathom starting
on the cookies. The woman who sold us the goodies came over, and I couldn’t focus on
her face without blinking then opening my eyes fast and wide to hold her steady.
From her tone I could tell she was mad. Among other things, she was saying we
couldn’t drink here. She pointed to a sign that said No Outside Goods, which seemed so
funny. Blue sweatshirt tried to argue. “It was bottled indoors!” he said.
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When we stumbled outside, heat came up from the tar sidewalk and we waved
around in the sunlight, our bodies like the smoke spirits we created inside.
“I need to sleep this off,” Molly said, scratching her head.
“I want to go to the Van Gogh museum,” Kelsey said.
Molly knew we needed her to lead so she bought a Coke and hot dog from a
vendor and opened her eyes wide. “Okay,” she said. “This way.”
I walk pretty slow in general, but I fell way back to watch them sway ahead.
They looked like mirages, like heat waves on a street in the summertime. I smiled at the
fact that I was following them. Didn’t I define myself as a leader? I thought of what
Tess said, about redefinition. For too long, I told myself I was too busy to redefine
anything. But that didn’t mean that nothing was being redefined. I just was inactive as
those definitions formed. I was pushing ahead, running away. I still am, yes. But as I
look ahead, I’m content with where I am.
Strangers make us see ourselves better. They ask who you are, where you’re
from, what you’re doing, and it’s not like when your family asks, because strangers
purely want to know. And all these people, these sweatshirt dudes and East Coast gals, I
barely know them; yet, because of that, because they’re strangers and none of us has any
expectations for each other, we are telling secrets along these canal walks. We are
answering these questions of identity honestly, and we frown together when one of us
admits that we’re not happy, that we can’t figure out why. Suddenly, I realize that I’m
saying all of this out loud. They’re all huddled around me as we walk, Tess is rubbing
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my back, and oh god, I’m crying! The sweatshirt guys are nodding, nodding like they get
it all, but I don’t even know exactly what I’ve said.
I wake up, and it must be hours later because it’s turning dark, and we’re all
holding hands, dozing in the grass. I sit up and look at these faces. It’s true that you
quickly get close to people you travel with. Tess sits up too, yawns and stretches. She
has yellow-stained armpits and yet she’s still as beautiful as she was on the plane. I
giggle and wrap my arms around her. “I’m glad I met you,” I said.
“You too,” she said. “Best trip ever.”
These sentiments, these sayings, “Best trip ever,” or “Best friends forever,”
maybe we know they’re meaningless, but we say them and we’re happy when we say
them. There’s such hope packed into these sayings.
Molly sat up too and patted her head. “Let’s go to the hotel. Why are we
sleeping in the grass? Let’s go back and shower and get ready for dinner.”
Kelsey, whose cheek was still smooshed against the grass, said quietly, “No
shower. Just dinner.”
We all laughed and pulled her up from the grass.
The boys rolled over and kept sleeping. Boys always need more sleep than girls.
They could sleep their lives away. My philosophy is that men are just little boys. They
need lots of rest, big meals, and endless affection. If you’re willing to give this, you’ll
have a faithful man at your side. We decided we didn’t want or need that, so we left
them sleeping. We were still barefoot, skipping down the street.
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“Slow down,” Kelsey said. “Can’t we slow down?”
“Listen to the bride!” Molly said, and we slowed to walk.
We never made it to Molly’s reservation downtown. Instead, we found a pub
along the canal and ordered cheeseburgers and fries and ate in silence.
Kelsey looked refreshed and she smiled mischievously at Molly. I couldn’t yet
understand their codes, but I was intrigued nonetheless.
“No,” Molly said, shaking her head. “No way.”
“Listen to the bride!” Tess said, mimicking Molly.
“Very funny,” Molly said. Then to Kelsey: “You’re getting m a r r i e d She
whispered this last part like it was a punishment, and I laughed at how ridiculous it
sounded.
Kelsey was at Molly’s side, tugging at her arm. “Come on, Mol! We’re young.
Let me be young and dumb sometimes. Let down your hair a little.”
Molly bit her bottom lip.
“Care to fill me in?” I asked Tess.
“Fine,” Molly said. “Whatever the bride wants.”
Kelsey turned to me, bouncing up and down. “We’re going to the red light
district!”
The walk was long, but Kelsey insisted we walk so we don’t miss a thing. When
we finally reached the windows, the women couldn’t care less about us. In corset and
see-through panties, they checked their iPhones with bored faces. They were waiting for
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paying clients and I guess we didn’t look like potential buyers. That, and it was only
9:30. Above us, in the second floor windows, however, the girls were more attentive,
dancing lightly and turning in circles like fragile ballerinas. Men stood next to the
buildings, clicking on Blackberries without looking up. Kelsey loved it. She looked up
and waved, got close to the glass windows on the ground level. “They’re so beautiful,”
she said. “Look at their perfect bodies!”
They were beautiful. Dutch women, Russians, Hungarians, Czech women,
Portuguese, and on the list goes. They were all so unique. Their features, to us, were
interesting because they were exotic, features unlike our wholesome American faces and
average builds. But after a block and a half of these half-nude, distracted women, Kelsey
grew frustrated. “I thought they’d be naked, and they seem unhappy.”
Green lights gleamed in the water from a bar across the canal. This bar had large
windows like the shop windows in front of us. I immediately loved the contrast of the
red and green lights cutting into each other in the water, and I smiled and nodded toward
the bar. “Let’s go there.”
Molly and Tess looked at each other, confused.
But Kelsey shrugged. “Okay!”
There was only one vacant table, in the back. We set down our belongings, and I
told the girls to have a seat and relax. I went to the bar and ordered four double shots of
tequila. I saw a bright blue cocktail and ordered four of those, as well. Thanks again to
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my credit card, I paid for the drinks. It was the least I could do - Molly had paid for
everything, including the hotel.
“I don’t take shots,” Molly protested.
“Molly hates shots,” Kelsey said.
“Tonight, you take shots,” I said and I handed the tequila to Molly. She rolled her
eyes, but she also shrugged. I could tell she was curious.
“To love,” I said and raised my glass toward Kelsey.
“Fuck that!” she said. “To us! To Amsterdam! To freedom!”
We laughed, spilling our shots, and we drank. Soon, I untwisted my scarf and
wrapped it around Kelsey’s neck, pulling her up from the table and dancing with her.
Tess got up too and we danced around her. A long counter cut into the center of the bar
where people leaned, rested, set their drinks down. I became overwhelmed with a desire
to make this night more memorable.
“Screw the red light district,” I said over more shots. “Welcome to the green light
district!” And I drank down the rest of my blue cocktail and ran away from the table. I
heard the girls hooting behind me. I went toward the entrance, pulled a barstool up to
that long counter, climbed up, and began dancing on the counter. I kicked someone’s
drink and they swore at me, but I moved down the counter, dipping and swirling to the
music.
Molly spotted me first, a hand clapped over her mouth. They all watched then,
laughing and pointing. Kelsey hollered at me.
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I pointed at her, making my way down the length of the bartop. I was so caught
up with my adrenaline, I ran into the chandelier and almost got knocked down, but I
steadied myself. I felt someone reach up my dress and I slapped my hand down. Men
and women below me had money in their hands. They were waving and whistling.
When that song was over, the bartender selected an American tune: “Pour Some Sugar
on Me.” I went down on my knees and leaned back, grabbing random people’s hands
and pouring their drinks all over me. Kelsey was at my side, brushing the skirt of my
dress down, laughing all the while.
“Get up here!” I said.
“I can’t!” Her smile was huge.
“Get up!” And with that, some people brought over a barstool so she could join
me. We danced up there on that counter in the middle of a bar in Amsterdam, bathed in
green light. That smile never left her face. She laughed so hard that tears were in the
comers of her eyes. We kept pushing the chandelier away, for it shook and swayed due
to the too loud music.
We limped on our walk home and rubbed our ears. The world’s noises echoed,
far away and numb, and we laughed in our state of stupor. Kelsey and I were in the front,
leading with no idea of where we were going, and Molly and Tess were behind, giggling
and telling stories that I couldn’t hear completely. Something about two men than hit on
them while we were dancing. Molly said that a man was dressed like Elvis and asked her
Ill
to marry him, but then she broke out into such deep laughter that she never finished the
story.
Somehow, we found the hotel. Someone had the hotel key, and we found our
room. All these details seemed like miniature miracles and we gawked at our every step
to sleep. They collapsed on the king size bed, limbs sprawled and hair splayed.
There wasn’t room on the bed for me. That was fine. There was a loveseat that
would have been comfortable enough. And I hadn’t expected much. I had a good back; I
could easily sleep on the ground without any pain in the morning.
Instead, I went to the bathroom, undressed, started the shower, and stood under
the hot water. How different would my trip have been if I had come alone and stayed
alone? I never would have wandered into that bakery/smoke shop. I wouldn’t have
straddled a chair and shared booze and weed with random guys in sweatshirts. I latched
onto these three friends because I knew they were a safety net. I knew they wouldn’t let
me stumble, fall, and wake up alone and lonely. I had taken advantage of them. I had
wanted to explore aspects of myself, and I used them to find those pieces of myself. I
was showing off, in a sense. “Welcome to the green light district.” I had said that. We
all had a good time, that’s true, but I wasn’t being myself. I was being an amplified,
accelerated, exaggerated version of myself. My favorite version of myself. These
women, they bared themselves to me, and all I gave them was a couple of laughs and a
few shots of tequila. I soaped my body with the hotel soap bar, but I felt the film of
shame. It was time to go. Everything was so good right now. It was such a great night.
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“Perfect.” Kelsey had called it a “perfect” first night in Amsterdam. I didn’t want them
to see who I really was, who I was when the lights dimmed, when the music stopped. I
didn’t want to know who I was yet. I didn’t want to corrupt their Amsterdam experience
by delving into my soul searching. I toweled off and dressed. I kissed each of them on
the forehead and slipped out of the hotel room. I didn’t leave a note; I hadn’t given them
my phone number or email. I was just a girl with a first name who they met on a plane. I
would be an anecdote at Kelsey’s wedding in a month. I would be a memory years later.
But for now, even to myself, I was just a girl with a first name who knew how to have fun
and make people laugh. And I was disgusted with myself.
When there’s nowhere to run, no place to go, you have to make a home within
yourself. At the risk of sounding too new-agey, I think it’s necessary to burrow deep
inside and discover who you are when you’re alone, truly alone, with nowhere in sight to
call home.
When I got back to Florence, I felt relieved. I had exhausted myself in
Amsterdam. I welcomed the familiarity of the Florentine skyline - the cold stone
architecture, the same violinist in front of the Uffizi. I smiled as I strolled around this
city that I knew better than I realized. It felt, if not like home, like a place I lived. I
reflected on my grumpiness, how I wasn’t pleased with my roommates. What a waste of
time and energy! So what if they weren’t perfect? I resolved to get to know them better,
imperfections and all. Perhaps we had just gotten off on the wrongfoot. It was
unfortunate that there was so much endless competition between women. And yes, it
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exists between men too, but women are already at a disadvantage, having to fight for
equal gender rights. I wanted us all to smooth over our differences and accept and
support each other, and I needed to start at home.
The day of my return from Amsterdam, I knocked on the closed bedroom door
where all my roommates stayed.
They all lounged together on the bed, looking utterly beautiful and bored, like
they belonged in one of the religious paintings at the Uffizi.
“What are you doing for dinner tonight?” I asked, trying to stay optimistic, trying
to remind myself that women needed to stick together.
They seemed shocked by the question.
Lindsey crossed her arms. “Why?”
I chewed my bottom lip. This wasn’t the time to go into a speech about feminism,
about how the true fight for gender equality begins like this, in rooms like these, and how
it was up tot us - us! - to get along for the sake of women everywhere.
“I’d just love it if we all cooked together,” I said. We had this large kitchen with
bright yellow walls, but it was always dark and empty in the evenings. All the pots and
pans we would need were already stacked for us in the cupboards. “It would be fun.”
“Fun,” Lindsey said, and I thought for sure she was going to refuse for the group.
“Well, okay,” she said.
“You’re making the main dish though,” Michelle said.
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“Actually,” I said, sounding bitchier than I intended, “I was thinking we could all
make a dish that’s common from where we come from, since we’re all from different
places in the US.” Even Lindsey smiled at this.
Michelle was still skeptical. “I’m not sure I can find all the ingredients here. My
family’s not Italian.”
“We can tiy,” Lindsey said. “We can improvise. It will be fun.”
I nodded.
“I was totally going to suggest something like that soon,” Michelle said.
“I’ve been pretty homesick,” Lindsey continued as though Michelle hadn’t
spoken.
“So see you tonight then?”
They nodded.
“See you,” Lindsey said.
I watched as Lindsey turned and walked back behind that door. She had popular
girl hair, hair I never had, not even at the salon. Smooth, long, naturally dark brown and
shiny. Even during a rainstorm, not one frizzy strand. It was the kind of brunette I had
wanted to be so long ago, before I realized how delicious it could be to be me.
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Chapter 8
In the morning, I opened my new guidebook and tracked down the “best
pizzeria.” It was across the bridge, two blocks from the Amo, near Piazza di Santo
Spirito, a ten or fifteen minute walk from the house. I hadn’t been to this piazza before,
and it was quickly becoming my favorite. Expatriates sat in a cafe, poring over Dante
texts and translating, their Italian overly accented. The pizzeria, Gusta Pizza, had three
large tables - simple wood slabs on top of fat kegs. People sat together, whether friends
or strangers. You don’t order a slice or two of pizza in Italy and there aren’t really
“sizes” of pizzas to choose from. I got the pesto pizza, and it was divine. I’m not
religious, but this was as close to a religious experience as I’ve come. Thin but still soft
and doughy crust, crisp on the edges with olive oil drizzle and fresh basil-garlic pesto
over huge clumps of buffalo mozzarella. I ate on the steps of the basilica. Like I said:
divine.
The children had just gotten out of school for the afternoon and they were
galloping around the square. Six boys were playing a game of soccer, three against three,
and they were so serious, never laughing. They kicked the ball with fervor and ambition,
faces frozen and eyes focused. They cursed when they hit the ball too lightly and fell to
their knees when they missed the ball entirely. Nuns were talking near the church
entrance, a hand over their mouths as they laughed at something the priest said. The
steeples of the church seemed to pierce the bright blue autumn sky.
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After I finished the entire pesto pizza pie, I went back into Gusta and asked the
cashier where I would find the worst pizza.
“Everywhere else,” he said with a smirk. “But truthfully, do not go to the
Yellow.”
“Yellow? Why not?”
“Touristy, brightly lit, stinky like meat.”
“And the pizza?” I asked.
He shrugged, circled his hands at his sides. “Pizza is okay. But do not go there.
Stinky,” he said.
I happen to like the smell of meat, and I thought it was too cliche to only sample
the “best” pizza place. So, for dinner, I wandered over to Yellow, which was a block
from the Duomo, the reason for all the tourism, and it was much closer to our place. It
did smell salty, which I suppose could be from meat, but the dining area was stunning in
comparison to Gusta. Gusta was simplistic; we could call it rural or rustic. But Yellow
was like an American pizza house, and I felt immediately at ease by the structure, the
laminated menus near the register where you ordered and paid and then you took a seat in
one of the plush booth seats.
Because I’d been warned of their meats, I thought I should try one or two since I
was on the hunt for the “worst.” I ordered the margherita pizza - just tomato, basil, and
mozzarella - with prosciutto.
“Crudo or cotto?” the elderly man asked.
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I didn’t know. He disappeared and returned with slices of thin meat hanging from
his bare fingers. They were slimy in my hands. I tried the darker piece first. It was very
salty, too savory, with white gashes of fat lining it. Too fleshy for me.
I tried the lighter pink one. This was like the freshest, thinly shaved ham I’d ever
tried. My eyes lit up and the man took pride, pulling his jacket lapels closer and leaning
toward me. “My wife’s favorite too,” he said and completed my order. “Allora, con
prosciutto cotto. Due minuti,” he said, smiling.
It feels wrong to compare these pizzas. I’m not a big Yelper, and it’s good
because you can’t compare a pesto pizza to a prosciutto cotto pizza. I’d have to have the
pesto in both pizzerias, which is impossible because Yellow doesn’t even have pesto
pizza. As for meats at Gusta, only sausage is offered. I like to think it’s all on purpose,
to create harmony in this medieval city. I imagine the cashier at Gusta eats at Yellow on
dates in the city, and the owner of Yellow picks up a pizza to-go from Gusta sometimes
and takes it home for he and his wife to share. Everyone needs change. But who can
know these things? I’m happy enough with my fantasies about these two pizzerias, these
two men, and I know I’ll be frequenting both.
One day, reality struck: my credit cards were maxed out, my savings was gone,
and my checking account had just been charged an overdraft fee. I had been getting my
morning espresso at Mamma Mia’s near Lion’s Fountain pub. They knew my face if not
my name, and they were accustomed to seeing American brats since the area was
touristy. No one seemed to mind, as we usually generated great business. Well, that had
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changed for this American. After they swiped my card four times, I went into grotesque,
unsolicited detail about my middle class parents, my limited means, my fear since
childhood of living on the streets. Then, my sob story began to be a plea for a job. “My
first job, the first one I ever had - and I’ve had a lot over the years - but my first one,
believe it or not, was at a bakery! I can bake your bread to a nice golden color.
Sandwiches? Sure! Maybe I could even help with the cakes and sweets, with time,
yes...” So I ramble when I get nervous. Who doesn’t? The problem is I was rambling in
English.
The two men at the cash register frowned at me.
I put a hand up, thanked them and apologized for nothing in particular, just
generally, and I walked outside. The older gentleman followed me, but said nothing. He
hesitated, and I knew he was calculating; we both knew my Italian wasn’t strong enough
for the locals not to criticize.
“Okay, okay,” he finally said, his hand attached to the back of his thick neck. He
introduced himself as Guiseppe, the owner. “You can sell the ciabatta outside.” It was
drizzling, but I didn’t argue. I could stand near the doorway.
“Ciabatta!” I said, bringing my hands together which made an obnoxious clap.
“Sorry about that,” I said, moving inside to get a cloth potato sack and fill it with the
wide loaves. Then I stood near the door, calling, “Ciabatta, ciabatta! Vieni qui - ciabatta
qui!”
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Guiseppe grabbed my upper arm, hard, and pulled me inside. “What are you
doing on Earth?” he hissed.
I quickly rearranged his words to understand his meaning as, “What on Earth are
you doing?” I smiled at the unusual phrase. I bowed. “I am your proudest employee!” I
said, a big smile on my face. “I really can’t tell you how grateful I a m -”
“Stai zitta,” he said. Then more softly, “Per favore.” He cleared his throat and let
go of me. “Say nothing. The bread it speaks for itself. Let them smell. Let them want.
Don’t offer it up to them like some whore on the street. And I don’t want you to sell
here. I sell bread here. Take the sack to a chiesa.”
“Chiesa? Which one?” I looked outside. “It’s really starting to come down,
signore.”
Newly dressed in a black trash bag with a hole cut out for my head, I stood in the
drizzle, the day disappearing and night falling fast. Most people walked hunched over
and waddled close to the buildings to stay dry. One couple walked close together,
huddled under an umbrella, and they walked straight through the piazza, not bothering to
seek shelter from the surrounding buildings. As they got closer, I became aware of only
one extremely bright detail: they wore matching green rain boots. They were both
holding the umbrella, hands brushing, and they whispered to each other as they strolled. I
watched others watching them. A young woman, her purse clutched to her chest, she
watched them, a sloppy smile on her face and her eyes, moist and hopeful. Even the men
passing in a hurry with briefcases glanced in approval, nodding. I noted how they rarely
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looked away from each other’s eyes. Now, I won’t focus on the physical danger of
walking like this - on slick streets, no less! But how are so many so blind to the problem
of loving someone too deeply that you lose your sense of self? Two pairs of green boots?
Come on. They’re not even hunter or forest green, but lime. Don’t tell me they both
chose those bad boys by coincidence. And what about their dynamic? The shift in
power? Are they trying to show us that they have mutual power by sharing the hefty
carry of an umbrella? You know what I see: no one’s got power in that relationship.
How could they? I bet they never choose a restaurant because they’re too polite to each
other. I bet they take lots of walks, walks just like this, convinced they’re in love - but
don’t they see? They’re losing their true selves by loving so carelessly. Someone should
tell them. You know, that salesperson really should’ve intervened when they chose those
boots together!
They’ve stopped walking and they’re both just smiling at me when I look over.
We make that awkward eye contact and then they grin at each other and start
walking.. .toward me!
“Scusa,” the man says. “Excuse me?” he tries again, and I detect a British accent.
The girl giggles every time he speaks. You’d think she’d get over the accent if they’re
onto matching footwear.
They pick up their pace, and I’m cornered, a bookstore at my back.
He flashes me a five euro bill. “Two loaves, please,” he says, a big smile as he
looks from me to her.
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“I just love ciabatta,” the girl says, a giggle still in her throat.
I shake my head decisively. “It’s not for sale,” I yell, much louder and more
dramatic than I expected, but someone’s got to stop these two. I run to another chiesa
and plant myself in the center of the piazza. I just want them - everyone - to see the
importance of remaining true to yourself, even when in love.
All my American friends are doing the trendy open-relationship thing. One is
even in an open marriage. The newlyweds have puffy, blue couches where they welcome
strangers to sleep over. The couches remind me of bruised, tired eyes, but they are
comfy. They’re both bisexual so they prowl and attack together. Rarely they hear
complaints. Most of my friends haven’t taken it so far, and they still swear that they’ll
settle down when they’re married. It’s funny to watch people squirm over their emotions,
confessing their need for extracurricular love like it’s the darkest sin of this bloody,
soiled earth. I don’t get it. Everyone’s asking for permission to sleep around, everyone
is being so - what’s the word? - honest. Where’s the fun in that? Cheating is so thrilling
because it’s cheating.
I’ve had many lovers. I use the word “lovers” because I believe there was always
love there, somewhere, if only for one sweaty moment. I didn’t tell them about the
others, just about me. I talked and talked so I had a better idea of who I was. My
relations then were never about the other person, just me. Maybe all my relationships
have been solely about me. Anyway, they didn’t have to say a word, not really, though
they always tried, slipping in some tidbit of criticism or suggestion. I told them all that I
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was hungry, hungry like a hound. I ripped off my shirt, said I was an animal, a dirty
mammal with heat coursing through me, and then they just sat back, nodding.
The key is to choose a common name. Consult a book of popular boy names
from the ‘90s and 2000s. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good Jerome as much as the next
gal, but how many Jeromes do you know? When it comes to cheating well, keep it
simple: John, Matt, Nick, Mike, Chris, maybe Josh. When I met my first Matt, I shook
his hand firmly and smiled into his eyes. “Nice name,” I said. Then I collected two
more. They were dispersed nicely: one at school, one at work, one who lived in the next
town.
Matt C. from school was my favorite. We drank excessively together, called
ourselves artists. I had just gotten a camera the Christmas before, a nice Canon that I was
afraid to break. He read Hemingway and spoke in short, declarative witticisms, quoting
For Whom the Bell Tolls and The Sun Also Rises in the same sentences. It would have
been unbearable without all the booze. This was in Florida, where I lived in an apartment
with a window in every wall. It had seemed like a great idea, I could almost see the
beach if I stood on my tiptoes in the living room; but the heat poured in and sunk into the
carpeting. I was taking a philosophy and art history class at the community college in
downtown St. Petersburg, a fifiteen-minute drive. I worked at a restaurant on the water
called Bistro. The customers were out-of-towners and they liked my Midwest accent,
made them feel at home. Even though they tipped well, I couldn’t afford to run air
conditioning. It was my first time living alone. The cheap paint on the kitchen
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cupboards curled up. The door stuck to its frame so I had to kick it open every night I
came home from work. My defense was my nudity. I studied, cooked, ate, cleaned,
painted my toenails, and slept naked because there was no other choice.
When Matt C. wanted to visit me at work, I told Matt J. he should call out of
work, play hooky, do something fun for once. Over the phone, I couldn’t tell how he was
reacting until he said, after a long pause, “Okay!” Poor, stupid Matt J. He might have
been the cutest: sun-bleached hair, always stinking like sea-salt, Corona-burps, black
bare feet unless he was at work. His living room had only a short- and long-board in it,
some wax on the coffee table, sand in all the tile cracks. He was an enthusiastic lover.
After sex, he always said that he was the luckiest man on the whole beach.
So, Matt C. was at a high-top table near the window and I made my rounds then
came over to him. He put his arm around me and kissed my forehead.
“Busy,” I said. “I should get back to the floor.”
‘“I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast,”’ he said, smiling.
I heard Matt J.’s loud laugh behind me. Sure enough, he was at the host stand,
flirting with the too-young hostess who was too hot for him. He saw me, gave me one of
those crazy waves you only see at airports. He said a last word to the hostess and made
his way to the high-top table.
“Hey, man!” Matt J. said, putting out his hand. I backed away from them both,
chewing my nails. The restaurant’s pet parrot squawked behind me. I glared at the
parrot.
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“Howdy.” Matt C. looked to me. “I’m Matt.”
“No shit!” Matt J. looked at me too, laughing harder.
They shook their heads, exchanging what-are-the-chances and uncomfortable
laughs. “So, you two work together or something?” Matt C. asked, relaxing his
shoulders.
“Or something!” Matt J. winked at me then he leaned and whispered to Matt C.:
“Honestly, I think I’m falling in love with the girl.”
Matt C. nearly fell off his stool. He stood, clumsy, shaking with anger. “Who the
hell do you think you are, talking about my girl like that? Don’t be disrespectin’ her,
man! Not in front of me.”
“Your girl?” Matt J. was laughing too much. His body began shaking with his
laughter. “Your girl?” He inched away from the both of us, back to the door.
“Matt,” I said.
They both turned, such desperation and confusion in their eyes. They waited for
me to say something more.
A guy at one of my tables lifted his empty pitcher of Yuengling and slammed it
on the table. I held up my pointer finger to him.
I shrugged, put my head down. I know I should have apologized, but I couldn’t.
I wasn’t sorry. I had enjoyed it. In fact, I had loved it. They must’ve known, on some
level. All those nights I was unavailable to the other Matt. I called my meetings with the
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other Matts dates, and they didn’t question it. They assumed I was going out with my
girlfriends or something; they told me to have fun, sending me off with a kiss.
Next, I tried three Nicks, which lasted longer because I was more prepared and
seasoned from the Matts. One Nick was a study-abroad student from London. When he
went back to England, we did the sad airport thing and talked and masturbated over
Skype. I guess you could say we tried the long-distance relationship but, as always, it
wasn’t enough. London Nick with his accent and abs needed a worthy replacement. I
had transferred to the university in Tampa and moved out of the smoldering, no AC
apartment to live in the dorms. I stepped into my flipflops like they were slippers and set
out to walk the campus. Night had fallen, but the air was still humid and the breezes felt
like blasts of warm air from a car heater. Bright bulb lights shone over the long soccer
field. I walked near the net, stood behind the chalked line in the thick grass. There
wasn’t a coach, but the teams were divided by red and yellow net shirts over their black
shirts and shorts. The players yelled at each other, calling out foreign plays, cursing at
teammates. Girls played too. I had a strange pull to go for a run, to be more athletic, but
that passed fast. I jogged sometimes, but I was more of a walker than anything, and so
far, I was lucky and proportioned. Must be all that sex. I should make commercials for
healthy sex lives, milk-mustached with bed head.
One of the players, a tall guy with a goofy ‘fro of hair, came running toward me,
well, the goal. It was like at a concert, how you would swear that the singer most
definitely looks at you while singing the refrain. I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.
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His mouth was open as he ran, juggling the ball back and forth easily. His left leg went
back then his left foot came forward, fast, connecting with the ball and sending it flying
into the air. It seemed to be coming straight for me, but I was right near the goal, after
all. The ball spun straight ahead, and then I knew I had been right. It was coming for
me. I froze, watching the ball zoom closer to me. I put my hands out and caught it just
as it hit my stomach. I gasped. It momentarily took my breath from me and I thought I
might choke, but I just stood there, the ball in my hands against my stomach, mouth open,
trying to catch my breath. I looked across the field. Now he smiled.
Meet Nate. Starts with N, four letters long. Close enough to Nick. Anyway, it
didn’t matter. His name could’ve been Randall and I still would’ve liked him. Liked him
so much I was willing to bend my rules for him. Nate was Australian so he filled the
accent quota gap. The team was such a community, and I’ll admit that I had fun at the
games with the other girlfriends. Nate was safe because we were either in my dorm
room, his dorm room, or campus. If we went out for dinner, we ate on campus. But even
with two Nicks and a Nate, I wasn’t happy. I was satisfied most days, content some days,
but never happy. I needed more, and I was starting to see that adding another Nick
wasn’t the answer.
No one I know seems to have answers though. No one seems to know what’s
best. I looked up to my parents, hoping to glean some insight into love, into successful
relationships, but they didn’t know. Everyone just forges ahead.
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My parents’ divorce was quiet. No yelling or arguing, no name-calling or tomatothrowing. I sat on the steps of our back deck while Dad was a perfect gentleman and
helped Mom load the U-Haul. I had just turned eleven, and we were leaving in the
middle of a school year, going back up north to Wisconsin. My Dad came around the
side of the house.
“Here you are, pumpkin,” he said.
I willed myself to memorize how he spoke, the infancy, the beauty of his speech.
Where else would I be? I squinted into the sun, pretending I was crying because it was
too bright, too hot, too much.
He sat next to me, but he didn’t touch me. He looked straight ahead at the canal.
The water wasn’t murky no matter how I wished it were. It was a beautiful day. “It’s not
like you’re never going to see me again, kiddo,” he said softly.
Across the canal, banana leaves shed into the yard and in the water, floating like
small boats. I wished I could hop on a leaf and ride it down the waterway, away. Let
them figure out this mess alone. Pretend the U-Haul is just a game of Tetris, and now we
can reverse the moves.
“Ready?” my mom said, coming out back too. I didn’t answer.
My father went to say something, but his throat caught so he cleared his throat
instead, pushed up on his knees to stand. The palm trees in our yard— I blinked through
my tears, trying to scan this backyard. Overhead, palms shuffling against the wind, the
howling cicadas all around, the palmettos scurrying in the shadows we made; it was all a
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photograph I couldn’t take. My dad reached out his hand to help me up. Palms, cicadas,
palmettos, canal, my Dad’s hand, warm, familiar. Here I am again, back at the beginning
of their end, unable to escape. It comes back in flashes, in fragments. I can’t blot out the
moments before we left, or the moment we left, and I can’t remember it clearly either.
Blue. That false blue from the bright painted tiles under the water. It’s just a
couple of days before we leave. We’re at the pool where we used to live, where I met
Darcy. The uncanny blue of that pool surrounded by cement that looked cold but wasn’t,
and the pool bottom, concrete too.
My mother calling, soft, from the iron gate. “Codi? Will you come here?”
“The sun’s almost down, and I’m wearing sunscreen.”
I couldn’t see her, just heard her voice, which was soft that day. My first sign that
something was happening.
I dove under the water, the blue paler at eye level. My eyes stung; I pinched my
nostrils with two fingers. The sun moves, rolls down the sky slowly until half of the pool
is shaded. The shape of the towering apartments cast down on the pool, and I destroy the
image by swimming through it. The water feels cooler.
Fingers pruned, I swim to the shallow end, sit on the steps. She enters so slow,
too slow, pushing the gate like it’s a heavy wood door. It slams behind her.
Splotches of the sun scattered across the yard, yellowing the grass and leaves.
The sun will set soon, but it’s still sticky and humid.
I’m ten, turning eleven next month.
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She walks like she’s ashamed, her back beginning to curl, and I want to go to her.
But I don’t. I just move up higher on the underwater steps so she can sit next to me.
She doesn’t sit next to me.
She sits on the ledge, toeing the water. We sit until the lawn is dark and the pool
lights come on. The porch light illuminates her face and she startles. She looks toward
me but not at me. She pulls her legs up, curls them around her. It’s still just as warm as
when the sun was out, but her arms are all covered in goosebumps.
“Is everything-” I pull my legs up like hers. “Are you all right?”
She doesn’t move. She stares at a concrete slab around the pool.
Buzzing comes from the tops of the palms. In the brush behind us, the tree frogs
sing.
“Do you want to swim?” I ask.
Now the water was warmer than the air. I went under and felt my face crumble. I
swam to the deep end, coming up for one loud gasp of air, then burrowed my face
underwater again. I grabbed the lip of the pool edge. “6 FT” was marked next to me; I
moved my hand and churned the water. Even the tile was warm. Shouldn’t it be cooler
than the air? At least the tile.
My mother’s shoulders and head poked out of the water at the other end, an island
with a symmetrical mountain. She faced the umbrellaed table and chairs, her arms over
the edge, crossed under her chin. I swam to her the way I had wanted to walk to her.
Next to her, but she still won’t meet my eyes.
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She sunk under the water, bubbles came up fast, then she kicked off the wall. I
didn’t know what to do so I followed. We swam to the end, turned, swam back, doggypaddling with our heads underwater. She turned and kicked her feet high, the backs of
her feet slapping the water’s surface. The water splashed up, spraying the lawn, the
umbrella and chairs. I kicked too, a fountain of water sprouting behind us. She looked
ahead and almost smiled. She dunked her head under, her feet still slapping at the water.
After a couple more laps, I walked up the three steps behind her out of the pool.
Our breaths jagged, we wrapped ourselves in damp colorful Disney towels. She finally
looked at me.
“Your eyes are all red,” she said.
“Yours too.”
She looked away. “The chlorine. We shouldn’t open our eyes so much.”
Everything was still - no breeze in the trees, no ripples in the water - just the
pulse of the insects’ calls.
Three days later and we will be in a U-Haul without my father. I will try to jump
out at a red light in Jacksonville. I won’t stop crying until Tennessee.
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Chapter 9
It was my eighth grade boyfriend, Alan Shanahan, who first made me consider
marriage. There’s this cemetery on the outskirts of Jefferson. I used to jog there in early
winter, when the snot froze in my nose and all the wetness in my eyes dried. At the
cemetery, there were plots closer to each other than others - Mr. and Mrs. Tullman, Mr.
and Mrs. Schroeder. I was dating Alan at the time, and I couldn’t help picturing Mr. and
Mrs. Shanahan. I hated the idea so much, the idea of lying in eternity with Alan
Shanahan.
He was your typical thirteen-year-old, sticking his tongue back to reach my
tonsils, inviting me over for good ole homemade Hamburger Helper and a night of video
games. I would have cried among those cement plots. I would have. But I could barely
produce sweat, let alone tears. And even if they came, my cheeks and nose would be
even more chapped than now and then it hit me: if I can’t cry over future-dead Alan, and
I know I definitely couldn’t marry him, I knew too that it was simply unfair to sit across
from him and pretend that the too-salty hamburger pasta was edible. So I stood tall, took
deep breaths, and sprinted to Alan’s house to break up with him.
His mother answered the door. “Codi, hi, honey. Come on in!”
“I’d really rather not, Mrs. Shanahan.”
“But it’s freezing out!”
“Yes, I know, but I’m here to break up with your son and I think it’s best to do it
out here.”
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A gust of snowy wind began and she stepped back into the house.
“Oh,” she said, smiling. “Where are you taking him?”
I shook my head.
“How nice of you to pick him up for a change.”
“No, no, I’m not picking him up - I’m breaking up with him!”
Alan had appeared just in time to hear me yelling over the howling wind.
Now the wind ceased and there was silence.
Mrs. Shanahan glared at me and put a hand on Alan’s shoulder as she turned to
descend down the hall.
Alan moved closer to the door, but he didn’t come outside. He didn’t have a coat
or sweater on, only a thin, long-sleeved shirt. He crossed his arms. “How nice of you to
stop by,” he said, sarcastic.
“I just can’t see myself marrying you,” I whispered.
“Marriage?” He laughed. “Who said anything about marriage?”
“I know this is hard to hear..
He hadn’t stopped laughing. “I don’t want to marry you either.” He wiped the
little tears from the comers of his eyes - tears of delight, it seemed! Of pleasure! “It’s all
good, trust me. Well, now that that’s settled,” he said, “Do you want to come in and play
Nintendo or what?”
I wanted nothing less. “Alan, it’s over,” I said and turned to leave.
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“Because you can’t see yourself being my future wife?” He was hysterical again.
His mom had reappeared and they laughed together in the threshold.
I was at the end of the driveway. Alan shook his head at me a last time then
slammed the door closed.
There are many times in my life when I’ve known that I didn’t fit in or that I
looked at life differently. This was one of those times, one of the first times, actually.
And I jogged home, hurt and confused, because I had thought I had the upper hand. I
wish I could jog next to my younger self and smile, say, “Let them laugh. You won
because they don’t have you.” And younger me, sniffling, would smile back. But I ache
for her, even from afar, because I know that tomorrow morning will come, and middle
school is a harsh world. I thought (and I still think) that I made a clear point, that I
voiced what others felt. I expected Alan to recover, slink into himself for a while maybe,
but come out unscarred, for at least I didn’t stay in a relationship with someone I didn’t
want to be with forever.
I was wrong. Alan recovered fast, fast enough to collect enemies against me.
Preteens ridiculed me. Pimply boys got on their knees in the hallway, holding Ring Pops
in the air, laughing through fake proposals. The girls crossed their arms and spoke in
hushed voices when I passed. Alan Shanahan became a hot commodity. He had a new
girlfriend the next day. Then he had two by the next week. Now, I laugh with them at
the charade. I’m almost honored that they put so much energy into this commotion. At
the time, though, no. At the time, I was devastated. I hid in bathroom stalls, fighting
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back tears, choking on my humiliation before the late bell rang. So I guess it all makes
sense, doesn’t it? Here I was, breaking up with Alan because I thought it was the right
thing to do. Instead, it felt like the entire school agreed with Alan, teaching me what?
That it was okay to be with men, boys, that I didn’t see a future with. Okay, obviously,
the message wasn’t loud and clear, but it was there; it is there. Parents drop their children
off at school, and they don’t know the wars waged against the sensitive ones. I lost this
fight, and Alan won. But I didn’t care. I knew by then men were good for little more
than opening their jaws to laugh and unbuttoning their pants to fuck, and I intended to use
them the way Alan seemed to be okay with me using him.
*
One Halloween, when I was Tupac, I flushed my phone down the toilet. My
pants were so baggy, and I had forgotten that my cell was in my back pocket when I
pulled up my pants. When I saw it floating in the yellow water, somehow my initial
reaction was to push the lever down, flushing my phone down the drain. It was one of
those flip phones. I hadn’t realized how small it was. Well, I’m not much of a material
person so the phone was no biggie, but my reaction to the situation is telling. I’m quick
to pull the trigger. Like parents, like child, eh?
I dressed up as Tupac with my friend Kyle, who was Notorious B.I.G. We went
with all of his friends to the party. The girls were near the fire pit, in charge of the music,
which was staticky. I felt more comfortable with the boys, like I was one of the guys.
Too many girls my age were busy obsessing over if a guy liked them or what they should
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do about a current relationship, and here were these guys who told funny work stories and
trashy but witty jokes. As the party died, Kyle and I sat in the back of his red-rusted
Jeep, sobering up by eating stale Doritos, which, by the way, still taste great.
“Do you think of me as a guy?” I asked Kyle, who nearly spit out the Doritos
mid-chew.
“Um, no,” he said, glancing sideways at me.
It was true. No matter how masculine I might feel inside, I was all feminine on
the outside. I liked the two, the balance of my “masculine” decisiveness and aggression
coupled with my curves and appreciation for the color pink.
After my mom dragged me up to Wisconsin, I became more aware of sexuality,
especially that next summer. In Florida, everyone went around in swimsuits like
pajamas. But in summer, the boys from my middle school discarded their shirts and ran
everywhere, even right in front of our house - totally shirtless. I wasn’t the only one
looking; everyone stared. It angered me, this binary, so I ran up to my room and threw
on some shorts. Standing on my lawn, I peeled off my shirt. Mr. Callaghan tilted his
hose away from his car, spraying his driveway and wetting his shoes. I took a deep
breath and tore off my sports bra too. I hadn’t thought the whole thing completely out. I
barely had breasts, but what I had were sensitive and the up and down of running hurt
something fierce, but I ran on anyway, following the boys. Officer Reynolds from
Adams Street picked me up seven blocks from my house.
“If she were older, Mrs. Martin, I’d have to arrest her,” he said on our porch.
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My mom nodded, a hand on the back of her neck. “Of course. It won’t happen
again.”
“Miss,” I said, zipping my hoodie up to my neck. “Her name’s Miss Martin
now.”
He looked from me to my mother.
“I’m so sorry, Officer.”
I snorted.
He hiked his pants over his beer belly. “Public nudity is a crime here in Jefferson,
young lady.”
I opened my mouth to protest: the boys run shirtless!
My mother kept the peace with apologies and nods. Then she shut the door
softly, shaking her head at me in disappointment. She lit a cigarette.
“I saw the boys, they—”
“Just keep your fucking clothes on,” she said, sinking into the couch and
massaging her temple with her free hand.
I never got the chance to tell her, or anyone, that I just wanted to be one of the
boys because it seemed being a boy meant I would have more freedom.
*
“Don’t jump,” Darcy said, her eyes the color of the dry grass where her feet were
firmly planted.
“It’s not even that high. Move aside.”
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“You’ll get hurt.”
“Won’t be the first time, and it’s not going to be the last.” I had just watched The
Godfather with my Dad last Sunday when it rained so I tried to imitate what I thought
was gangster by speaking in incomplete sentences.
“Come on,” she said, softer.
“I want to know what it feels like.”
“You do know flying’s not real.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re
not going to fly. You’re going to get hurt!”
Florida grass is either dry and parched where real, or thick, patchy, and too-green,
like a golf course, all the artificial tuffs itchy against bare feet.
We were seven, and our two years of best-friendship felt like a lifetime. I had
climbed on the roof from the air-conditioner box. The apartment building, our first home
when we moved to Florida, was only two stories tall, but we had never climbed so high
before. Darcy was more scared than mad, that I could see, but I wasn’t afraid. I wanted
her to be more like me. I wanted to know more people like me. I wanted this to be one
of many roofs. I wanted her to be unafraid like me, and I wanted her next to me, on the
roof. I couldn’t articulate what I was feeling because I had never been given a lexicon for
my feelings. If anything, I was told that my feelings were foreign, unusual, unnatural.
But I knew, even while lacking a formal vocabulary, I knew I needed to get away and
separate myself from the horrors of dull, domestic life.
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“I just asked you not to buy these. I just asked.” It was my Dad’s voice. My Dad
to my Mom. They were arguing over cookies, goddamn cookies. Those are the fights
that lead to divorce, I really believe it. It’s not the big things like you’d think, but the
smallest things.
“Codi, it’s getting late.” Poor Darcy shifted her weight from foot to foot. Would
she tire of me too? I always pushed her to play one more game of cops and robbers, to
dive again from the deep end and race across the pool.
I closed my eyes and jumped, jumped like I was cannonballing into a lagoon far
from this soggy Florida marshland, far from these droning, familiar voices. The break
was immediate, I knew, even before I opened my eyes. I was alone when I finally
opened my eyes. Darcy had run away, and when she returned, my parents were in tow.
Maybe that’s what I had wanted all along, all of us together, Darcy too, like a real family,
a family that could learn love.
My Mom blamed my Dad, and he blamed himself too. On the way home after
getting my ankle set in the cast, they talked in the front seats of the car like Darcy and I
weren’t there. The cast was tight, but there was no pain. I considered how it trapped my
ankle, and I thought of this car, this life. Other lives streamed past the car windows, dogs
eating ice cream that fell on sidewalks, hosts smiling to greet parties with wide arms and
floral dresses, a man running with a toddler on his shoulders, both laughing like children.
I was a child too, but I felt so old already.
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People don’t move faster than memories, though. You will them to, you watch
out the window, hoping, but those voices come back. I begged conversation to interrupt
my thoughts, to stop the memory. How could Darcy sit next to me and not notice how I
squirmed?
“I literally just asked you.” The small of his back leaned into the kitchen counter,
and he began flicking the peeling fake wood trim with his thumb, ticking it to keep time
with the loud overhead clock on the wall by the fridge.
Mom stayed at the sink, redrying the clean dishes, her back to him, to me.
“We just talked about it. Christ, how hard is it, Brenda?” The way he said her
name suggested that they were speaking in code. I felt like an alien among them.
My mother’s voice turned before she did, and she said slowly, “They’re not for
you. They’re for Codi. Because she’s a kid. She’s still a kid. And she can have cookies.
Most people can have treats in moderation. Most people can control themselves.”
He rubbed his right eye with his left pointer finger, his mouth open in an almost
smile.
“You could have a cookie too if you didn’t get addicted to everything so damn
easily.”
“Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph!” He slammed his fist on the counter and the
dishes in the drying rack rattled. “So that’s what this is? Some test? A goddamn test,
Brenda? I ask you one thing, to not buy cookies. And what do you do first thing when
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you get to the grocery store? You buy the first dozen you see. Do you see how
ridiculous you are! Do you see?”
“Don’t you call me ridiculous!”
“Well! I ask you one thing! One thing!”
I was too old to crawl under the dining room table like last year, too young to run
very far. So I stayed there, measuring my height with the kitchen counter, listening to the
whack-slap of the peeling counter siding. I didn’t want them to be alone. What would
they say alone? I didn’t really care about cookies that much. They were good, sure, but I
would give up cookies forever to make them stop. I wanted all the kitchen fights to stop.
Just stop, just stop, stop, please stop, please, please, stop.
I still, to this day, think it’s weird that you only turn each age once. These are the
kinds of thoughts I had when the cookies came up. Or I would focus on a color, an
object, shape. The oval shape of my mother’s beautiful face. The cracks like stained
glass. The miscellaneous yellow thread sneaking out of her favorite dishrag. The slick
on the counter, the suds that flirted up to the sink ledge, landing along her shirt’s hem. I
felt such guilt, but I wanted to be nothing like her.
All birthday cakes, all desserts, all sweets were ruined for me because I didn’t
know whether I should eat ‘em or leave ‘em. Was it a test? Was I a child? Could I eat
cookies once in awhile? After all, I was my father’s daughter.
“You only turn seven once,” my Dad boomed, laughing a laugh like everything
was a performance. He looked to see if my Mom was watching as he cut the cake and
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gave me the biggest comer slice. I looked too. She squinted through the smoke cloud
she created around her, a sure way to barricade herself from my father and me.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, softly so only he could hear. I pushed the bright paper
plate away and Jessie, my friend from school, took it happily, obliviously.
Mom switched the cigarette to her left hand and felt for another one loose in her
purse with her right hand.
We were in the pool house off of the main pool. The apartment houses were close
together, only two stories at the most, and each had a balcony or patio. We lived on the
first floor and had a screened-in porch, which wasn’t as sexy as the open-air terrace at
Darcy’s Mom’s apartment. Looking back, it was less romantic in reality, like all things.
It was more of an iron railing a couple cement feet from the sliding door. Still, they lived
on the second floor. I didn’t know what exactly they could see, but they were closer to
the stars and that seemed exciting.
Darcy’s Mom, Kat, was like an Amazonian woman with broad shoulders, deeply
tanned skin, and intense dark eyes. She did everything with her whole body: laughed,
danced, yelled, cooked, hugged... Kat was religious when her boyfriends were, and she
and Darcy went to church on Christmas and Easter Day with or without Kat’s men. My
parents weren’t traditional believers. Dad took me to a grand Buddhist temple one
weekend and then to a stunning Hindu temple the next weekend. When I asked him
about the two temples, he shrugged and said, “They’re pretty much the same. Take your
shoes off and be quiet.”
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After the meditation and chanting, he’d search my face for affirmation. “It’s
great! Isn’t it great? I feel great! How do you feel? Gee, I feel so refreshed.”
He never paused for me to answer.
Meditation was boring as shit. I didn’t know what they meant when they said to
stop thinking. “And if you can’t do that, just observe your thoughts.” They told us to not
think, as though we were as simple as lamps to dim and shut off. I had the subtle itch that
everyone else felt this same way to some degree.
“Picture clouds,” the guru whispered. “Your thoughts are clouds. Now, picture
them billowing and blowing away.”
I followed the rules and kept my eyes closed, but my thoughts were dark, black,
blue, purple, gray, clouds pulsing with electricity, looking more like smoke than clouds.
My thought-clouds didn’t billow but combined to be a tangled, ugly sheet overhead that
rippled with lightning and shook with thunder. My thoughts trembled inside of me,
ticking in time to that kitchen clock. Dad’s flicking the flap of the counter again, and I
have nowhere to go, nothing to do, but watch it all unfold again. No, these thoughts
aren’t fluffy and white and billowing. I feel like someone is holding me by the ears,
forcing my head steady, checking that my eyes are open. The suds glint in the sun, the
loose yellow thread of the washcloth grows longer. Worse than a scary movie, because I
know these people. More like the traffic accident of the car of your family that you’re
following to a party.
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“The best part is they say, ‘question evejything.’” He went on to recount again
how he was brought up Catholic: guilt, shame, and angry nuns, cold schoolrooms, metal
rulers, stiff chairs, heavy books, fly-swatters as weapons. “Not here,” he said. “That’s
their motto: ‘question everything.’”
So at the next temple, I raised my hand. The guru looked confused, looked to my
father for help.
“When you say clouds,” I began, but my father was waving his hand in the air like
my words were clouds too. Air, and he wanted to disperse it. He laughed, his signature.
In the silent car ride home, I realized that I was not, in fact, supposed to question
everything. Yet I had so many questions.
*
Considering how many man-babies I’ve kissed, it’s shocking I haven’t had more
bad kisses. Some lips were too thin; some environments were off. The lava-lamp
episode was by far the worst. Austin had an entire basement to himself, and in the comer
of the main room was an orange lava lamp, its goo flowing like neon fat. It made me sick
to watch.
“I’ve liked you since, like, I don’t know, fourth grade.”
“I moved here in fifth grade,” I said. The orange fat oozed up and separated,
coating the edges of the lamp’s glass.
“I remember. You’re so beautiful. You’ve always been so beautiful.”
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But I wasn’t. Not in fifth grade. In elementary school, I had a dime-sized gap
between my front teeth and an overbite that earned me the nickname Mt. Everest. I was
never the new girl. I was the ugly girl. The summer before middle school, I got a mouth
of braces; it was so much foreign sharp metal that I scraped up my lips and inside of my
mouth and my tongue.
I remembered him. Austin Linton. I thought he must be poetic because his name
was so poetic, what with the “in” at the end and the beginning of his first and last names.
I masturbated to that name. “Au-stin Lin-ton.”
So it was something of a dream come true, you see, to find myself beside Austin
Linton - except I had spent two years romanticizing him. Now, I find he’s like every
other seventh grader, slyly trying to rub his pelvis against me. And he has a lava lamp.
“Romantic, huh?” he said. “I love the color orange.”
I thought of prison.
I didn’t think I hated anything. I’m such a love bug. I really thought I loved
everything. But the lava lamp stood for something larger than just this basementseventh-grade moment. Austin cozied up to me. He tried to kiss me, but I turned so he
kissed my cheek, rough like how you kiss goodbye to an aunt who’s your least favorite
and who smells a bit like mold. Then came the hip gyrating. The lava separated,
combined, slipped along the sides of the lamp. The shape was phallic, a cone lamp, and
the entire thing seemed like a metaphor for Austin’s desire. It was grotesque. But in the
moment, I didn’t know how to link the two things and tell him so.
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I’m glad I met Austin Linton, though. I learned that there are things in this world
I hate, that people will never live up to my romanticized notions, and - perhaps most
importantly, I learned that so much can happen in seven days when you’re in seventh
grade.
On Monday, Austin Linton smiled at me in political science class. I looked down
at my paper, red-faced and sweat-lipped. I looked up to find that he was still smiling.
Tuesday at lunch, Austin Linton asked me to come over after school. The
discovery of the lava lamp was Tuesday night. Eventually, all other lights went off
except the lava lamp and I knew my time was running out to tell him how I felt toward
that lava lamp.
“Austin...” But when I opened my mouth, he mistook it as an intimate cue and
kissed me, plopping his giant tongue in my mouth and, worst of all, leaving it there! Was
it my punishment for hating something for the first time? For disliking the lava lamp?
Maybe I misunderstood the lava’s importance to little Austin. Maybe he needed the
mushy ebb and flow of glowing fatlike material in a way I couldn’t comprehend, and who
was I to judge?
He didn’t move the tongue around. This tongue was not on an expedition like
some I have known later. I opened my eyes afraid that Austin and his tongue were no
longer connected. Had he fallen asleep? But no. No, he was there, eyes closed, faintly
flickering behind his bluish eyelids, his face lit up by that orange, orange light.
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On Wednesday, I held Austin Linton’s clammy hand. Someone called me his
girlfriend in the cafeteria, and I didn’t correct her.
Wednesday night and Austin called late. I said I was tired. (I was.) He asked me
if I had fun the other night, and I feigned stupidity. “Which night?” I didn’t have the
energy to lie. Back then, I was too honest so I hurt people the way they hated to be really
hurt: with the truth. People think they want the truth. That’s the real lie.
So on Thursday, I was a whore. Jaime Straubb tripped me as I walked up the
stairs after lunch. The twins, Jennifer and Jessica, laughed at me in the locker room,
soaking rolls of toilet paper and squeezing them over my dry clothes. It was all better
than that lava lamp, I swear.
By Friday at second bell, Austin Linton had a new girlfriend. The popular, thick­
haired, skinny-legged Taylor Sullivan. To this day, they are still together. They have
one accident son and a house they can’t afford, and I don’t know anything else about
them.
*
You think you’ve had awkward sex? Try sleeping with someone who has the
same name as you. Sure, he spelled it with a “y,” but it sounds the same. I always
wondered why people care how you spell your name. It’s not some kind of intimacy,
unless you think Starbucks’ employees calling out your name at the end of the espresso
line is intimate (and okay, maybe sometimes it is). As a rule, though, keep it phonetic,
people.
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Anyway, the similarities between Cody and I went further: his last name also
started with an “M,” and our birthdays were only two days apart! November 12th and
14th, same year. Weird, right? But the weirdest of all was calling out his name when I
climaxed. I mean, I’m the first to admit that I’m self-centered, but that was an extreme
even for me. One night, he said my name twice in a row in this breathless whisper, and I
couldn’t help giggling and answering, “Oh yes, Cody?”
“What’s so funny?” he said, still inside me.
“Were you talking to me or yourself?” I smiled. “I guess I’ll never really know,”
I said and winked. I tried to get the rhythm between us back, but we’d lost it - 1 leaned
forward when he leaned forward, nearly knocking into each other.
“Damn it, Codi,” he said and pulled out.
So I’m a tad immature. “Come on,” I said. “It’s funny. How many people can
joke about this?” He didn’t answer. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, moody and
brooding, like all my men. “Sex can be fun sometimes, you know. Some people like to
laugh.”
Things with Cody didn’t work, and not because of the sex. It’s too bad, really,
because he was quite the catch, and I’d say that even if we weren’t so alike.
Back when there was hope though, Cody invited me to his parent’s for dinner.
They made king fish and grits, two things I despised and didn’t eat.
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“But it’s smoked,” Cody said, defending the fish. He took me out back to show
me the fish smoker, like I didn’t believe him. He flicked his thick blonde dreads over his
shoulder, proud, and I saw Paul. Sam’s Paul. Beautiful, idyllic Paul.
“I just don’t like seafood. You know that,” I said.
“Taste buds change.” He shrugged and lit a cigarette.
His brother, Ray, was a skinny teenager who made me never want to reproduce.
He sat against the tall muddy wheel of his Dad’s Ford truck and listened to Rammstein on
full blast and on repeat.
Fishing was like Cody’s family’s religion, not a hobby but a ritual. His father
made a living as a commercial fisherman - 1 didn’t know there was such a thing - and
they went out every Sunday afternoon, rain or shine, which is sort of admirable because
rain in Florida is devastating, what with the annoying regular evacuations when streets
are underwater in a matter of hours. That summer Cody and I spent together, I fought off
countless fishing invites until he said that his mom requested my company.
“Your mom goes every time? Even in the rain?”
“Sure.”
So I agreed, if only to know this selfless, warrior woman better. We took two
fishing boats, not glamorous flat pontoons with nets and poles lining the deck and a cabin
crew serving chilled champagne like I hoped. No, these were small things that looked
like rowboats but with rickety engines haphazardly attached to the back. Needless to say,
we didn’t move very fast.
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“It’s not about speed,” Cody said, screaming unnecessarily. The two of us were
in one boat, and his mom, dad, and gloomy brother were in the other boat. They all
looked ahead, their tan faces so serious. Slowly, carefully, Cody’s mother positioned
herself to lie down and relax on the wood slab of a seat. I kept stealing glances at her;
she sat near the top of the boat. Her legs were extended over the edge now, her toes,
painted red, flexing back and forth. Eventually, her eyes closed. Her face was to the sun.
She seemed to be dreaming!
Meanwhile, the boat rocked on and water splashed in incessantly. I gripped the
sides of the boat, clenching my teeth.
Cody smiled at me.
His dad winked my way.
“Not so bad, huh?” Cody said. His blue eyes looked so clear, shining, happy, and
because some part of me really cared about him, I tried - 1 really tried - to smile back. I
wanted to enjoy this moment, I did. But no. I had to look away from those hypnotizing
blue eyes. Not so bad? Were we on the same boat? Bigger boats with real engines
whizzed around us, and I closed my eyes tight. I felt vomit rising. “Is it almost over?” I
asked in a shrill, squeaky voice.
Cheers erupted from the family boat. I opened my eyes to see Cody standing,
back straight. He was reeling in his fishing pole with great care.
“What is it, son?” his dad asked like he was Lassie the dog. “What ya got there,
son? Another king fish for supper?”
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“Don’t interrupt his concentration, honey,” his mom said. This - all of it - the
blazing summer sun bouncing over the water making it hotter than I thought possible, the
crappy boats, the whine of those makeshift motors, the never-ending waves, this family
bickering, the hope for king fish for dinner - oh, this was my hell.
Everyone was silent then, and I looked to see what they saw: a long, silvery fish
jerking on the fine line. Cody turned toward me. “Hold it steady,” he said.
“Hold what steady?”
“The boat. Just sit real still.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, standing where I had been sitting as he began to
slowly lower the fish to the boat. “Where are you putting it? Don’t you have a basket or
a bucket or something?” I looked around - nothing. Just as he set the fish on the floor of
the aluminum boat, as the slimy fish body was flappity-flopping against the boat, I
scrambled to the far back of the little boat and jumped. The water was warm and salty in
my eyes and mouth.
“Codi!” Cody said behind me. I didn’t know what to do so I foolishly put a hand
up and waved, not looking back, and I doggy-paddled toward the shore. We weren’t too
far from the swampland where we’d pushed out. A little further and I’d be able to reach
the muddy sand and run back to the car to make my getaway.
Cody and his family turned the boats around and came as quickly as they could,
thinking I wanted to be rescued. His father extended his pudgy hand.
“No, thanks,” I said, swimming slowly between the boats.
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“I threw the fish out,” Cody said. “Get in. It’s fine.”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“Babe, it was one fish. Do you know how many fish there are in the entire
ocean?”
It was a good point, but I couldn’t see those fish and I didn’t have to sit next to
them and share such close proximity.
Cody’s mom laughed. “You’re literally swimming with the fish!”
I hated them all. I hated that four-foot iron smoking device in their backyard
where they smoked all the fish they caught. I hated seafood and grits. But most of all, I
hated that I was here, swimming to shore surrounded by people I didn’t like very much, if
at all.
“Just leave me alone!” I cried and I dove underwater, swimming as fast as I could,
eyes open to watch for fish. I kicked like crazy to spray water all over them. It’s crazy, I
know, but that’s life; sometimes you just find yourself in the middle of an ocean,
swimming alone, and asking yourself honestly, “How the fuck did I end up here?”
*
The only man who came close my level, who was almost able to keep up with me,
turned out to be a heroin addict. Julian Romero Quincy II. Julian was a graffiti artist,
tagging beaches and school buses. He jumped trains like the good ole days. That doesn’t
sound like him - “good ole days” - that’s me romanticizing again.
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I remember how my heart thumped faster when we talked about jumping trains.
Most of my friends had old, used cars they relied on; no one I knew “jumped trains.”
“So you hop aboard whenever you feel like it, without paying, and what? You
ride all the way up country? Does it go along the Mississippi? How are the sunsets from
the train windows?” I had only been on the express train from Fox Lake, Wisconsin to
Chicago, and even that was years ago, when I was a kid and we headed down at
Christmastime to see the window displays at Marshall Field’s.
“I just go up to, like, Jacksonville,” he said.
I was young. Not quite nineteen. I met Julian after that fishing incident, and
Cody and I were mostly completely over, but sometimes we still had sex. It’s hard to
walk away quickly when there’s so much of such good sex. Technically, I was cheating
on Cody with Julian, but Julian and I hadn’t had sex so it felt like the equivalent of
watching soft-core pom when someone asks you not to watch any pom.
There’s no right time to admit this so I’ll just say it: I’m a dry-humper. I started
early, freshmen year of high school. I liked the thin layer of clothes as the only separator
between young, yearning bodies. But I was afraid to have things inside of me. I wanted
to remain 100% me, and I was afraid that something un-me entering me might take away
from my complete me-ness.
Julian and I dry-humped a lot. We moved around the scratchy carpet of my living
room like itchy, anxious dogs in heat choking on collars at the hand of leashes held by
morality. The threat of Cody walking in made it that much more exciting. Yet, Cody
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never called or interrupted or showed up unannounced. A week or two later, I found out
at the grocery through a mutual friend that Cody had been sleeping with a girl two years
younger than us. Her name was Ellen, a perfect Mom name. She was tall and lanky with
flat brown hair. I was disgusted more than offended. How could he go from me to Ellen?
That night, I scrolled through my contacts and found Cody’s best friend, Kyle,
and called him quickly, not delaying to let guilt stop me. There had always been sexual
tension between us at parties. To be honest, I was disappointed when I met him because I
thought I might have chosen the wrong one of the duo. He answered after the fourth ring.
“I’m just so emotional,” I said, taking short but loud breaths.
“What happened?”
“You didn’t hear?”
I told him about Ellen, and he said, “Damn. I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Codi.” But
he left it at that, a loyal friend to Cody. They had been friends for years, just like Darcy
and me.
“Can you come over? I don’t want to be alone.”
“You know I care about you, but—”
“Please, Kyle, I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Just for a few minutes?”
“Well, okay. Just for a few minutes.”
Kyle lived down the road so he would arrive soon.
I fixed my eyeliner, added an extra coat of mascara. I considered lip gloss, but I
decided on chapstick instead. I wanted to look distressed, casual, emotional.
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I called Cody next, careful to keep my voice level and calm. “Hey, babe,” I said,
rolling my eyes. I pushed my boobs up in the mirror, satisfied. I put the phone on
speaker and waited for his response. “Babe?” I fastened thigh-highs to the snaps of my
corset.
Finally, Cody exhaled and said, “Hey.”
“Listen, I know it’s late, but I miss you. Can you come over? No talking,
promise. I just want to... see you. I thought maybe we could watch a movie?” “Movie”
is the universal code word for sex. Fast, easy sex. The no clean-up kind of sex. I found
out the hard way, after bringing pajamas and pillows and microwave popcorn packs to
my second high school boyfriend’s house. He was older, a swimmer - that back! Those
shoulders! - and he politely pushed aside the movie apparel and snacks, stroking my
collarbone strangely. He never even turned on the TV.
“I don’t know...”
“Come on. Please?” Was he really going to make me beg?
“All right,” he said. “Okay. I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Don’t bother knocking,” I said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
When Kyle knocked, I answered the door in the black corset and thigh-highs. I
didn’t bother with panties. Boys could be dumb, and I didn’t want there to be any
misunderstandings.
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I ushered him in as he dropped his jaw and stuttered to find excuses. I slammed
the front door closed, leaving it unlocked. The house was pitch black except for the
white light of the television.
“Thanks for coming,” I said, sitting on the armrest of the sofa, legs parted. I’ve
seen this movie. I imagined the TV glow was as lovely as the light that comes from
bonfires or red lights, that sensual red that falsely warms your face.
He cleared his throat.
“Sit down. Relax,” I said. I knew what I was doing, but I was also removed from
it. I was hurt. Cody wanted to hurt me, wanted to wound me. If I didn’t stand up for
myself, who would? An eye for an eye, a fuck for a fuck.
Kyle sat. His hands were in his lap. His eyes looked beady and his cheeks looked
fat. Normally, he didn’t look so terrified.
“Codi,” he said and stopped. I like to think he was saying my name, but who
knows.
“Kyle, you know there’s always been something between us.” This was true. I
moved to stand in front of him, backlighting myself with the TV.
He shook his head, but he didn’t argue.
I took his hands and put them on my hips. There would be no dry-humping
between us.
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Such lust was in his eyes. Animal lust, like he was his purest self, a version of
himself he tried to ignore, to bury, and here we were, with our primal selves. He kissed
me, a kiss built on months of fantasies, ever since we met with Cody between us.
We rolled around on the carpet for a bit. The film was over, and the music from
the main page of the DVD played on repeat. I straddled him then unbuttoned his jeans. I
had definitely chosen the wrong best friend!
We had to hurry. Cody would be there any minute. I reached into the bra of my
corset for a condom and ripped the package open with my teeth. Like a pro, I rolled it
down his penis and positioned myself on top of him slowly until he could go no deeper. I
was gritting my teeth and clenching uncontrollably, but I slowed my grinding. He held
my hips, forgetting Cody completely and closing his eyes, losing himself inside of me.
I heard Cody’s truck. I leaned back, slowing so much we were barely rocking
back and forth. Kyle brushed his hand over my breasts and stomach. I arched back and
he watched. The door jingled. In one pull, the door opened all the way.
Cody was in the apartment, facing us. The door was still open. “What the —?”
His eyes adjusted to the darkness. The DVD music started over.
“Cody,” Kyle said, breathless, and he pushed me off him.
Cody shook his head, spit at us, and left, leaving the door open. Kyle scurried
into his boxers, grabbing his pants and shirt, running after Cody into the parking lot,
leaving his smelly shoes in my living room. I picked up his shoes, put them outside the
door, locked my front door, and then I sat back down on the carpet, smiling into my hand.
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I felt good and bad. Good because Cody would think twice before hurting another girl.
But bad because I actually considered friendship to be a treasure, and I knew that if I
hadn’t succeeded in destroying this one, I had definitely wounded it. I reclined into the
carpet. I smelled the strong plastic of the condom. I wanted to finish myself off, but I
felt too guilty. I turned off the TV instead and fell asleep on the carpet in my empty dark
apartment.
I threw myself into Julian’s arms to forget Cody. I wish I could edit this, tell you
that I was strong and independent, that I watched the sunrise alone the next morning and
made amends with Cody and Kyle, but life’s not always so neat. Julian hated PDA in
daylight so he refused to give me the attention I craved during the day. The sex was
good, but he was a selfish lover. It was over the minute he finished. But he had a lot of
energy. He was always ready for round two, and he never said no to an adventure. We
scaled buildings, ran naked downtown, stole a dingy and set off fireworks in the Gulf,
crashed a golf cart into a wedding tent right before the ceremony. We were hot and
destructive. When I picture him in my mind, I see his dewy cheeks and big eyes. He was
always so alert, looking for the next adventure, ready to meet new people and embrace
new things. We had no boundaries. At night, we fucked all over town, and then we went
to the towns nearby to exploit their diners and trees and libraries and cafes, anywhere
with a little shade because Julian said it was important he didn’t get arrested for
something as juvenile as indecent exposure.
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One Saturday, I pulled up to Julian’s Mom’s house to pick him up at noon, as
planned, just like every week. I honked. His phone was going straight to voicemail. I
left my Mustang idling in the street and knocked on the front door. I looked around the
yard for evidence. Did he hop on a train? Was he sleeping? I went around to the back,
forgetting about the car completely, and I pounded on his closed window. The blinds
were drawn, but I called his name anyway. I heard a door slam from the front and I
sprinted back. Julian was running down the front lawn. He hopped over the curb and
gutter and opened the door of my car, sliding into my driver’s seat. I stood in the
driveway, my arms in the air, but what could I do? When he looked at me, he was
burping and laughing like a madman, and his eyes were too big and all red. He crashed
into a mailbox five blocks down, going the wrong way down a one-way street. He was
fine, and the car only got a couple scratches.
At the hospital, a doctor asked me if his parents would be arriving soon. I didn’t
know. She wanted to contact them, but I had never met them and I didn’t know the home
phone number.
“Your boyfriend has a very serious problem. We thought he gave it up, but it’s
worse than ever.” My head pounded, trying to keep up. “We found heroin in his
bloodstream again and more on his body. He’s going to be fine, but we believe
rehabilitation is the only option for Julian at this point.”
I went to my car to cry. Of course! He was so happy, so excited about life, about
adventures. I punched the roof of my car. I looked in my center console for tissues or
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napkins. Nothing. I opened the glove compartment, and at least ten plastic bags of
powder fell to the floor mat. I put my hand to my mouth. It’s scary how you can sit next
to someone, share bodily juices, but not share secrets. What would I have said if he had
told me? I took the risk of driving, and I drove to his Mom’s house, dumped the bags in
the mailbox, and I drove away, never looking back in the rearview mirror.
Sometimes I think of Julian. I wonder if his Mom came to visit him in the
hospital. I wonder what his parents were like. I worry about his demons and his
addiction. I hope he went to rehab, and I hope he’s better. I hope too that he can forgive
me for not looking back immediately, but I had to keep driving. I have finally forgiven
him, but it took a long time. I forgave him easily for the drug usage and addiction, and I
forgave him too for the danger he put me in when he was under the influence. But I had
difficulty forgiving the fact that he was only on my level due to unhealthy chemical
assistance. The one person that I thought could keep up with me, who I thought was just
as high on life as me, was actually on so much heroin he flirted with death. I have a
moderate savior complex, that’s no big secret, but Julian didn’t want to be saved. He
liked his high, and I liked him high too. I saw his big, excited eyes, and I thought:
soulmate. So I started being skeptical of the too-happy, the too-enthusiastic, the people
like me, because Julian made me wonder if those people existed sober. I forgive him for
that. I choose to believe we’re out there, disgustingly optimistic and high on life and love
despite all else.
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Chapter 10
In the Florentine apartment (I never tire of saying that), so many people were
talking about how they wished they could stay in Italy, nanny and learn colloquial Italian,
take cooking classes, join the university and teach English.
“So do it,” I finally said one evening as I cleared the plates from the table.
Lindsey was painting her toenails on the floor, and she didn’t look up but huffed
at my suggestion. “Easy for you to say,” she said. “Did you all know our little Codi here
came to Italy on a one-way ticket?”
I turned on the faucet and wet a sponge.
“No!” Michelle said. The others gasped. “Doesn’t that scare you? Like, you
have no return flight, no ticket back?”
“You have, like, no way home,” Leslie said.
“I’m sure her parents would pay for a return flight,” Julie said.
“But she really shouldn’t ask them to,” Lindsey said, fanning her toes with her
hands. “She got herself into this. It was her decision to get the one-way.”
They all looked at me expectantly.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t ask them, “I said, but I was lying. I knew I couldn’t afford a
return flight. I could barely afford a weekly jar of Barilla to contribute to our house
dinners that I’d suggested in the first place.
“Why the one-way in the first place though? Isn’t it cheaper to buy both at the
same time? Round trips are better deals, aren’t they?” Michelle asked.
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“I don’t know how we started talking about me. All I’m saying is if you want to
stay, you should stay.”
“And what about school back home? What about work?” Lindsey said.
“There’s school here.” I shrugged. “You could work here.”
“She’s got a good point,” Julie said. “My Dad keeps saying he’ll retire...as soon
as he pays off the mortgage. Then the mortgage was paid and he wants to pay off the car
too. It’s been four years.”
“That’s called being responsible,” Lindsey said.
Michelle looked at me. “So you’re saying it’s better to do what we want now,
since we don’t have mortgages or bills or cars?”
I wasn’t sure I was saying much of anything. They seemed to be doing most of
the talking. I dried my hands and laughed uncomfortably. When did I become the expert
on this? “I’m not saying that, exactly. I’m not saying anything definitively.” Silence. “I
guess I mean.. .why own any of that stuff, if it keeps you from what you want, whether it
be retirement or staying longer in Italy? If we, all of humanity I mean, spent less time
making excuses and more time doing what we want, I think we’d be happier overall. I
don’t think we should make excuses for not trying to be as happy as we can be.” In my
mind, they all tear up quietly and Lindsey leads a slow clap. Instead, Michelle yawns
audibly and the others just shrug.
“Too deep for me,” Julie says, finally breaking the silence. “I must be tired. All
this foreign air makes me groggy, don’t you agree? I’m not used to it yet.”
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They were all leaving the communal kitchen. Then Michelle stopped on her way
to their shared bedroom.
“I think it’s great,” she said. “I wish I could be like you.”
“But you can!” I said. “It’s just a one-way ticket.”
She just looked down, nodding slowly. “Well, goodnight, Codi,” she said.
“Goodnight.”
My first Italian trip after settling in Florence was with two of my roommates to
Verona. They weren’t particularly wealthy, but they had brought “special” clothes for
the trip so they were the kind of people who reserved clothes for occasions. I grabbed my
go-to paisley dress, jeans, and two white shirts. As soon as we arrived by train, we loved
it. In comparison to Florence, it was quiet and quaint, homey, and it was stunning with
rich gardens and welcoming, open squares, piazzas that breathed more than in Florence.
The Verona Arena, like a mini Coliseum, was a surprise and seemed massive. We rented
bikes and pedaled fast to see all the small shops selling leather, clothing, handbags,
scarves. We tried espresso then went next door and tried the house red wine. We crossed
the Adige river, stopping to touch the heart-adorned padlocks on the sides of the bridge.
My senses were turned up, exploding at every turn. I heard faint music under the strong
smell of wild flowers. It’s strange, I couldn’t separate the two. I strained to follow the
music, leading my roommates back over the bridge through the city. Up a hill, in the
depths of the ancient Roman ruins, a concert played below. We weren’t alone at the
lookout we found. Young lovers, students, parents, old couples, groups of friends, all
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these people grouped together, giving their full attention to the music. I abandoned my
bike and pushed up to the front. I leaned over the natural stone railing. Below, a man
and woman sang a duet with an orchestra behind them. Is there anything like this in
America? Maybe it was the ride uphill, but I felt so overwhelmed that I had to turn away
from the scene. My breath was jagged. All the others, everyone around me, they could
care less about me, for they focused solely on the performance, as they should. My heart
pulled toward the singers at a crescendo, though I couldn’t understand the words. I felt
so connected with the universe, like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I had
traveled, I had been lost; I had lost friends and love, but I kept traveling. I would keep
traveling, keep searching for the people and places of this universe that I saw and
connected to now.
The concert ended just as the sun set behind the ruins.
“Let’s go hiking around here,” I said to the girls, but they were already yawning
into their hands.
“Tomorrow,” Lindsey said. “Let’s find a hotel.”
They applied heavy chapstick on their lips and straddled their bikes.
“I’m going to stay,” I said. “I’ll find you in the morning.”
“You can’t stay,” Michelle said.
“Where will you sleep?” Lindsey asked.
I shrugged. “I’ll figure it out. You two go. Get a good night’s sleep.”
“We can come back tomorrow,” Lindsey said.
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“I know. It’s okay, really.” I smiled. “I’m fine.”
Verona, Italy could have turned out to be a bad, bad story for me. Here’s the
truth: I didn’t exactly have the money to take the trip in the first place, let alone stay in a
hotel instead of a hostel. I didn’t know Lindsey and Michelle besides Florence. I thought
that they might be open to abandoning their comfortable routine by embracing a night
outdoors, for the sake of an adventure. I’ll never quite forgive them for turning on their
bicycles and leaving me in the ruins to find a hotel. But, we were roommates first, not
friends. I began my hike, climbing up the rocky hill, even further above the stage below.
From the top, I saw all of Verona. The city lights twinkled, combining with the stars, the
horizon line only noticeable with the last dash of orange sunset. Lights swam in the river.
I had this urge to reach out my arms and catch the air in a hug, embrace the universe.
There’s a whole world out there, and it’s just waiting to be explored. I sighed and
climbed down.
Two young men were near my bike, hovering in the shadowy comer of the rock.
I didn’t care about the bike; they could have it. I backed up. They were thumbing a
lighter over and over. Finally, they lit the joint and began smoking marijuana in big,
deep inhales. They smiled at me, straightening their posture. Then they just nodded and
hiked off. I got my bike and rode to the city center, sitting on the bank steps.
I wasn’t alone. Families took their leisurely after-dinner stroll. In one restaurant,
I heard yelling. A man with a chefs hat was outside with a woman dressed in all black
yelling at her and pointing a finger in her face. He walked back into the restaurant, fists
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swinging at his sides. After a minute, she followed and busied herself around the dining
room.
I felt a vibration in my back pocket and thought it was my crappy rental Nokia
phone signaling its imminent death. Instead, Lindsey’s name appeared with a short text:
“We’re at the Best Western.” I laughed at the inside joke I had going with myself. First
of all, how did Best Westerns even exist in Italy? Secondly, who would choose to stay in
one in Verona?
I walked my bike back to the rental shop, which would be closing soon. I paid ten
euro then got a street hotdog. I found a cafe on the other side of the bridge, which
seemed to be ritzy territory. I sat outside with a cafe latte. Okay, so, I was a little
homesick. I was feeling really homeless. Lindsey had asked where I would sleep, but
could I sleep? On the streets?
When I was eighteen, I worked with the homeless in the Bay Area. I hadn’t
noticed so much when I lived down there as a child; but when I returned for college as an
adult, I saw the line clearly. A Hummer pulled up next to a panhandler, almost running
over his toes. The panhandler, I found out, was a veteran. His name was Jeff, and he
often went to the veteran’s hospital for free treatments on his “bad leg.” He had his
papers on him to prove it. I met about a hundred panhandlers, probably more. Some
were mad, mumbling nonsensical thoughts, chanting lines from the Bible. I made
appointments with the mayor, Mayor Baker at the time. I gathered my friends, from
work, school, from anywhere I could, and we marched along 3rd Street past City Hall. In
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a megaphone, I called out catchy phrases. We made the local news twice. When
President Bush came to town, I tried to follow his limo. Megaphone in hand, I called for
everyone to follow me to get answers. But no one followed; it was just me, chasing after
Bush to talk to him about homelessness in St. Petersburg, Florida. If you don’t count the
nude stint when I was preteen as an arrest - which it technically wasn’t - then this was
my first arrest. I was chased, thrown to the ground, tasered, and arrested for trespassing
(it was public ground), inciting a riot (it was me and some friends), and disobeying an
officer without violence (okay, that’s true).
Disheartened, I slunk into the background of the poverty movement as I saw it.
Instead of fighting for them, I slept beside them. I cooked and brought them food. I
shared blankets, pillows, towels, clothes, food, always food.
The first awful summer storm, we moved from Williams’ Park to the underpass of
1-275. None of us actually slept. Jeff came over and ripped my pillow from under my
head, began unzipping my still-damp sleeping bag.
“Hey!” I said, standing.
He took the sleeping bag and pillow and turned his back on me. I ran after him.
He pivoted with such anger. “Get out, Codi,” he said, low. “Get out of here!” Then he
began howling, his head up to the underpass, causing everyone to stir and sit up, glaring
at us.
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I finished the latte in a final swig. Jeff was right to send me away. My situation
was different. I could sympathize all I wanted, but I had a choice and I could sleep in a
bed. Was this different? Verona felt different.
I walked back over the bridge, past the ruins, the shops, the arena, reentering the
main square. The restaurant where the workers had fought was closed. Everything
seemed closed. The lampposts in the street were still on, which comforted me, though it
was just normal city stuff.
There were only fifteen other people here now. We watched each other,
suspicious. I saw only one other woman, a gypsy with anklets made of coins that jingled
with every slow step. I hated that I considered my safety by the number of women
around me, but here, now, I did. I sat under one of the lamps on a bench, my back to the
park, facing the restaurants and shops and bank and streets.
There was silence all around. I denied myself the ability to think too deeply so
my senses and awareness were sharp despite my growing fatigue. A tree shook behind
me and when I looked, I saw a man crawling out of the park, crawling like an animal. He
snickered when I looked at him. I rooted myself to the bench. I wasn’t going to run; he
would catch me. I turned my attention back to the square.
He sat next to me on the bench. “You’re American.” Still snickering.
I took out my phone to check the time. 3:18 and the battery was nearly dead.
“Do you like videos?” He took out his phone, much nicer than mine. He
breathed out of his mouth as he pressed play. It was a video of a girl in her underwear
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dancing against a white wall with bad light. He smiled at me. His front teeth were
missing and his bottom teeth were badly rotted. He stood and began walking into the
street. He motioned for me to follow him, waving his hand in the air. I crossed my arms
over my chest and looked in the other direction. He kept walking, but I could still hear
his snickering. It was going to be a long night.
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Chapter 11
Without food - why didn’t I bring granola bars? - 1 was losing energy fast. I
climbed the stairs to the main door of City Hall. Each step took an effort. I pushed
myself forward to lurch to the next stair. I felt so old, so weighted. I collapsed against
the door, and it wobbled in its frame. I looked up at the gold door knob with my mouth
open like water might rush out. I wasn’t hallucinating, but a girl can dream. I reached up
with all the strength I had left; my arms ached for no reason other than exhaustion. My
body scared me. It seemed like it was abandoning, betraying me. Am I so weak with one
missed meal and one sleepless night? I touched the cold knob, jingled it. The door
wobbled noisily again. I laughed and slumped again against the door. How comical if
someone had forgotten to lock City Hall? Would it be enough to fire someone for this?
“I ban you, Alfonso! Henceforth, you are banned from the city of Verona for forgetting
to lock City Hall last night!” My chest hurt from all the laughing. A middle-aged man
on a step closer to the road, turned toward me. “Shh!” I put up my hands in surrender. If
I felt tired, imagine how he felt - if I felt old... “I’m sorry,” I whispered and hugged my
legs.
“Don’t apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He pressed his dirty fingers against his forehead. The overhead kitchen light was
throbbing above us.
“I am sorry,” I said.
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“Don’t be,” he said. “Just.. .1 don’t know, just change.”
I stared up at the light, willed it to stay on, for fuck’s sake. You can’t argue in
darkness.
“I love ya, Cod, I do.”
“But?” I never think of buying light bulbs at the grocery. Do they even sell light
bulbs at the grocery? I never think about light bulbs at all. Weird.
Justin sighed. “Where are you?”
“Here. I’m here.”
“What are you looking at?”
“The light. It’s dying.”
“We can go to the living room.”
“It’s fine here. I don’t want to sit.”
“How are you so happy? You’re always happy.”
“How do you know I’m happy? I’m not smiling. Was I smiling? I’m very
unhappy.”
“Come on,” he said, his hand in his hair. The light flicked twice then stayed
bright. After all that on-off B.S., it seemed to glare down on us.
“Are you breaking up with me, Justin? Is this what this is?”
“What? No, I~”
“This isn’t about Colin Geoffrey at all.”
“Oh, he has a last name now?”
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“This is about us. About you. Well, I won’t change.”
“Big shock there!” His cheeks changed color. “This is about youl” He pointed,
jabbing his finger in my face. I swatted it away. “Did you sleep with him? Colin?” His
finger came up to my face again. I slapped it away.
“Fuck you! I love you. I didn’t touch Colin. We were talking. Christ, really.
And if I did cheat, you really think it’d be with ColinT
He walked out of the kitchen. “I’m staying at my Mom’s tonight.”
“Yeah, okay, take the easy way out and just leave. Just walk away.”
“Codi, not everyone’s your father.”
But he didn’t leave. My mom left him. I was living with this man; I had shared a
bathroom counter and dresser with this man for almost a year. Did he know nothing? All
those talks on the rooftop when we first moved in...
“Justin,” I said, walking slowly after him into the bedroom. He didn’t turn
around, but he exhaled dramatically.
“Listen, I’m sorry,” he said.
“Justin...”
“I went too far, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But you make me
crazy. You wear down everyone in your life. You have to know that, right?” He faced
me, t-shirts in his fist. “What about all the wars, all those who suffer from incurable
diseases? How can we be happy in this world? How can you be so happy? It’s so, so
exhausting.”
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He didn’t know me at all. Two years and he hadn’t understood a thing. Why?
Had I not opened up? Had he not listened?
“What were you going to say?” He sat on our bed, shoulders slumped. “Let me
have it.”
“I think you should stay at your Mom’s.”
“Me too.”
“No, I think you should stay there, Justin.”
“What are you saying?”
“I think you should move out.”
He scoffed.
“I think I hate you.”
He smiled up at me, but I turned and walked into the living room, collecting my
wallet and keys from the mess of the coffee table.
“We have one fight and you hate me now? Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes! Exhausting. Poor you!” I was at the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To the grocery. I need a light bulb.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you.” I opened the door, stopped in the threshold. The flowers in the
garden were in full bloom, their scent strong in the humidity. I turned my head and
offered Justin a small smile. “For what it’s worth,” I said, shrugging. “I am sorry.” And
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I looked around the room. The sepia photographs we had developed together, the violet
wall we painted when we moved in, the couches we carried four blocks and dropped
down the stairs on the way up to our apartment. Cursing at each other, laughing, and
finally we left it at the foot of the stairs and drained Coronas on top of it, our feet
dangling over the edges like we were at home. He could have it all, all the furniture and
art and photographs. Do breakups make relationships dwindle so severely until all that
remains is unwanted furniture?
I looked at him, gave him the silent space to apologize too. He stuffed his hands
deeper in his pockets, obviously uncomfortable, feeling scrutinized. You wear down
everyone in your life. You have to know that, right? When I stepped over the threshold
finally, I shut the door much harder than I meant to. I stood on the other side of the door,
breathing fast, looking around the garden for answers. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to
go back inside to Justin’s unbearable silence. My life is changing, I thought. Right now.
I’ll never see Justin again. The jeans - pulled down to expose his stomach, lined with
little dark hairs. His long, tan arms straight. I blinked, but he was still there, like a
lifelike artwork leaning against my wall.
I unstiffened my legs, walked and walked. I gripped the metal railing as I
descended the steps slowly. I didn’t look back, though I could if I wanted. It was my
apartment after all. Last step.
Where was he? Still standing there? Calling his mom to pick him up? Packing?
Crying? I didn’t know him either.
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I first saw him across the auditorium in Earth Science class. His shoes were up on
the desk, and his chair balanced dangerously on two legs. It was January 28th, the second
week of school. But even though he mastered the I-don’t-give-a-shit posture, he raised
his hand, asked questions, answered with insightful comments. It was a three-hour class
with 150 students. He glanced at me three times and smirked each time, before returning
his attention to Professor Dobson and the lesson. I don’t know what the lesson was. I
wondered if his palms were rough or soft, if grown, his beard would go over his Adam’s
apple. I wanted to smell him when he was sweatiest. He kept adding a new piece of gum
so he was surely a smoker. Was it peppermint? Big Red? I remember the date because
that’s all that was in my notebook that day. My class notes for the 28th don’t exist. We
will be studying for the Earth Science midterm when he discovers the blank page.
“January 28th. Nothing important that day, huh?” I will blush, smile. We will be in his
bedroom, at his mom’s house. Door closed and locked. We’ll sit on top of the flowered
quilt. He’ll kiss me, scatter the notecards to the floor. He’ll move over me, like he’s
flying, and he will touch me deeper than I’ve ever been touched.
When class was over on January 28th, I took my time gathering my books and
things, but he rushed up to the front, shook the professor’s hand, and pushed that loud bar
to go outside. I sighed.
When I got outside, I dug in my bag for my car keys. The sun was in my eyes so
I looked down, into the darkness of my purse.
“What do you think of Earl?”
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It was him. My head began pounding from looking up into the sun. I looked
down and blinked fast. Shit, it was coming. My body ached slightly and the first sharp
pang came.
“Allergic to the sun?”
I sat down in the grass. He didn’t sit next to me, but he moved to make sure he
blotted out the sun at his back.
“You okay?”
“Just a migraine.”
“Want to go back inside? I’m sure Earl wouldn’t mind.”
I would have asked who on Earth was Earl, but I focused on applying pressure to
my temples as the doctor had suggested.
He was smoking a cigarette, as I assumed. He wore light, worn jeans - worn
from actual wear, rather than bought like that, I thought. “Do you have any gum?” I
asked, curious.
“’’Sure do! That helps?”
He was asking about my migraine, but I was thinking in other terms, and I
nodded.
Big Red. I knew it! “I actually don’t like cinnamon-flavored things,” I said.
“What?” He ashed his cigarette on the sidewalk, pocketed the butt, and reclined
next to me on the grass. “I like cinnamon-flavored everything.”
“How will we ever be friends?” I wasn’t making eye contact.
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He took my hand from me and pushed on the space between my pointer and
thumb, a pressure point. He squeezed hard. We stared into each other’s eyes. He looked
me up and down, licked his lips, let go of my hand, and unwrapped a stick of gum. He
chewed loudly. “I don’t want to be your friend.”
The sleeves of my sweater are wet from my tears and snot. After all this time,
over one year now, and still I can sit at the entrance of Verona’s City Hall and see him,
subtly, gently kind, blocking the sun from my eyes, offering me Big Red, massaging the
pressure point on my hand. His faded green shirt with some beer brand printed on the
front, crooked. Oh, Justin, you sexy idiot.
You think I’m blind to the world’s atrocities? Didn’t you hear me crying once a
week in the shower? No. No, you didn’t because I didn’t want to burden you. I don’t
want to burden anyone. My heart beats for others more than myself. It’s a bleeding,
yucky, gushing heart, a heart bigger than my body, bigger than me; and yet, it must live
within me. Oh, yes. I see atrocities. I puke when I read the daily news. I choke back
tears when I have my morning coffee because I know that today someone is in
unbearable pain, physical and otherwise, and I know that there are tragedies everywhere.
I will never say that I suffer more than you because I don’t know your pain, don’t have
words for your pain. I respect that you consider your pain a tragedy, and I don’t question
it. But “bad” and “pain” and “tragedy” - it’s all relative. Your definition of the world’s
greatest tragedy may differ from mine, but can’t we agree that to have to try and define
“tragedy” is itself a tragedy? Forgive me if I don’t talk about it all over afternoon tea, but
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I’d rather fall apart alone rather than argue over the nature of atrocity. Forgive me if
sometimes I must look away - from the news, from the sad film, from the paper, from
you and your pain and your heartache - forgive me, but it hurts so bad. So bad. My
heart gets heavier, sinks a little more, and don’t you see? I have a role to play here.
While you judge all the leaders and hate the public for things you stutter to define, I have
a role. Let me play. You play your part; I’ll play mine. My role is this smiling, bubbly,
enthusiastic, fast-speaking, fluttering, hugging, cheek-kissing, loud-laughing, life-loving
blonde. You seem to like it until I somehow make you mad. You see: shallow,
materialistic, happy-go-lucky, blonde. You think, “How can anyone ever be that happy?”
You’re right. No one is always happy. You don’t see: me crying into my pillow, the
pillow I rarely wash because it smells so good, like love, from all the lovers that have
slept beside me. Silk pillowcased because my baby blanket had silk edges that I used to
pet all through my childhood while I fell asleep. My heart bleeds and the blood soars
through my body, but it never seeps out. I keep it all in so that when you, when anyone,
when you’re around me, you get a fucking break. You get to forget about the tragedies,
the pain and atrocities, the injustices at schools and wars in kitchens, battles called
progress, the death tolls, the debt toll, the divorces, the gritted teeth, the lovely, the dying,
the crying, the alone, the trapped, the angry. Don’t tell me I don’t feel enough. All I do
is feel. My body, though, I’ll let it sometimes be a cushion for you. Lie down beside me,
rest your head, that’s it. What’s that? You want one of my lullabies? You prefer when I
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dream and sing and dance and smile? Okay, then, I’ll continue to play my role oh-sohappily. Anything for you.
I like the dirty, bearded, stinking people of the world. I like the people who are
too busy creating, thinking, dreaming, imagining, sculpting, too busy with their passions
to shower or shave. Those are the people for me. I like black-footed men with tired eyes
and hunger-hollowed cheeks. Hygiene? They can’t be bothered with it. They scream
out questions to the universe from mountaintops. They stammer their way through life,
imperfect, but present. They’re real. That’s as real as you can get. And by licking their
salty skin, kissing their bluish eyelids, I am real too. I like to shave my armpits and legs,
sure, but when I find a particularly excellent place to photograph, of course, my body hair
is the last thing on my mind. I want to be surrounded by these crusty dreamers. I want to
howl back at the ocean.
At least an hour had passed, maybe more. The horizon glowed like below us
there was fire coming up for our play. Four-thirty, Nokia flashed then died. I studied the
phone, turned it in my hand. It was so lightweight. People give such importance to these
objects. I suppose it is a relatively cheap way to reach over borders, to talk to people
thousands of miles away - to hear a story, a voice across oceans. I covered the Nokia in
my hands, and I rocked against the door.
Video-man entered the piazza again. He saw me, wriggled his fingers at me.
“Yoo-hoo!” he called.
The man down the steps sat up. He was barking at us - me and Video-man.
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“Cazzo, non posso qualche dorme? Un’ora, no? Qualcosa? Per favore! Un’ora,
dio mio!” Well, I understood sleep and please.
“Ciao, bellina,” Video-man said from the foot of the stairs. I felt trapped and lost
and scared. I felt like a foreigner, like I’ve never felt before. I felt truly homeless.
A police officer circled the piazza. He sped in front of City Hall, came back a
minute later. Video-man rummaged through the trash across the street at the park.
“Dormi, dormi,” he said to the man on the steps.
Yellow lights suddenly glowed from a cafe down the block, kitty comer from the
piazza. I ran down the stairs, slipping twice, but I caught myself and kept going. There
was light! So, it had to be five. I skipped. I made it! I had made it through the night.
The cafe’s door was unlocked, but it seemed empty once I entered. I touched the
stand of peanuts, chips, packages of cookies, magazines. It was like an American gas
station on a slow highway.
“Hello?” I said softly.
Footsteps. Footsteps on stairs, coming down, coming near. A man came out of
the space next to the soda machine, yawning. He just stared at me in his pajamas.
He moved behind the counter, opened the cash register and began counting the
money. “We don’t sell donuts,” he said.
“You speak English!” I walked up to the counter so he moved away, hiding the
money. I stopped.
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“Trentotto, trentanove...why are you all so surprised by that? Someone must
speak so we can communicate—and profit from you, of course.”
“You speak very well,” I said. “I’m Codi.” I waved my hand in the air.
“What time is it?”
“I don’t know. Last time I checked, it was 4:30, but my phone died after that.”
“I’m not quite open yet.”
“I’ll wait.”
He raised an eyebrow, put the money back in the drawer and slammed it shut.
“You want an Americano?”
I looked at him sideways, puzzled. He held up a coffee cup. “Oh, no. I prefer
espresso.”
“Imagine that.”
“I’m studying abroad here. Not here. In Florence.”
“Cream?”
“No, thanks.”
“You came to Verona alone?”
“No, my.. .friends are here too. They’re at the Best Western.”
“Ah, so you’re the early riser.”
“Not really. I haven’t slept yet. I stayed out on the streets.”
“How old are you?”
“That’s why I was so excited to see your lights come on. You own it?”
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“So I guess the espresso’s on me then.”
“I can afford coffee. Just not a hotel.”
He pushed my hand away. “Keep your money.”
I wasn’t going to argue. “I always tell everyone that people are really good, deep
down.”
The door opened. It was the officer that had been circling City Hall. “Ciao,
Luigi,” the officer said. They conversed. The officer looked at me often. He asked
Luigi something, nodding at me, and Luigi shrugged. Silence followed. The police
officer said something loudly to Luigi.
Luigi looked at me, wiped a dirty dry cloth over the clean bar top. “He wants to
know if you like Verona.”
“Si,” I said, nodding and smiling.
It wasn’t the best espresso, but I hid my grimace.
The officer said something else to Luigi. They held uncomfortable eye contact
then the officer repeated himself, faster this time.
Luigi didn’t look at me. He picked at his nails. “He wants to know if you’ve ever
seen the sunrise at the river in Verona.”
“No.” I shook my head. “No. It’s my first morning here.”
The officer smiled at me, revealing half-rotted teeth.
I looked back to Luigi.
“He would like to take you. To see the sunrise.”
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“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“On his motorcycle?”
“It’s just a scooter,” Luigi said, quiet.
“Si, si,” I said. I’ll never say no to an adventure.
On the back of the officer’s bike, I realized we wouldn’t be able to communicate
without Luigi. I saw Luigi in the door, his hand shielding like a hat’s visor on his
forehead, but the sun wasn’t even up yet.
The bike wobbled as the officer he pushed off. His movements when he circled
the main square had been careful, but now the tires squealed on every turn. I had the
sinking feeling that he was trying to scare me. He looked back at me, took my hands to
hold him around the waist tighter. The horizon simmered up, a pale yellow, yellowing up
the streets.
When we stopped in front of the river, I got off first. He watched me walk like a
hound watches its prey. He lifted his upper lip to show me his teeth, those half-yellow,
half-brown, jagged teeth.
I waded into the wildflowers next to the street on the soft hill that led to the river.
I ran my hands over the petals. How dirty was this river? Rock River, where I grew up
in Wisconsin, was filthy, but this water looked clearer. Did that mean anything? People
assume transparency is purity.
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“Vieni qui,” the officer said. He stood on the last bit of road in front of the
flowers. “Vieni,” he said again and waved away the gnats from his face.
If I ran, it would probably take me eight or so minutes to make it back to Luigi’s.
The sun rolled up in the sky, a bowl of glow.
I heard the crunch of his boots over the flowers. The sun moves fast, roars away
the night. His breath got closer, heavier. On the hill, I seemed to be face-to-face with the
sun, like it was daring me, like it was a spotlight on me. He slapped his skin, probably
his arm. Probably the gnats.
I smelled his cologne at my back. The crunching steps stopped. I turned slow,
only halfway, so that the sun, my audience, could still see me. In horror films, I always
remind myself that it’s not real. I repeat over and over that it’s only a movie, just a
movie.
He moved his hand toward my face, slow, like a dog, letting me smell him. His
clammy fingers brushed my cheek. I closed my eyes. The sun was bright but not yet
very warm. I tried to feel warmth on my face, but I only felt his hand.
I opened my eyes, tears of repulsion held back. I reached down and grabbed
handfuls of the flowers. Eight minutes is too far, too long, and he has a scooter. I rubbed
my hands together, wrecking the flowers. In America, people would be outside by now,
walking, jogging, smoking. The destroyed flower petals rained down. The police officer
looked surprised but still amused. All I do is run. I took off my sweater, flung it to the
road. You can’t run forever. I tore at my tank top, ripped it down to reveal my bra. The
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officer smiled then looked around. The spotlight shone brighter, and the world shook
away slumber. A car coaxed over the bridge toward us.
“Andiamo,” he said. “OK? Andiamo adesso.”
I shook my head, glaring. I unbuttoned my jean shorts. I had black tights under
the shorts so I peeled down the shorts to my ankles. The car passed slowly, curious. The
officer backed away from me, eyes wide with anger and shock. It wasn’t enough. I
squatted down and pulled at the crotch of my tights. My underwear was black so no one
would be able to see everything. I struck a fingernail into the nylon then ripped a hole in
the tights, and I stood, back slightly bent, a gaping hole at my crotch. “Vieni,” I said,
waving him over. “Vieni qui,” I said again, repeating his words. Another car. The gnats
swarmed close to our ankles and knees. He tripped up the hillside, speed-walking back to
his scooter.
I stayed there, shorts at my ankles.
“Vaffanculo,” he yelled to me.
I stepped out of my shorts, and I ran toward him, screaming. He started his
scooter, glared back at me, and left. I dropped to my knees, breathing loud. A woman
with a stroller turned around, avoiding me. I let myself slip down the hill. I gripped the
flowers, ripped off the flower heads. I collected myself then, turned to face the sun.
Clouds passed in front of her, but she continued to blaze strong. Besides the rumbling
sporadic cars on the bridge, it was silent. A part of me feared the officer would return
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and beat me. He could’ve arrested me in America for indecent exposure or disorderly
conduct. But in Italy, he would be humiliated by his peers.
If I worried about everything that could go wrong, I would live less. I wouldn’t
compromise on that. I walked up the hill, found my shorts in the street. I rolled down
my tights, standing half-naked but unashamed. I pulled up my shorts, rummaged in the
weeds for my sweater and yanked it to be longer, to cover me more. I looked at the sun,
grateful for the light, grateful night had come and gone. I headed back toward the piazza.
Luigi’s was closed. I knocked, but it was dark inside and locked too. Others tried
the door and cursed. I felt ashamed. I felt stupid. Where was he? Why did he close
early? Shit. I was such a baby. I didn’t even know Luigi. And yet, what? I was lonely
so I wanted to see him/someone/anyone. I wanted company. I wanted Darcy. I wanted
her to tell me I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t wrong, it was okay to get on that bike - “He was an
officer. How could you have known what he would do?” But I knew the invitation to
see the sunrise at the river wasn’t totally innocent. I knew it’d be an adventure and that’s
what I wanted, above all else. Things won’t always go the way you plan; people are not
always good. Adventures can be dangerous. Luck is not real.
I had walked to the Best Western without really thinking, like a domesticated
animal returning home by memory for water, food, love.
“Welcome,” the man at the counter said, a cascading fountain at his back.
“I...” I cleared my throat. “Good morning. My friends...”
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He smiled. “Sure. You may head up to their room or wait here in the lobby if
you like.”
There were plush chairs in blues, violets, and maroon, arranged around glass-top
tables with fake flowers bunched in bright vases. I pointed to the chairs, and he nodded,
returning to his computer and clicking.
I almost moaned as I sat heavily into a plush, blue armchair. I brought up my
feet, smoothed my bare legs. I could use a shave. Later, I’d ask where to find a place to
buy tights.
“Codi!” It was faint, in the background. It was a happy sound, familiar, cheerful.
I blinked awake, seeing the plastic flowers. I sat up fast, too fast. My head went
light and dizzy.
“You’re here,” Lindsey said, smiling.
There was drool crusted on the side of my mouth. A wet spot was on the chair.
I wanted to ask the time, but I couldn’t think. They looked so beautiful, so wellrested. I wanted to hug them. “You’re beautiful,” I said, groggy.
They laughed together quietly. “So are you,” Lindsey said.
“How was last night? Were you drinking out there?”
And the separation between us came flooding back. They smiled, anticipating my
answer. Last night washed over me: waves of shame. What was I trying to prove last
night? I was testing myself, that much I knew, but did I pass or fail? What was the test?
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They exchanged glances, shrugged then sat in the chairs next to me. I wanted to
know what it would feel like - 1 wanted to experience a night on the streets - 1 wanted an
adventure. I sat forward, touched the flowers. Perfection is overrated.
“I watched the sunrise from the river,” I said, focusing on the flowers.
“Ooh,” they said, leaning forward.
“There’s a small hill right there, covered in wildflowers.”
“Beautiful,” Michelle said.
“We should go,” Lindsey said. “We can rent bikes again and go!”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter after 11,” Lindsey said. “I need to check out. Sorry you had to wait on
us. That gentleman said you had to wait over twenty minutes on us!”
I looked over at him. His eyes were rimmed in red, his lips chapped. He didn’t
look back at me. I must have slept there for four, five hours.
Lindsey and Michelle went to the counter, and I stretched briefly, meeting them at
the door.
“Thank you,” I said to the man. The phone rang.
“Buongiomo. Thanks for calling Best Western Verona,” he said into the receiver,
but his eyes stayed on me, smiling.
We walked toward the piazza. I felt like I’d lived there for months.
“What a beautiful city,” Michelle said, just like she’d said yesterday.
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We were just across the street from Luigi’s. The lights were on. I turned and
walked into the street. Cars screamed.
“Someone really needs coffee,” Michelle said behind my back. “Wait up!” They
waved to the cars as they followed me.
I marched in, directly to the counter. A younger man was at the register. My
shoulders fell.
“Tre espressos,” Lindsey said, giggling.
“Per favore,” Michelle added.
Behind the silver fridge with the cold drinks, Luigi emerged. He glared at me,
made the espresso, slamming them down on the counter. He walked around the bar,
untying his apron.
“Grazie,” the girls called, tapping their small cups together and saying, “Cheers!”
Luigi walked past me and out the door. I followed him outside. The girls made
“ooh” sounds behind me.
He paced outside in the shadow cast by his building. “You’re okay.” It was
somewhere between a question and a statement.
“Yes.” What to say?
He shook his head. “Americani.”
Shame, anger, pain took up the space in my chest cavity. “I came back,” I said.
“It was locked. The lights were off.”
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He stopped pacing and faced me. The wrinkles around his eyes matched the ones
around my father’s. “I was at the river. I was at the river, looking...” He began pacing
again. “I found... I was looking... I found...”
Oh no. My tights. “Nothing happened,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter! It could have, don’t you see? Anything could have
happened.”
He was right, but why was he getting so parental now, after anything could have
happened?
“You could have warned me.”
He pointed a long finger at my face. “No! You are an adult. You have your
freewill - you can make your own decisions. And what could I say? I am a stranger!
You don’t know me. You don’t know Italy, you don’t know Verona. You don’t know
anything!” He was breathless.
Lindsey and Michelle spilled out the door. “We asked for your espresso to go,”
Lindsey said, handing me the small, unlidded cup.
I took it.
“Who’s this?” she asked.
Luigi put up his hand and walked back into his shop. I threw away the cup at the
can next to us. “I’m not thirsty.”
“Do you know him?” Lindsey whispered.
“I met him earlier.”
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“It’s such a beautiful day,” Michelle said. Lindsey continued to look at me,
waiting.
“I just owed him. He made me an espresso earlier, and..
Lying was easier than
telling the truth. They didn’t know me, they wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t look at
me the same. “And I left without paying. It was early. Busy, you know. Police officers
getting their morning coffee.”
“Just like in America!” said Michelle.
“Exactly. And I was tired, you know, so I just walked out, not thinking. So yeah,
he was pretty mad.”
“What did he say?”
“Hm? Oh, he made me pay double.”
“That’s fair,” Lindsey said. “People seem pretty cool and reasonable around
here.”
“Yeah, I love Verona!” Michelle said.
“I love Italy!” they said in tandem.
I nodded as we walked on. I was on the inside, Lindsey closest to the street. I felt
so protected next to the buildings and shops and cafes, even sandwiched between those
girls. There was safety in numbers and in daylight. My ears burned, paranoid that the
officer crept behind us, following me. The sun burned down, radiating from all sides,
even up from the sidewalk. So much hot concrete, so much hot light.
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I survived. Let me not forget. I’m a survivor. I made it through last night, and
I’m still me.
“I want to go to Guilietta’s today,” Lindsey said.
Compared to the day before, I rode slow, pedaling carefully behind them as we
bicycled through the narrow streets to Guilietta’s house. There was a line wrapped
around the brick block, people licking envelopes, finishing letters, praying out loud for
love.
While the girls scrapped their letters and started again, revising and rewriting, I
wandered up to the gift shop. The workers were frantic because they had sold out of
Romeo and Juliet in English. It was only Friday so they wouldn’t have any more copies
until Monday, I heard them explain to angry customers over and again. I picked up As
You Like It, a title that pulled me immediately. I flipped to a random page and read: “All
the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” I thought about that.
The world as a stage. I remembered the sun, how I convinced myself it was a spotlight. I
bought As You Like It.
On our bikes again, we rode on the other side of the river. “TATTOO” flashed to
my left. I braked. “Stop!” I called, and the two of them almost fell by stopping so fast.
There are moments of serendipity in this world, in this life. That officer tried and
failed to mark me, but aren’t I the only one who can mark me?
The artists smiled when we entered, books in hand to show us designs, but I
pushed the books away and asked for paper. They shook their heads, not understanding.
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I motioned with my hand like I was writing. One of the men brought me a roll of receipt
paper and a sketchbook, handing me a calligraphy pen.
I wrote, “All the world’s a stage.” No, it should be bigger. I crossed it out, wrote
it again. They all watched over my shoulder. Perfect. I gave the artist a thumbs’ up,
pointed at the writing then at my left side, just below my breast and on my ribcage.
“OK,” he said, nodding.
I wiggled my fingers at him, the universal sign for money, and he wrote next to
the crossed-out quote, 150 Euro.
I didn’t have any tattoos, but that seemed steep for five words in my own
handwriting. I shrugged and nodded. He copied my handwriting onto a clear sheet like a
sticker. He nodded for me to follow him to the back room.
He lifted up my shirt, but left my bra where it was, cleaning the skin with alcohol,
but the fabric kept falling, slipping down. His hands were warm, but his fingertips were
ice cold. He frowned.
I backed away slightly and lifted my tank top over my head, sitting in front of him
in my black bra. It wasn’t lace or push-up or anything fancy, just plain black, but I was
lucky because my breasts were large with ample cleavage but still perky.
He blinked and turned back to the alcohol and cotton balls. The room was
hospital-white, but the curtains were red velvet. We were strangers alone in such a small
space.
“Ti piace Verona?”
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“Si.” My voice was hoarse from the lack of sleep and dehydration too.
He nodded. “Qui?” he asked, with the sticker near my bra strap on my side. I
wanted it higher, closer to the breast. I would be in complete control of who saw this, my
life philosophy, and he would be the first to see it, to touch it, to co-create it. He sat on
the short wheely stool, patient. His eyes were light hazel, pale green near the pupil then
brown. His hair, thick stalks of dreads, like Paul’s. I unclasped my bra from behind me
and let my breasts spill out of the constraint. My nipples were hard and red. He didn’t
look away.
“Qui,” I said and took his hand to touch the soft, sensitive skin just under my
breast on my left side.
He nodded and began cleaning again. I tried to sit as tall as possible, the best
posture. My nipples hurt from being so hard. His cold fingers grazed the fold of my
breast.
He apologized and moved his hand.
My body moved closer to his with my next breath, involuntarily. It was like my
nipples were pointing at him, daring him. Maybe he should stand. His face was right in
front of my breasts - did the stool have only one height?
He tapped the top of the cot lightly to signal I should lie down.
I wondered what his chest looked like under his black t-shirt. I had the odd urge
to feel his chest hair.
He prepared the needle and ink. “Solo nero?”
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“Si.”
He stretched my skin with his cold fingers, and then the needle pushed into my
skin. It felt like sharp heat. It seemed to tattoo my ribcage, but I was silent, unmoving. I
stared at his steady hand.
“OK?” and I nodded.
“Quasi finite,” he said, which sounded like finished. I breathed softly while the
needle, metallic heat, struck again.
He pushed back and the wheels of the stool rolled loud over the floor. I sat up
again, slow. He handed me a small round mirror. It was my handwriting, exactly as I’d
written it. It was done. The pain was over.
He held up his finger then drew a line in the air.
“Another coat of ink?” I asked. “Again?”
He nodded.
I sucked in a breath with my mouth open. “Okay,” I said.
“Va bene. Un momento,” he said and sat against the counter, removing his
gloves.
He turned fast and reached for my bra, holding it out to me.
I bit my bottom lip. “That’s okay,” I said, shaking my head no.
He put it delicately on the counter and moved to me, touching near the tattoo. I
couldn’t hear Lindsey or Michelle. I had forgotten about them completely. How much
time had passed? There wasn’t a clock on the walls.
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“Bella,” he said, his face next to my skin. He looked up at me, the whites of his
eyes showing, the green more noticeable in his eyes.
I moistened my dry lips. I really needed water.
He stood over me. I sat even taller, inched to the edge of the cot, opened my legs
just a bit. He moved between them. I tilted my face up, let my bottom lip fall. He
leaned down, bit my bottom lip and my nipples grew even harder. He kissed me gently.
I breathed into it, arching my back, my breasts rising. He touched them, rubbed my
nipples with his thumbs in circles, then bent down, kissing my breasts. “Bella, bella,” he
said. I said down on the cot, dizzy. He looked at me, desire burning in his cheeks. He
bit his lips, leaned against the counter.
I steadied my breathing and stood and pushed him harder against the counter. He
picked me up, spun me and sat me down on the counter. I stood to undo the zipper of my
shorts. I kicked them across the room and sat back down on the counter in my black
underwear. He stepped back, bit the knuckles of his pointer finger, then moved forward
fast. I reached down his pants. He pulled my underwear to the side, wiping his cold
fingers over me, and I pulled him close, closer, and he entered easily. He put his hand
over my mouth, moving gently though quickly. I neared orgasm already. I arched my
back, fighting it back so we could come together, but it was no use. I screamed into his
hand, biting down on the flesh of his palm. As he finished, I smiled over his shoulder. A
stage, indeed.
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Chapter 12
We got back to Florence and immediately had to pack and prepare for the school
trip to Rome. I seemed to be the only one worried about staying up too late. Still, it was
Lindsey’s birthday so even if I went to bed early they’d wake me up when they came
home. I had been working in the library, translating Dante, trying to write poetry myself.
It was late and I’d gone without coffee the whole day. Friday nights in Florence are
typically busy, and I dipped into an alley to avoid the crowds. I felt my skin prickle with
the beginnings of panic, but I kept my arms crossed over my chest and walked forward
fast, briskly, so no one could stop for idle talk. I heard the inevitable ciao-bellas, but I
didn’t make eye contact. If I could just find a landmark, one of the other apartment
buildings the school used, a school building, something familiar, I could turn myself
easily around, orient myself, and find this secret bakery. Our Nokia phones were limited,
batteries dying after a whole night of charging. But the last text had been that: to meet
them at the infamous secret bakery. I’m still not sure exactly what this bakery is up to,
with its late hours (3-6am with extended hours on the weekends from 2:30-6:30am). The
text from Michelle was only two incomplete sentences. “Secret Bakery. Via Torta.”
I had marveled at the cute location, a bakery on Cake Street, and I wondered
which came first, the bakery or the street. I remembered seeing the street sign, not a sign
on a pole, but a tile flattened into the side of a building. The building was a faded cream.
Tall, but not the tallest building. I was racking my brain, trying to recall exactly where
I’d seen the words Via Torta. Ahead, the alley opened up to a courtyard with bright light.
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I hiked up my backpack straps and hurried toward the light, smiling stupidly. It was one
of the busiest squares, Santa Croce, the one with the statue of Dante.
When I had studied Shakespeare in Cambridge, I was always feeling whole with
the universe, like mini miracles were sprouting that summer. I would study King Lear in
the morning, meet a man and discuss our daddy issues over tea in the afternoon, then
stumble upon a garden performance of the play in the thick of the university’s vast land.
It was as though everything in life came together. Moments grew into days, and days
into lessons. I felt close to Shakespeare in an absurd way, a way I could never articulate
when I’d returned to the States. And here, I devour Dante in his homeland until the
library kicks me out. I find myself lost, and lost is lost, whether in a forest, a dream, or a
city you don’t know well, until I see light at the end of an alley, and I stand before a
statue of Dante. My first thought was that his feet were just like my feet, and all that he
created, he created with words. So simple and yet masterful. I almost kneel on the stairs
below him, but I feel eyes on me. I look at my Nokia and see it’s just past midnight. Of
course, people are looking; it’s not exactly everyone’s ideal time for sightseeing. But I
stare back up at Dante with the strange desire to ask him what he’s thinking. I shiver,
swipe my hands over my bare arms. Couples are making out, teenagers are racing on
their bikes around the piazza, and then I see him. I continue to scan the crowd. No one
else pays any attention to me. Just him. I look away. The stairs are littered with
students, local and foreign, sharing smokes and plastic cups, locking eyes and lips,
laughing, roaring, talking over the mess, and vendors come through with beer and roses
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and light-up toys. What does he wantl I feel his eyes so I turn to face him, to look at
him too, glare at him so he gets the idea and moves along.
He smirks, one-half of his lips curve into a smile, and his eyes match my glare.
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t fidget. It is a warm June night, but he wears a deep hunter
green sweatshirt with fitted jeans and yellow Converse sneakers. The sweatshirt is rolled
up to his elbows and I find myself squinting to try to read the faded white lettering. He
crosses his arms over his chest, hiding the letters, and now he is all smirk, but his head is
tilted down, chin toward chest, eyes still narrowed. The panic I felt in the alley is back,
but this time it’s a welcome panic, adrenaline and anxiety, and something I feel often, but
never this strong: lust. Another shiver hits me, and I know I’m not cold but scared. He’s
dangerous, I tell myself. He’s exactly the kind of guy to stay away from. You know the
type. The ones that know how to look at you, just look, and you’re shivering in June.
I’ve read about those guys, I’ve heard the horror stories. I shake my head and turn on my
heel. No way, I think. Not me. I’m not losing myself for a guy.
I walk away from the church, and I try to walk fast, but there are so many drunks
to dodge and sidestep. I take a deep breath, uncross my arms from chest, and let my arms
drop at my sides. I think I hear a guttural laugh behind me, and I’m curious, but I keep
walking. Then someone grabs my wrist, grabs me hard. I whip around, my other hand
mid-air to backhand - it’s him. He takes my other hand too. The glare is gone. He
smiles.
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“Dance with me,” he says in Italian. And so we dance. This moment goes by so
quickly, my mind doesn’t process my thoughts. Instead, my mouth hangs open in protest,
but I say nothing. I go left when he goes left, right when he goes right. I move where he
moves me. I am angry. I am excited. He smiles at me, but not exaggerated like we
Americans smile; he smiles with a closed mouth, like he is in control of himself, like
maybe he is caged, repressed, and I look closer. Something is sad in his eyes and then he
looks away. His sweatshirt says Milano and two words below that are scratched away.
When I look up again, he holds my gaze, no smirk, no glare. I hear none of the Friday
noises, just my heart pounding in my chest. He releases his hand from my side, loosens
his grip on my hand as if to let me leave. But I move him this time, right, left, and I take
his hand and twirl under it, wrap myself in his arm. Of course, in my memory, it’s like a
movie; but people were around us, strangers cursing at us, not making room for our
romantic waltz. His friends hooted at us while they ashed out their cigarettes against
Dante and spit on the steps of the church.
We didn’t speak. I was afraid he didn’t speak English, and I knew my Italian was
broken and my accent was off. We spoke through this dance instead. He kept pushing
his pelvis forward to lead me, taking the small of my back, and I simply pushed back,
leading him before I submitted and let him lead again. We took turns leading, and when I
felt like twirling, I didn’t wait for him to twirl me, I moved away and I spun. A couple of
times, I lost his hand, his finger slipped from my grip, so I reached both hands up, that
summer scent of sweat all around me and I spun. I tilted my head back, I felt my
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bandana slip and fall off, but I just smiled up at the night, the gold lights over the piazza
looked like they were bleeding into each other the faster I spun, the brightness spilling
into the darkness. I stopped. I was so dizzy, drunk from the dancing, dazed by the night.
I steadied my body, my eyes. I didn’t see him, and my heart sank. So what if he was
dangerous; I wanted to make the decision. A dog came up and sniffed my feet. One of
the straps of my sandal had broken. I almost cried. Was that all he really wanted? One
dance? Wasn’t there more to all of this? Hadn’t that dance been a metaphor for life?
“Do you want my shoes?” he asked in English. He stood next to me, smiling,
hands in his pockets. “They are bigger than you and sweaty too, but they are yours if you
want.”
I smiled and shook my head. “That’s okay.”
“Let’s talk?” And he turned and walked to the steps of Santa Croce. I limped
behind him, not picking up my right foot, for the sandal would fall off completely if I did.
We sat away from the Dante statue, where it was too overpopulated. He
smoothed the step with his foot. “Clean,” he said and plopped down. Then he patted
next to him, and I sat, where I immediately began playing with the strap of my sandal.
He gave out a small laugh.
“What?” I asked without looking up.
“Nothing, nothing.”
Then I realized I was being rude. I stretched my foot far down the stairs so I
couldn’t reach it easily. I nodded to his sweatshirt. “Is that where you’re from?”
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He nodded. “Near there.”
“Where?”
“Milano.”
“But where exactly?”
“A small town called Varese.”
I nodded.
“And you?”
“Chicago,” I said. I shifted to face him better. “Well, that’s what my whole
family says. ‘Chicago.’ But we’re really more from Wisconsin at this point. We used to
be from Illinois. On both sides, my mom and dad both grew up in Chicago, but not me,
not really. Still, everyone says Chicago. I guess because it’s easy. No one knows
Wisconsin very well, you know. But Chicago is a good train ride away from where we’re
from so.. .1 don’t know. I should stop saying Chicago. Maybe in Italy it’s okay because,
like, it’s all relative when you’re this far. Like I could just say I’m from the Midwest,
and it’s all the same.” I took a breath. “Wisconsin. I’m from Wisconsin.”
He was nodding and smiling with raised eyebrows.
“But I was bom in Chicago.”
“I see.”
“And all of my family’s from Chicago.”
“Yes, you said.”
“I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”
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“No, no,” he said. “How long are you in Florence?”
“Just a semester. I came early, though, to spend the summer here first. A lot of
students did that. To explore and travel more. We’re taking language classes too. Or, I
am. I’m taking Italian.”
“Oh? And what do you think?”
“Of Italian? I think it’s hard! It’s beautiful, a really beautiful language. But it’s
hard. There are so many rules.”
He laughed. “You don’t like rules?”
“How did you learn English? You speak so well?”
“Everyone learns in grammar school. I’ve been studying for many years. I’m
still studying. You can help me.” He didn’t look away while he spoke; he held that same
intense eye contact during conversation.
“I don’t think you need help. You’re fluent.”
“Be patient with the Italian,” he whispered. “You’ll get it.”
“How do you know?”
“English has many rules too, but you’re doing okay with that.”
I rolled my eyes. Then I reached for my Nokia. “Oh my god,” I said.
“Is everything okay?”
My phone was dead. “What time is it?” I had probably missed Lindsey’s whole
party.
He flashed his phone to me: 1:23.
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“Shit,” I said. “I have to go.”
He watched me curiously as I stood and walked down the stairs, tripping on the
last step. My sandal slipped under and around my foot. I kicked the shoe off and undid
the other strap too. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to find Via Torta.”
He moved like a beast, moving rapidly down the steps to meet me, swooping
down to pick up my sandals and hovering over me. “I’ll walk you.” His breath was in
my hair.
“Okay, but we have to run.”
He took my hand. “This way,” he said, and we sprinted down a dark but well
kept alley.
Via Torta had many broken lampposts, making the street particularly dark.
“You must be cold,” he said, and I realized I was. He peeled off his sweatshirt
and handed it to me.
“We’d hear them,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m a terrible friend.”
“Who?”
“My roommates. It’s one of my roommates, Lindsey’s birthday.”
“You’re not a bad friend. They’ll understand.”
“I have to go home.”
“Do we have to run there too?”
“We can walk.”
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I didn’t want to talk, but he didn’t shut up for the next five minutes. He told me
that he never liked Milan or the south very much, though he hadn’t seen much of the
south. He said he had been in Florence for two years for university, and he had two years
left.
“It’s good you’ll be here in the fall, but you must spend a spring in Florence too.
It’s my favorite season, especially here.”
“Hmm.”
He took my hand. “You’re not a bad friend.”
I stopped and pulled my hand away. “Stop touching me so much.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You can’t just do that. You can’t just grab my wrist. Who does that? That was
very aggressive.” I pointed behind us in the direction of the square. “You can’t just take
whatever you want. That’s not how things work.”
He nodded, narrowed his eyes again, and inched closer and closer to me. “Isn’t
it?”
“No!” I said. His face an inch from mine. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “How should I get what I want then?”
“Use your words, you barbarian,” I hissed, but I was smiling.
“Ti voglio,” he said. I translated in my head: I want you. “Ti voglio adesso.”
He was whispering, his lips nearing my ear.
“I have to get home.”
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“Ti voglio.” He looked me in the eyes then looked over my face. He cupped my
face in his hands and he kissed me on the lips, hard, slow, tasting me. He bit my lower
lip, kissed me again, then he pulled away and we locked eyes like we did in the piazza.
He pushed me against the brick wall next to us, my tank top barely concealing me against
the cool bricks, but he was warm. His kisses were passionate, but not too wet. He kissed
down my neck, along my throat, my ear, back to my cheek, my lips.
“Rosa?” A vendor pushed a rose toward us. It was a deep red, like it was
dehydrated, and the petals were limp; I didn’t smell its perfume.
“Do you want a rose?” he asked me, chewing his lower lip.
The vendor looked so happy and eager, and I wanted to keep the smile on his
face, at least for this moment. “I do,” I said, smiling at the vendor. “I love flowers.”
“Due per cinque euro,” the vendor negotiated, and I shrugged and nodded.
As we continued down the road to my apartment, he said, “I’ve never bought
flowers for a girl.”
“Is that all I am to you?” I teased.
He tried to grab my waist, but I raced ahead.
“I got what I wanted,” I said, waving the roses over my head, laughing into the
empty street. At the door of the apartment, he leaned against the wall, catching his
breath.
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I fumbled with the key in the lock then pushed the door open with my hip. The
ground floor was just mailboxes and the elevator shaft. He started up the stairs. “It’s the
fifth floor, and there are no lights on the stairs,” I said.
“And here I thought you were adventurous!” He began running up the stairs in
the dark, and so I closed the elevator door and ran up behind him, whispering up loudly.
I didn’t hear his footsteps anymore so I stopped. “Hello?” I called into the dark. I looked
down and I could see the ground floor’s light and the elevator’s faint glow at the bottom.
Then he whispered from a flight above me: “I want you a lot.” I started running again,
and I heard him move too.
“It’s the next floor,” I said. “Slow down!”
He was against the door. “This one?” he said, barely out of breath.
I panted and nodded. “Whew, I’m not used to those stairs yet.”
“Spend the spring here too?”
I was quiet and it was dark so he moved his hands to my face. He felt my cheeks
raised into a smile.
“It’s so beautiful. You’d love it.”
“How do you know?”
“Who’s there?” Michelle said, and I heard the bolts coming undone. “Codi? Is
that you?”
“It’s me, ‘Chelle,” I said.
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She opened the door first then flicked on the light near the door. “Oh,” she said,
and her frown quickly moved into curiosity. “Hell-o.” I watched her eyes move over
him, and I felt a pang of jealousy.
“Ciao,” he said.
She looked at me with shock. “Who’s your friend?”
I started to answer then stopped. Oh my god, how hadn’t I asked him his name?
How hadn’t we exchanged names? I looked to him, mouth open, eyes wide.
“Roberto,” he said, looking at me and smirking. “Do you have slippers in here?”
he asked me. Then to Michelle: “We were dancing in the piazza at Santa Croce and her
sandals broke.” He held up my shoes.
“I didn’t know there was a club there,” she said.
“Do you want some water, wine?” I asked him.
“We drank all the wine,” Michelle said, finally moving out of the door to let us in.
“You missed the party, but Lindsey won’t know the difference. She was trashed by
6pm.” She was picking up the toilet paper streamers. She stopped. “How do you know
him? How do we know he’s not a serial killer or something?”
“Michelle!”
“You don’t,” he said. “I can go.”
I glared at her, ironically the way I’d glared at him earlier. She shrugged. “Better
walk him out. Nice to meet you, Fabio.”
“Roberto,” I said, too loud.
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“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Hurry back up. You can at least help me clean this
place up.”
We called the elevator. He took out his phone and handed it to me. “Give me
your number.”
I typed in my name then looked up. “I don’t know my number here.”
He laughed.
I ran inside and grabbed a piece of notebook paper. He wrote his number on it. I
folded it up and stuffed it deep into my jean pocket. I got into the elevator with him. It
shuffled and scuttled down, but he didn’t react like us girls always did, shrieking and
giggling.
“Do you want to go back to Santa Croce?” he asked.
In the dim light on the ground floor, I tried to read his eyes to discern if “Santa
Croce” had become a code. He looked innocent enough, for him. “I can’t,” I said. “I
have to be up early tomorrow. We’re going to Rome.”
“What will I do without you?” He grabbed my hands.
I laughed. “So dramatic.”
“When can I see you again?”
“When I get back?”
He nodded. “Are you tired?”
I shook my head no.
“We could get a drink.”
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Another code? I shook my head anyway. “I should get some rest.”
“Just another minute,” he said. He sat on the top of the three short steps that led
to the elevator. “Sit with me for a minute.” We kissed again, heavier this time, deeper,
slower. His hands wandered softly, slowly, but with definite intentions. I moved to
straddle him, rocking over him, and he tore off my shirt, kissed my collarbone and chest,
gripped my breasts within my bra. “You’re so beautiful,” he said into my cleavage.
I leaned back. “Who are you talking to there, mister?”
“You. All of you. You’re so beautiful.”
I wanted him too. I wanted to feel all of him, taste all of him. I wanted to see him
naked, exposed. 1 wanted to find his scars and secrets, and I wanted to wake up with him
tomorrow and the next tomorrow to keep that flicker of sadness out of his eyes. Oh, I
wanted him bad. But I was leaving for Rome in the morning, and besides I was on my
period. I pushed away, fixed my hair. He grabbed me again, and we kissed again. He
reached down my jeans, but I pushed his hands away.
When he had leaned in, even the first time, my body shook in response, vibrating
ever so slightly but still visibly quivering. Oh, I wanted him too. And yet, how many
had there been before him?
I pulled back. There had been at least twenty. I was only twenty-two. No, there
were more. My god, I tallied them up once more. I had slept with exactly twenty-two
men. My age and partners were the same, shit. It was in that moment that the desire was
replaced by fear. I felt truly scared. I scared myself. It was true that I was insatiable, but
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I hadn’t even lost my virginity until I was eighteen so that means that in just one year
after my two-year relationship with Justin - from the ages of nineteen to twenty-one - 1
had slept with twenty men! I could hear my singsong voice ringing, “I do what I want! I
think I’ll sleep with someone from every country!” That was in England. London.
Summertime. And it felt so liberating to be abroad, to be free from reminders of my
childhood and my immediate past too. It was like the different air gave me permission to
be different too. I had never been on such a long flight before. I was smiling at everyone
on the plane, as if hoping that all of us could acknowledge how we’re in this together,
this experience. Most people smiled back politely before returning to their magazines or
books or handheld electronic devices. The great part about studying abroad is that you’re
not really alone. You know other students that you met in the orientation back at your
home university. So you’re alone and independent, sure, and of course you’re very
worldly, being abroad and all, but you will also see familiar faces soon, and this saves
most from severe homesickness. For me, it’s dangerous territory because I feel overly
confident. I internalize everyone’s anxiety, but I channel it into a show, into
entertainment. I become a show pony because I decide that it’s my sole responsibility to
calm everyone, to make everyone more comfortable, more at home. I tell them stories
until they yawn, ready to sleep, feeling comfortable enough to sleep.
My Dad says I should have been an actor, and my Mom says I should have been a
writer, but no one profession will do. I am a visual learner so the photography mostly
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satisfies me, but I also enjoy poetry, for my mother has been reading to me since before
the words made sense, back when they were just music.
I’m the center of attention, using my sexcapades to make everyone laugh: “So I
call Cody and I tell him, I beg him to come over. ‘Please,’ I whine. I tell him the door
will be unlocked, and he finally agrees. I fix my lipstick and my fishnets, and I ready the
room, lowering the lights. Kyle will be over soon, and Cody will be right on time.”
Their nerves seem to settle as I speak rapid-fire, and we all feel as though we are
at home, sharing stories. It is home, just a new location.
When Roberto leaned in, I knew what he wanted. I wanted it too, of course. I
always want it. But would he still like me if I don’t submit this time? I want him to be
more than another one-night stand, but that would take explaining if I said that. He might
insist on knowing just how many one-night stands we’re talking, and as a new partner,
does he deserve to know?
I didn’t want to lie and say that I was tired, and I didn’t want to fall back on some
unoriginal bullshit excuse like, “I have a headache.”
I stepped back so he stepped back too, and I remember dancing in Santa Croce,
just hours earlier. He knows how to read me. He reads my body.
“Let me take you out,” he says.
Maybe it’s the language barrier, but I’m put off by the way he doesn’t ask, but
almost demands. “I’m busy,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Okay.” He nods. “The night after you return.”
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I’m quiet, considering. Why isn’t he asking when is good for me?
“I need to see you.”
I smile. It’s like I’m in a dream, not me but watching me. Where has all my
game gone? I try to stop my sloppy, telling smile, but it just keeps growing, spreading
over my face, until I let out a giggle. A fucking giggle!
“The next night? I’ll meet you at Lions’ Fountain.”
I frown. Lions’ Fountain is an international pub, and sure it’s a good, central
meeting place for friends, but it definitely doesn’t follow the script of the rom-com
playing in my head. “No,” I say.
He looks confused. God, he even looks cute when he’s confused.
“Come here and pick me up like a gentleman.”
He’s shaking his head, but he’s smiling. “If it pleases you.”
I love this phrase, which he repeats often. I love all of his phrases that sound
slightly awkward, unusual and surprising, when translated. “If it pleases you.” If he only
knew.
When he rings the doorbell, three days later, I am still biting my thumbnail in
matching bra and panties, frowning at all of my clothes, strewn over my bed and floor,
and I’m scrunching my wet hair to give it some body. Where’s the blow dryer, for fuck’s
sake? That’s one of the worst things about living with women, missing clothes and
makeup and blow dryers. That, and how everyone’s menstruation can link, creating one
week of hell each month.
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I hear Lindsey giggling in the foyer. I roll my eyes. Without him in front of me, I
can focus solely on his voice. A deep tenor. And so smoky, I hadn’t noticed. He speaks
quietly with Lindsey. He must be shy. My ear is against the door and then they both fall
silent. My eyes widen. Well, shit, what are they doing? Then the door opens, slams into
my cheek, and I fall over, smacking down the ground, bare skin slapping down the on the
hardwood floor.
“What on Earth?” Lindsey puts a hand over her smiling mouth. “Sorry. I just
came to tell you Fabio’s here.”
I rub my cheek. “Yeah. Thanks.”
She looks me up and down, smirking, then shuts the door, loud, behind her.
Even though I rushed, only blow-drying my hair halfway, and not even bothering
with the tights I planned to wear under my skirt, he still must have waited a solid twenty
minutes for me. When I emerged, though, he stood, not smiling but looking at me with
his usual intensity.
“Hi,” I said.
“Ciao.” And he crossed to me, taking my hand, kissing it, then kissing each
cheek slowly. He lingered after kissing the second cheek, inhaling me.
On the street, I realized I hadn’t brushed my teeth a second time for fresh breath.
I bite down hard and lift my lips over my teeth like I’m at the dentist. My chin is up, near
him. “Do I have anything in my teeth?”
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He smiles, shakes his head. Then he wraps his arm around me. “You,” he says.
“You are absolute trouble, you know. I have been warned about women like you.”
I’m not sure what exactly he means at the time, but I don’t ask. I curl into his
arm.
In the romantic film playing in my mind, Etta James’ “At Last” is playing as we
stroll in the middle of the street, and we’re headed to a vintage-looking cafe that the
tourists don’t know how to find. I imagine that it’s at least two stories, maybe more, and
we have a reservation for the rooftop, and there’s only one table up there. Candles bum
and little bulb lights are strung everywhere, on the railing, the wall, the stairwell,
overhead, and a rose bush grows along the railing, red petals opening, and thick, green
vines coat the neighboring, taller buildings, and we can see the lit up Duomo below, like
it’s a rising sun, and we hear a talented violinist from the street. There will already be
wine on the table - Chianti because it’s from the region, and he will tell me all about
what I’m tasting, the fruity notes and the almost bitter finish, and there will be no menu
because he’s already ordered. I’ll be impressed and he’ll shrug, say, “Well, I would have
prepared even more, but I only had a couple days to plan.” We’ll have three appetizers,
melon and prosciutto, chicken liver pate, and bruschetta, then we’ll split a Florentine
steak topped with sauteed mushrooms. We’ll share a bowl of goat cheese tortellini with a
creamy truffle sauce, and we’ll pick at an arugula salad. We’ll have prosecco and
tiramisu then an after-dinner espresso. I will look at his watch and see that three hours
have passed, and I will laugh, flushed from the two bottles of wine and half-glass of
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prosecco, and we’ll have our first quiet moment of the night, and the candlelight flickers
in his eyes, his deep brown eyes, and I almost blurt out that I want to love him. He parts
his lips like he’s going to say he loves me, or like he’s going to give me the best kiss of
my life. But then we both pick up our champagne flutes, smile, and he says, “To us,” and
my heart pounds when he says “us,” and I nod, and we drink, eyes locked.
He had been talking about Hobbes and philosophy in general while I was
daydreaming, but he suddenly stopped talking and walking, just when I was getting to the
good part of my fantasy.
We were in front of a busy pizzeria. I looked down at his shoes to see if maybe
he had to tie his shoelaces.
“Have you been?” he asked.
“To a pizzeria?” I’m dumbfounded.
“It’s Yellow, the best pizza this side of Florence.”
Florence is so small I didn’t realize it had more than one side, but I don’t argue.
“It’s so...bright,” I say.
He nods. “I thought we could pick up a couple slices and eat in the piazza.” He
smiles. “In front of Santa Croce, where we met.”
Exactly. It’s where we met. Wouldn’t he want to go somewhere else, branch out
a bit? I saw a flash-forward of my life with Roberto: date after date on the steps of Santa
Croce, which is ironic because a week ago, I would have loved the image of countless
dates in that square.
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“I thought it would be romantic,” he says. I love how he rolls his r’s. He’s
wearing dark denim, a black v-neck shirt, leather shoes, and a leather watch. His hair is
thick, dark, and his dark eyes are piercing, intense. Damnit, he really is so cute.
“Fine,” I say, entering ahead of him.
At the counter, he says that we can share a drink if I want. He’s twenty-two, I
remind myself. Yes, we’re the same age, but man-years are different. Like dog years
maybe, but you would have to subtract seven years. He hasn’t traveled outside of
Europe. He probably hasn’t dated much.
“A glass of pinot grigio,” I say. “For myself,” I clarify.
He orders a Negroni.
On the stairs, back in front of the church, he asks me how I like the pizza and I
chug the rest of my wine. “You know,” I say, “I was hoping that we’d have a romantic
evening.”
He scoots closer to me. “Me too.”
“No wonder I’m always disappointed. My stupid imagination.”
He scoots back. “Disappointed?”
I wave my hand in the air. “The pizza’s fine. It’s good.”
He stands, holds out his hand to me.
“Where are we going?” I whine, but of course I’m exhilarated. It’s my favorite
question to ask, after all.
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We stop outside a comer store. “Wait, here,” he says like I’m his puppy, but I
obey. The city is moving. We’re not so unique, I realize painfully. Other lovers are
laughing, arms around each other, and friends stumble down the street in too-high high
heels, telling stories about other cities. He appears with a bottle of Chianti, and I open
my mouth to protest and I’m about to tell him that I actually prefer white wine, but he
puts a finger to my lips, like he’s touched my lips so many times before. “I know,” he
says. “I pay attention. Pinot grigio and no pizzerias.” He waves down a cab. “But this
Chianti is from here.” I smile. It’s like my fantasy!
The taxi flies through downtown, wheels bumping over sidewalks when cars or
pedestrians are in the way, and then we’re going up a steep hill. We turn then zig-zag
like crazy, and I’m sliding in the backseat, no seatbelt because the seatbelts are missing,
and I keep colliding into Roberto, and driver is chain-smoking, ignoring us, and opera
music is blaring. I hear the pop of the cork and now we’re drinking the red wine from the
bottle. It spill as we go over bumps and grooves in the narrowing street, and then we’re
slowing.
“Grazie,” Roberto says, and he opens the door, holding out his hand for me, and
it’s even better than my fantasy. We’re at Piazzale Michelangelo, the famous square with
a panoramic view of Florence. I touch the bronze copy of Michelangelo’s David at the
center of the square. I return to the ledge. We’re above all of the city. I can see the
river, the Amo, and the Duomo and the bridge, the infamous Ponte Vechhio lined with
little shops with musicians gathered in the middle. The music carries, our personal
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symphony. The lights shimmer in the water, lights from the buildings and windows and
lampposts and the stars, so much shimmering light.
He stands behind me, presses against me with his body. He points with my arm.
“Santa Croce,” he says, Chianti-breath, and I shiver like those are the two sweetest words
anyone could ever say.
I twirl away from him.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says. “You’re so gorgeous. I’ve never seen anyone so
pretty.”
I twirl back to him, and we kiss there, and I feel like we’ve found a way to get
away from the city’s chaos, the world’s messiness, and I feel like, in this moment and
forever, we could do anything.
We pass the wine, and he tells me stories about his friends and teachers, his
childhood, he answers everything I’m asking, and he makes me think of philosophy and
theories, and he makes me laugh. When the Chianti dribbles down my chin, he licks it up
then kisses down my face.
I walk to the railing again, back to the edge, and I stand. He doesn’t tell me to be
careful, but he keeps a hand near my leg. He watches me so carefully.
“I think you love me,” I say, drunkenly, but when I look down, he’s serious.
He moves closer to the railing, closer to the edge, closer to me. “I think you’re
right.”
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And then I fall back into his arms, I fall down from the ledge, falling slowly,
softly, and he catches me, swirls me in his arms, my feet are kicking, and he kisses me,
little kisses that trail down my neck, and my eyes are closed, my face to the sky, and we
get another cab. Entering his house is a slur of quiet laughs and fast, tripping feet, and
when I undress, he says we don’t have to, but I say I want to, and when we come, we
come together, and we hold each other all night, and we wake at something like 4am, and
then we do it again, half-asleep, aching for each other’s bodies, and afterwards we both
say, falling back into our separate dreams, we say, whispering, “I love you, ti amo, I love
you.”
When I wake at 7:30, my mind replays the night, my head throbbing like it’s the
worst hangover of my life, but I’ve had much, much more to drink on other occasions and
I never felt like this. Then I remember: “I think you love me.” Oh god. “I think you’re
right.” Oh, no. Surely, it’s not really love. His arm is still wrapped around me. How
did we sleep like this? How does anyone sleep like this? Who am I becoming? I move
slowly, slip out from under his arm, out from under the sexed bedsheets.
I don’t have time for love. I splash my face with ice cold water from the strange
lone sink in the room. Sex is good, sure. Yes, sex is great. But I can’t be in love,
especially when I’m getting so close to my maturity. This is my time! My prime. No,
no, no. I’m so close to discovering key elements about myself. I feel like I could almost
answer any question about me.
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All day, I felt sick. Grimy and guilty. I felt shame, like I was cheating on myself.
And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking of him, those eyes, those kisses, the way he looked at
me and the world, such intensity. And every time I thought of him, I was smiling.
We didn’t have much money. My U.S. checking account was long overdrawn,
and my credit cards had been maxed out in America from impractical Victoria’s Secret
purchases. I wasn’t too proud to ask my parents for money, but I was like a gambler,
needing to spend the money I received right away. They would send $1000, meant to last
me awhile, at least through the month, but I couldn’t let the money sit when I knew these
years were precious and numbered, and a flight to Barcelona was only 450 euro and a
hostel wouldn’t be much. Money in my mind equated to experiences, and I wanted
endless experiences.
I skipped all the way from school to Roberto’s. At least a good ten city blocks. I
called from outside, and he came out in a t-shirt and basketball shorts, very American, but
his dark stubble and stylish Giovanni eyeglasses marked him very Italian. He smiled at
me, and I leapt at him, hugging him close.
“Can I come in?” I asked, already pushing open the door.
He lived in a monk house in the city center of Florence, one block from Santa
Croce, where we met, three blocks from Piazza della Signoria, where the Uffizi museum
is, and five blocks from Republicca, where the year-round carousel is. The only
downsides were the flights of stairs and unkind floor plan of the house. The lone elevator
stayed in one place, as it seemed even more treacherous than the staircases, rocking and
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squawking on every trip, up or down, and slamming to an abrupt, jolting stop, never
aligned with the floor. He lived in the basement, a sort of punishment, since he wasn’t a
student of the monastery. We had to walk up the first flight of stairs at the entrance, then
turn right after the long parlor and walk up to the library, where the lights are all out so
Roberto always flicked his lighter to lead us, then we steered left, walked down three
flights of steep, narrow stairs to the cold basement. He had one room with no window,
but there were tall ceilings, he always pointed out. There was a mattress on the hardwood
floor and a desk in front of the small space heater, and there was a small sink near the
dresser.
I pushed his books off the mattress, and papers scattered on the floor. I sat down
hard, and I smiled up at him.
“What?”
He usually wore contacts. “I like your glasses.”
He sat on the bed too.
“Let’s go to Barcelona,” I said, removing his glasses.
“I have an exam. You know this.” He took the glasses back. “I have to study.”
“You’re always studying.” He laughed. I had just met him five days ago. I
kissed him and put his hands on my breasts.
“When?” he asked between kisses.
I moved to the floor, on my knees, looking up at him. “It’s my birthday.”
“You said November?”
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I unzipped him, shrugging. “Please. An early birthday present. It’s someone’s
birthday, and we should celebrate.”
After he came in my mouth, I left him, flushed and happy in his bed.
As I descended the stairs, I touched my hand to my heart. It was beating fast, and
I realized that what I was experiencing was anxiety. I headed to the market near the train
station, for surely commotion would scare my silly personal anxiety. But no, the anxiety
remained.
Lindsey called, said dinner would be ready in thirty, but I told them to eat without
me. “I’m walking around the market,” I said.
I had always gotten what I wanted by using sex, but Roberto seemed different. I
thought of my parents, cursing them for my relationship issues. My Mom left my Dad
without ever explaining why, to him or to me, and my Dad stayed. He just stayed! He
didn’t follow his wife, the supposed love of his love, and he didn’t follow for me either,
me, who he said made him understand unconditional love.
Was I testing Roberto? My god, I was. I was afraid that no man would follow me
anywhere. Like my Dad, they would all sit back and wave as love packed a U’Haul and
drove away. I wanted to be chased. I should’ve stayed, damnit. I should have stayed at
Roberto’s longer, strutted around in something skimpy maybe, distract him from studying
until he caved, took me in his arms and said, “Fine. Barcelona it is!”
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I was fingering some leather bracelets absent-mindedly. What was I doing? I
shouldn’t have to manipulate someone to be loved the way I want to be loved. Love isn’t
manipulation. I looked around, paranoid, like someone could hear what I was thinking.
It was easy to blame my Mom initially, in the U-Haul, but then I was living with
her every day, seeing how she printed and revised her resumes, how she ironed her work
clothes every morning before making me a full breakfast before school. How could I
blame her, when she was the most immediate loving person I knew and saw on a daily
basis? So, naturally, I began to blame my father. He said I was the best thing in his life.
He told me I would never understand love until I had children of my own. How could he
stand by while we left then? How could he watch as that U-Haul pulled away? I had
looked back. He was able to stand. How could he just stand there? And then there’s
their romantic relationship. They were married. They said that they loved each other
before going to sleep every night. They slept in the same bed. He let us both go; he let
us both leave. I don’t think either of us could forgive him easily.
How far would Roberto go to prove his love? Would he follow me to Barcelona?
Would he follow me anywhere? I thought that it was a sure sign of love, and I was
disappointed when he declined my offer. But I didn’t know, I thought that maybe this
was as good as it got so I planned to go to Barcelona alone and come home to Roberto,
for this home was at least abroad and foreign, and there was love within those walls.
Colorful masks were strung overhead. I took one and tied the ribbon behind my
head, and I looked at myself in the swinging mirror.
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“Ciao, bellina.” He was behind me, in the mirror, wearing a mask too.
I turned so fast. It felt like all of my fears about love dissolved. I kissed him, so
many little kisses, and I lunged toward him, arms tight around his neck. He found me!
He kissed my nose. “Whatever you want, okay? We can go to Barcelona.”
I shook my head and the mask came down. “No, I was being silly. You stay.
Study. I’ll go alone. It will be good for me. Solo trips are good.”
“You’re sure?”
“How did you find me?”
“I went to your house. Lindsey said you were at a market, and I know this is your
favorite.”
He adjusted his mask in the little mirror. “Let’s get them,” he said.
I nodded. “We should have a masquerade!”
The clerk came over. “Due?”
He looked at me and I held up both of my hands. “Ten?” he said, eyebrows
raised.
I nodded happily as he paid. They weren’t cheap.. .maybe I was still testing him.
We ran down the skinny streets of Florence, our masks still on, the bag of the
other masks slapping the sides of buildings when we turned comers too fast. It began to
sprinkle and the clouds made it appear later than it was, darker than it was. The streets
looked water-logged, the lights reflecting the rain-stained cobblestones. We paused
against the gates of the library, panting, sucking in each other’s breaths.
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“Let’s go home,” he said in my ear, and I swooned. Home. I didn’t think I’d
known one.
The next morning, he woke up three hours later than me, at 9am. I had already
made two guest lists for our masquerade, I had booked my flight and hostel for
Barcelona, and I had finished my homework for the week.
“Buongiomo,” I said.
“Good morning.” He smiled.
I handed him my cup of coffee, hoping he was silently noting how I could share.
“So I can really move in?”
He nearly spit out the coffee.
“I like my roommates and all, but I’d rather live with you.”
“We should, yeah, uh, you know.”
“You said ‘home’ last night.” I sounded so desperate, oh my god. “Never mind,
sorry. I’m going for a walk.”
Autumn in central Italy is fresh and sunny. I stopped in front of Yellow, and I
thought of our first date. I pictured a messy bathroom with those rough, short beard hairs
lining the drain, and I thought, “I can do this.” I really thought that. “I can do this.”
Like how normal people think of exercise routines or diets, I was deciding I could love
and live with the opposite sex for an extended period of time.
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Pizzas were slid from metal sleeves onto tables, in the center of family gatherings,
and servers moved gracefully but quickly, uncorking bottle after bottle of red wine, and
they all avoided each other, turning and walking briskly, moving musically.
I called Roberto. “Do you remember our first date?”
Soft laughter. “That was less than a week ago. Hey, listen--”
“I know, you think I’m crazy.”
“Bella, please...”
A server swirled around another server to avoid two pizzas crashingtogether. “I
don’t know, maybe I am crazy. Maybe I like that I’m crazy.”
“Okay, but--”
“But I think I’m ready.” I turned my back to Yellow, to those beautiful everyday
dancers. “I know it’s soon, but I meant what I said last night. Do you think it’s possible?
I really think I love you.”
“Amore,” he said, softly, calmly. “Come home.”
He had cleaned and cleared out two drawers for me by the time I came back from
my walk. Maybe we were both crazy.
He shrugged. “Let’s go get your things.” And I jumped on him,straddlinghim,
and we fell to the floor, covering each other in kisses, kissing up and down, kissing until
our skin was covered and stained, stained with whispered promises of love and traces of
the other’s taste.
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The move-in took less than half an hour. It was a quick slug of my backpack
from one door to another, and Roberto was barely awake when I called him from outside
the door.
“I’m here!” I said, singing into the phone. “I’m home!”
“Right now?” he said, sleep in his voice. “I thought...Okay, I’ll be right there.”
It was only ten in the morning, but I wanted gelato. He dressed quickly,
managing to always look smart and put-together the way Europeans do. I tried banana
and rice gelato together, my first time trying both of those flavors. I felt really cool,
moving in with my Italian boyfriend, living in a foreign country, ordering gelato in a new
language. The morning was crisp, and we found our way sleepily back to Santa Croce.
“I’m learning numbers,” I said, counting the cobblestones in Italian.
“I can learn in English too.”
“You already know!” He gestured for me to continue, repeating in English when
I named the Italian numbers. He smiled and nodded, encouraging. It was a big step, we
were both aware of that, and I think we were stalling, taking baby steps, counting in the
other’s native language, stalling before we crossed that threshold, when his bachelor pad
would become our shared studio apartment.
*
I landed at two in the morning in what was supposed to be Barcelona.
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“Hour away. Esta es Girona,” a man said at the closing information desk. He
wore a too-tight navy suit and his eyes bulged behind his thin eyeglasses. “Gee-rona. No
es Barcelona.”
Public transportation stopped two hours ago at midnight and would resume again
at six, a brochure said.
“Adios, Carlos.” Another man in a navy suit walked past.
The one in the too-tight suit, Carlos, caught up to the other man. They looked at
me, and the new man nodded but kept walking. A couple minutes later, Carlos returned
and grabbed my two bags, walking toward the exit.
“Hey!” I said, but I followed.
Outside, a red Chevy two-door idled. The smoke from the car’s exhaust pooled
up as Carlos put my bags in the trunk.
“Me llamo Codi,” I said, leaning into the driver’s side window.
“Cody? Cody como un muchacho?”
“Como te llamas?” I paused after each word.
He waved for me to get in, and I looked to Carlos.
Carlos stretched his lips together, shrugged, and nodded once. “Si, si,” he said.
His name was Guillermo, and he lived on the outskirts of Barcelona. I couldn’t
believe I was in his car! I gripped the door handle the entire drive. It wasn’t that he was
a bad driver; he was just a stranger. No music and little conversation, and the drive was
over two hours long. He had worked at the airport for seven years. “Poquito,” he said of
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his English, but he spoke decently. I felt him staring at me in the soft glow from the
soundless stereo, but I didn’t look back.
He finally slowed and parked in front of an orange house with white trim. He
popped the trunk for me and left the door of his house open after he disappeared inside.
“I have a hostel booked,” I said, not sure how to say it in Spanish. He was inside.
I said it louder, “I actually have a hostel booked. Where are we? Donde....? The hostel
is in Barcelona. Are we in Barcelona?”
He came out with a can of beer, shrugging. He said in English, “I’m tired.”
I felt nauseous. He speaks English! I felt so deceived. Could I walk to the
hostel? The area had looked unincorporated on the drive. Mostly trees and hills and
empty stretches of dark highway.
It was much smaller than it appeared on the outside. A duplex. The couch was
brown leather and the only other seating was at the kitchen counter where there were two
mix-matched stools.
I gripped my bags, still holding them an inch above the ground. Nausea gave way
to a specific emotion: fear, and I felt like I might cry.
The carpet was thin, completely unpadded, and the overhead light was dim. I
finally dropped one bag on the floor and shifted. I put a hand to my chest; my heart
pounded. My cell had no reception. Where was he? I sat on the couch and opened my
mini laptop. There was no internet connection either.
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“Here,” Guillermo said, walking through the kitchen. He handed me a limp
pillow. He wore a white t-shirt and pajama bottoms decorated with cartoon characters.
I moved to the couch’s far edge in case he wanted to sit or watch TV. The leather
creaked under me and, as I moved again, I sat hard on a metal bar.
He looked to a closed door behind me.
“What?” I asked, following his eyes.
His expression was curious, like a cat watching a ghost. “Maria?” He walked to
the door. He put his hand then his ear to the door.
The door swung open and a little girl jumped over the threshold. They embraced.
I stood and inched away. I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt and wished it were
less revealing, but I couldn’t help smiling. He wasn’t a criminal, looking at his prisoners
behind the door. He was really tired. He was a father. I was going to live!
“Maria, Codi,” Guillermo said. It was the first time he had smiled all night.
“Cody is a boy’s name,” Maria said.
“Be a good girl. Where’s Sprout?”
He looked at me apologetically.
Maria ran into the dark room then came back out with a small stuffed kitten.
“Sprout!” she said loudly to me.
“Hola, Sprout,” I said.
“She speaks English and Spanish,” Maria said, her chest puffed out and her toy
kitten in the air between them. “Just like me!”
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“She’s very cute,” I said, petting her. “Oh, and very soft.”
Maria nodded rapidly. “Are you going to be my new Mommy?” she said.
This was not how my Barcelona story was supposed to go. “Mommy” was not in
the script. Where were we? I almost wanted to demand to know. I wanted to demand to
be taken to Barcelona, damnit.
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, nina, that’s enough. Are you hungry?” he asked me
gently.
I shook my head no, crossing my arms. “I really just want to get to my hostel,” I
said. I couldn’t hear myself, couldn’t hear my tone.
His face fell. “Of course.” He chugged the rest of the beer, grabbed his coat from
the kitchen counter. “I am ready. Come on, Maria.”
“Yay,” Maria said, excited about the late-night/early-moming car ride.
We didn’t speak in the car. Maria sang Disney songs in the backseat. He didn’t
stare. It was thirty-five minutes away from his house, and he drove much faster, much
more carelessly.
We stopped in front of the hostel. I knew we were still outside of the center. At
least this was incorporated, but it was still far from Barcelona’s downtown.
In the time it took me to unbuckle and say goodbye to Maria, he had already
rushed out from behind the steering wheel and retrieved my bags from the trunk. He
opened my door for me, thrusting the bags in my hands.
“Adios,” he said.
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“Thank you,” I said, mouth still open, but he was slamming my door loud then
climbing into the driver’s side without looking at me again.
I entered the hostel, relief spreading over my entire body. “We’re sorry,” a
woman said in an Irish accent. “We have filled your reservation after we did not hear
from you.”
“My cell didn’t work. I’m sorry. I know it’s late.”
“We assumed you weren’t coming.”
I went outside and began to cry.
I imagined Maria appearing, getting out of the car and running to me, arms spread
for the most needed hug. Children were gems for their innocence, but eternal innocence
is dangerous, I was learning. So many things had already gone wrong, and they could
have been even worse!
A man came out from the side door of the hostel. He wore very crinkled linen
pants. He lit two cigarettes, and when he handed me one without saying a word, I took it
and sucked. My hands trembled terribly.
“Nice night,” he said.
I sniffled, trying to pull myself together. I looked him over. He was decent. I
would not stay on the street. My thoughts moved to the idea of sleeping with him, just to
not sleep outside. I couldn’t bring myself to actually think about using sex for shelter, but
I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t able to think clearly. I felt helpless, hopeless.
I moved closer to him. “Where are you from?”
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He looked me over.
I nodded at the cigarette. “Thanks, by the way.”
“Australia,” he said.
“Oh!” I smiled. “I thought I heard an accent. I love accents.”
I knew this game better than I knew myself. I maintained the smile, but he looked
over at me, I looked down, feigning shyness.
“What are you doing out here anyway? It’s too late for a pretty lady to be out
here alone.”
No. My hands trembled more. I was scaring myself. Was I really going to whore
myself out for the first person I saw, for this Australian who offered me a cigarette. Who
was I? I dropped the cigarette, and I backed away from him, from the cigarette.
“You okay?”
I shook my head no.
I had options. There are always options. I shook my head, trying to make the
options come to me, tiying to make sense of this fatigue-driven senselessness. I could go
back into the hostel, use the American stereotype, demand to speak to a manager, ask to
read the policies, request immediate help.
I wasn’t pleased with that either. I didn’t want to be her either. So who was I,
who did I want to be?
I walked back into the hostel, smiling.
“Ma’am, I told you,” the woman said.
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“I’m not perfect. I’m sorry I showed up late, and I’m sorry I didn’t call.” I
shrugged for drama. “Is there a train station, is there a park? Is there a beach? Since you
can’t help me here - and I understand, I do - maybe you can suggest a safe place for me
to sleep?”
At last, a glimmer of sympathy shone in her eyes.
I looked at her behind that big desk. “You know what,” I said. “Forget it. I’ll
figure it out on my own.” I walked to the door. “That’s all we have, isn’t it? Just
ourselves. Last week, yesterday, I - 1 believed so fiercely in humanity. Not now. Not
now.”
The Australian must have reentered through the side door because the sidewalk
was empty.
I paced, chewed off all my fingernails. All of the bars would be closed, and cafes
wouldn’t open for another couple of hours. I really should have asked for a map of the
damn area before my rant. She was on the phone, staring at me. No way I could sneak in
and steal a map now.
I wanted to call Roberto. I wished I hadn’t come. I wished I was back in
America.
A police car slowed in front of the hostel, lights on but siren off. I looked inside
the hostel, expecting to see rowdy teens in the living area, instead it was only the woman
at the desk, standing, smiling slightly. She nodded at me.
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The police officer got out, a tall woman, and she spoke quickly in Spanish, taking
my limp wrists and cuffing them behind me. I started crying, but they were silent tears. I
nodded once, back to her, back to the hostel, and then I was in the back of the police car.
Soft, familiar music played, and I’m transported, back in one of my Dad’s many
convertibles, top down, and I’m wearing his hat. His lips are jutted out, pouty, when he
doesn’t know the words. And when he does, he sings along, strumming the steering
wheel with fast fingers. “This is a classic!” he screams to me at the stoplight whether it’s
The Temptations, Ben E. King, Billy Idol, or Cher. So many drives in Florida - to the
beach, home from the airport, to the park, to get bagels. I remember night just falling
down, falling over us, a new darkness, and I was in the backseat with a friend. Was it
Darcy? It must have been. We sat on the back of the seats, our feet on the cushions, as
he cranked the oldies radio station louder. Maybe the seats were leather; maybe it was
the Beach Boys on the radio. What I remember most is that rare feeling of excitement,
comfort - the closest I’ve felt to being “at home” some place, driving with loud music
from an era I didn’t belong to —and I was excited. Why? It seemed like something big
was happening on those drives. Somehow I felt free and happy, like all my dreams could
come true and the world was a beautiful place. Yes, it was on those car rides through
humid days and balmy nights with my Dad and Darcy that I felt at home.
But how could I have known then that there’s no one else like them? I have tried
to recreate these drives on my own, but nothing compares. And how could I have known
that it wasn’t the combination of tropical weather and a fast car with a working stereo?
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How could I have known that there will never be anyone else like family, like friends? I
didn’t know that I should have savored those drives more, tossed the hat into the wind
and sang along a little louder. I didn’t ask for another mile, one more lap, or another trip
to the beach - you see, I never thought of it. Because it never occurred to me that we
couldn’t hop in a car and drive and drive and drive anytime we wanted.
I slept on the floor of a private, single cell. I fell asleep immediately, and even the
memory of it, getting finger-printed and photographed, it feels like a dream.
In the morning, they released me without words or warnings. I stood outside,
drinking the sunshine into my pores. Freedom never felt so real. I took a cab to the Port
of Barcelona. I dipped my feet in the water. Everything was zinging with life. I walked
downtown for hours, stopping at cafes that seemed more Parisian to me than Paris itself.
I finished the day in Park Guell, where I fantasized about marrying a man from the
Mediterranean. They swarmed in the park in packs: tall, dark, able. I thought of
Roberto, and I realized that maybe fantasy could become reality.
*
When I returned from Barcelona, I insisted we eat lunch together nearly every
day. We told stories from where we were from, sitting on the Ponte Vecchio late at night.
It felt like we were traveling great distances through each other’s stories - it was all so
foreign and exotic to hear him speak of skiing the Alps and summering in Switzerland,
living off of cheese and chocolate fondue, and boating down to southern Sicily and
shopping the autumn collections in Milan and overnight stays in Rome in the middle of
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the week. We went for long walks and hikes, and I would close my eyes, willing it all to
be my life, hoping his stories would one day overlap and become mine too. We snuck
onto trains without paying. Having not slept, we were giddy and I was giggly until I
passed out on his shoulder, waking up as the horn sounded, and only when I stepped onto
the platform did I realize we were in Cinque Terre. I had read about Cinque Terre in my
roommate’s travel books, how poets sought out the five small towns along the shore.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I recalled pictures of bright houses on steep
mountainsides.
The pictures deceived. The pictures were how I imagine fake boobs are after a
couple years: not as good as the real thing. This sea is truly blue, sloshing up the sides of
the hills, white foam splashing up the cliff edges and spilling onto hiking trails, and the
houses look just like doll houses, painted in the best, brightest hues of a Crayola box. We
left all of our belongings, and we ran for the water. It was our first trip to the beach.
When we swam, we kept circling back to each other, treading water as we strained for a
kiss. I always wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him close but also pulling him
underwater, but he never complained just treaded the water faster, moving arms and legs
faster, keeping us both afloat until I laughed up at the sky and dove under and swam
further. He was never far behind me, following me with smiling eyes. We raced to the
large rock in the middle of sea. He could have won, he was a much better swimmer than
me, but he let me get ahead. I pulled myself out of the water, climbing to the top of the
rock, and I rapped my chest lightly with my fists, hooting and hollering, howling out at
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the sea. He watched me from the water. When I waved him up, he came up to the top of
the rock too.
“What’s your spirit animal?” I said, sitting next to him.
“Sorry?”
“Your spirit animal?”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
I stroked his beard. “I think you’re like a bear.”
He put his hands out like claws and growled, and he grabbed me, an arm under
my knees, an arm behind my back, and he held me, cradled me, and I closed my eyes,
listening to this foreign sea sweep the rock all around us, and I felt safer than I had felt all
my life.
Back on shore, gorgeous, tan, big-hatted women stretched topless, sipping
prosecco, talking quietly, but he looked at me and only me, like he had never seen a
woman, or like I was a different breed of woman, and I suppose in some ways I was, as
an American. He licked his lips, looking at the sweat dotting my upper lip, and I
mimicked him without necessarily wanting to, licking my lips too. Chapped and salty.
We hiked, sweaty palms entwined, and we found a cave out of the sun, away from the
public, and we spread out our clothes and made love on top of them, we made love twice,
our moans echoing against the dark, cold walls. My leg was over his, my head was on
his chest, and a future flashed before me, a future of moments like this forever, and I
squeezed him. “Ti amo,” I said.
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He kissed my damp hair. “I love you,” he said.
We fell asleep, naked in that cove, until the tide rose and lapped at our bodies.
We leapt up, snatching our garments, but it was too late. Our clothes were drenched.
Roberto phoned the nearby hotels but they were full so we wrung out our outfits and
dressed in the train station bathroom, smelling like wet dogs, and we cuddled, alone, on
the last train from Monterosso back to Florence. It was a four-hour train ride, and we
talked about life and love with not one awkward silence, we talked and talked for four
hours, forgetting how wet and cold we were.
We went to many parks and vineyards. He carried around English books, quoting
lines that he thought were poetry, but it was just prose, nothing fancy, and yet, the
familiar words sounded foreign in his accent, in his natural musical rhythm.
We only ever went to class on the days we had exams. It’s amazing we passed,
actually. Our student IDs permitted us free entrance into the museums so we would
spend weekday afternoons strolling through long, dusty rooms lined with medieval and
renaissance art. I liked Botticelli best for paintings and Michelangelo for sculptures, but
Roberto pointed out less known artists too. He looked up gallery openings and events,
and he introduced me to visual artists that were being featured in the area. His exgirlfriend, he briefly explained, was a painter so this was their scene. It was his only
relationship, ever, and they only dated three months. “I loved her work, but I never loved
her,” he said, but I was still dreadfully jealous, always subtly anxious we would run into
her at one of these events or museums, but we never did.
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The light in these memories is golden, always gold-tinted, gold like in a sepia
photograph, and the sun is always half-raised up in the sky, gleaming above but never
hot, just warm. Just right.
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Chapter 13
The best thing about living abroad is, well, living abroad. There is immense
freedom and possibility, and every street comer is new and rich, dripping in history and
stories, and for anyone with an imagination, it’s a wonderland. And yet, the worst part is
also that you’re abroad, and the freedom can feel lonely. Family and friends will say that
they are happy for you, that they think it’s a great experience - that’s the word used,
“experience,” as if no one would actually want to live abroad forever. My mom said,
“How amazing! I’m so excited for you,” but she would preface it with, “I could never do
it.” They’re honest, I’ll give them that. Not only can’t they imagine doing it, they
haven’t; they don’t try. I think being abroad, as exciting as it sounds, is scary, and fear
keeps most people closer to home, closer to comfort.
In Wisconsin, I saw the sad reality that young adults settle for things that don’t
make them the happiest because they have forgotten to seek out a personal description
with specific definitions for “happy.” Too many of my friends married the guy from
down the road, admitting that while he might not be the one, at least he was nice. Nice! I
will never marry Mr. Nice. Nice implies simplicity, and let’s be real, nice and simple are
plain boring.
After a few weeks abroad, however, I’ll admit that I was feeling the first pangs of
homesickness, that nasty, confusing feeling. Didn’t I want this? Didn’t I choose this? I
called my mom from my rental Nokia phone, almost crying, choking over my words
when she answered. “Hold on, honey,” she said, answering, and my heart was
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somersaulting in my chest. I needed to talk to her, I needed her foil attention. “Sorry,
dear,” she said. “How’s Italy?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m working. Some people have to do that, you know.” She was laughing, but it
still stung. She had had to send me money shortly after I landed in Rome. I had
requested it via email. She and my father didn’t have Skype, and I hadn’t had a phone. I
said thank you, of course, but thank-yous over email always sound less genuine. I had
the deep-seeded feeling that her snide remarks spoke to a larger, very serious resentment.
Often she would say that she wished she had lived like me, that she admired me, but there
was also what was left unspoken: I was part of the reason that she couldn’t live like me.
I reminded her that she didn’t live like me, that she likely never could. I don’t know my
parents’ ages. I never have. In fact, I’m terrible with everyone’s age. But I knew that
my mother’s aging had taken a toll on her, as she grew more and more disappointed with
what she didn’t do, what she might never do.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said quietly. The church bells were ringing. The sun sank
below the red-roofed houses on the hill.
“Not at all,” she says, and I can tell by the deep exhale before she speaks that she
is smoking. I picture her, kitten heels, skirt and blouse, matching necklace and earring
set. She must have left her desk, waved to Paul, to Regina, as she walked outside to take
my call. I feel like an inconvenience. “Is everything okay? You sound sad.”
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I think she thinks that I’m about to ask for money, and now I don’t know what to
say. I’m about to cry, but there are so many factors behind my emotions that I don’t
know how to identify them all coherently.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, and the lie makes the tears begin streaming down my
face.
“Good!” I hear cars rumbling, starting, signaling that the workday is over. “So
you like Florence?”
I tell her about the museums, about art everywhere. I’m trying to structure my
descriptions with her in mind. I’m trying to think only of what she would find
interesting, and she gives out some hmms and ohhs. She’s pretty good at commenting on
stories, but I’m still talking through tears, because I don’t know when I’ll see her next,
and I don’t know if it will be the same, and I’m afraid, so very afraid, that this
“experience” is changing our relationship.
“It must be late there,” I say. “I’ll let you go.”
She’s quiet. I can’t picture her suddenly.
\
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Okay, honey. Well, you take care of yourself, okay? I love you. Thanks for
calling. Call when you can. I know it must be expensive to call.”
“You should really get Skype, Mom. It would be a lot easier.”
“Okay, honey, sure. Have a good night.”
“You too, Mom. I love you.”
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The sun had sunk, but the sky was still light, an after-glow. I willed myself to
remember my childhood and be happy with the memories, but this made the tears come
faster and heavier, and I was afraid that maybe I would lose my family. I already had
such a small family, being an only child, and what if I even alienated myself from the few
who are supposed to love me unconditionally?
*
The holidays were nearing when Roberto’s mother called and woke us. He
jumped up from bed, turning on every lamp in the room.
“They’re here” he said, breathless.
“Who?”
“My mother. My sister. They’re here.”
“Great!” I too jumped out of bed, tucking the sheets and fluffing the pillows.
“You have to go,” he said, pacing. “And hurry!”
“Should I bring them up? You should throw those socks in the hamper.”
He shook his head violently. “No, no. They don’t know you live here.”
I went to him, hugged him. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“It’s not. It’s not fine. Please go.”
I was hurt and confused, and I was mad too. Of course, I hadn’t lived there long,
but I still lived there. It was bound to happen, I had told him when I learned they lived
only a couple of hours north. They had taken the first train down from Milan to surprise
him. How sweet. Why was he panicking? I felt so rushed that it felt like time flash-
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forwarded, and I was standing outside the back door of the kitchen, wrapping my scarf
tighter around my neck, not because I was cold, but because I felt vulnerable.
I walked toward the nearest bar for an espresso, maybe a shot of Bailey’s too,
what the hell, but then Roberto was calling me.
“Come back,” he said. “I’m sorry. I told them about you, and they want to meet
you.”
I smiled, but I was still miffed. “Do they know we live together?”
Silence, then, “No, but they want to get breakfast together. Will you please
come?”
Honestly, the Bailey’s and coffee sounded perfectly fine, but I lived with this
man, and although he was annoying me in this moment, I loved him, and of course I
wanted to meet his family.
They were gorgeous, just like Roberto. Thick, styled hair, big, mysterious eyes,
pouty, painted lips, and perfect figures. They looked like they stepped out of a Vogue
magazine. And they were delightful too, hugging me right away, kissing my cheeks,
commenting on my sloppy outfit like I was already one of them.
At lunch, Roberto encouraged me when I tried to speak, and he translated when I
couldn’t say what I wanted to say. He was patient, smiling the entire time, and they all
gave me their full attention. I felt like an attraction, like an entertainer. They had so
many questions about America, about me, and even when I asked them questions too,
they leaned across the table and asked me more about myself.
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We took a picture in front of Santa Croce, me, his Mom, and his sister. I joked
that it would be the first of many family pictures, and they nodded, enthusiastic, and sure
enough when we went up north for Christmas, the picture was in the living room, and
when they greeted me at the door, they called me daughter and “sissy,” and they
introduced me as family to other relatives. Roberto kissed my ear and whispered, “They
really love you.” I felt like I was shining.
One night over the Christmas visit to Varese, Melissa asked me to come outside
and smoke with her. I hadn’t spent much time alone with her, and I was nervous to do so
because of my poor Italian, but she spoke slowly and carefully. She told me that Roberto
loved me very much, and was I excited for my Christmas gift? I nodded and told her that
I love gifts any time of the year, but she was serious, smoking thoughtfully, and she took
my left hand, gazing at the ring finger, then she exhaled smoke in my face, nodding. She
said that this Christmas would be unforgettable, and then she hugged me and said she
always wanted a sister.
When we came back inside, I pretended I felt faint. “I need a bath,” I said,
needing alone time and not knowing how to get it.
“I’ll run the water for you,” Roberto said, pausing the video game he was playing
with Melissa’s boyfriend.
“I can do it!” I said too loud.
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“Hey,” he said, following me into the bedroom. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong?
What did my sister say? She really likes you. Maybe it was miscommunication, you
know?”
I stared at him, peeling off my clothes fast and reaching for my towel, drying on
the back of the chair from my morning shower. “I think we should break up. The last
thing I ever wanted was to fall in love.”
“Me either. That’s why it’s so beautiful.” He was smiling like he was his
happiest.
“Okay. Maybe. But we should slow things down, maybe.”
“You were the one who said we should live together.”
“You’re right. Okay. You’re right. Let me just take a bath.”
He tried to hug me. I felt so trapped. But once I was in the bath, locked in the
small bathroom, I felt just as suffocated, and why? I had thought about marrying
Roberto, sure, and I had even mentioned to him that we should consider it for visa
reasons, but he was the one who shrugged the idea away, and he had said that he never
wanted to get married.
I got out of the bath, toweled off, and I found him in the bedroom to confront him.
“Hey, bella,” he said, looking up from his book.
I sat on the bed. “You said you never wanted to get married.”
He sat up next to me, kissed my shoulder. “Then I met you.”
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“You don’t want to many me.”
“I do.”
“I’ll.. .I’ll...” I held up a finger. “I’ll stutter at the altar!”
He shrugged.
“Okay, so maybe I’ll get to the altar, maybe I will, but then I’ll botch it, then I’ll
say, ‘I don’t,’ instead of, ‘I do!’ Can you imagine? Imagine the humiliation.”
“You’re like the most positive person I know. You’re always saying yes. You’re
affirmative. Codi, what’s the problem? We love each other, no?”
“A-ha!” I pointed at him. “Is that why you want to marry me? Because I say yes
so often? I know men hate rejection.”
“I want to marry you because I love you.”
I felt dizzy. “I’m going to take another bath,” I said, and I did. In my second
bath, I considered the logistics. I had been with him 24/7, leaving no spare time to go
ring shopping. He didn’t even know my ring size. I calmed my breathing, I closed my
eyes. If someone would have asked me how I would have reacted to this information, I
would have thought that I would be happy. The fear of losing my independence was
driving my anxiety, and I didn’t know how to explain that to the man who I knew I loved
so completely.
Thankfully, it didn’t come up the rest of the trip. Even on Christmas morning, as
we opened our gifts, there was no ring box or strange silent smiles. Everything was
perfect.
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We were alone in bed, after eating lasagna, when things got weird. He was
clearing his throat a lot. “Do you need me to get you some water?” I asked. It was dark
in the room.
“No,” he said, almost choking, and he leaned over me to switch on the bedside
lamp. “Listen, bella mia.” Another throat-clear. “I love you very much.” Uh-oh. “I
never knew love before you.”
“Me too!” And I wrapped my arms around him neck, pulling myself on top of
him, and I started making out with him, tongue-heavy, which I never did, any distraction.
“Wait, wait,” he said, pushing me slightly away. “I want to say something.”
I rolled away from him. “Please don’t. Please not now. It’s not right.”
“What’s not right? Why not?”
I faced him. “Can we just go to bed, please? Let’s go to bed.”
He was rubbing his knuckles, looking from his hands to me.
“I really love you,” I said, and I kissed him long on the mouth, then I turned off
the lamp, blinking in the darkness, listening to him toss and turn and sigh.
We were back in Florence, and things were back to normal between Roberto and I
as far as I was concerned. I got a job at a school just outside of the city, teaching thirdgraders English, and I started going to all of my classes, not just on exam days. Roberto
focused more too. Still, I was embarrassed that I wasn’t making more money. I hadn’t
been paying rent at all. So, I found another job. This one was just across the street, at the
American-themed bar, Naima. The owner, Sergio, only hired American barbacks and
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hostesses so he hired me within minutes of meeting me. He seemed nice enough, but the
money was shit. Twenty euro for five or six hours of nonstop work. I didn’t know any
better, and I figured everywhere would pay just as terribly, so I accepted it, excited to be
making a little cash of my own.
Roberto didn’t like me working at a bar. He said I should work at a library, but he
knew that the libraries were run by volunteers. “I just don’t like that environment for you
to work,” he said. “And you get home too late.”
He was a jealous man. I assumed every Italian man was, possessive too, and the
sick part of me, the part of me that I tried to deny existed when I had brunch with my
American friends, that part of me loved it. I wanted to be his, and I wanted him to be
mine. I didn’t know what love really was, so I thought maybe it was this. I thought we
should belong to each other, because I thought that meant that we would be belonging to
love.
*
A group of young travelers came through the bar one night, and I wanted to know
them because they were all so happy and smiley. I weaved through the lines of people,
and I went to a tall, blonde woman who seemed to be in the center of it all. She shook
my hand, chewing gum, and she said, “Good for you to introduce yourself like that.” She
had an Australian accent. “Come work for us and you can play too.” Her name was
Tracy, and she offered me fifty euro for the same five-six hours of work, and I agreed on
the spot.
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Roberto hated this even more. Apparently, he knew Tracy, and he knew that crew
well, as he used to go out with them sometimes. He said they were cocaine-obsessed,
and they were greedy. I ignored him; they seemed nice, and most importantly she was
going to pay more. My job was easy, I could flyer during the day, fifty euro for five
hours of handing out flyers in the sun near the Duomo or Ponte Vecchio, or I could lead
pub crawls through the city for five hours at nighttime. On my days off from school, I
did both, and I was able to start paying Roberto half of rent just two weeks after working
for Tracy.
Roberto, though, he worried, trying to call me every hour, even though I told him
that I couldn’t have my cell on me while working. He would show up at the club where
we ended, leaning against the wall, telling me he just wanted to walk me home and make
sure I was safe.
One night, there was a close call. I was walking home, and I veered from the
main roads because it was faster to take an alley. It was 1:30, an early night for me, and
Tracy had let me leave early because she had a full staff of girls. But then a stout man
lunged for me in the alley. I thought he was drunk so I expected him to fall back when I
began running, but this only angered him more, and he chased me all the way to my front
door. In my panic, I couldn’t find my key, and then once I found the key, I struggled
fitting it in the keyhole. I was calling Roberto simultaneously, and I was calling for help,
calling out in the empty street, and then I got the door open, but that man was coming in
after me, pushing the door, and I wasn’t strong enough to push it closed, and he forced
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his way in, but then I heard running, and it was Roberto, and he came barreling down the
stairs, grinding his teeth, and he leapt at the man, and the man turned and ran back out the
door, back outside, and he stammered back into the middle of the street, and Roberto was
lost to his rage and he just kept swinging at the man’s stomach, cursing in Italian, and
finally I screamed at Roberto, scared that he would kill the man if I didn’t say something,
and then he ran back to me, kissing my whole face. And when we made love that night,
it was the most tender act, and I knew I would marry him if he kept asking.
*
I was walking home from the grocery one day, a normal weekly scenario. The
thin paper bags were too heavy, too full, again. My phone rarely rang, and I knew
Roberto was in class, taking an exam, so when I felt the vibration from my purse, I
reached fast to answer. One of the bags didn’t hold, slipping off my hip bone, and the
bottom split open, produce and pasta spilling out, scattered all over the street. Vegetables
in the gutter, and ajar of tomato sauce crashed, broke, the sauce splattered up my legs
and the wall. The shattered shards of glass glistened in the sun against the black
backdrop of the asphalt.
“Is everything okay?” My mother.
“Goddamnit,” I said twice, to myself, then into the phone, I said, “Hello? Yes?”
A deep breath. The deep inhale of a puff on a cigarette, a stick of Virginia Slim.
“You’re okay? You’re busy?” Her voice didn’t crack or cave, but I knew. I left the
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vegetables, left the splotches on my legs and wall, and I crossed to the other side of the
street, where I sat on the curb, focusing at people as they passed my mess.
I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to ask. “What’s going on?”
“Are you sure you’re okay, sweetie? You’re at home or something? Maybe you
want to have a seat?”
“I’m fine, Mom.” I snapped like I was a teenager again. It was Grandma. I
already felt the sting of tears.
She told me the details with such strength and brevity. She didn’t sound like she
was crying. She didn’t even sound like she was chain-smoking. Now I think back, sad,
mourning how hard it must have been for her to use the word “grandma” instead of
“mom.” How sad it must have been to call a daughter overseas, to hang up, to be sad,
filling an empty home with smoke, newly motherless.
I crossed the street again, scooping up the glass shards from the tomato sauce jar.
I was sobbing, serious sobs, and while locals bypassed me easily, tourists stopped, asked
if I was okay. “It’s.. .1 just...” I pointed to the sidewalk, trying to explain how life was
so messy, how everything was impermanent. They must have thought I was crazy,
crying over spilled Barilla.
Of course, this made me rush into Roberto’s arms with newfound vulnerability.
My body felt tired, my mind was growing more and more exhausted. I wanted a place to
rest. I was starting, shit, I was starting to want to marry Roberto. My grandma’s death
felt surreal since I wasn’t there. I didn’t fly back for the funeral. It was too expensive,
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and I was barely affording to live day-to-day. My mom said she understood, but I think
she resents me for it still. I don’t blame her. She had always been there for me, and I
wasn’t there for her. But grandma’s death felt very real in that I realized just how
fleeting this life was. I began watching Roberto when he didn’t know I was watching,
when he was shaving, when he was studying. The same way I had thought about living
with him, I thought about marrying him. I could do this, I thought. I could.
*
Growing up and, later, traveling alone had one purpose: to understand how
everyone became who they became. I mean, how does a person’s background and
personal history affect the person he/she later becomes? After meeting Roberto, though,
I wanted to know if the person I had become could be just as selfish and independent and
interesting while still surrendering to true love. If I could answer this, and the answer
was yes, I would marry him.
But then Roberto proposed for, what, the third time, and this time, he mistook my
hesitation as joy and tried to embrace me.
All I heard was wife. Wife echoing. I looked around to see whom he could be
addressing. “Wife?” I said. I shook my head. “Say it in Italian. I think we’re having
some serious miscommunication right now.” I was stalling.
“Marry me, Codi. Be my wife.”
I stuttered terribly, backed myself into a comer of the room we shared.
“I’m an only child,” I said.
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“I know that.” He was patient, nodding. Everything smelled like dirty socks.
“I don’t know how to share anything.” And then my excuses got lamer. “I can’t
wear a ring. I have very sensitive skin.” I compared the diamond to a wart I had on my
thumb in seventh grade. I began scratching at my blotchy neck and pulling at my collar
until he backed away with slumped shoulders. I looked down and saw I had broken out
in hives.
In the morning, Roberto woke as I shoved all of my belongings into my bag.
When I told him I had to get away, I think I wanted a fight, an excuse to run away
forever; instead, he nodded, said, “I hope you’ll return home to me,” and handed me my
backpack. I took a cab to the airport and boarded the next flight to Athens. To me, it
marked the beginning of civilization, the crux of humanity. I needed to stand where
democracy was first established. I wanted to look down from the acropolis and realize
just how small I was. I would run my hands over the marble statues of ancient Greek
gods and goddesses, and I would remind myself that nothing is permanent as I touched
the blemishes and holes in the busts, the spaces where limbs once were on gods.
When I arrived, I found the outdoor station with a short, blue awning over it; a
one-stop shop that sold tickets for the trains, buses, and shuttles. I couldn’t read or speak
Greek, and I was surprised to find there weren’t English translations. I noticed the most
popular ticket was the blue colored one. I tried to ask the cashier for a day pass, but he
just drained a bag of almonds into his mouth then shrugged. So I took the blue one too.
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Like most things, the acropolis was smaller than I imagined. All the temples and
statues and pillars couldn’t live up to my overactive imagination. I frowned from the hill,
looking down at Athens. I saw flower petals stir and fly in the wind below, but the
flowers could just as easily be garbage, and how would I know from way up here? The
sun was going down, and so came the cold that comes with the dark. Exhausted, I hiked
down, making my way to the train station to find the motel I’d booked, excited to finally
take off my backpack.
I pushed through the silver turnstile. Just as I went down the first set of stairs and
turned on the landing to go down the second set of stairs, I heard pounding footsteps
behind me. A bulky woman with thick, matted hair barreled down the second flight of
stairs too. I looked back at her, shocked, and I saw something even more shocking: she
was after me. She was yelling in Greek. I started running down - 1 had almost made it to
flat ground - when she jumped in the air and tackled me. My right side hit the concrete
first and I screamed for help. She yanked me up and tried to take my purse from me. I
fought back, screaming, “Help! Someone help me! I’m being robbed!” But all of the
people waiting for the train sat on the benches, their elbows on their knees, hunched over
like this was a most normal scene. I was crying, sobbing, repeating, “Please, please.”
The woman twisted my arm around my back until she freed my grip on my purse strap. I
fell to my knees. She sifted through the contents until she found my wallet. She held up
the blue ticket I bought earlier, barking again in Greek. She jostled me up, put my hands
behind my back, and secured handcuffs tight around my wrists.
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“Who are you?” I asked, trying to wiggle out of her hold. “You’re not wearing a
uniform. Get off me!” She walked me up the stairs, poking me in the back like an
animal to keep me moving.
I waited in a small room with off-white walls for forty minutes. A tall man in
uniform entered. “Hello, Codi,” he said, and I started to cry, this time happy tears
because he spoke English and we could communicate and this whole mess would be
cleared up for good.
He held up the blue ticket. “Is this yours?” he asked.
“Yes. I bought it this morning. An all-day pass. I bought it first thing when I
arrived.”
“My partner is an undercover transportation officer.”
I snorted. He had to be joking.
“The blue ticket is an hourly pass only good for the buses.”
“That’s what this is about! I’ll gladly buy the right ticket. Do you mind
uncuffing me? This all seems a bit extreme.”
“I’m afraid the fine for your arrest—”
“Fine? Arrest! For having the wrong train ticket!”
“You’ll have to pay 295 euro before I can release you.”
I only had 200 dollars in my bank account. “I’ll need to use your phone,” I said,
planning to call my parents.
“Only calls within Europe.”
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I sighed and dialed Roberto’s number. He wired the money within minutes of my
call, and I was released after three and half hours.
All of the buzz inside me, the excitement of seeing the Acropolis and walking the
streets of Athens, it had left me, and I limped through the maze of roads, north toward the
motel. I stopped at a McDonald’s on the comer. The pudgy woman at the register
smiled and asked, “What would you like today?” I broke down right there at
McDonald’s, hands planted on the counter, head down as I sobbed out loud.
“Just - just some fries,” I said.
“A large French fry?” she asked.
And I nodded, smearing snot from my nose across my face. I almost answered
her question with the truth, that I’d like nothing more than to go home. This is the risk of
looking at everything like it’s temporary; you might want to go home, but you’ll have no
idea where that is.
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Chapter 14
It was early summer, June. We had almost been together for a year, but it felt like
so much more. He had rescued me from Athens, he had comforted me over my
grandmother. Roberto meant true love to me. He defined it for me. I hadn’t really
wanted to marry, like I had joked about in America before I left. I just liked the idea, the
story. I had always fallen in love with the dream, with fantasies, but this? This reality
was better. Little things, blindfolded in the Boboli Gardens, smelling and guessing
flowers, wine tasting in Siena, sunburned and sweaty, clubbing and stumbling home,
sharing ciabatta on the roof, waving to the moon, “Ciao, luna,” kissing in the streets,
kissing in churches, in museums, crossing ankles as we slept just to touch, somehow, at
all times. Oh yes, I loved him. I loved him more than I knew I could love, more than I
knew love could be.
It was hot and we were tired from being under the sun all day, but the night was
right. The street violinists and rose vendors were out. The nightlife was in full bloom; it
was summer in Florence again, and we had made it. We were still in love.
As though pulled by the universe, we found ourselves in front of Santa Croce
again. This time we looked up at the church instead of at each other. Still not looking at
me, he held out his hand, silent, and I took it, and we danced, falling into the moves we
had memorized.
“Ti amo,” I said.
He smiled against the side of my face. “I love you.”
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I looked at him finally. “I think I loved you when I first saw you.”
“Yes,” he said.
“You think that’s possible?” I rested my head on his shoulder. “I didn’t think it
was possible. Love at first sight.” I thought it was reserved for Shakespeare, for movies
that were never really based on true stories. I smiled into his shoulder, remembering how
the Barbie episode with Darcy, how I never thought I would love like I loved Roberto.
He stopped and took both of my hands in his. “I promise you, Codi,” he said. “I
will love you all my life.” He kneeled.
And it was like a movie! Everyone parted, letting out a collective sigh, watching,
hands to hearts.
“Marry me.” He smiled up at me. Santa Croce towered behind, Dante at our side.
The moon glowed above the church, just like a postcard. “Please marry me. Be mine. I
love you, and I will love you eternally.”
I smiled. I could barely breathe. Everyone smiled at me, waiting. They all
looked so happy.
I looked back down at Roberto, nodding fast, nodding so much. “Yes,” I said.
“Yes! Yes!”
Violinists started and made their way to us. Trumpets were in the background
suddenly, and his friends were there, clapping, and then my roommates emerged from
behind that first row of the crowd, champagne flutes in hand.
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Someone tapped my shoulder and when I turned, it was my mom, smiling through
happy tears.
“Mom!” I hugged her so tight, but she moved away to Roberto, handing him a
small velvet box.
He opened it slowly in front of me. My grandmother’s ring! I put a hand to my
mouth. His mother was there too, just like in a dream, and she handed me a lush bouquet
of twenty-four red roses. We smiled at each other, Roberto and I, young and happy and
soon-to-be married, and I closed my eyes, wishing my Dad and Darcy could be there too.
Then I heard it. A long honk. I ran through the crowd. They were in a red
convertible, Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” blasting. I blubbered like a baby, joining
Darcy in the backseat, sitting on the back of the seats, our feet on the precious leather.
We hugged and laughed, singing along, and my Dad sped through downtown Florence,
tin cans clinking behind us as we drove. “She’s newly engaged,” my Dad called out at
every stop sign. “My daughter’s getting married!”
Darcy looked at me. “You’re happy?” she said. “You’re really happy?”
I hugged her so close, nodding.
I’d had a tribe all along. These were my people. But I couldn’t see it until I had
left, until I was far-far away, able to become who I needed to be, and I think I needed
them to come to me, here, to cure my insecurity from my childhood, from my parent’s
divorce. I needed to know that love, true love, exists and knows no distance.
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I looked back to see my fiance standing in the very place where we first saw each
other, where we first danced and kissed, where we had our first date. We had
surrendered to true love the moment we saw each other standing there, standing in Santa
Croce, as though we had been standing there all our lives, just waiting for the other to
arrive, to dance, to kiss, to love and be loved.