Defending Irene (10 page)

Our teams were evenly matched: both of us were still undefeated. I could sense Bolzano's growing frustration on the field as the score stayed zero to zero. Luigi had said in the van that our opponents were used to getting an early lead and then holding it. There was some bumping going on—some words being exchanged. But then a player deliberately smashed into Davide just as he was coming down from a header, “making the bridge.” Davide skidded a few inches on the wet grass before hitting the ground hard.

The
mister
shouted—a wordless cry of outrage. My dad, our one fan who came to all the games, echoed it.

Davide sat up, tried to stand, and then fell back with a stifled cry, clutching his ankle. The
mister
handed me his purple and green linesman's flag and trotted onto the field.

The referee reached into his pocket, pulled out a yellow card, and held it over his head. It was the first I'd seen since I'd left the U.S.

Roberto, the other substitute who stood a few feet away from me, shook his head. “Davide is not an actor. He is not pretending.”

The player who committed the foul stepped forward and opened his mouth. Two of his teammates dragged him back, muttering in his ear. No doubt reminding him what a red card would mean—his removal from this game, leaving his team a player short.

Davide continued to lie on the wet ground. The
mister
knelt beside him, talking quietly. Finally, Davide nodded and sat up. At a motion from the
mister
, Matteo and Gianlucca stepped forward to lift him up under his armpits. With their help, Davide hopped over to the sidelines. Roberto hovered by the white line, waiting to go into the game. But the
mister
had a different idea.

“Gianlucca, play midfield. Irene, take the spot of Gianlucca on attack.”

Attack? Me? The last time I'd played forward was back in the U.S.

Squerch. Squerch. Squerch.
I trotted through the soggy grass onto the field and joined players from both squads in the penalty area.

Werner stepped up to the ball. It was a direct kick, but he was so far away from the goal that it was unlikely that he could put it in. He could, however, loft the ball into the penalty area. I was taller than Roberto. Was that why the
mister
had put me in?

The ball didn't come anywhere near me then or for the next few minutes. Then Gianlucca passed me the ball. I turned upfield.

From the defender's smile, anyone would think that he had already stolen the ball from me and sent it sailing down toward Luigi. He closed rapidly. Too rapidly. He had too much forward momentum to stop himself when I kicked the ball past him down the sidelines to the empty corner. Full of energy from all the time on the bench, I caught up with it.

“Center it! Center it!” the
mister
yelled. “Pass, pass, pass!”

I sent a line drive of a kick into the penalty box. Without waiting to see how Matteo would handle it, I raced to the box myself. An assist. Maybe I would get an assist. My first since I'd left Missouri.

Matteo's shot sliced through the air toward the goal. The keeper dove with both hands extended and deflected the ball right to me. He hit the ground and rolled to his feet. But he didn't have time to fully extend his body before I smashed the ball over his head, just a foot or so below the crossbar. Not an assist. A goal!

“Yes! Yes!” I shouted in English. With my fists raised over my head, I sprinted back to midfield.

“
Bravo
, Irene!” the
mister
roared.
“Brava!”
he corrected himself. But the damage was done. For a moment, I was a full-fledged member of the team. Not the
ragazza
. Not the
calciatrice
. A player.

Luigi waved wildly from the goal and gave me two thumbs up. Manuel thumped me on the back. Werner hugged me. Then he stepped back, but kept his hands on my shoulders. “I understand now,” he said. “You are not a defender. You are an attacker. You have always been an attacker.”

“Not always.”

“Oh, you also played midfielder in the United States, too.” He shook his head. “Come, Manuel. We go on defense.”

“Without a doubt, I'll join you in the second half. It was a trick of the
mister
,” I said.

A trick that had worked really well. The other team looked bewildered. The defender, whose lack of respect for me had made the play possible, stood slump-shouldered in the corner while his coach yelled.

I ran to my spot near the centerline. Some of my teammates waited there to give me five: Gianlucca, Emi, and Matteo.

But instead of a passing slap, Matteo's fingers wrapped around my hand. Our thumbs entwined. “Let's do it again,” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

But the Bolzano goalkeeper wasn't quite in on our plan. Instead of deflecting Matteo's next shot, he let it go past him without even putting a fingertip on the ball.

As I predicted, when the third period started, I returned to my spot on the defense, replacing Giuseppe. While Luigi finally let one of Russo's blistering shots past him, midway through the third period, we held on to win 2–1.

A goal. I had scored a goal. In the U.S., that had been an exciting but fairly regular event. Here, it was just short of a miracle. And Matteo had spoken to me like I was one of his teammates. Had I finally earned his respect? I didn't need all of the reindeer to love me. I only wanted them to let me join in some of those reindeer games without being called a
cucciola
.

I stood alone in the school courtyard, studying the strange behaviors of irregular German verbs for the afternoon remedial class I attended twice a week. At the bottom of the list, I had written a quote from Professorin Schneider: “German is a very logical language.” My mother would probably agree with that, but the eight of us who had to struggle with things like strong and weak verbs did not.

“
Ciao
, Irene,” Matteo said. “How's it going?”

“Fine. And you?”

“Well enough. But I'm so tired of the rain.”

“Me too.”

“And now there isn't soccer today,” he grumbled.

“Really?”

“Signora Martelli has not called you yet?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“She said that it's too wet—that we would destroy the field. Can you believe it?”

That made sense. The ground probably couldn't absorb another drop. I remembered the skid marks that our feet had already made in the field. And yet....

“No. You do not believe me. I understand.” The right corner of Matteo's mouth twisted. He scanned the courtyard and then shouted, “
Ehi
, Nicolo!”

Nicolo Montegna, the forward from the other Merano team who had run me over on the first day of practice, turned around. “What?”

“We'll beat you at soccer today.”

“Today, no. Soccer is cancelled. Hadn't you heard?”

“Oh, thanks. Wait for Thursday then.”

Matteo turned back to me. “There,” he said. “A message probably waits on your answering machine. So, what are you studying? German?” He peered at my notebook.

“It's difficult,” I said. “Everyone knows more than I do.”

“Patience. It takes time. Everything takes time.”

Including Matteo's acceptance of me as a teammate? It seemed that way. But things between us seemed to be improving just a little.

I had trouble keeping my mind on German that afternoon, even though Professorin Schneider spoke much more slowly and simply in our class than she did in my regular one. We took notes, played games, and read simple stories. Or at least the other students did. I only managed to pick out a few simple words: and, but, is, you, they, then.

We broke up into groups of two to talk about our families. For the other kids it was a review. I had to have notes in front of me. I sat across from Wei, whose family owned one of the Chinese restaurants in town. She spoke slowly, using easy German words, so I would be sure to understand.

“My grandmother lives in China. She calls herself Wu Anling. My grandfather lives in China. He calls himself Wu Shilong. My aunt and uncle live here in Merano. My cousin calls himself Maurizio. He is Italian.”

“Oh, is your aunt Italian?” I asked.

“No.”

“Your uncle?”

“No.” Her eyes sparkled.

“I do not understand.”

“Maurizio is born here. He speaks Italian perfectly. He says, ‘I am not Chinese. I am Italian.'” She giggled.

“Interessant,”
I said. It was a surprisingly long word for my limited Germany vocabulary, but it was one of my mother's favorites.

Professorin Schneider clapped her hands and said something. I managed to recognize the words for “minute” and “write” as she waved her hands at the clock and the white board. It was clear what she wanted. We had another set of strong verb conjugations to copy.

The bell rang before I finished, but for once there was no need for me to scribble frantically, toss things into my backpack, and hurtle out the door. There was no soccer practice today. I had plenty of time.

As I walked down the hall a few minutes later, a voice said,
“Buona sera.”
Professoressa Trevisani, my Italian teacher, stood in the door to her classroom, holding a wooden recorder in one hand and a folder full of music in the other. In the cold, wet weather even she had switched over to jeans and her eye makeup was much simpler.

“Buona sera,”
I said.

“So, Irene,” she asked. “You have almost finished your first month with us. How goes it?”

“Very well,” I said. “I must study a lot, of course. It isn't easy.”

“You have impressed me. You even know some words that many of your classmates do not. For example, you gave me the best definition for irony yesterday.”

“There is a similar word in English,” I said. “I guessed that they were about the same.”

“Mmmm. That makes sense. And your other classes?”

“Well, math is math,” I began, shrugging. “But—”

Just then, Professorin Schneider stepped out of her room and closed the door behind her.

“Ah!” Professoressa Trevisani said. “The proper person to ask about your progress in German. Tell me, Professorin, how is Irene doing?”

“Very well. Very, very well. Her pronunciation and accent are very good. Her homework is correct much of the time.”

“Um, my mother helps me a bit,” I admitted. “In the United States, she teaches German at the high school.”

Professorin Schneider touched her hand to her stomach. “Ah, then you heard the language before you were born. That explains much. Listen, Irene. Some friends and I have started a book club. Would it please your mother to join us? Or perhaps our opinions would not interest her.”

“No. Please. It would interest her very much,” I said quickly before my teacher could take back the invitation. I had never thought of my mom as shy, but I knew that she had been lurking in cafés taking notes on the Tyrolean dialect instead of actually talking to people. Since we went to Italian schools, she was finding it more difficult to meet people from the German half of the population.

I reached into my backpack, tore a piece of paper out of my notebook and scribbled down our number and my mother's name. “Please call her. For my mother, it would be a pleasure.”

Two minutes later, I bounced out of the sheltered courtyard of the school onto the sidewalk along Via Roma. I had done a good deed for the day. My teachers thought I was doing well. There was no need to race home and choke down a snack before spending a wet ninety minutes on the pitch.

I recognized Luigi through the scratched plastic of the bus stop's shelter and knocked.
“Ciao,”
I said.

“Hello, Irene. How are you?” he asked in English—an English with long, pure vowels, strong diphthongs, rolling
r'
s and a slight British accent.

“Fine,” I said.

“Tomorrow will be a nice day,” he continued in English.

“Really? Will the rain stop?” I replied, putting small spaces between each word so that he could follow me better.

“Stahp?” Luigi repeated.

“Stop,”
I said, giving the word its Italian pronunciation. I waved toward the red and white traffic sign on a nearby corner.

“Ah. I understand. No. The rain will stahp never.”

I giggled. “We say ‘never stop' in America. Are you waiting for a bus?”

Luigi considered my question a moment before answering. “No. I wait my father. He brings me to—how do you say it…?”

“Home?”

“No. There is a word in German. Ah, yes. Football. He brings me to football.”

“Football? You mean soccer?
Calcio?”

“Sí, calcio.”
Luigi slid back into Italian. “Have you forgotten today is Monday?”

“But Matteo and Montegna said—” I stopped myself.

“The Passirio would have to run over its banks and through the practice field before our
mister
would cancel. We play upon the carpet today.” Luigi stopped and frowned. “What have Matteo and Montegna said?”

Telling the coach's son was a lot like telling the coach.

“Nothing.” I backed away. “I've got to go. Don't want to be late. We'll see each other in a bit.
Ciao
, Luigi.
Ciao
.”

It would have been much more dignified to wait until I had turned the corner before launching into a trot. But I didn't have time for dignity. I tightened my grip on the strap to my backpack to keep it from bouncing against me.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I have been so stupid? I had never expected a romantic ending to my troubles with Matteo: my Miss Elizabeth Bennet to his Mr. Darcy, my Meg Ryan to his Tom Hanks. His friendly words to my
nonno
, his sad words about his
nonno
, the high five after my goal—they were all just part of his plan to gain my trust. Not that he had. Not quite. I wouldn't have believed him except for Montegna. And why did I believe Montegna? Because I was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The chorus repeated itself as I jogged three blocks uphill past hundred-year-old houses and fences covered in ivy. My calves burned. My shins vibrated every time my thick-soled boots hit the pavement. But when I reached the final—and thankfully flat—two blocks leading to my house, I accelerated into a run.

When I reached our gate, I leaned hard on the buzzer.

“Si?”
Mom asked an eternity later.

“It's me. I'm late for soccer!” I yelled.

Without a word, she buzzed me through the gate. Another long buzz was waiting for me when I made it down the flagstone walk. I plowed into the massive door with my right shoulder and made it up a flight of stairs before it slammed shut behind me with an echoing boom. I cringed. The family on the ground floor had a new baby who liked late afternoon naps.

The door leading to our apartment stood open. I kicked off my shoes and dumped my backpack on the floor. My jacket followed.

Mom came out of the study with my practice T-shirt in one hand and blue shorts in the other. “They're a little damp,” she apologized. “I put them on the drying rack first thing this morning. It's so wet in here, but it's against the law to turn on the heat until next week.”

“That's okay. They'll be soaked soon anyway.” I snatched them out of her hand and raced down the hallway to my room.

Mom's voice followed me. “I would have put them by the electric heater, but Max's practice was cancelled.”

“Didn't you just say we can't turn on the heat?” I shouted through the closed door.

“They don't use infrared goggles to check up on people, but smoke from the chimney would be a dead giveaway.”

I finger-combed my hair into a ponytail and wound a black rubber band around it to hold it in place. When I came out, Max was standing in the hallway with his arms crossed, glaring up at Mom.

“Can't I stay here by myself while you take Irene to soccer?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Why not? You let Irene do it all the time.”

“Irene has six more years than you.”

“Irene
is
six years older than me,” Max corrected.

“You know what I meant. Find your shoes.” Mom's eyes flicked up in the direction of the hall light. “All this Italian is affecting my English.”

With the rain, the streets were empty of pedestrians and cyclists, but full of cars. There were long lines at all of the traffic circles as cars waited for their turn to enter. We finally reached the bridge over the Passirio.

“Uaou!”
Max said. “Look at the water!”

The river was the highest I had ever seen. It had climbed halfway up the stone retaining wall. The muddy water with its flecks of dirty foam battered the willow trees that grew along the banks. I could hear its roar through the closed windows and over the hum of the engine.

I offered to jump out and run the rest of the way along the river walk. Mom shook her head.

“Be patient. I want to make sure that you have practice. What if the fields are flooded?”

So we moved in a slow line toward Piazza Mazzini's traffic circle. We waited for the commuter train to clatter by.

When we finally arrived, I peered over the fence. Only eight players shared two balls. It looked like Montegna, at least, had told the truth. His team didn't have practice. But mine did. I ran down to the field. The squeaky hinges of the chain link door complained.

The
mister
turned to look at me.

“Welcome, Irene. Luigi told me you would be late.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

The
mister
waited, as if expecting an explanation. When I didn't provide one, he shrugged his shoulders and motioned for me to join the others.

Squerch. Squerch. Squerch.
A thin layer of water lay on the springy, pale green carpet. My socks were dry now, but not for long.

Giuseppe tapped Matteo's shoulder and whispered in his ear. Matteo's head snapped around to look at me. I stared back at him.

He smiled and waved. And then he did the unthinkable: he passed me the ball.

I ran forward to meet it and slammed it into the empty goal. For a moment, I was confused. Could I have imagined the conversation between Matteo, Montegna, and me? Could I have misinterpreted it somehow?