Defending Irene (11 page)

No.

But the passes continued and the compliments started.

“
Brava
, Irene!”

“Bravissima!”

Anyone else—the
mister
, for example—might believe that Matteo had finally accepted me as a teammate. But to me, each pass and every enthusiastic word seemed to say: “Ha! I caught you! Are you stupid enough to step into my trap a second time?”

Drill followed drill. We concentrated on shooting and passing and moving. It was a good thing that the
mister
didn't allow chatting in line. I would have snarled at anyone who spoke to me.

During the break, I didn't feel like joining the crowd making a break for the bathrooms and drink bottles. I wasn't thirsty. Instead, I circled the field by myself, chilled and hot at the same time. When everyone came back, I joined them at the center line.

Trickles of water ran down the
mister
's face. “Today is a beautiful day for soccer.” He grinned. “But every day is a beautiful day for soccer. All right, we have only ten today.”

“Nine,” Matteo cut in.

“Ten.” The
mister
touched his open palm to his collarbone, indicating that he was joining the game. “So we are like Garibaldi conquering Italy. Without a plan. Without organization. Let me see. Emi and Matteo: goalkeepers. There and there. Manuel and Irene are attackers. Gianlucca and Roberto, you defend.” He motioned the four of us to the side in front of Matteo. “Werner and Luigi, you attack. Federico and I will defend... No midfielders today. Let's go.”

Everyone was switched around from their normal positions: attackers in the goal, midfielders and the
mister
on defense, and defenders attacking. Everyone was getting a new perspective on the field. Except for me. I was back in my old familiar territory. It felt right to see the field from my old perspective as Manuel and I kicked off.

Fortunately, Matteo's position in the goal put him as far away from me as possible. But each moment of accomplishment—scoring a goal, making an assist, and once even faking out the
mister
—was ruined by Matteo's phony applause.

The wind picked up. It would have sent my hair and shirt fluttering if the rain hadn't already plastered them down. And then it started to pour so hard that I couldn't see Matteo on the other side of the field. A definite improvement.

“Enough!” the
mister
bellowed finally. “Let's go! No penalty shots today!”

Players cheered this announcement. The
mister
was first to the gate. After he pushed it open, he stood there counting players as we went by.

Once I reached the sheltered overhang of the clubhouse, I stopped to wring out my hair and wait for Matteo. I confronted him as he came up the steps. Federico, his shadow, was right behind him.

“You lied to me,” I said.

“
Ma dai!
Maybe the
Americana
doesn't understand Italian as well as she thinks.”

“Ha! I've been speaking it just as long as you. Probably longer,
ciuccio
.”

“Ooh,” Matteo said with a smirk. But I could tell that the babyish nickname had gotten to him.

“Why did you lie to me?”

His mask dropped. “Do you know what others call us? The
ragazze
. The females. That is not right. It's all your fault.”

“What did you used to be called: the team of Matteo? Of course you prefer that. You are so full of yourself.”

“You are a
maschiaccio
who is too stupid to know when to leave. You ruin the game.”

“Why is it so horrible that I play?”

“Girls should not play soccer.”

“Women fill stadiums at their World Cup. Ronaldo's wife played for the club of Perugia.”

That stopped Matteo for a moment. Mentioning the great Brazilian player Ronaldo was like invoking a saint. “At least she plays with other women,” he said.

“There's no team for girls here,” I snapped. “It doesn't please me to play with you either.”

“Then quit. When you are there, it's like playing with ten instead of eleven.”

“Ha! I scored a goal Saturday.”

“Anyone could have scored that goal: your little brother, a baby, or even Federico.”

From his position behind Matteo, Federico inhaled sharply.

“I scored a goal today too,” I pointed out.

Matteo changed the subject. “Who ruined our vacation from you? Probably Luigi. The
mister
told him to be nice to you.”

All the air rushed out of my lungs. “I don't believe you. I will never believe you again. Never.”

“Excuse me, Irene,” Emi cut in. “I have an important message for you from Giulia. Very important…and private. Come with me.”

“In two seconds,” I snarled.

“No, now. It's very, very important. Come.”

“
Dai
, Irene,” Matteo drawled, waving me away as if we were having an unimportant chat about the weather. “I'll go.” He headed toward the clubhouse door with a satisfied bounce to his step. Head down, Federico waited five seconds and then followed.

I glared at Emi. “The message?”

“There isn't one. I'm sorry, Irene. But when I heard you screaming at Matteo—”

“I wasn't screaming,” I said. But my throat was sore and my voice was shaking. “You came to save me? Next time, protect Matteo.”

Emi held up his hand to shield his face. “Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. What happened?”

“Matteo told me that soccer was cancelled.”

“You believed him?”

“No. But then Montegna agreed.”

Emi's face smoothed out. “Ahh. I understand.”

“Then Matteo pretends that nothing happened. He smiles at me, passes me the ball, cheers for me.”

Emi nodded. “I saw it. It reminded me of the plan of Matteo to make Giulia quit soccer.”

“What?”

“He pretended to be in love with her.”

I sat in the warm, bright kitchen, twirling spaghetti carbonara around my fork. Yes, warm. Dad had come home with the news that due to the unseasonably cold, wet weather, the province had announced that everyone could go ahead and turn on their heaters.

My feet were dry, but my hair was still wet. Rug burns from the soccer carpet throbbed on my right knee and elbow. I felt tired, too—more tired than after a normal practice. Sure, playing five on five in the rain was tough, but I knew there was more to it than that.

Until a few hours ago, I had almost felt as if I had made a place for myself on the team. But I had been about as successful as a person trying to dig a hole in water. Matteo would never change his mind about me. And Luigi was only being nice to me because his father the
mister
had told him to.

I felt empty inside, but not hungry. The irregular cylinder of pasta I had twisted around my fork was almost two inches in diameter. I slid the noodles off my fork and started twirling them around it again.

“You should have warned me, Irene,” Mom said.

I looked up blankly. “What?”

“That you gave my number to Vanessa.”

“Who?” I asked. Reality sank in. “Oh, wait a minute. I'm sorry. You mean Professorin Schneider? She called already?”

Mom laughed. “Earth to Irene. What have I been talking about for the last five minutes? Her book club sounds like a fascinating experience. I think it's so admirable the way the Germans are hanging onto their language in the South Tyrol.”

Dad snorted. “They are not German. They are Italian. They have been Italian since the end of World War I.”

“No, they have lived in Italy. That does not make them Italian. Why shouldn't an oppressed minority hang onto their heritage?”

“Oppressed?” Dad repeated. “Now hold on! Who is oppressing whom in the Alto Adige? Italians who come from outside the province must wait several years before they're allowed to vote. That is the law. That is official. But the unofficial is worse. My new colleague from Torino finds an apartment for sale. He makes an offer. Suddenly, the place is taken off the market. The owners say, ‘We have decided not to sell.'”

“Well, that could happen,” Mom said.

“Four
times? The Germans who live here do not want to sell to Italians. It is bad in town, but it is nearly impossible in the mountains. An Italian cannot buy land there. Is this right? Could it happen in America?”

Mom shook her head. “Not unless someone wanted to get slapped with a lawsuit.”

I rolled my eyes across the table at Max. Our parents were always getting into political discussions. But Max wasn't paying much attention. He was gulping down pasta two forkfuls at a time.

“And the parents are teaching it to their children,” Dad said. “Remember what those little boys who threw sand at Max said?
‘Geh nach Hause, Italiener. Du kannst mit uns nicht spielen.'
”

The English words flashed across my brain like a subtitle in a movie theater: Go home, Italian. You can't play with us.

“That's awful!” I said. “When did that happen?”

Dad's eyes widened. He looked at Mom and raised one eyebrow.

“Oh, dear. Vanessa did say that Irene's German was really coming along,” Mom murmured.

“What? What did the boys say?” Max asked. “Mom wouldn't tell me.”

“Never mind,” I told him. Max opened his mouth in what was sure to be a protest, so I continued quickly, “Not everyone is like that, you know. Werner is German. He decided to play on an Italian team. Or his parents decided for him. And he's one of the nicest guys there.”

“Ooh! Irene plus Werner,” Max said.

The pity I'd felt for my little brother only twenty seconds earlier evaporated. “Shut up, Max!”

But Max didn't shut up. “Dad said Werner gave you a hug after you scored that goal. Luigi must be so jealous.”

“Stop it!” My voice rose in pitch and volume.

“Basta!”
Dad said. “Enough, both of you.”

“You're out of line, Max,” Mom cut in. “And Irene, you're overreacting.”

“Me? Haven't you been listening to the little toad?”

Mom held up a hand. “If you can't calm down, Irene, you'll have to clean up the kitchen by yourself.”

“Fine! Having Max help in the kitchen is like having no help at all.”

“And after you finish, maybe you'd like to go straight to bed?” Mom continued.

“Even better!” I snapped.

“Then we have a plan,” Dad said.

I bent down over my plate and plunged my fork into the pile of pasta. That was the end to conversation for the rest of dinner.

Half an hour later, I checked over my work. Wooden floor? Swept. Granite counters? Wiped. Dishwasher? Loaded. Drying rack? Full of pots and pans.

“Hey, it looks great in here,” Mom said. She sounded cheerful and slightly apologetic. “Let me finish up, honey. You've got an e-mail in your inbox that you can read before bed.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Everything okay?”

“No,” I said in a burst of honesty.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Mom's eyebrows pulled together. “Maybe tomorrow then.”

I sighed. “It'll be okay. I'm just tired.”

“If you say so,” Mom replied doubtfully. “Get a good night's sleep, honey.” Her face looked troubled, but the last thing I needed was her calling the manager or the
mister
in a useless attempt to make soccer a warm and cozy place for me to be.

I went into the study, dropped into the office chair in front of the computer, and clicked open my inbox. A message was waiting for me from Lindy. I smiled. I had sent her some pictures weeks ago from dad's digital camera.

E-Ray,

Whazzup?

Sorry I didn't write U back sooner. School is 2 D-pressing. Homework takes 4ever. Pre-algebra makes absolutely no sense. I hate the letter x. Y isn't much better.

How R your classes?

Guess what? We made it to the semifinals of a tournament in Columbia even though we were missing our #1 striker. And who would that be? No 1 else but U! Duh. But, hey! I scored a goal. Go me!!!!

Send more pix of Matteo. He is so cute! What's it like playing with him?

Luv ya!

Lindy

What was it like? Ha! The tears that had been threatening for hours spilled over my eyelids. I wanted to retreat to my room with the cordless phone, call Lindy, and tell her everything the way I always used to. But even if Mom and Dad let me make an international phone call, there was a seven-hour time difference between Italy and Missouri.

I shut down the computer and sneaked back to my room so no one would see my red eyes and wet cheeks. I was so tired I went straight to bed, but I was “2 D-pressed” to sleep. A steady rain would have been soothing. The heavy drops that slammed against my window were not. I replayed the scene with Matteo twenty times, some just as it had happened and others with a new script that gave me all the best lines. I finally drifted off sometime after midnight.

The next morning, I woke up before my alarm. Something was different. Brighter. I turned my head to look out the window. Was that blue sky? I swung my legs out of bed and staggered across the room.

Snow covered the treetops high on Monte San Virgilio. The sparkle was dazzling. It seemed like a promise that things would get better.

I sorted through the books and papers in my backpack to make sure I had everything I needed for school. By that time, Max had gotten out of bed, so we had a quiet breakfast together. He didn't tease me about Werner or Luigi. I didn't call him a toad.

Then it was back to my bedroom. I looked out the window again. This time, instead of snow sparkling in the sunshine, the top of the mountain was shrouded in clouds. The banks of swirling white grew before my eyes as the water changed state from snow to vapor.

So much for things getting better.

The intercom buzzed. I wondered who it could be at this hour. It was too early for the men who sold socks, towels, and tablecloths door to door.

“Irene, Giulia's downstairs!” Mom called.

“Thanks,” I called back. I pulled on a jacket and slipped my backpack onto my shoulder.

But Mom blocked the door. “Our house isn't exactly on her way to school, Irene.”

“No.”

“Did you two have a fight yesterday? Is that what was bothering you?”

“No.” I smiled at her. “Nothing like that.”

But Guilia and I did have a few things to talk about.