Defending Irene (3 page)

Giulia. Friend and teammate? Neither friend nor teammate? Even a potential enemy? These thoughts worried me as I walked to the school on Via Roma. Emi had seemed nice enough, but what if this was some double-edged prank designed to get both me and his sister? What might Giulia be expecting of the
Americana
? Someone straight from MTV? If so, she would be disappointed by my soccer camp uniform.

My stomach had an uncertain, empty feeling as I walked down the chestnut-lined street toward the middle school. The buildings I passed all told me that I wasn't in Missouri anymore. A hundred-year-old Liberty-style building sat next door to a modern five-story apartment house with a distinctly Italian air in its flowers and balconies. Next came a miniature castle complete with towers, an enormous, solid-looking door, and the red and white shutters that meant the building had once belonged to the minor Tyrolean aristocracy. Maybe it still did. Curious, I peered through the wrought-iron fence at the twining ivy, ancient pine trees, and massive rhododendrons.

Procrastinating. I was procrastinating. I checked my watch: 1:55
p.m.
Five minutes and a few hundred meters separated me from my meeting with Giulia.

Why was I so worried? Giulia had seemed very happy to hear from me, just as Emi had promised. But we hadn't had time to talk much.

Minutes later, only the long shiny leaves of a laurel hedge hid the grounds of the middle school from my view. My steps slowed. I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and then picked up my pace as I turned the corner. I had to look confident even if I wasn't.

I saw movement under the shadows of an enormous tree. A small dark figure with the unmistakable bounce of an athlete darted down the steps and stepped into the light. A barrette held thick, black hair away from her face. The rest of it fell six inches below her shoulders.

“Irene? You're here!
Ciao!
I'm Giulia. A pleasure to meet you! Emi described you to me. Come and sit down. It's much cooler on the steps.”

I blinked at the rapid flood of words and Giulia's keen interest. Maybe I looked confused, because she continued more slowly, “You understand me? Was I talking too fast?”

“No. I understood you perfectly. A pleasure to meet you,” I echoed. I followed her to the steps. The gray stone was cool and welcoming.

Giulia sat down cross-legged and rested her elbows on her knees. “How do you speak Italian so well? And with such a good accent? Did you study it in school?”

I shook my head. “My
papá
is Italian. From Milan. He met my mother at the university in America.”

“Really?”

“He was a graduate student studying materials sciences, but they asked him to teach a few Italian classes. My mother was teaching German literature. One day in the office, they started complaining about their first-year students and that was it.”

“Ah. How romantic. And why do you live here now?”

I explained how my dad was doing some work for the Italian branch of his company and my mom was taking a year off of teaching high school German to live among German-speakers and study the local dialect.

Giulia immediately pounced with another question—a whole series of them, actually. How old was I? What class would I frequent? Who was my favorite music group? Had I heard of Eros Rammazzotti? Did I really have every single one of his CDs? What did I think of the
mister
, of Emi, of Luigi, of Matteo?

Our conversation finally stopped sounding like a magazine interview when Giulia began slipping a few facts about herself into the stream of talk. We exchanged our favorite soccer stories about last-second goals, blind referees, unreasonable coaches, difficult opponents, and even more difficult teammates. I learned, for example, that when they started soccer seven years ago, Matteo had been the last kid on the team to learn how to tie his shoes. At every practice, the grandfatherly coaches had knelt at his feet and tightened his laces. Matteo had stared off into the distance with the attitude and confidence of the great Brazilian soccer player, Ronaldo.

“Matteo is so full of himself,” I complained. “He acts like no one belongs on the field with him.”

Giulia's upper lip curled. “No one is worthy to be on the same field as Matteo. Not even Matteo.”

“No one is worthy to tie his shoes,” I said. “Too bad he can't do it either.”

Giulia giggled. “Well he can now.”

“Are you sure? Maybe his
mamma
does it for him at home.”

“Ah, we are making his ears whistle today,” Giulia said with satisfaction. “The other girls don't understand the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of soccer.”

“He's different at school?”

“Oh,
sí
. The girls are crazy for him. Some of them have his photo on a key chain with the English words ‘I love you!' Really! It is too funny. It pleases me to meet someone who understands.”

“Agreed,” I said, finally seeing the perfect opportunity to ask my big question. “So, would you like to play soccer with me this year?”

Giulia jerked away from me, her fingers closing into fists. “No! Never! It is
impossibile
.”

“Why?” The word slipped out before I could stop it.

Giulia uncrossed her legs and hugged her knees to her chest. “Of course, it would be possible. It is very simple to ask Signora Martelli for a practice uniform. But wait, I do not even have to ask. My old one is not too narrow for me yet. And my
papá
would pay. It would not please him that I play soccer with the boys. It never pleased him. Soccer is not for girls, he thinks. But since Emi plays, he could not say I was too busy with school.”

“Giulia, I'm so sorry. I wish I hadn't asked.”

“No, no. It is nothing. I'm glad that you asked me. It means you wish to be friends, no? If only you had come earlier, Irene. I had already been the only girl for years. I knew I would never make the traveling team. I am a good player, better than many of the boys who quit before me. But now, it's not worth the trouble.” She stopped and shook her head. “Maybe I played so long just to annoy Matteo.”

I snorted.

“I wasn't joking.”

“I know.”

“I have lost a year, Irene. You will leave next summer, and I would have to quit again.” She paused and tilted her head to the side. “Of course, Matteo would hate it…”

I let the silence between us lengthen, hoping that she might change her mind. Instead, she closed her eyes and shook her head. “I cannot. I'm sorry.”

“It's nothing. Don't worry yourself. So, now it is my turn to annoy Matteo.”

Giulia's shoulders straightened. “Very good! I will come to the games to watch him suffer, and you can come to my volleyball games. Unless…”

“What?”

Giulia leaned forward. “Unless you'd like to quit soccer and play volleyball with me. I am learning to play. I am too short to spike or block, but you are tall. That is an advantage in volleyball, no?”

If I switched to volleyball, it would be an honorable escape from a team that didn't want me to a team that would. People might smile when I walked into practice instead of wishing I'd go away and never come back. I might lose a year, but I wouldn't lose all my conditioning. And I was sure that Giulia would be more than happy to kick the soccer ball around with me for fun.

I found myself staring at her. I could see traces of Emi in her nose and high cheekbones. She had his wavy hair, dark eyes, and warm enthusiasm. Had this been Emi's plan all along—having his sister tempt me away from soccer with volleyball?

“No. It can't be,” I whispered.

“No?” Giulia asked, frowning.

What had we been talking about? Height. Volleyball. Advantage. “Er,
sí
. In volleyball, it is an advantage to be tall. But no, I can't play volleyball.

“Mmmmm. I see. Emi told me that you are a good player. Well, enough of soccer. Listen. Let's go into the center. We'll eat some ice cream. I know the best place.”

“Where is it? On the promenade by the theater bridge?”

“No. Pfff! That one is for tourists. I will bring you to the best. And maybe tomorrow we go to the pool with my friends?”

“Perfect. No, wait. There's soccer.”

“But Irene, the pool is only two steps from the field.”

“I know. I saw. But I cannot be dead tired for practice.”

“Ah,
sí
. You're right. Then how about the day after tomorrow?”

“I'll ask my mom. But without doubt, she will say yes.”

The next day I thought longingly of the pool as I sat on a wooden bench outside the clubhouse and changed into my cleats. Dead-tired or completely baked: which was worse? My T-shirt was already damp, and I hadn't done anything more strenuous that day than pedal my bike slowly to practice.

The calm, hazy air was thick with pollution and humidity. But relief was in sight. Literally. Dark, threatening clouds hid the mountain peaks to our north; but while they shifted and changed shape, they did not move into the valley.

A herd of sweaty munchkins limped past me. Max's team of first graders.

“Look! A girl!” one of them shouted.

There were plenty of girls who had been dragged along to practice to pick up their brothers, so I assumed by the note of surprise that the kid was pointing me out. I was right.

“Uaou!”
said another. “She plays at soccer with the guys? How strange!”

“How
schifo
!” put in a third.

“True,” said a voice I recognized. “She is my sister.”

“Really? Poor you!”

Ha! I love you too, Max, I thought. The next time he wanted me to kick the ball around in the garden I would say no. Or at least make him beg. I glared at my brother from under my eyelashes as I finished tying my shoe. He grinned at me and stuck out his tongue.

I leaped to my feet and took a step toward him. He bolted, shrieking happily. Most of his teammates dashed after him. But two girls at the end of line moved more slowly, looking up at me in wonder.

I checked out the glass case on the wall with its collection of schedules and photos. One notice proclaimed that my group, the
Esordienti I
of Merano, had a game scheduled for this Saturday afternoon. I glanced at the first three names on the list:

M. D'Andolo

E. DeChechi

L. Fornaio

Matteo, Emi, and Luigi? The goalie and the top two forwards? Naturally, they would be first. I scanned the rest of the list for my name—I. Benenati. It wasn't there. Not even with the substitutes. I checked again. Nothing. Had I been forgotten or left out on purpose?

I don't remember making a noise, but I must have, because Signora Martelli appeared at my elbow.
“Ciao, cara.
There is a problem?”

“My name isn't there,” I whispered, not trusting my voice.

“Ah.” She nodded. “There are only enough places in the van for fourteen. Thirteen players and the
mister
.”

“My
papá
could bring me.”

Signora Martelli shook her head. “I'm sorry, but we do not do it like that. This time, it is you who stays. The other times you will go. Everyone plays at home games unless they annoy the
mister
.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”

“It's nothing. Good work,
cara
,” she said.

I nodded and faked a smile. I couldn't complain—much. The plan made sense. I was the newcomer, the foreigner, the girl. Three strikes and I was most definitely out. Not that anyone would have the first clue about softball around here.

Whump!
Somewhere, out of my line of sight, someone's foot connected with a soccer ball. It had to be one of my teammates. I doubted that any of the munchkins could put that much energy on the ball. I felt like kicking something myself, so I left my blue and white duffle on the bench and trotted down to the field.

The
mister
stood with his feet planted on the white line. The mesh bag of soccer balls rested at his feet. His arms were crossed as he studied Luigi, the only player on the field so far. The man nodded at me as I pulled a ball out of the bag. “Irene.”

I nodded back at him. A
“ciao”
would have seemed too friendly, and the formal
“buona sera,”
good afternoon, didn't seem right for the soccer field.

I dribbled my ball onto the dirt field while Luigi positioned his at the corner of the penalty area. He took a few steps back before booming it into the goal. I could imagine it sailing just above the gloved hands of a goalkeeper, leaping to attempt a save. Luigi didn't have the quickness of Emi or Matteo, but he certainly had a good leg.

I accelerated and charged forward, dribbling the ball at my top speed. A few steps after crossing into the penalty area, I slammed the ball into the goal. Luigi and I both arrived to bend down and pull our balls out of the neon orange netting at the same moment.

Luigi raised his eyebrows. “You're here.”

“Of course. Where else?” I asked lightly, determined not to take offense at his obvious surprise.

He shrugged. “In the shade. At the pool.”

My chin dropped in outrage. Did he think I'd skip practice just because a sauna would be a cooler, drier place to work out?

“Everyone else will arrive at four-thirty on the dot,” Luigi continued calmly before I had a chance to say a word. “Not early. Not late. It's too hot today.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. “But you're here.”

“Ah, but my
papá
…” Luigi jerked his head in the direction of the
mister
. Then he stopped himself. “No, I mean to say, I must work now. I stand around during half the scrimmage.”

“It's the same for me,” I observed. “At least you get to stand on the field.”