Defending Irene (9 page)

Davide glanced at the stands. Luigi said something. Werner and Davide nodded. I hunched my shoulders. I couldn't expect Nonno to watch us in silence. He always yelled at the players, officials, and announcers when we watched soccer on TV.

Luigi punted the ball back to me. “Another.”

My next one was not so pretty. But it was a decent crossing pass—a challenge to Luigi. More players arrived: Giuseppe, Federico, Emi, and Manuel. But the
mister
did not hand out any more balls. Instead, he filled the penalty area with people.

Three or four minutes later, Emi dribbled the ball toward me. I knew what he wanted. Corner kicks were usually his job.

“My turn,” he said, smiling.

I shrugged and said lightly, “You're the expert.”

He lowered his voice. “
Dai
, Irene. With such trees as Manuel and Werner in the box, I am too short for this. You have a better chance to make a goal than I do. Please?”

“Certainly. Send the ball my way a few times.”

So I joined the jostling crowd in the box. Emi lofted ball after ball into the penalty area. Finally, a good one came my way. I tensed my muscles and shuffled my feet to get under it. I jumped, bringing my head and shoulders forward. But as I hit the ball, something hit me. I lost all sense of where the ground was until it reached up to smack me.

My eyes squeezed shut on impact and stayed shut as I mentally checked to make sure my arms, legs and head were all still connected to my body.

“Foul,” someone said.

“Gelbe Karte,”
Werner muttered in German. I recognized the words from my remedial German class.
Gelbe
was yellow. What was
Karte?
Map? Yes, but it could mean card too. Yellow card? Any player who received one from the official was one flagrant foul away from being ejected from the game. My eyes popped open.

Matteo lay on the ground a few feet away from me. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. “I'm sorry, Irene. I was watching the ball.”

“It's nothing,” I said, even though I didn't believe that he was A) watching the ball or B) sorry.

“Irene is not made of porcelain, you know,” Luigi said from his place in the circle of faces staring down at us. He twitched his eyebrows at me and held out his hand. I let him hoist me to my feet.

The
mister
pushed through the crowd. “All right,” he said briskly. “A penalty kick for Irene and then we start.”

He motioned Luigi toward the goal and arranged the ball on the penalty spot. As I stepped back, everyone else moved out of my way.

I leaned my weight on my back foot, hesitating, trying not to overthink the play. Luigi waited for me, his feet a little over shoulder-width apart, his arms spread for balance.

I ran forward, fists clenched. My body tilted to the right. My left foot, my kicking foot, came back and swung forward. I connected with my laces and instep, coming in under the ball to give it some lift. But not too much. I followed through, landing on my kicking foot. The ball curved toward the upper-left corner of the net.

No pole. No crosspiece, I begged silently. Then I revised my plea. Either would be better than catching empty air. Luigi lunged and then—

“Goal! Perfetto! Bravissima!”
roared my newest, loudest, and maybe even my biggest fan.

A few of the latecomers' heads turned in surprise. A quiet mumble let them know whose relative was so strange as to cheer at a practice.

Instead of running, we started on a series of drills: dribbling, juggling, passing, shooting. Anyone not working hard enough to suit the
mister
was sent off to do three or four laps.

When we took our usual break, three umbrellas followed us in the direction of the clubhouse. A fourth stayed in the bleachers. My
nonno
had decided not to go home. Throughout the scrimmage that followed, he cheered for us all: a breakaway by Matteo, a beautiful save by Luigi, a header by Davide, a sliding tackle from Werner, a corner kick by Emi.

Afterwards, Nonno limped stiffly toward me with his arms outstretched and a closed umbrella in one hand. “
Brava! Bravissima!
I have never seen a
ragazza
like you on the field. Never.
Complimenti!
”

“No one plays like our Irene,” Matteo said. He sounded sincere—almost proud. What was going on? Had our collision knocked some sense into Matteo's head?

Nonno beamed. “With such a team, it does not surprise me that you have not lost a game yet.
Bravi
, both of you.”

Matteo ducked his head, waved his hand, and walked on.

Nonno turned back to me. “I have heard good things about the American women. Listen, you have dual citizenship. You can play soccer for America, and in the off-season you can be a model for Versace? Would that please you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, sure. Or else I will have my own line of clothing.”

“Even better. But truly, you are a
brava calciatore
.
Calciatrice
, I mean. Your
nonna
thought so too.”

“Really?”

“Mamma mia. Mamma mia.”
She said it many times. Nonno chuckled.

There was no doubt that my performance had made an impression on Nonna, but I suspected that she was more horrified than proud. I could just imagine our next private conversation.

“Do you have much homework today,
cara
?” Nonna asked when I came home from school on Tuesday.

“Not too much,” I said.

“Very well. Your
mamma
and I saw such darling clothes this morning. Let's go into the center to shop.”

“In the rain?”

“It is no more than a mist.
Dai
, Irene, you played at soccer for ninety minutes in worse weather, true?” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

“Uh, true. What about Max and Nonno?”

She sniffed. “They do not have enough patience to stand around in a store while you try on clothes. Besides, I leave tomorrow and I have not yet heard about your school and your friends.”

Of course she hadn't. I had successfully avoided being alone with Nonna since Saturday afternoon. This time no little voice screeched that this was another trap. It only whispered, “Bribe.”

“Please, Irene. Come with me, and we will eat ice cream.” Nonna blinked twice and peered at me over her glasses.

That was all it took.

“Oh, Nonna, that's not necessary,” I said quickly. I'll go voluntarily—if Mamma says it's all right.”

“
Va bene.
Ask her.”

I did.

“Of course, you can go.” Mom answered. “But if you don't want to…”

“No, I do,” I said.

Mom nodded. “Good girl. I think your
nonna
wants to buy you a present to apologize. I'll move dinner back an hour. I imagine ice cream is on her agenda.”

A fifteen-minute walk took Nonna and me to the Via Portici, a seven-hundred-year-old street that looked like something out of
The Sound of Music
. The stucco buildings, orange tiled roofs, shuttered windows, and iron signs all reflected the town's long Tyrolean history. But once we slipped into the sheltered portico, things around us were more varied: up-to-the-minute styles from Milan were featured next door to shops with the traditional clothes—loden cloaks, boiled wool jackets, dirndls, and lederhosen. A pizzeria shared a wall with a restaurant featuring the local specialties:
Spätzle
,
Speck
, and
Schlutzkrapfen
. Little dumplings, bacon, and ravioli filled with spinach and cheese.

The clerks all recognized Nonna as she sailed in through the door. They addressed her as
signora
, effortlessly using the formal language that I was struggling with in school. They produced the items that she had left behind the counter earlier in the day. Everything was exactly my color. Everything fit perfectly. Everything was very, very expensive.

“Thank you, Nonna. Um, have we finished?” I asked a little nervously after we left the fourth store with yet another bag.

“Don't worry yourself. Your
mamma
saw everything this morning.”

“But she probably didn't think that you were going to buy it all,” I said.

Nonna laughed. “Ah, but your
nonno
wants his favorite
calciatrice
to be well-dressed. And I agree. Shall we go? We go,” she concluded, answering her own question.

When we finished with the last shop on the end of the Via Portici, I told Nonna about the best ice cream place in town. She seemed interested until she discovered that we would have to order cones from the counter.

“Today, no,” she insisted. “We'll find a place more elegant.”

So a few minutes later, I found myself sitting on a padded wicker chair protected from the rain by a green and white striped awning. The restaurant was right on the
passegiata
, a wide walkway running along the top of the twenty-foot-high embankment that protected Merano from the waters of the Passirio. The first time I'd seen the river, it was clear and no more than two feet deep. Today, it was a rushing brown torrent.

Nonna bent over the menu and pointed out desserts to me. Each seemed to have at least five or six scoops of ice cream and masses of whipped cream. “You can eat them without trouble. You are almost too thin. Soccer helps you stay in shape, no?” She sighed and shook her head. “At least I understand why you cannot quit soccer now.”

“Really?”

“The goalkeeper—he is called Luigi, no?”

“Sí,”
I said, puzzled.

Nonna patted my arm. “You have a weakness for him, I think.”

“What?”

“You have fallen in love with him,” Nonna explained, as if I didn't understand the Italian phrase.

I stared at her. What could my sharp-eyed grandmother have seen yesterday to give her such an idea? Luigi almost kicking me in the face, blocking over eighty percent of my shots on the goal, helping me to my feet…? No. This was all Max's fault. He had put the idea into her head.

“I suppose that you want to be near him,” she continued. “He will only think of you as a good friend. A
calciatrice
. Or worse, a
calciatore
. But maybe that is better. You are too young to become serious.”

“Nonna, I have not fallen in love with Luigi.”

“As you wish,
cara
.” Her eyes gleamed. She obviously did not want to believe me.

The next morning, I told Giulia about the new theory of my
nonna
while we stood in the courtyard before school started. She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her umbrella.

Barbara, who had been skimming my homework for spelling errors, looked up. “
Tranne
has two
n
's, not one,” she told me, pointing to the Italian word for “except.” “What is so funny?”

“Nothing.” I took my paper from Barbara and corrected the word while Giulia continued to laugh.

“What?” Barbara asked, looking from Giulia to me and back again. “What have I missed?”

“Irene is only playing soccer because she loves Luigi,” Giulia whispered.

Barbara blinked. “Really?”

“No! Absolutely not!” I glared at Giulia. “My
nonna
thinks so.”

“Why?” Barbara asked.

“It my brother's fault,” I grumbled. “He told her how we play soccer together before the others arrive.”

Giulia snorted. “The
nonna
prefers that her granddaughter be a
ragazza romantica
instead of a
maschiaccio
.”

Barbara shrugged. “Makes sense to me. I meant from the point of view of your
nonna
, Irene. But it is funny. Luigi will laugh.”

“No!” Giulia cut in before I could. “Do not tell Luigi!”

“Why not?” Barbara asked. “It's a beautiful joke.”

“Playing soccer is already difficult enough,” I said. “Believe me, Barbara. It's not a good idea.”

“Irene is right,” Giulia said, her voice serious. “Leave it, Barbara.”

Barbara stuck out her lower lip. “
Ma dai!
Both of you. So. Why do you play soccer, Irene? Why not play volleyball with us?”

“
Ciao
, Irene,” a voice cut in.

“Ciao,”
I said instinctively. A heartbeat later, I realized who had spoken.

“
Ciao
, Giulia. Barbara,” Matteo continued. Tiny droplets of rain shimmered in his black curly hair.

“Ciao,”
Barbara said. Giulia pressed her lips together and crossed her arms.

“Soccer pleases your
nonno
very much, Irene,” Matteo observed.

“True,” I said and waited.

“My
nonno
was like that too. He died last year.”

I wasn't prepared for that. “Oh, I'm sorry.” I said.

“Me too.” He lifted his chin. His blue eyes stared into mine. “But I was glad to think of him yesterday. Thank you.”

I blinked. “It was nothing.”

“Thank you just the same. Well, I must find Gianlucca before school begins. We'll see each other later, Irene.
Ciao
, Barbara. Giulia.”

“Ciao,”
Barbara echoed.

Neither Giulia nor I answered. I was too shocked by this sudden outburst of friendliness, and, judging by her narrowed eyes and tight lips, Giulia was too suspicious.

“Ohhhh,” Barbara sighed once Matteo disappeared into the crowd. “So open. So sad. So
bello
.”

Giulia pulled down on her eyelid with her pointer finger, a gesture that meant sneaky, clever,
furbo
. “I don't trust him,” she said.

“I don't either,” I said. But I wanted to.

“He seemed so sincere,” Barbara protested. “Remember how—”

“Ha,” Giulia said. “He only pretends. I know him. Enough.”

Barbara shrugged. “All right. What were we talking about?”

“How many
n
's there are in
tranne
,” I said.

“Sí,”
Barbara said. “And one other thing. But…we'll leave it.”

Instead of “it,” did she mean “him”? In Italian, the pronoun could mean either one. Barbara's eyes gleamed in an echo of my
nonna
's expression. She didn't believe me either.

What did they think I saw in Luigi? I wondered as I sat next to him on the team van on the way to Bolzano the following Saturday. I studied his face as he told me the strengths and weaknesses of our next opponents. Luigi had a strong chin, but an equally strong nose. His light brown eyes had a slightly darker band of brown around the iris. His black eyebrows were in danger of growing together someday. His teeth were even and relatively straight without the artificial perfection a few years with braces would…

“What are you looking at? Is there something in my teeth?” Luigi asked. He ran his tongue back and forth a few times, curled back his lip, and asked, “Better?”

“Oh,
sí
.”

“All right. What was I talking about?”

“The team from Bolzano?” I said, hoping he hadn't switched topics.

“Exactly. I told you about Antonio Russo? How he is left-footed?”

I nodded. The name did sound familiar.

“You must stay attentive. Of course, it is possible that the
mister
will put you on the other wing. Russo is very dangerous. Very. Very.”

“Okay.”

“Russo?” Davide cut in from Luigi's other side. “He scored three goals against us last spring.”

“Three?” I said. “No one has made that many goals against us all year.”

“Eduardo Gozzi was our goalkeeper in that game,” Luigi said. “I was sick.”

“I don't know him. Did he quit?” I asked.

“No. He plays with the
Giovanissimi
this year. He is too old for the
Esordienti
.”

“So players change levels depending on their age here?”

“Age and ability,” Luigi said. “For example, Federico came up early this fall. The
mister
will ask for a few more
pulcini
in the spring. Then a big group will come up next fall.”

Luigi's explanation of the system made me think of just how strange the names for the various Italian soccer categories were. We were part of the
Esordienti
, the beginners. Even though the
Giovanissimi
were older than we were, their name meant “the youngest.” But the
Pulcini
had it worst of all. They were the freshly hatched chickens, the “chicks.”

“Do you think that Russo still plays for Bolzano?” Davide asked.

“I'm certain. The
mister
has heard stories.”

“Tell me,” Davide said.

Luigi never needed a second invitation to talk. In other parts of the van, similar conversations were going on. I could feel the energy, the bottled excitement.

Outside, it was dreary. The light rain continued. Volvos, BMWs, Audis, and the occasional Mercedes Benz blew past us, sending fine bursts of spray across the windshield of the van. Low clouds still hung over the valley. The long rows of apple trees on either side of the
autostrada
faded into the mist.

Visibility didn't improve when we reached Bolzano. I knew from an earlier trip that the Castel Marreccio—Schloss Maretch to the German speakers—was just a few hundred yards away. If it was clear, would the orange tile roofs of its towers be visible through the trees? I couldn't remember.

The Talvera River roared past us. The grassy playing fields were in no danger. Not yet. But if the rain continued for another week, that could change.

As usual, I watched the opening kickoff from the sidelines. Matteo tapped the ball to Emi and both of them surged forward into a sea of yellow and white uniforms. Even without Luigi's warning, I would have known to study Russo. Like Matteo, he was a player who drew the eye. When the
mister
put me in during the second period, I knew that I wouldn't be able to stop him. My job would be to get between him and the goal, slow him down, and wait for reinforcements. If I played him too closely, he would be able to throw me off-balance with one of his beautiful fakes just as he had with Manuel, Werner, and Davide.