Losing Francesca (6 page)

I hear the boys downstairs telling me to keep it down and I shake my head. As if I am the one keeping everyone up tonight.

But wait. Someone is definitely outside my terrace door. And they are knocking for me to let them in. I crawl over to the end of the bed and I can see a face in the darkness.

My heart almost stops when I recognize him.

It's dirt bike boy.

He taps again and I panic.

What the hell does he want?

He can see me, and now he's waving at me to open the door, rolling his hand in an urgent gesture, then looking behind him.

Sean! I bet it's Sean.

I jump up and tiptoe over to the door and pull it open. He scoots past me real fast and then I hear Sean's voice. "Francesca?"

I walk out on the terrace. "
Sì
."

"You OK?"

I walk over to the edge so I can see him, a little bit embarrassed by my bare legs and tank top. "
Sì
."

"Need anything?"

"
No. No
."

"OK, well, sorry about dinner. Don't let Frank get you down, he's just… scared, that's all."

"
OK
," I say.

"Goodnight."

"
Sì
."

I go back inside and practically bump into the boy. I push him away and curse. "
Chi sei? Che diavolo ci fai sul mio terrazzo?"

He just stares at me with those shining blue eyes. I squint at him, but his stare is intense and it makes me uncomfortable.

"
Ciao
?"

"Uh," he finally manages. "Fiona?"

"
No! Io non sono Fiona Sullivan
!" I hiss it out, but in a whisper.

His stare is searing into me, his gaze serious, but something else too. It takes me a second, but I recognize the look.
Wanting
. "You sure about that?"

I just shake my head and throw up my arms. I have a boy in my room, a very cute boy with muscles and no shirt, and he smells like a man who's been working all day and that is totally driving me crazy, and all he wants to do is talk about Fiona Sullivan. That's all anyone has wanted to talk about for months and I'm sick of it. I can't stand it anymore.

"
Detesto Fiona Sullivan, rivoglio mio padre, voglio tornare a casa! Io non sono Fiona Sullivan
!"

He laughs.

He laughs at me! I stomp my foot and turn around, furious, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back to him, pulls me
into
him actually, and then I am flush against his chest, and staring up into his eyes.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to make you mad."

I shrug.

"I get it, you don't understand me and I don't understand you, but I don't care. I just wanted to see you."

"
Io non sono Fiona Sullivan
," I whisper.

He takes his hands and holds my face, tilting it up so he can look at me, or make me look at him. His jawline is square and broad, the blond stubble still there from last night, only a little longer now. And his hands are rough, like he uses them for work every day.

"
Io non sono Fiona Sullivan
," I repeat and I shake my head this time for emphasis.

He continues to look at my eyes. Only my eyes. And then he exhales and I realize he's been holding his breath. "What. Is. Your. Name?"

He says it very slow, like I can't understand English.

And then it hits me, he doesn't know I understand English. The look on my face must be confusion, because he repeats it again, even slower. I almost laugh at him this time, but I hold it in. He's having a very serious moment and it would be extremely bad manners to laugh right now.

"
Mi chiamo Francesca Sabatini
."

He smiles. "Francesca?"

"
Sì
."

"You are like a flower, Francesca."

I blush and try to look away, but his hands are still cupping my face.

"You are so beautiful, I don't even know what to say."

I try to change the subject so I point to his chest and say, "
Come ti chiami
?"

He breathes out again and looks a little sad. He's disappointed that I had to ask but he catches himself quickly. "Brody, Brody Mason."

"Brody Mason," I repeat, trying on my best Italian accent.
Of the infamous Mason boys,
I don't add. But it is a nice name.

"Do you remember me?"

I shake my head to pretend I don't understand.

He drops his hands and I study his bare chest for a moment. He must not have realized he was shirtless because he plucks a shirt from his waistband and quickly tugs it over his head, pulling it down the way boys do, so that it slides past their stomach muscles and drives us girls crazy.

He is a very beautiful boy. Man. He's definitely not a boy.

And then it gets silent and soon after, it gets weird. He just stands there looking at me.

I'm just about to wander over to the door and open it to get him to leave—because no matter how beautiful he is, he definitely needs to go, and soon—but then he starts talking.

"I don't know if you remember me," he says softly. "But I would definitely like a chance to get to know you, Francesca."

Well, that was nice. I smile and then he squints at me and takes my face in his hands again.

"Have you been crying?" His thumbs caress the puffy skin under my eyes gently and I nod yes.

"Why?"

"
Perché
?" Seriously? "Frank," I say simply. It comes out so American it almost takes me back a minute.

"Oh. Yeah, Frank can be an asshole. I can see that. Can I come over again tomorrow?"

My eyes are transfixed by his gaze, but it's not enough to make this nightmare go away. I shake my head no.

"How about I come over in the daytime?"

I shake my head again. I'm pretty sure Sean will freak out if this guy comes calling for me, regardless of the hour. In fact, I'm pretty sure opening the door was a big mistake. He's beautiful, but I'm not interested. I have plans and a life and I'm pulling him across the room before I even get this thought together in my head, and then I push him out onto the terrace and close the door. Twisting the lock for emphasis.

I am not Fiona Sullivan and I'm getting the hell out of here on August fifteenth and no man-boy who rides a dirt bike and has a beautiful muscular chest is going to keep me from doing that. I'm done here. I didn't do anything to deserve Frank's stinging words at dinner and I'm just no longer interested in pretending I'm a foreign exchange student or away at horse camp.

Because the simple truth is, the more people know about me, the more complicated things will get.

I need to keep it all very simple. One name, one father, one home, one everything.

Because if they find out who I really am, my whole world might end.

Chapter Nine - Francesca

I sleep in the next day. I hear all the bustle of the barns and the horses and the riding lesson girls and their horse trailers and parents and all of that stuff that comes with a busy show barn in the summer. But I ignore every bit of it.

I lie in my bed until ten and then get up and soak in my tub filled with bubbles. When I'm done I go through all the clothes in my closet but the only pants that fit me are the ones I wore yesterday.

I could put shorts on, but I don't. I like to be dressed for just about anything so I put on the dirty jeans and a clean tank top, and leave it at that. I'll wear these damn jeans every day for the next seven weeks if I have to. Because you don't wear shorts unless you're comfortable, and I'm definitely not comfortable.

I'm on edge. Totally, one hundred percent on edge.

When I don't show up for lunch Angela comes knocking. I wish I had a lock on the door, but I don't, so she helps herself to the doorknob and walks in.

I shake my head at her.

"You missed breakfast and lunch."

Silence.

She shoves a plate at me. "I brought you a sandwich."

I am pretty hungry, so I take it and then make a shooing motion with my hand. It's rude but I don't care.

"Mrs. Marco is downstairs. You'll need to talk to her."

"
Spero che tu decida di parlarmi in italiano, perché da questo momento in poi, io non conosco più l'inglese
."

Sean enters then and translates, explaining that I refuse to acknowledge anyone who speaks to me in English. This makes Angela sigh with frustration. "So how do you plan on getting by, Francesca? Just pretending none of this is happening? It is, OK? And you need to deal with it."

"
Io non capisco l'inglese
."

"Right," she replies dryly. "I forgot, we have to live in reality but you, for whatever reason, have been excused from it."

I shake my head and feign ignorance. "
Io non capisco l'inglese
."

She walks out. And I laugh.

"It's not funny, Fiona," Sean says.

"Francesca."

"Fiona," he says angrily. "You know you're Fiona. You lied your ass off on those polygraph tests. We know who you are!"

I walk over to the window just as Brody Mason pulls into the farm on a dirt bike. Sean is over at my window in an instant and then he's outside on the terrace.

Then Mrs. Marco is at my door calling to me, and Sean is yelling down from the terrace, and Frank is outside screaming at Brody, and a horse gets loose and then all hell breaks loose and kids are screaming and the horse is screaming, and everything is a scream, and I run into the bathroom and slam the door.

It's not enough to drown out the sounds on the other side, and then they are pounding and yelling.

This place is nothing like it seemed yesterday.

"Fiona!" Sean yells through the door.

"Francesca," a more patient Mrs. Marco tries. "Come out, Francesca. Let's talk."

I'm gasping for breath and my heart is pounding, pounding like it's going to escape my chest with the slightest movement, so I stand very still and close my eyes.
It will end. It will all end soon. Just hang in there, just keep repeating the story. It will be over soon, just wait until August fifteenth when Fiona turns eighteen and they can't keep you anymore.

But I've been telling myself this for two months now, and no matter what, even if there's a good day or two I can't stop wondering if it really will end.

"Francesca," Mrs. Marco tries again. "Please, dear, just open the door and let me in. You don't have to come out, OK? I'll come in."

I put on a giant smile, look at myself in the mirror, and call out in my most sweet sing-songy voice, "
Io non capisco l'inglese
."

"Goddammit!"

That was definitely Frank.

He pounds on the door. "Come out now, Fiona!"

I guess they've given up on the Francesca pretense. "
Io non capisco l'inglese
," I sing sweetly.

It makes me laugh for a few seconds and then someone is kicking the door. I watch in horror as the wood starts to splinter and people on the other side start screaming, and then I hear Sean yelling at Frank and Frank yelling at Sean and then there is scuffling, banging up against the door, like they are fighting.

There's another crash against the door and this time it comes flying open. Sean and Frank fall to the floor, still grappling with each other.

I stand there.

Mrs. Marco stands there.

Sean and Frank stop fighting.

And I leap over them in one swift movement and then I'm out on the terrace, scrambling out of the grasp of Mrs. Marco—who's definitely got a little ninja in her, that's how quick she grabs me as I flash past—but I wriggle free, make the tree, jump on the limb I used to spy on Brody, swing my way down to the lowest bough, and fling myself off.

I roll in the dirt, get up, and break for the woods, not even looking back as all three of them scream at me from the terrace.

The thick undergrowth slaps against my face as I run—not even aware of which way I'm going. I find the bridle path but I figure that's the first place they'll come looking and break off on a footpath, like the one that leads to the lake. I run, my breath coming in short gasps, but I still run.

I can hear them now, calling for me—calling for Francesca, which isn't my name—calling for Fiona. But they never call for me by my real name.

I hear the dirt bike and start to panic. They are going to catch me and they'll take me back to the FBI and then they'll drug me again and put me in those interrogation rooms, and I won't get a phone call. That is such a freaking lie! They do not give you a phone call when they think you're a terrorist. And if I was a terrorist, then OK, I can see that. If you're a terrorist you don't deserve a phone call.