The Machiavellian

by fishwithaph, GhostlyBlueMuffins

Summary:

Verona and Franco were so excited to visit their friends Luca and Giulia in their summer home in Portorosso. From sea-folk to sun-rays, their interests were piqued, but especially towards one thing in particular: Alberto Scorfano, Giulia’s adopted brother and Luca’s fierce (though not yet requited) affinity. However, as the five’s time together progressed, Verona’s focus narrowed onto two, irrefutable facts: Alberto Scorfano is not the charmer he makes himself out to be, and Luca—though he’s too blind by love to notice—needs out. Thankfully, she (with assistance from Franco) is more than ready to take up the task.

Notes:

hello everybody my name is welcome

Chapter 1: prologue: cognitive planning

Drizzle ran down the windows that dreary April morning, but a little rain hardly stopped much. Cars still filled the street with noise and smoke; pedestrians still swamped the sidewalk on their way to work, just now were only shadowed by a canopy of black and blue umbrellas. The schools were still open, of course, and despite the pangs upon the windows, the light gushes of wind through doors, the constant rabble of the city, and all else, Verona could hear Sofia Oriani, while walking to class, loudly bemoaning to her friends that it should have been canceled.

 

She might have even commented upon her complaint, had she not already been far too deep into a conversation with a separate, similarly stereotypically popular (read: intimidatingly and suspiciously extroverted) girl.

 

The boy in front of her nodded, insistent. “No, I know, I know,” he whispered excitedly, sitting upon one of his legs to lean forward, nearer to her. The boy’s name is Franco Facetti, and when he’s trying to get a point across, he tends to curl his hand into one wagging finger, widen his stark, blue eyes, and say, “I thought that too, before I found out she was friends with Giulia.”

 

“Right?” Verona agreed, throwing a leg over her knee—first, for habit; second, for emphasis; and third, for modesty. Though the last intention may give her the appearance of a prude, do not be alarmed: she had seated herself rebelliously sideways, elbows propped up upon the metal bar connecting the student desk and the chair. “Honestly, it was really surprising to hear that she stood up to him,” she offered, then quickly moved to cover her tracks, “Not really for the fact that he was stood up to, but for the fact that it was her.” Her nose twitched as her eyes averted for just a short moment of self-reflection, but then Franco nodded, easing her doubt, and she continued, “If anything, she seems like the kind of person who would side with him.”

 

Instead of immediately agreeing with her and validating her inherent distrust, as she wished he would, Franco only blinked, arched a brow, and moved to put his head in his hands.

 

Verona felt his eyes become steady upon her movements, and she read them as scrutinizing. Her words spilling forth from her mouth like water out of a tender-footed waitress’s full hands, she did not lower her voice: “Everyone tells me what a great person she is, but, I don’t know, whenever I tried to talk to her, she always seemed just so cold!”

 

And, something in those words did strike the boy. Franco sat up straighter, eyes wide but more alert rather than heady and determined like a predator latched onto a piece of prey. There was something on his mind, Verona could tell, it could not be contained. “It’s the eyebrows.”

 

“I know—”

 

He cut Verona off. “No, really.” His voice lifted an octave. There was a tone there that wasn’t present before, so direct and instructional like a professor standing at the head of a lecture hall or an inventor beside his instrument just mere minutes away from a public unveiling. His hands balled into small, excited fists, but his lips remained a steady, flat line. “Humans evolved eyebrows for communication,” he began, “Originally, it was meant to look intimidating—you can kind of see it still in gorillas, whose supraorbital ridges—” he pressed two fingers to his brow, feeling about the hard, rounded structure, “are still highly protruded and down-tilted. But, in humans, the supraorbital ridges receded and became highly flexible and upward-tilted because, eventually, looking ‘kind’ benefitted us more than looking ‘mean.’”

 

Verona stared at him; she didn’t quite know what to say with the sudden onslaught of information.

 

Franco, on the other hand, continued despite her silence, nodding over to what looked to be the group of fellow classmates beside them, all passing little slips of paper with numbers and letters scrawled upon post-it-notes, backs arched and hands cupped to shadow the illegal slips from the fluorescent light and whatever technologies may be hiding with it. One of them swore that Tonio—a student who graduated well over a decade ago—caught Sra. Romano hiding up in the tiles, watching students like a hawk from above one time. Though, that wasn’t what Franco was nodding to. In fact, it was really more of a shrug. “You can kind of see this in dogs and wolves too, but in the opposite direction. Wolves don’t have eyebrows, but dogs do, because we, humans, prefer them that way. They were more expressive, so humans perceived them to be better at communication.”

 

We, humans, he said. Verona muddled over his word choice for just a short moment, wondering if it was intentional or just by habit. Regardless, it was, right now, an unnecessary clarification, so Verona ignored it. Instead, her voice teased a high note, eyes squinting with the pinch of a smile. “Franco, you know biology isn’t until the fifth period, right?” she riposted.

 

Due to it being so early in the morning—not even eight—Verona didn’t expect much of a reaction, but Franco washed her expectations aside. He slapped a hand against his chest and threw himself forward like an actor on a stage, huffing, “Well, excuse me for having a passion!”

 

And as he finished it off with a show of palm and head-flick away, Verona broke into a short burst of laughter. Franco, too, laughs, though his is more restrained—more breathy—being just short puffs of air between his teeth like broom bristles sweeping the sidewalk.

 

Had it been a few years ago, Verona would have braced herself for a, kindhearted as it may have been, unwanted comment on how her laugh sounds like a whinnying guinea pig, so small and squeaky, but they’ve grown too familiar for that. And, unlike how it may appear, they had not always been so familiar.

 

Nearly half a decade ago, back before they even hit eleven, Franco and Verona met in the fashion one would expect of the adolescent intellectuals: lonely and with their noses stuffed deep into a book. They didn’t run into each other between the small, bookshelves-encased aisles like a scene out of a movie. Rather, they saw each other one time, then another, then another. At the grocery store, on the street, in the school hallways, at the park, and, of course, at the library. And, eventually, the more socially-inclined one decided enough was enough.

 

She put down Le Avventure di Sherlock Holmes (she always prided herself in reading far ahead her grade level) and with ten white knuckles, she began a conversation. To her delight, the boy took it well. So well, in fact, that the conversation never quite ended—not even now, five years into the future.

 

So, despite the superfluity, Verona swatted at the air above Franco’s desk and grins with a crinkle of genuinity, “I’m just playing! That’s really cool.” Then, retracted from his desk, retracted from her metal bar, uncrossed her knees, re-crossed her ankles, and leaned back. Her hair hit the wall, and she barely even thinks about all the time spent getting her hair—a short, brown bob that curved out near the ends—to stay in place. It was kinder to say ease up this way, rather than speaking the words aloud. Besides, she read something in one of her uncle’s textbooks recently that interested her, and she wondered…

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Franco batted off her words.

 

Yes! Verona’s eyes lit up with mischief; the words mirror and empathy and neuron buzzed and blinked like neon signs inside her mind. Without her consent, her smile grew sly and giddy, but she didn’t worry about any scrutiny. The only one to question would be Franco, and he was scooted out of his seat, leaning over to fumble about in his bookbag through all the papers and trash strewn about.

 

Verona’s mouth opened to make some remark about the necessity of keeping one’s possessions—especially something as important as a bookbag—tidy, but her voice was caught up in a gasp of horror as Franco produced—not homework or a pencil or even a piece of literature—but a bottle, cola-flavored, and an opener.

 

“Cosa fa—”

 

Crack.

 

The bottle lid clanged against the tile, foamy tan bubbles splurting up and out like a successful middle school science fair project, minus the paper mache. Verona tried to veer backward, but her legs were stuck between the chair, the desk, and the metal bar. Her mind raced like an animal caught in a trap, her desk almost screeching against the floor as she tried to run away from the grimy explosion sure to come, but Franco was quick. When no explosion came, she whipped her head back to him and saw a sight much less frightening, but no less wretched: He was drinking—chugging—the soda, and pinky brown lines were now streaking down his face, tracing the angle of his jaw and gathering upon his once-white collar.

 

She grimaced. “Cugino.” 

 

“Eh?” Franco wiped his face down with his sleeve. Another stain—Verona’s heart sunk deep into her stomach.

 

Her nose crinkled, and a new color of disapproval surfaced upon her face. “It’s seven in the morning.”

 

“And?” Franco arched a brow.

 

She scoffed. She knew Franco wasn’t the cleanliest person—she had heard his shower routine, and his acne wouldn’t have been half as bad as it was if he just washed his face once in a while—but this was ridiculous. He’d ruined so much of his uniform, and so early in the day! Besides, even without the mishap, the act, alone, could not have been good for him. In fact, it may have led to even more repercussions than his ruined suit! And so, she admonished him quite bluntly, “And you shouldn’t be drinking a soda at seven in the morning.” 

 

Franco, however, didn’t budge. His eyes averted, but they didn’t roll with disdain. (Verona wondered if there was anything behind them at all.) “I woke up late and didn’t have time for espresso!” he reasons, taking another dreaded swig. A shiver crawled up her spine as he opened his mouth to let the foam fizz on his tongue. She watched him swish and swallow it down like one would watch a chicken be beheaded, and wondered how he could stand a feeling so much like one’s teeth encased in a gummy plastic.

 

“You really shouldn’t be drinking espresso, either, by the way,” she added. It was meant to be a passing comment—half-sighed so far beneath a breath so that Franco may not even hear. But, of course, it was a fruitless attempt.

 

Franco narrowed his eyes as he lowered the bottle to the desk, black pupils sparkling with spite and distrust. “Why, is it gonna kill me?” He asked with a cocky jut of his chin.

 

Verona pouted her bottom lip as she shrugged. “No,” she offered, but the word was flimsy and weak, almost a suggestion rather than an assurance. She took her hands, beginning to gently wring, and daintily—innocently—folded them together. “But, it is an addiction.”

 

Franco nearly choked. He lurched forward like a boat rocked with walls of water, hand clapping his mouth to hide either an oncoming cough or a grating, incredulous grin. “You think I have an addiction to espresso?”

 

Verona’s eyebrows furrowed. She looked away from him, up to the front of the room, locked onto nothing at all except not Franco. “No, I think you have an addiction to caffeine.”

 

Franco leaned forward, a detective interrogating a stubborn suspect. He set the soda aside, crossed his arms, and lowered his head to eye her through blonde-tipped lashes with an incredible amount of childish severity. “An addiction to caffeine,” he repeated, and by the playful tone in his voice, Verona just knew that he was trying to rub some degree of humility in her. “Verona,” he pleaded with opening hands, “there is no such thing.” A laugh punctuated the end of his sentence and grazed Verona’s skin like a hand petting a cat from tail to neck—all hairs arose.

 

And, much like a cat, Verona continued to ignore him. Her eyes began to roam, scanning the posters and reading over their long-memorized messages. Inspirational quotes, formulas, reminders of the rules, the names of countries and capitals. She pretended to pay attention to them, or the bookshelf brimming with literature, or the other kids, laughing and talking about things they were far too young to be laughing and talking about. Very calmly, she argued, “Yes, there is.” Then, she turned to him, tapping one pointed finger to her temple, and continued, “You are, quite literally, requiring your brain to be dependent upon caffeine.” She brought her hand to rest. “Your body needs it now to stay awake and craves it when you haven’t had it.” Her mouth curved into an urgent frown. Her eyes gleamed behind the lenses. “That’s bad.” A twitch of her nose. “That is, by definition, an addiction.”

 

She watched attentively as Franco’s expression turned as cold as a stone statue. “Ragazza, it’s just soda.” There wasn’t a hint of amusement in his voice; she had gotten beneath his skin. “It’s not like I’m chewing on LSD.”

 

“Okay,” Verona acknowledged with an annoyed little blink, “but it’s still unhealthy.” Her voice started to rise, as it often did whenever the conversation turned to the matters of the brain. “Plus, it’s not like stopping is impossible! I cut out caffeine from my diet a while ago.”

 

Franco huffed, abrading Verona yet again. “Yeah, and you’re the only person in the entirety of Italia that doesn’t drink espresso.”

 

While Verona may have been an A-list actor when it came to putting on a face, she was still a teenager. Her face grew hot. Incredulous thoughts spun around her mind, either gently berating the boy before her for his complete and utter disregard for his health or small pieces of an argument towards the surely incredible overstatement—the accusation he carelessly hurled her way. However, the introductory paragraph is always the hardest part. Therefore, she introduced her opinion much like a child arguing with their twin: “No, I’m not—!” 

 

But she did not finish. Franco interrupted her with a head thrown back, arms wide open. “One in a million, ragazza!”

 

“No, I’m not!” she repeated, and redder her face grew. She could feel the volume in her voice, the number of eyes flashing their way. The steadily growing possibility of a threat—of someone laughing about her through mouths cloaked by cruel hands. The way one kid might sneer or scowl for just a second, and how that one awful frown might give rise to tens or hundreds more. People tend to seek out the same pages, after all, and she doesn’t wish to be on a page marked with seven big, red letters: AVOID. However, at only fifteen years old, she hasn’t quite nailed the concept of self-restraint, so she raised her voice with one clenched palm, half sprung out of her seat, and swore, “No, I’m not! Plenty of people don’t—!”

 

A boy slapped down a book bag on the table parallel. Verona nearly jumped. But, thankfully, the embarrassing, albeit quiet, shriek went largely unheard as a greeting, loud and proud, rang out: “Buongiorni, ragazzi! Fighting already, eh?”

 

With one hand over her heart, Verona swiveled to know the transgressors. And, as soon as their faces came to view—as soon as Franco began stifling a chuckle in the back of his hand—her heart calmed. Oh, it’s just them.

 

See, back when the two had just met, Franco and Verona rarely had any other friends. Neither were popular and both were ostracized. Franco, for his bluntness that painted him cold and uncaring—and for the fact that he opted for Cose Interessanti per i Ragazzini, a magazine heavily associated with scientifically-inclined adolescents, above the latest episode of whatever was the trend. And, Verona, for her reticence and people-watching that came off as quite unnerving. If asked, she couldn’t name the number of times someone questioned if she was possessed (especially once she dived deep into the fascinating world of serial killers and other similar horrors).

 

However, they did not stay that way for long.

 

Franco noticed her first—a girl he recognized as the art teacher’s daughter standing a little ways ahead of him in the same library he met Verona in, one book in her right, and a familiar magazine in her left. He strained to read the title, and delighted at the words once made out: Cose Interessanti per i Ragazzini. He had wondered where the last copy had gone, and, immediately, he started to formulate a plan in which he could retrieve the magazine (or, at the very least, the girl’s attention).

 

But the minute he came up with an idea that had posed some potential success, she was darting for the door with clear intention in her stride. Perhaps if he was creepy like Verona, he would have followed her out, but he was not. He only felt a small twinge of disappointment, then stepped forward in line.

 

Verona, on the other hand, met her far differently. It wasn’t at the library, but at school. Verona had seen her around—it was hard not to notice someone with such bright, red hair like hers—but they had never interacted until the girl ran up and, without hesitation, flew a fist to the face of one of her most formidable bullies. She remembered how the crowd rushed and then roared as the boy staggered, dropping the notebook he had been keeping out of Verona’s reach. She hadn’t yet time to thank her—she only quickly picked up the notebook and fled the scene, but they met up later. She noticed the girl’s bruises, and she apologized profusely for not offering any assistance, but the girl just laughed it off and said not to worry. She’d do it again, if she could, and expressed her hatred of any of those like him—how terribly she wanted to grind them like bugs beneath her virtuous heel.

 

That was Giulietta “Giulia” Marcovaldo. And, Verona was, in all the ways a ten-year-old could be, infatuated and strived to make her a friend. Thankfully, it wasn’t hard.

 

What was hard, however, was the friend Giulia brought home with her almost four years later.

 

Sure, he was a nice boy, but he was weird, and not the kind of weird Verona was used to. He didn’t seem to know how to act, though freaked out every time he stepped a little out-of-line. Sometimes, he seemed more like an alien wearing a human suit and desperately pretending to be a person, hastily whispering questions like: “What’s a continent? What’s a horse? What’s a cake? What’s a doctor?” Franco thought it was a joke, but Verona, with all her juvenile prowess in the inner workings of behavior, could see through him. She pierced her eyes to spot the telltale signs of play or falsehood, but the boy’s eyes didn’t dart. He didn’t shift in his seat, or punctuate his sentence with a laugh. Sometimes he blushed, but it was always with huddling shoulders and a quiet twinge of fear. 

 

Giulia said he just had never been to school before and didn’t know a lot. Then, she explained that he was from a village far, far away that didn’t have access to technology. Then, she scrambled to make up an elaborate lie to explain his appearance in Portorosso, where she goes to stay with her father in the summer. Eventually, they both had enough. Before that school year even ended, the boy shed his jacket, got onto a stool, and stuck his hand into the teacher’s fish tank.

 

He wasn’t an alien, but he wasn’t human either. He was Luca Paguro, the first ever sea monster to attend a school on the surface. The first ever sea monster to reveal itself—himself—to a human and live to tell the tale. But also, a fourteen-year-old boy, and a very intuitive—and very curious—one at that. For that matter, despite the fins and scales and claws and tail, he fit right into their little oddball group just fine.

 

Plus, Franco just loved having a brand new species to learn about, especially one with sentience, the will, the consent, and the vocabulary to explain.

 

Which is why, as Luca shed his raincoat, still glistening from the rain and dripping a trail upon the floor, no one batted an eye at the small spots of teal-ish green on his otherwise rosy palms. He only showed his back to the class, shrouded his hands from view, and quickly stashed away the folded-up mantle into a handbag, one that Verona knows to also contain a small hand cloth and collapsible, but quite large, umbrella. Then, he sat down, wiping off his hands upon his uniform (Verona still doesn’t say a thing—water is less reprehensible than soda), and folded his hands into the junction of his torso and arm, like a child trying to soothe itself.

 

She wondered if that’s what he was doing. Soothing himself. She understands he is a very anxious—paranoid, almost—person, and how could she blame him? She’d be paranoid, too, if she was in his shoes.

 

Franco, however, did not give them such grace for long: “You guys are late.”

 

Luca quickly jumped to his defense, “It was raining!” and thunder rumbled outside as if Mother Nature herself wished to lend him some grace. A few Ooh’s and Did you hear that?’s scattered about the room.

 

Verona stepped in for cover. “Non dargli retta,” she airily dismissed the light admonishment. “Sta bene.” A small twinge of pride—I’m the caring one—bubbled in her chest.

 

Giulia roused in her seat, and she angled her head toward the dull, grey clock nailed to the dull, grey wall. “Class doesn’t start for another ten minutes, no?” She questioned, pointing with one finger painted a shiny, emerald green to its ticking, black hands.

 

Verona’s eyes followed her finger, and Franco nodded, resting back with arms recrossed. She assumed he was relieved, though she can see the small twitch in the corners of his mouth showing a wearily cloaked distaste. He must have wanted to scold them further. He does seem to like doing that, after all.

 

Giulia, however, did not take note. She attempted to resume the previous conversation, nervously grinding her palms together, “So, what were you guys talking about?” Her grin grew awkward, eyes darting from person to person; she must have sensed the slight, simmering scent of debate. And, despite knowing better, opted to take that risk like sparking a match amongst dry wood. And, what a risk it was; with so many so-called nerds in this group, debates and differences of opinion are a highly dangerous activity. Feelings often get hurt, but it usually works out in the end once some concrete logic is applied.

 

So, Verona nodded to Franco, resting one arm upon the back of her chair. “Franco’s drinking a soda at seven in the morning.”

 

Giulia’s face contorted in high disapproval, a wrinkle forming between her brows and nose bridge. “Fratello.”

 

Franco’s hands took to the air like angry bird wings, flapping about. “Oddio! I did not have time to make espresso, alright?” he shouted, teeth harmlessly bared.

 

“So?” Giulia’s arms swept open, voice raising to meet his level. “Just go without it—it’s one day!” 

 

Verona threw a hand over her chest, cutting in, “See, that’s what I said!” and thus the argument began. Franco stood strong as the defendant, with only himself to serve as his lawyer. Verona doubled as the witness and prosecutor, as did Giulia, who posed as the judge and jury. The conversation raged from a myriad of topics, first with caffeine consumption, and then to addiction, health, and dental hygiene. The three squabbled and argued as any childhood friends—could-be cousins—would, but a well-suspected fourth never stepped in. He had preserved his silence since the first rebuttal, voiceless and tapping his eraser against his chin in an unsteady but undoubtedly focused rhythm, his eyes locked down to a paper he tore from his notebook and a second that he pulled from a folder.

 

Franco, desperate for an out, veered to him. “Luca, what do you think about this?”

 

The boy blinked as if startled out of a daydream. “Mi dispiace, I wasn’t paying attention. Are you guys still arguing over the soda thing?” He asked, limply gesturing with his pencil—small, bored circles drawn in the air—to Franco’s unfinished drink.

 

“Yeah—” the other boy began, his mind visibly rerouting. He must have thought that Luca, albeit turned, had been listening in. He must have suspected Luca, as the other guy, to rush to his aid and add validation to his less-than-hygienic habits. But, he was not. 

 

Verona watched attentively, trying to stifle a Cheshire cat’s grin as Franco’s eyes darted and twitched as if searching for any give, anything he can use. And, fortunately for him, his search did not take long. “What is that?” he questioned, gesturing to the paper atop Luca’s desk—the one he had been crowded from view since he sat down. “Is that the paper for Sr. Bartolli? You know that was meant to be handed in last week, vero? He changed the deadline.” By the present strain—the way his words felt a little bit too light and airy—Verona could tell that Franco was trying to cover, or at least lessen, the obvious judgment in his tone. However, it didn’t work, of course.

 

Luca’s eyebrows furrowed. He balled a fist around the pencil with one finger still free, pointed up. “First of all, just because I was a little bit—“little bit meaning a decade—“late to the starting line, doesn’t make me that bad of a student.” He swallowed and tried to suppress a smile. “Second, it’s a letter to Alberto.”

 

Verona watched Franco bristle like a cat getting ready to pounce.

 

She understood his reaction, though the majority would misread it in a most abhorrent light. However, take note: it is not that Franco dislikes Alberto. It is not that Franco feels any particularly strong way about Luca’s apparent homosexuality, or Giulia’s lesbianism, or even Verona’s tendency to bat for whichever team has the home advantage. It’s just that he doesn’t quite relate.

 

In other words, Franco seemed to have been born with an inherent lack of romantic inclination. Therefore, these conversations—the blushing, the giddiness, the pouring adoration and delight—were boring to him, and Verona knew, by the roll of his eye or the sigh from his nose, that he’d much rather get back to the topic of eyebrow evolution.

 

On top of that, Franco hadn’t honestly done an excellent job of hiding his similar annoyance, distaste—boredom-—with even the mention of Alberto. She saw Franco’s eyebrow twitch whenever Luca’s face burns red at Alberto’s name, or the face he made when he saw the pictures strung above Luca’s bed, or the corners of his mouth twitching downwards whenever Luca pushed a letter—one of Alberto’s letters—into his hands, urging, “Look!”

 

And Franco has made it more than clear that he doesn’t prefer the jock-type-crowd. And Luca hasn’t hidden Alberto’s sporty, somewhat dense nature to any degree. Alberto fit the stereotype near perfectly.

 

But Franco wasn’t important at that moment, she could already see him turning back to his soda with a small huff. She turned to Luca instead, a grin piercing her cheeks. “A letter from Alberto came in?”

 

And Luca confirmed, “Yeah! Do you want to read it?”

 

And Verona agreed, “Sì, certo!” 

 

And she noticed out of the corner of her eye as Franco finally fully dipped out of the conversation, corners of his mouth ever so slightly twitching up. She pocketed the soda conversation in her mind for later, and turned her attention to the letter Luca passes. 

 

At first, she attempted to skim it over, as Luca seemed to dim with regret the millisecond it slipped from his hands, but it proved a futile effort. Alberto’s handwriting was not exactly skimmable. It might be, she thought, if he had any true schooling, but, like Luca, many years ago, everything from basic grammar to proper punctuation to even simple capitalization were lost upon him. He rarely even stayed upon the lines, his letters often dancing up and down with little regard, and little pattern, as if written in the midst of a major earthquake or in the throes of a disastrously undulant sea. Quite a while ago, she deduced that it can’t be anything related to his biology (unless he experienced brain damage in some way, which, yeah right, like that’s got any merit!) because Luca, as fresh as he was, never had this sort of trouble. So, she wondered if it was something else. Dyslexia, perhaps? She’s heard of dyslexic people before, but she’s yet to actually meet one. And, oh, how she would love to. Regardless, she stops attempting to skim and truly focuses her eyes upon the words, whilst also trying to attempt to ignore Luca’s now-bouncing leg.

 

Ciao Luca! It began, just as they all do.

 

I know you like him, but, to me, your teacher just sounds like a plain asshole. Just because a few other kids were being loud doesn’t mean the whole class has gotta suffer for it. That’s ridiculous. And I  know letters take a few days to get to you, but you oughta ask him if he could get the stick out of his ass just long enough to cut you, Giulia, and the others some slack.

 

Verona thought he could do without the vulgarity and didn’t particularly enjoy the way he exerted the energy to name Giulia while forgoing her and Franco, but she supposed it was alright. They’re only words upon a page to one another, while she is his sister. Setting her minor grievances aside, she continued reading.

 

I was pretty sure I was gonna have to just throw together that one thing for Sra. Selvaggio and let it look bad, but she let me have another week, and it was okay, so I don’t see why he can’t do the same for you.

 

He used the singular you. Forgoing Giulia, too, now? How charming; really shedding light upon how truly narrow a focus he has.

 

Anyway, I saw that movie with Guido that I mentioned a few letters back, and it was SO COOL, MAN! I had an absolute blast. The blood looked so real, and all the babes—

 

Verona tried not to winch. Uff, the utter sting of pure, unadulterated heterosexuality. She hoped Luca would get over him soon.

 

—were totally screaming their heads off! You definitely would’ve hated it, though. It’s horror, and I know that’s not really your thing, but it was a serious bummer not having you there for it. Horror flicks just aren’t the same when I don’t have my buddy—

 

“Compagno mio,” he wrote, and Verona’s wariness faltered.

 

—totally wigging out next to me, you know?

 

Verona glanced at Luca, grinning coyly. “Aw, he wants to take you to the movies,” she purred, leaning forward, teeter-tottering the paper between her fingers. As expected, Luca’s ears erupted into a twinge of pink as he nodded fervently. Meanwhile, in the corner of her eye, Franco jutted a finger into his mouth and mocks a gag, and Giulia bites down a laugh. However, neither Verona nor Luca pay them any mind. Verona continued reading.

 

That’s the fun of it, I think. Like, seeing all the different ways people react to stuff. I think I’ve seen so much in real life that those flicks don’t affect me anymore, and Guido’s pretty much seen it all from being one of those clean-up and ticket boys. But I like watching them with you, because you get all freaked out and can’t watch anymore and then I get to step in and help out.

 

I really like helping people out, you know. It’s super ‘rewarding’ (new word learned! Woohoo! Praise me). That’s one of the reasons I just can’t wait for summer to start. Sure, there’s already people in the water cause it’s spring and pretty decently warm already, but in the summer it’s packed and there’s always something to do. Besides, there’s also you—

 

Another singular you. The sentiment almost superseded the rambling.

 

—and that’s always good.

 

Okay, I’ve pretty much completely run outta room now. Tell me how things go with your teacher. And, obviously, I miss you, I can’t wait to see you, blah blah blah.

 

Write me,

Alberto.

 

The closing was not a poetic—nor even cute—one, but it wrenched out a smile from Verona nonetheless. She was really, truly, happy for him—how he found a boy who’s unashamed to tell him how much he yearns. Boys like that were rare, then, with how applauded male apathy and arrogance were. However, that was not to say that Alberto appeared as a progeny of Pothos or Anteros or even of Eleos. If anything, he seemed to stem more from Aphrodite herself—charming to all (just his picture was enough to make Verona a little green in the eyes) yet flighty and shallow. For example, the letter was not balanced evenly between reply and recent events. It would have done him well to be a bit more clever in his verbiage, too. Even the slightest bit of effort would’ve been noticeable, but she supposed that wasn’t her bridge to cross. 

 

She returned the letter to Luca. “I see why you like him.” A wink.

 

“I know, right?” Luca beamed—the spitting image of a young star—and held the letter close to his heart. “I just can’t wait to be back in Portorosso.”

 

“See,” Giulia interrupted, grinning comfortably as she laid forward, a tired cat upon her desk, “I don’t know too much about Alberto, but I do miss my papà a lot—especially his cooking.”

 

“Your dad cooks?” Verona raised her brows.

 

Giulia chuckled. “Better than my mamma does, at least.” Though the words seemingly demanded it, they didn’t come out curt and judgmental, but wistful and light.

 

Verona scrutinized her, studying each gentle falter in her face. She didn’t know much about Giulia’s family—especially her father’s side. Of course, she heard a lot from her visits for dinner, for study, or for the simple sake of fun, but it’s all just small, sprinkled anecdotes here and there. Of the photos she had seen, he looked ginormous and abhorrently traditional and terrifying—someone she’d cross the street upon seeing—but in all of Giulia’s stories, he was one of the kindest souls alive. Kind and open-minded. A thinker so flexible and empathetic to completely change his ways and take in a sea monster. Even Sra. Maria admitted she’d bar Luca from entry, had she known of his dubious piscinity beforehand.

 

Though, Verona wondered if her parents would have been like that. She sure hoped so. Their house certainly had the room for it—certainly more than Sra. Maria—and they were pretty lenient about most things—but even simple sleepovers were scarce. Something about security, something about tradition, something about how their home wasn’t a hotel. Besides, she hadn’t yet quite managed to sway them upon the whole “seafolk are not inherently conniving” and “seafolk aren’t the greatest contributor to the increasing unemployment rates” thing yet. It’s still a large point of contention in their household.

 

But before Verona could excuse herself and her small surprise, Franco jumped back into the conversation: “Oh yeah, I really enjoy the food in Nimes.”

 

A curious energy entered Luca’s gaze. “Nimes? Where is that?” he questioned, sitting up a little higher in his seat, just as he did when the teacher introduces a new chapter.

 

“Francia.” By the way, Franco quieted his voice by just a decibel, Verona could tell that regret had set in. “It’s my mamma’s hometown, and where my nonna lives. We usually spend half the summer there.”

 

Verona nodded, resting her head in her hands. “But which is better,” she grinned, “Nimes or Genova?”

 

Franco rolled his head backward with teeth bared in a painful grimace. “Don’t make me choose!” he complained, then, after a short pause (after dropping his head forward, hiking up his leg to rest his elbow against his knee to gesticulate like a true philosopher), continued, “Okay, well, Genova technically, but I can’t just downplay Nimes’s qualities, either. It’s almost like a second home, there.”

 

Overall, he was met with varying degrees of hummed agreement. But, Luca was the only one to verbally express his empathy: “I get that.” His voice was quiet, and a small shadow formed over his eyes. “I love Genova and Portorosso—“ He stopped to look around, but there didn’t appear to be any eavesdroppers. “—But I can’t just not like my village, too, even if it is super primitive in pretty much every aspect.” 

 

Verona noted the way he winced with the word primitive, the way his shoulders tensed and shrugged against his ear. He must have been embarrassed, Verona assumed, so she leaned forward with an open hand to give some sort of comfort, but Franco beat her to it.

 

“You have all that sea life, though! That’s neat,” he insisted, though didn’t make much of an effort to put on a more expressional face.

 

“I guess,” Luca conceded, “but you guys—“you humans“—have the movies, and all this architecture, and all this science and knowledge. All we’ve got is goatfish and,” his nose crinkled in distaste, “crab races.”

 

Franco shrugged. “Maybe, but I know I’d still kill to be able to see your village, at least.” He swallowed. “You know, My favorite thing in Nimes is, actually, the aquarium nearby, but it completely pales in comparison to an actual seafolk settlement.”

 

Giulia was the next to pipe up, nodding with the full weight up her head and grinning wildly. “Oh yeah, è fantastico! All the sea life and people and happenings are just totally out-of-this-world, and,” she began to ramble, “it’s so strange, too, because you find that things aren’t really all that much different down there—once you ignore all the scales and no-electricity and stuff—” She burst out a quick laugh, then hesitated for just a moment, as a computer would pause to buffer. No one rushed her, however; everyone was already quite accustomed to Giulia’s words getting away from her by now. “Though, it was kind of awkward with everyone looking at me, being scared of me—not that they didn’t have a good reason, of course.”

 

Verona watched Giulia’s gaze shift for a short moment to Luca, then avert.

 

She supposed there still might be some guilt left over as the daughter of a fisherman, despite all the turn-around and progress. With the way Luca’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, hands tensing over the slate gray sleeve of his uniform, she could tell that the equal and opposite sentiment—the small fear of humans and disposition against them for all that they’ve done—hadn’t yet completely dwindled away.

 

She applauded herself for reading them, thinking about how most other people probably wouldn’t have picked up on that. She sighed, “I can imagine,” but otherwise kept her observations to herself. 

 

However, she continued to wonder how it may be to be in Luca’s situation, how it may feel to have half of society not believe in your existence, the other half aimed to eradicate you at any turn, or a statistical outlier—that infinitesimal, irenic group—that once was a member of the aforementioned.

 

Even Portorosso, now a safe haven, once had a strangled seafolk in his heart.

 

And, oh, how she would love to interview the people there, how she could do an entire research project on the drastic shift of the small, social society. She’d ask questions like, “What were some things you knew about seafolk beforehand? What were some stories you heard of them growing up? What are your general opinions of them now? Do you think they should be offered citizenship and why? What are your opinions on the propaganda still being put out? Are you aware that most unsolved crimes are now being pinned to seafolk, due to their lack of fingerprints? What are yo—“ Her thoughts sped to a halt.

 

A lightbulb clicked on.

 

The prepositional tone in her voice was almost tangible as she cut in, “Aspetta.” Franco, Giulia, and Luca, who hadn’t waited for her mind to quiet before continuing on with the conversation, turn their attention towards her. “So, my family usually travels a lot during the summer, and this year mio padre really wants us to go to Islanda, but mia madre and I don’t really don’t agree.” Her words begin to grow in volume and speed, as does the size of her smile, joy transfiguring her surprise to bare excitement. “So, I think if I could convince her to convince mio padre to let us go to Cinque Terre instead, we could all meet up! I could even see if they could let Franco come along, so it could be all four of us!”

 

Giulia jolted up in her chair, excitedly clapping her hands. “That’s a great idea!” she cheered. Verona wasn’t surprised by her readiness; Giulia was always raring for fun.

 

Franco also—albeit with a bit more reluctance—accepted, “Yeah, I’d be on board with that, sure.” He gave a small, tight shrug.

 

He meant to say something about speaking with his parents and arranging a budget, dates, and so on, but Giulia interjected. “Portorosso’s pretty small, but I’m sure we five can figure out things to do!” She looked from face to face expectantly.

 

“Five?” Franco questioned.

 

“Well, there’d be Alberto, obviously,” Giulia snorted. “You, me, Luca, Verona, and Alberto—that’s five.”

 

Franco nods. Five.

 

Verona wondered how that may work out, how it may shift the dynamic, especially given Alberto doesn’t seem all that scientifically-inclined. But, she just brushed it off. She was sure it couldn’t yield that drastic of a change—it’s just one guy. Besides, he was a year or two older than everyone else, so he probably wouldn’t want to hang out with them much, anyway. She assumed he’d probably just see them as his little sister’s nerdy friends and make himself scarce out of disinterest, and that thought, at least, settled some of her unease.

 

Giulia continued with opened, offering palms, “Like, we could definitely go visit Luca’s home—” she turned to him, “—if that’s alright?”

 

Luca nodded fervently. “Sì, sì, certo! I’m sure my parents would love to meet you guys!”

 

Verona almost laughed; Franco, once so uncertain, looked like he was going to faint from delight.

 

“This,” Giulia inhaled, nearly choking on her own giddiness, “is going to be so much fun—!”

 

Yet, over the chatter and rabble of all others’ conversation, the sound of hinges and a door stopper springing rung throughout the room. A man entered, hard-faced and dressed as if it was a crisp, Sunday morning. His hand gripped the handle of a small, rectangular bag—the style of a briefcase, though nowhere near large enough. His voice, loud and dripping with disdain, easily hushed all conversations, “Quiet down, ragazzi. Quiet down.” He marched up to the board, took up a small, white piece of chalk, and inscribed the following date in the top right corner: Martedì, 6 Aprile 1965.

 

The last few scatters—loose conversations in the process of being tied up or shelved for later—dissipated: This is a great idea; let’s actually do this—Just don’t forget to ask your mamma, Verona—Yeah, don’t forget—Remember to ask—Don’t forget.

 

Verona just waved them off, and Sr. Cocci began to draw a triangle. Luca, seated neatly in the desk to Verona’s right, flipped his notebook to a page riddled with notes and diagrams, pencil poised and ready. Giulia, behind him, tore out a page, and Franco, to the left of Giulia, took out one of the crumbled-up tests at the bottom of his bookbag. Verona, in front of him, however, waited to see if she could do it in her head, and thus the school day began.

 

———

 

Luca stepped out of the bathroom and into the living room of Sra. Maria Marcovaldo’s—zia Maria’s, to him—apartment. Rubbing at the corner of his eyes, he felt to turn off the bathroom light. It clicked off, and he stepped forward.

 

Somewhere between his enter and exit of the bathroom, Giulia had situated herself on the couch and her workspace upon the coffee table in front. Her hair was held up a ponytail—a style she only ever wore when she was trying to focus. Luca, out of habitual interest, glanced over the back of the couch, and looked at what she was working on. It was a scrapbook, just as he had expected.

 

He made no comment. He passed by her silently, slowly, but with a clear destination in mind. He didn’t even respond when she glanced back at him and scoffed, “Put on a shirt.” He only flipped her off, in the true teenage fashion, and entered their darkened bedroom with a small, private smile crawling across his face.

 

There, beside a bunk bed only half made, was a small desk and chair with Luca’s book bag slumped beside. Its top once hosted Giulia’s darkroom tray and other photographical necessities, but now it only held a small stack of books, a blue colored pencil (sharpened down to mere inches from use), and an eraser. Luca looked over the contents, adjusted the books into a neater stack, and then sat down in the chair.

 

From there, he took out a letter from one of the desk drawers—the first from the incredibly large stack carefully crammed inside. He unfolded it, skimmed over the grimy black smears of half-hearted interest and feigned delight—and smiled.

 

He clipped the letter to clothespins upon strings, took out a new, perfectly blank sheet from a second shelf, picked up a little blue pencil, and began writing.

Chapter 2: primacy affect

Summary:

Verona experiences something every girl goes through at least once in her life: meeting her friend’s current infatuation for the first time and immediately getting, as the kids say, “The Ick.”

Notes:

Luca is NOT shallow in this. believe me. there is a narrative reason for his characterization and not just “uwu i love yaoi~” bullshit. Mind the “unreliable narrator” tag and trust in the process.

Verona’s mouth still tasted of the focaccia and strawberry she had for breakfast. It was nine in the morning when she began to pack, but now the clock’s long, sharp fingers click a little past eleven. Her short brown hair still hasn’t been made, nor her glasses cleaned, nor her boxy blue nightgown traded for something more appropriate for the occasion. All these things trickle down in the every-growing To-Do list in her mind—the mess of her teeth, the bareness of her face, the open, half-full suitcase sitting right there—as she brings out another vest from her well-stocked closet and scrambles to pair it with a skirt, socks, necessities, and a top before folding them all up and tucking them away. A notepad of half-crossed-out words sits as a derelict upon the shelf. Crossing off items as she went just took up too much time, and she always felt as if she was running late.

 

The sound of a zipper whizzes out to match her anxious breath. She dresses in the clothes she laid out an hour earlier and then turns for the bathroom.

 

It’s a small room that’s connected to her bedroom—you’d think it was a second closet or an entrance to the hallway, had the door been shut. But, Verona was lucky. She was born to two upright, upper-class parents and lived in an equally upright, upper-class home. So, her room had nice, flowery wallpaper and hardwood floors with a clean, stark-white rug on top. She had her own adult-sized bed, her own vanity with granite counters, her own hair straightener, and even her own peace of mind without any siblings running around.

 

So, it wasn’t a surprise that she considered herself quite fortunate when she looked between herself and her friends. Franco’s alright, but he’s bogged down by three sisters. Giulia’s parents do fine, but they’re separated and both trying to support two boys that—quite literally—arose out of the blue. (The blue, in this case, being the sea rather than the sky, but she digresses). 

 

And, anyway, Verona isn’t looking between herself and her friends at the moment. Instead, she is oh-so meticulously drawing the finest lines upon her bottom eyelashes. Her mother says is makes her look like a spider, but she believes that they make her eyes pop, along with the brush of maroon on her eyelids and a slight copper blush to accentuate the dip beneath her rounded cheekbones.

 

There are bags beneath her eyes, not yet subsided for the sleepless nights she spent studying. She puts concealer over those. In the crevices of her nose and upon the line of her lips—just a little over her forehead and one near her ear—there are small blemishes. She covers those as well, dreading the idea of someone thinking she doesn’t take care of herself. Her stomach turns with the notion of her mother nagging, “At least try to look presentable. Do you have any idea how much first impressions matter?”

 

Verona does. It was one of the topics covered in her Intro to Psychology class. A first impression forms a prototype, and that prototype is inflexible and damn near indestructible once it’s set. They can dictate how one is treated, how one is employed, how one is engaged—and this one can dictate whether she enjoys her first few weeks of summer or not. But, thankfully, while many factors go into a first impression—timing, body position, prejudices, noise level, emotional state, et cetera—appearance is a factor well under her control.

 

So, she draws another line from her eye, scrutinizes herself at a greater distance like an artist critiquing a painting, and then swivels at the sound of a gentle, rhythmic rapping at the front door.

 

She’s barely out of her seat when the door hinges sigh open and her mother’s voice comes out loud, sweet, and clear: “Verona? We need to be leaving soon. Are you getting ready?”

 

Verona appears out of the bathroom, tucking away a stray hair, and praying her startle isn’t too apparent. “Sí.”

 

She watches her mother’s eyes drop to the suitcase propped against the bed. “You are finished packing?”

 

Verona nods, stiff as a board. “Sí.”

 

Her mother’s stare returns to her. “And you are sure you have everything?”

 

Verona’s shoulders slump, but not to the point it is noticeable. “Sì, madre.” She does not lift up her voice, nor does she walk nearer. She stays, still, in the doorway of the bathroom. And, she lies, “I’ve double-checked. I’ve got everything.” She still has yet to pack up the necessities—hygienic products and the like—and very dearly wanted but not exactly essentials, such as a journal, camera, and book or two, but her mother doesn’t need to know that. 

 

So, her mother lingers in the doorway of the room itself, just glancing about the room as Verona tenses with each second ticking by. Verona almost wants to tell her to leave, so she can finally actually finish packing, but that would be infinitely rude in every sense of the word and not likely beneficial in any way. Her mother could still call off the trip, or worse: order Verona to call her friend not to come, for that matter. So, she only watches as her mother drums her fingers upon the door—a crackle like fireworks from the nails against wood—until finally leaving her to be alone again.

 

Verona sighs a breath of relief, then a puff of frustration. She marches to her bedroom door, closes it, and continues her ferverous packing.

 

And, not too much later—while sneaking a second piece of focaccia in the dining room—another knock upon a door sounds out. However, it is not a simple rapping of fingers, nor is it as echoey and loose. It’s rough and heavy, deep and demanding. And, it’s coming from the foyer.

 

Verona jumps out of her chair, races through the hall, over the decorative carpet, past all the potted plants, pictures, and portraits, and she skirts to a stop two feet from the front door. She unlocks the knob and then swings it open, singing out, “Ciao-o-o!”

 

Before Franco can respond, a chorus of giggling cuts him off. “Have fun on your couple’s retreat!” one falsetto voice—too clear to be his mothers, so it’s likely from one of his three sisters—chirps from behind a cranked-down window before the wheels pull forward, the departure punctuated with a splutter and a small, trailing cloud of smoke.

 

Franco’s nose crinkles with distaste; however, his cheeks do not redden. He shares a quiet look with Verona, both settling in the desire for an end before Verona carries on with the introduction.

 

She sighs, “Glad you made it, fratello,” and the emphasis upon the last word is like a bandaid over a scab.

 

Franco nods without a word, and Verona waves him inside, calling out, “Padre, Franco is here! We can get going, now!” Then, she smiles back at him, giving a small, questioning thumbs-up as he sets his suitcase down beside hers. He returns the gesture and brushes off the uncertainty with combing fingers to swoop his short, straight, blonde hair to the side to ease his nerves.

 

Then, he smiles just a relaxed, mundane grin, and Verona knows that this is going to be so much fun.

 

——

 

The train rattles and bumps over the track with a subtle hum and whine, causing Franco’s fork to knock against the side of his tupperware containing the lunch his mother made for him. Verona, her face stuffed with a sandwich, watches as he grimaces and tilts his fork at a steeper angle in an attempt to not annoy the other passengers around them (or to try to preserve dignity while sitting directly across the aisle from Verona’s parents).

 

Verona swallows, rests her head upon the window, and attempts to begin conversation, “You know, I’m really happy to get to see Luca and Giulia over the summer for once, but I’m kind of worried about not having much to do. Like, it’s such a small town.”

 

Franco nods, wiping off a bit of alfredo with a crumpled napkin, upon which “Have a fun trip, ti vogliamo bene! Mamma e sorelle” is hastily—humiliatingly—inscribed. He clears his throat and replies in a voice void of any flourish or emotion, “I’m sure they have plans. Giulia mentioned scuba-diving—Luca could probably show us some cool spots.” 

 

The lack of expression makes him seem almost standoffish, and Verona wonders if he just wasn’t in the mood to talk. He’s probably internally cursing the fork, still. Nevertheless, she grins and tries to cheer him up, “Don’t drown on us,” and gently knocks her shoulder against his.

 

Franco cracks a small smile; Verona gladdens.

 

Whenever Verona is agitated—whenever she is worried about something—she tends to ramble. Her body becomes a nuclear bomb, radiating with energy, scorching those that come near with the fiery heat and ceaseless movement. Her logic is lost in the explosion, but, for some godforsaken reason, her mouth stays intact. And though, her hands and feet don’t break, they tend to fly with the following aftershocks and gusts of wind.

 

And, now, her foot is beginning to bounce upon the short, maroon carpet, almost matching the speed of the train’s wheels.

 

Franco, on the other hand, becomes a stagnant statue. Difficult to talk to, difficult to make sense of. He stays silent, his blue almond eyes lock upon his lunch and do not move—barely even to blink—with his elbows tucked into his shirt. Honestly, you’d think he’d be going to a funeral if it weren’t for the summery attire–the thin white top, the muted green, knee-length shorts, and sandals–he had on.

 

But it’s understandable. Neither Verona nor Franco had ever been to Portorosso before. The Facettis rarely travel about in Italy, and the Basaglias aren’t ones to hit up less-than-major cities. She thinks it’s unfamiliar in an exciting way, but should one turn the frame a bit, the excitement would turn to apprehension. She imagines Franco feels the same.

 

So, Franco tries to pry out some comfort from behind his lips: “With Luca and Giulia there, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” But then, he twitches, and his shoulders grow a little more tense. “And Alberto,” he tags on. “Forgot about him”

 

Verona blinks, angling her head to the ceiling. “Oh yeah…” she breathes, lowering her sandwich to her lap and pondering for a short moment. “I can’t wait to meet him.” 

 

Franco shrugs and takes another bite of his pasta. “He seems alright. Kinda too jock-ish for my tastes, but if they like him then—“ his words drag off with a shrug. And, he opens his mouth to speak again, but his brow furrows in a half-second twitch. And, it closes.

 

Verona turns to look at him. “What was that?”

 

Franco shakes his head. “Niente.” He heightens his voice like Verona is the weird one, but she sees through his attempt at deception.

 

“What were you going to say?”

 

Franco sighs through his nose, and he admits, “I dunno. I guess I’m just kind of worried about how Luca’s gonna be.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Franco elaborates with a swish of his fork, though is sure to keep his voice at a minimum, “Like, if he gets like that over letters, can you imagine what he’s like with Alberto actually around?”

 

Verona’s eyes widen with the revelation. “Uff. Hai ragione, I hadn’t thought of that before.” She takes in a steadying breath. “Well,” she puffs, “it’ll either be super painful or super sweet. Might as well hope for the latter, vero?”

 

Franco wags his brows–“Hope and pray for sure”–and stabs his fork into his pasta once more.

 

——

 

Verona follows her mother off of the train, and Franco and her father follow Verona in turn. Her head drops in a relieved sigh as she lets her suitcase stand on the ground—it wasn’t easy lugging that thing down the steps—before she hears it: the ocean.

 

She tilts her head up, looking around for the source of that raw crash and hum, but she only sees light and green and sun-bleached brick beneath their soles. There aren’t that many people around, either. The train station is almost empty—emptier than any train station she’d ever been to before.

 

And, again, there is the sound of the ocean, clear as the sky above without the drowning sounds of an engine spittle or a honking horn or endless chatter or a thousand feet trudging from place to place across the concrete. And, the sky is as clear as the sound of the ocean, a pure, bright blue unmuddied by any grey smog or architecture, instead only dappled only by white clouds and arching foliage.

 

Her eyes travel upwards, to the mountains peppered only with small houses and silos, then further down to a pack of children biking down a dirt path through grape vines and pear trees. And, suddenly, she wants to know their names.

 

But, before her eye can catch another sight, her mother’s voice severs the trance in half like a new pair of scissors to snowflake-speckled wrapping paper. “Okay, I think the pensione is down this way,” she says, pointing with the hand that is not holding a small map. “Andiamo, ragazzi.” She begins to walk away, heels clacking on the ground.

 

Verona’s heart jolts inside her chest. “Madre, aspetta,” she calls, looking just as alarmed as Franco beside her.

 

Her mother turns halfway to cast a harsh glance over her shoulder—one reeking of both confusion and oncoming admonishment.

 

Verona continues, gesturing desperately outwards. “I told Giulia that we’d wait for her and the others here, remember?” Her brow curves upward, pleadingly. “I told you about this.”

 

Her mother’s eyes narrow down at her, lines drawing wearily upon her face. “Verona,” her voice is falsely high and caring, “we can’t just stay here with all of these bags. Do you want us to get mugged?”

 

Verona deflates. She wishes she could say she’s not surprised, but her mother is just as accustomed to these little rural villages as her. Which is to say, not at all. And, yes, Verona knows that just standing around with their suitcases and purses would be a foolish act in its entirety—if they were in Milan, Venice, or Rome, that is. But they’re not in Milan, Venice, or Rome. They’re in Portorosso, and Portorosso should—according to Giulia and Luca—be absolutely safe. ‘Safer than safe,’ Luca’s voice rings in her mind.

 

But, Verona doesn’t have to argue any longer. Her father steps in leaning down with an open hand. “Here, you two give your suitcases to me. I’ll take them.”

 

Her mother bristles. She’d be crossing her arms, if it weren’t for the map. “Sandro, they can carry their own luggage.”

 

Verona falters between her mother and her father for a short, apprehensive moment, but then her father makes the call for her. He takes the handle out of her hands, quickly rolling it to his side. Franco, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate. He hands the suitcase right over, though his eyes stick to the ground as if it’s the most beautiful, most mystifying thing in the entire world.

 

“Sandro—”

 

“It's okay,” Verona’s father cuts her mother off, looking her straight in the eye. “They made plans with their friends; just let them have fun.”

 

Verona watches her mother falter, flitting between emotions. Her barely-concealed anger seeps into anxiety for just a short moment and is followed by a glance of disappointment, washed with hesitation. Verona gets the impression that it wasn’t just about the suitcases or the money, that it might have been about sticking together in this new environment as well. But, her mother looks away, back to her husband and then, with a huff, away to nothing at all in particular. “Okay,” she concedes. “Just give me mine and Verona’s—that’s way too much for one person to carry.”

 

Silently, and with a little bit of struggle, Verona’s father hands over half of the luggage.

 

Now, with two hands full of handles and one map tucked into a crease of an elbow, Verona’s mother glances down upon her daughter. “Now, Verona—do you know where we’re staying? You know the name?”

 

Verona nods. “Pensione Risata, madre.”

 

That seems to suffice. “Good. I expect you there in an hour. Be safe.” 

 

“We will,” Verona answers. Be safe, the words repeated in her mind. Her mother was always very, very particular about safety, though Verona knew they’d be fine.

 

“Have fun,” her father says with a much lighter heart than his wife, turning to leave through the arched entranceway.

 

“We will!” Verona calls to his turned back.

 

Verona watches her father leave the train station, the small wheels of his and Franco’s suitcases rattling over the brick behind him, the small wheels of Verona’s and her mother’s suitcases rattling over the brick behind the woman walking beside him. When the entranceway shrouds them from view, Franco practically almost falls to the ground with relief.

 

“Did I ever tell you your parents scare the hell out of me?” he asks, slumped over and green in the face.

 

Verona covers a laugh. “Andiamo. There’s the bench Giulia and Luca talked about–let’s go wait over there,” she grins, pointing to a seat beneath an overhang. “They—and Alberto,” she curses herself for doing it again, and this time she didn’t even entirely need to, “should be here pretty soon.”

 

Franco nods and follows her lead.

 

Not before long, the train before them breathed to life and disappeared into the tunnel. Verona felt the gush of wind sweep through her short hair as Franco readjusts his back in place. They talk a little about small things, but mostly silently sit together in the quiet of the empty station, waiting and waiting and waiting. The grapevines and orchards were beautiful for that short moment, but Verona wasn’t much of a landscaper, nor had she had a keen eye for art. They weren’t, actually, much to look at at all, and thus they bored her the longer she looked. She did, however, enjoy the sun, thinking briefly about how she might look with a tan. Franco says something about being glad he won’t have to worry about his hair turning green, should he ever go into the water without a cap—or without a helmet—on.

 

And, they sit, and they wait. Verona waits with her head propped up on her hand, her elbow leaning upon the bench’s armrest. Franco sighs through his nose, turning his ankle anxiously this way and that, his eye listlessly tracking a sparrow pecking at what appears to be nothing. “When do you think they’ll get here?” he asks.

 

Verona shrugs, making an I-dunno sound. Franco huffs, and lets his head fall back to the concrete wall behind him. It’s not surprising that they’re late; it’s just a tad bit annoying.

 

Though, don’t get her wrong—it’s not like Giulia and Luca are not punctual people. They are, but they tend to get side-tracked. They tend to have issues along the way, be it rain, a forgotten notebook, a messed-up hat, or a particularly angry cat. Verona wearily looks back upon the time they showed up forty minutes late to her party—the exact reasons for it, she cannot presently recall. But, forty minutes was forty minutes, and that was a long time to wait.

 

However, the minute her brow begins to crease with the idea of just throwing her hands up, saying ‘screw it,’ and go out looking for those two—those three, now—herself, the sound of the rumbling ocean begins to break away against something much lighter, something much familiar: giggling.

 

Her eyes widen, and, in a flash, her hands are down by her side, over her knitted skirt as her head crooks to view around the corner. Franco, meanwhile, jumps onto his feet and begins patting himself down over anywhere that old, grimy bench touched.

 

Verona hears the conversation before she sees the faces:

 

“Are you guys sure this is gonna top last time? ‘Cause last time was pretty incredible–”

 

“You’ll see!”

 

“You’re so impatie-e-e-ent, just walk!”

 

And then, two pairs of feet enter, followed intensely closer by one more.

 

Verona’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. If she had any less self-restraint, her hand would have clapped over her mouth, and she would have stumbled backward, landing promptly upon the ground.

 

The first thing she noticed: Alberto is tall. Verona knew that he was tall from the photos he sent and the descriptions Luca provided, but she still didn’t expect her eye level to be at his chin. Second: he’s southern. Or, he’s maybe southern? She isn’t sure, but his skin is a deep copper color littered with freckles and his hair is a disorganized pompadour-ish plume of golden brown curls. She can’t see his eyes, for the blindfold, but his nose is strong and tilted upward. And, his smile, though made of chipped and yellowed teeth, is as giant and warm as the summer sun upon his large, though slightly soft, jaw.

 

He doesn’t look like anyone she’d ever seen before–anywhere.

 

He stands confidently. Broad shoulders, a body built from manual labor, and a stance wide and pointed outward make him seem like some sort of imposing superhero—if it weren’t for the entirely modest clothing, and for the fact that he was severely stumbling blind, each arm full.

 

In his right is Giulia, giddy and waving with a similarly chipped–though much straighter-teethed–smile. She didn’t look much different than weeks prior, but she was now sporting a yellow bandana, a button-up with the sleeves jaggedly cut off, and clunky jean shorts that went down to her knees.

 

And, on his left is Luca, perfectly fitting his name as he beamed brightly—happier than Verona had ever seen him before. His face was flushed red in the bones of his cheeks and in the tips of his ears because, instead of having his arm crossed with Alberto’s—like Giulia’s was—he had his arm upon his waist, and Alberto’s hand over his shoulder. They were walking like a couple would, and Luca was showing more skin than Verona had ever seen from him.

 

A simple ascot with a white collared shirt wasn’t anything to gawk at, but the shorts! Even in the warmth of spring, she’d never seen him in anything less than ankle-length pants for fear of being discovered at just a single stray drop of water, but here he is in barely four-inch inseams. Even his shirt looks light and breezy, the mid-length sleeves rolled up. Is this how he always dresses? Is this how he is most comfortable? Verona’s curiosity—and sense of humor—has peaked.

 

“What—oh, is this it?” Alberto questions as Luca and Giulia draw to a halt. Verona’s grin falters. The voice she had assigned to him—the one she read his letters with—was the complete opposite of reality. Instead of deep, it’s childish—almost raspy and almost nasal with an underlying laughter. 

 

Giulia leaves Alberto’s arm and unties the blindfold. Luca doesn’t move.

 

The blindfold slips for just a moment before Alberto catches it with his free hand. A movement that forces Verona to realize his left had slipped downward and now settled upon Luca’s lower back. 

 

It’s less cute than she was expecting, especially because it is blatantly—painfully—obvious that Luca is enjoying that fact.

 

But, before she can cast a telling glance at Franco, Giulia rushes forward and pounces upon him in possibly the most energetic side-hug in all of human history, cheering, “Surprise!”

 

However, no immediate answer comes.

 

Alberto looks down upon Franco, Giulia, and Verona, and his eyes are green. The brightest green, hooded, and underlined by deep, bruise circles. He looks between them, and then his gaze alights.

 

Verona watches him tense and look around at the environment—at the bench, at the crackling posters upon the wall, at the empty tracks. And, he looks horrified for just a short moment. Verona sees his breathing stutter beneath his yellow and brown striped wool shirt for just a short second, eyebrows furrowing confusedly—angrily?—together.

 

Luca steps in, his voice gentle and almost coaxing, “Alberto, remember how you said you’d love to meet my friends from Genova? Franco and Verona?” His smile grows. “Well—“

 

Alberto cuts him off, shouting much louder than necessary, “OH! Oh shit, yeah, man!”

 

Luca and Giulia laugh, but Franco and Verona can only stand awkwardly. Luca then releases Alberto from his hold, and Alberto steps forward with one hand on his cap.

 

He extends a hand to Verona, though he keeps his gaze steadily flitting between the both of them.

 

Verona takes it, tenses to shake, and—

 

Her arm is near violently shaken, twisted left to right, and jostled back and forth, all the while with Alberto cheering at the top of his voice, “Piacere, Giralamo Trombetta!”

 

Verona stumbles back a bit, stunned at the motion. Her shoulder aches, and her fingers as if they‘ve been replaced with tough coppiette. She’s only broken out of her stupor when Luca giggles from somewhere behind Alberto. When she looks back up at Alberto he’s smiling at her, but it seems off. His narrowed eyes and stretched-too-wide toothless smile covering up something that she can’t quite find. 

 

Then, he waves his hand dismissively. “I’m kidding! Alberto Scorfano. Franco, vero?”

 

“I—uh—” Verona can’t recall the last time she was genuinely at a loss for words. She’s torn between whether she wants to correct him on the name, laugh at the joke that she doesn’t find funny, just to keep peace, or cringe at the childish potty humor. 

 

Alberto wags a finger at her as she stutters through a response, stuffing his other hand deep into his pocket. If she didn’t know better (and maybe she doesn’t), she’d say he’s looking at her condescendingly. His wide smile from before is gone, replaced with a smirk, and the narrowed eyes relax, but do not widen. Everything about him seems tilted upward in such a way as to make it seem like he’s looking down on her—though he literally is, given his height.

 

He slouches forward just a bit with a theatrical shrug, moving more to Verona’s level. In a monotone voice, he says, “I’m kidding.” 

 

She nods slowly, senselessly. Maybe it was meant to be playful, maybe it wasn’t, but she feels like a prop at a comedy show regardless. Like an audience member picked out by the showrunner just to make a joke. Her chest tightens with embarrassment, and she’s too busy fighting her tongue from scolding to know how to loosen it up.

 

Her hand is still outstretched. She pulls it down to her skirt.

 

Alberto rocks on his feet for a moment, straightening himself back out to his full height. A silence hangs in the air, though maybe that’s just Verona. He looks away from her, yet his eyes can’t seem to settle on one place, nor he can’t seem to keep himself still. He’s rocking on his heels. Both hands are fit into his pockets now, with only his thumbs hanging out, his arms glued tight to his sides, and shoulders hunched just a bit.

 

And still, without looking at them: “Nice to finally meet you, ragazzi,” Alberto says. And, all at once his posture releases, and he’s back to his lax nature, head lolling to the side and arms unbinding themselves from his sides. Verona feels like it’s almost too lax.

 

He sighs and abruptly turns behind himself to Luca, who strides back over to his side. 

 

“You too,” Franco returns. It’s laced with hesitation. Verona knew he wasn’t one for confrontation of any sort, positive or negative, and, if he had been the one closer to Alberto rather than Verona, she’s not quite sure how he would’ve taken the encounter. Maybe he would be just as confused. 

 

Verona nods minutely in agreement and Alberto’s eyes dart to Franco for just a moment before darting away again, stuck on the unmoving train. He nods as well, jutting out his bottom lip as if in deep thought about something. 

 

The moment Luca’s hand is back on Alberto’s arm, he snaps out of whatever could’ve been on his mind, smiling at Luca again. It’s much more warm than the smile at Verona was. It’s quiet, and it’s closed. His eyes are lax, as they were, but there’s a crinkle in the corner that wasn’t there for her.

 

Verona wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. She knew from Luca’s interminable gushing (and Giulia’s endless corrections) that Alberto could be a bit overzealous at times, but she didn’t expect something like this. Alberto is undeniably Giulia’s brother, which is to say, he is undeniably wild, loud, giddy, and—as her mother would say—all over the place, but the energy in her heart didn’t feel as joyous. Something there was mistaken. Something there felt radioactive, glowing green instead of a nice gold.

 

She fears Luca’s rose-tinted glasses may have been dyed with acrylic and, somewhere, Tony Williams is shaking his head.

 

For her own sake, she hopes Alberto will be a bit different in the next coming days. First impressions, Verona thinks, are inflexible and damn near indestructible, and this one was only a hair short of a complete disaster.

 

She bites her cheek as the remark crosses her mind. It’s the definition of negative. She’s known Alberto for—what—all of five minutes? First impressions may be one thing but maybe he’s had a weird day, or maybe he was just as jittery as Verona and Franco was about meeting new people. 

 

It was only day one. Hour one of day one, that is. They have so much more time to get to know one another better; she’s sure this is just a fluke. Practically the whole reason for the trip was to get the chance to know Alberto, anyway, and it’d be asinine and entirely impractical to try to undo it now. She just has to focus on making the best of it, even if she has to rub her sore arm as they exit the train station because the strict time limit is still in place. And, if there was one thing she didn’t want to do on this trip, Franco included, it would be to piss off her mother before they’ve even unpacked. 

 

She’ll let the nervous energy of travel subside from her mind as she follows Alberto’s lead—because of course, he must be at the front of the pack—back to the pensione. And even if Franco questions if he’s positive he knows where he’s going (he’s not using a map), Giulia and Luca's trust drowns him out.

 

Verona yawns along the way. She knows it’s only a little past noon, but she can’t wait for a soft bed to lay in, to quell her thoughts and soothe her worries. Too bad she planned to attend dinner with the Marcovaldos later on.

Notes:

The Tony Williams mentioned here is the lead singer of The Platters, who made the song “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” btw

Chapter 3: group dynamics

Summary:

The Marcovaldos host dinner for everyone. Dialogue-driven chapter ahead.

Notes:

So, SO, so sorry for the long wait. I had an MDD episode.

BANG.

 

“We got dinner!”

 

Verona nearly flinches. She whips her head to the source of the sound just in time to see that boy—Alberto—busting through the side door with a powerful kick, a large dish of green-tinted pasta teetering over his head as if a golden trophy. A few pieces of pasta slip down from the plate, but it makes no dent to the mountain; it truly is enough to feed a village. The village—rather, the crowd—around her lifts up their voices in joy at the display. Some clap and laugh as he struts over and sets the dish down, right in the center of the table with a breezy, “Trenette al pesto! Mangiate!”

 

She, however, does not, nor does Franco, sitting beside her. However, that isn’t to say that they hadn’t expected them to be a noisy bunch. After all, Giulia had always been much more boisterous than her teachers could bear, and Luca, despite all introversion, has always been a motormouth the first few weeks of autumn. Even then, Verona hadn’t quite expected this.

 

The previous dinner parties she had attended yielded far more class. There was laughter and chatter, no doubt, but voices were low, refined, and polite. Typically, she was tethered to a small, isolated table with other children her age while the adults mingled over wine. It was quieter, calmer, and, most importantly, indoors.

 

Now, bulbous string lights, a single oil lamp, and light from the inside of Giulia’s father’s—Sig. Massimo’s—house wash the area in a dim but sufficient gold. Instead of caterers and cleaners, potted fig trees, pear trees, grape vines, and tomato plants populate the right side of the perimeters. To the left, there lays upside down an old, surely unusable, boat beside other derelict tools amongst shadows, moss, and lichen. And, along the back, a long table dressed with a white and coral sheet, set with plates, glasses, and utensils, and fixed with thirteen chairs, many of which were already filled, sits. 

 

At the head of the table lounges an old, stout woman with a raspy, two-toothed cackle. Verona understood her to be Libera Paguro, Luca’s maternal grandmother and a surface-goer for far longer than he. To her left and right sit Luca’s parents, Sig. and Sig.ra Paguro, respectively. Luca never spoke much of his father, but he seems to be a lot like him. They have the same complexion and awkward disposition, at least. On the contrary, he often complained of Sig.ra Paguro. According to him, she was uptight and controlling; she was the reason it took him so long to discover the world above. Though, he smiles at her warmly, now, even as she picks a leaf or two out of his curls. Then, to Luca’s left, sits Alberto, flanked also by Giulia. Next, her father, quiet and hulking. He hasn’t said a word, yet, and the most emotion she’s seen from him has been a small peer and ruffle of stache that could, if you squinted, be read as a grin. And, across from him, sits Verona’s father and mother until it looped back around to Verona, herself.

 

Franco seems delighted to be sitting next to the Paguros; she could see how his eye glues to them as they give thanks to Alberto, now serving plates, and begin to eat. Or, perhaps he was wearing a neutrally alert expression, simply looking out at his surroundings with those sharp, analytical eyes, and Verona is weaving an imaginative story to ignore what—who—lays before her, an inescapable parallel across the utensils, glasses, dishes, and plates.

 

Inescapable. Unignorable. Unneglectable . He exudes some magnetic forcefield that seems to pull her eyes up, towards him and his every action. Each sideways smile; each twitch in his brow. He calls for the spotlight to be upon him at all times, as Luca silently gleams up at him; as he skips over Giulia (who loudly complained, “ Ugh, you jerk!”) and serves his adoptive father next; as an uproarious laughter erupts from his maw towards a crackly joke Sig.ra Libera had tossed his way; as he settles into his seat, all innocuous. 

 

Verona schooled her eyes to stay stuck only to her food and her friend, though the source of the awkward tension remained an enigma to her. In fact, it isn’t until her mother graciously places her fork down with a slight clink and raises her voice to the throng that she looks up. And, even then, her face flushes in a white horror as her mother begins, “I suppose I’ll break the ice, so to speak.” A hand draws up to cover her chest. “First, I wish to thank you so much, Sig. Marcovaldo, for hosting tonight. You have quite the garden.”

 

There was a slight pause between have and quite that reeked of concealed snooty disdain, though that wasn’t the only stench present. Her mother’s nose twitches ever so slightly. Another hint—this time, in relation to the tangy sweet smell of rotting fish somewhere nearby but unseen. However, the pause and the fish go ignored in tandem, and Sig. Massimo only responds with a nod and a fork twirling in his pasta.

 

Verona’s mother lets out an anxious, airy laugh, petting down the napkin folded in her lap. Then, she carries on, “That aside, my name is Caterina Basaglia; this is my husband Alessandro—”

 

“Sandro is fine,” Verona’s father hurriedly adds.

 

Verona’s mother is quick to raise her voice. “Yes, and this is our daughter.” She lays a hand on the back of her daughter’s chair. Then, in a much lower voice, her head slightly turned, “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

 

Verona tries not to crumple in embarrassment, feeling her ears twinge with a spritz of red heat. It was worded as a question, but she knows she has no choice. She’s never had any choice.

 

She hates when her mother does this—make a big deal out of nothing. Everyone present had surely already heard of her before (if they weren’t already friends or acquaintances), so there truly isn’t any need for an introduction. She ponders over her mother’s angle for a fraction of a second—all the time allowed—grieving the steady feeling in her stomach she had beforehand.

 

God, she hates introducing herself.

 

God, she hates introductions!

 

They’re so important—one slip-up can ruin a person’s perception of you forever—and the first one today was already a complete wreck. And the first one is right there in front of her, now.

 

She can feel his smile on her as she squirms to straighten her back or brush hair out of her face. He’s sitting there perfectly relaxed, one arm slack over the chair beside him as the other easily twirls a fork. He must be just looking at her with that unreadable Cheshire grin all teenage boys like him wear, the one he’s been wearing all day. He must be, but Verona cannot fret over that, now. She must carry on, swallow down the nausea, and heed her mother’s order.

 

“My name is Verona.” She tries to untense and fails, though not too spectacularly. “And that’s Franco Facetti; we’re not related.”

 

She hopes her words divert some attention away from her for at least a short moment, even if it is at the expense of her friend. Though, she does hope Franco doesn’t mind, or, better yet, she hopes that the small ploy soars far above his head, undetected. Franco isn’t exactly the oblivious type, but he does have his moments, after all. 

 

And, at this moment, Franco is awkwardly lifting one hand to deliver a half-hearted wave, the other brushing knuckles over his lips to stifle a small surprise. Verona feels a dull pang of guilt as his eyes dart all about the garden, catching nothing as he surely wonders if he is to say anything–do anything. But it does not matter. The other side of the table quickly demands all attention.

 

Sig.ra Paguro, beaming, clasps her hands together with a sing-song chirp, “Pleasure to meet you all!” She gestures to herself with a flourish, saying, “My name is Daniela Paguro,” before sweeping a hand toward the man seated parallel to her. “That, there is my husband, Lorenzo.” She waves towards the similarly stout, but far, far older woman seated at the head of the table. “My mother, Libera.” Until, finally, the hand comes to rest upon the head of the young boy to her left (he cringes as she fusses with his curls). “And Luca, of course.”

 

Sandro quirks a grin, leaning over his dish ever so slightly to ensure his voice is heard as he gently delights, “Fancy the ‘L’ names, eh?”

 

Daniela languidly shrugs. “That’s just how the flounder flattens,” she returns.

 

Verona’s father’s eyebrows raise and drop; her mother hisses a giggle. Luca’s eyes, anxious and scrutinizing, whip to Verona’s, Franco’s, and Verona’s parents. For a short moment, no one expresses a word about the saying—sights and movements already tell plenty from where Verona was sitting—but of course, Verona’s mother crumples beneath the humor. She broke the unsteady silence, leaning to whisper in her husband’s ear.

 

And from across the table, that boy angles his jaw a pinch higher. He juts his jaw out with inspecting, half-lidded eyes towards the publicly private conversation, and lifts his fork up from his plate to dangle and waggle in the air, swirling the wind like a thick pasta. “Ehi, you’re Caterina?”

 

Verona’s eyebrows raise; no one has ever disrespected her in that fashion before. Likewise, Verona’s mother’s smile pulls tighter, uneven. “Signora Basaglia, to you, ragazzino,” she corrects.

 

Alberto nods, a subtle glint of mischief in his eyes as their smile curves to a point. “That was one of Luca’s goatfish,” he says, tune too light for comfort.

 

He’s trying to make her uncomfortable—that much Verona can tell—though she doesn’t quite blame him. She almost finds herself entranced, in fact, delighted by the boy’s brashness and swiftness to nip whatever her mother was sowing in the bud. He’s combative, and he’s perceptive. He must have been able to see that her mother was making some mean comment towards Daniela, someone close to him, or—more likely—towards sea monsters as a whole, and he didn’t stand for it. But instead of making a scene, he turned the knife around.

 

Verona likes this, no doubt, but her mother does not: “Was it?”

 

Then, another sea-monster, Sig. Paguro, joins the mix. “Oh, yeah,” he agrees, his voice sounding amusedly exasperated, hoarse but high-pitched, “But, she died a few seasons ago.” He takes a bite of his meal, not pausing to chew before continuing on. “Shame. She was a good one.”

 

At that, Luca pulls a face. He doesn’t even need to make a sound; as soon as the words left the man’s (albeit invisible, due to the largeness of the mustache) mouth, Luca’s eyes snap to the boy’s beside him. They meet, and they both chew their inner cheeks to cut off ill-seated smiles. And while this—Luca and Alberto silently communicating to one another so easily, so effortlessly—shouldn’t have come as a surprise, it does. Though, she supposes it’s just the oddness of an ancient novelty and puts it to rest.

 

It’s not like she wasn’t guilty of the same thing, after all. She and Franco often exchange glances multiple times a day as needed. And, when she looks over to Franco, now—perhaps just to see what he’s doing, or perhaps just out of habit—she sees him fiddling with his fork tighter. The small piece of metal dancing over his fingertips, a gold gleam from the fairy lights shines in his wide, alert eyes before they turn out of view—as his head turns to the man he’s seated beside, Sig. Paguro, and asks, “Oh, how long do they usually live?”

 

Sig. Paguro rounds his shoulders, pressing his back to the chair. “Well, that depends!” he says. Somehow, his voice is even more gleefully hoarse than before. “If you just let them go, they can go on for a good while. One of our neighbors had a pair for well over, pfshh, twenty-five years, I’d say.”

 

His wife nods slowly in agreement, a few tufts of caramel waves spilling over her shoulders, her lips smoothing into a line. “M-m-mhm! Though, they were just rearing them for roe.”

 

“Right,” Sig. Paguro acknowledges. “But-but we use ours for all sorts of stuff—roe, meat, jewelry, tools—so we typically let ours last only about six-seven years.” Then, he sets his fork down, setting an elbow on the table to fully turn his body towards Franco. “Now, CRABS,” his voice raises, “on the other hand—”

 

“Mannaggia,” whispers Alberto.

 

“Franco…” grieves Luca, nose deep into his plate.

 

“Heheheh,” chuckles the old woman, Sig.ra Libera, at the head of the table.

 

Something is about to happen. Is this where Luca gets his rambling from?

 

Lorenzo juts one finger into the air, rising from his slouch as he hastily continues, “Only dea Balena herself knows how long those guppies last. Not many people around here use them for meat or anything like that—no. They’re more for showing off, you see, like in races and contests. I’ve been putting Pinchy Pessa in our village’s crab race for, well, about the past twenty–twenty-five years, and she’s still just as spry as she was when she was just starting out.” 

 

His eyes twinkle with the same merriment Luca’s eyes display upon the topic of space, though his words seem to be racing against his tongue to leap out. It almost seems painful; he’s barely stopped to take a breath. “Not sluggish nor scraped.” His eyes, then suddenly drop to his palms, cupping air, though he clearly sees something in them. “If it weren’t for those Branzinos—” his brow clenches in time with his fingers—“I’m sure she’d win every time. She’s a real champion show crab.”

 

Meanwhile, Franco looks like he’s about to bounce out of his chair from excitement, which is to say that his body has gone as stiff as a corpse minus the nodding head, the rising chest, the heart trying to lunge out of its cage, and the fingers rapidly, vigorously tapping against his mouth—signaling that there is something he must say. 

 

And, the instant Sig. Paguro sighs and pats his thighs, the blonde boy’s mouth, too, bursts with words: “Oh. Yes, right. Well,” he stutters over the opening, “it’s funny that you say that because crabs don’t actually age.” His hands fall into his lap, steady hovering, twitching, a few centimeters above his knees. “I won’t go into much detail because it’s not essential to the conversation at hand, but crabs—and all other crustaceans, actually—don’t have the same life cycle as the rest of us. They produce a certain protein that allows the rate of their cellular growth to never fall beneath the rate of their cellular growth, so they never grow old, meaning they are technically biologically immortal, as they can never die of old age. In fact, the only way a crab—or crustacean—can really die is by external causes: like illness, parasites, exhaustion, starvation, or just simply predation.”

 

Verona conceals a small grin. Franco’s always been into science. He has always liked examining the biological world with a keen eye, inspecting run-over rats to see if there were bones to scavenge, and spending countless hours in the school’s greenhouse, but this has always been the apple of his eye: marine biology. Therefore, Verona has listened to this little ramble until it’s been ingrained in her memory, but even then, he wasn’t ever this excited.

 

Perhaps it’s because this was someone new? Perhaps because Sig. Paguro was someone older? Perhaps because Sig. Paguro seemed just as into crabs as him, and could quite possibly find a use for this information?

 

All three could provide sufficient fuel for his fire, and all three are in play. However, there appears to be something amiss.

 

Luca scratches his chin boredly, cheeks full of pasta while his mother gets up to fill her glass of water again. Both Alberto and Sig.ra Libera are quiet, too, and Sig. Paguro is just staring blankly, nodding gently with an even stare.

 

“...You know, that’s actually why we have them for show.”

 

Verona’s heart drops to her stomach with a hives-like second-hand embarrassment running down her arms. Franco had forgotten a crucial detail about his audience: while Franco had devoted countless hours researching marine life, they’ve lived it. 

 

“Keep them healthy, and they only get better with age,” Sig. Paguro grins at ease.

 

Franco nods smally. “Like wine.”

 

As if apologizing, Sig. Paguro rounds his shoulders back, looking up to the darkening indigo sky, smattered with starlight. “Now, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he chuckles breathily. “But, back to what I was saying—”

 

Luca wipes a hand down his cheek as his father continues on, detailing the inner workings of the race, how you guarantee a win by putting in the years and effort to keep them healthy and devoid of parasites. He speaks of crabs that won just due to their physique rather than placement—how, many years ago, there was a crab that won without even moving to the starting line just because it was eleven shells (a sea monster unit of measurement equivalent to approximately 1.5 inches or four centimeters). His wife chimes in with an anecdote about the Branzinos, always winning year after year, arguing that winning crabs should be immediately retired so that others have a chance. Her husband scoffs at that, but, from across the table, Giulia expresses an agreement wholeheartedly.

 

As the voices grow louder—as the pleasant mingling turns into squabbling over sportsmanship and hard-earned victories—Verona finds herself settling into the backseat of the conversation. She’s content like this—happy, even. It grants her the perfect opportunity to inspect and decode. She finds Luca, who is ever so polite around all other adults, takes on the role of the silently annoyed teenager when he’s around family. His mother appears to be the leader of the household, quickly talking over and instructing her husband, who is compliant with a small twitch of his mustache. His grandmother is a people watcher, like Verona, calmly looking from face to face with a knowing stare but saying nothing.

 

Then, when her mother interposes, questioning, “Do you people do anything other than…racing crabs?” Verona watched as Luca’s already crinkled expression soured more. He pulls back, hanging his head over his plate, fork slowing as it gathers up pasta but never raising. Giulia gave a side glance to her adopted brother, and he gave a slight squeeze on Luca’s shoulder.

 

Daniela, supposedly unaware of the tone of superiority (or just willingly ignoring it), assures her of many activities: dances with choirs, basket-weaving contests, wrangling events, and even impression competitions. She says with a pointed, wagging claw, “I would have won if they were based on actual skill, I swear! The only reason Bianca ever wins is that she works with the Ostricas—you know, I could do an impression right here if you’d like!” and Luca’s face goes white.

 

He drops his fork to his plate, hand gripping her arm. “Mom. Please, no. Don’t.”

 

“Oh shush—“ She pulls out of his grasp. “It’s very good.”

 

“Mom!” Luca’s hands clam in the air, desperation rising, eyes darting back between Verona’s parents and his own.

 

“Well, if you insist,” Verona’s mother shrugs.

 

“MOM!” whisper-cries Luca, just before being cut off by a high shrill, if you could call it that.

 

Daniela delivers the impression.

 

Before it was over, Luca was already crumpled completely. A visible nausea surfaces across his face in the form of a heavy, bright red burn from ear to ear as everyone—minus Franco, Verona, and Verona’s mother—applauds Daniela to the best of their abilities. Alberto even leans forward, his pompadour casting a small shadow as it droops over his brow, asking, “Killer impression, signora. Got any more?”

 

“Well, of course!” Sig.ra Daniela now chimes as the boy’s smile turns a pinch crooked, “But Luca’s going to break a scale, so I’m afraid that’s all for today.”

 

Luca groans in relief. “Thank cod.”

 

Alberto laughs at his friend’s displeasure. “Aw, boo.”

 

While Verona wonders if Alberto always seems to try to make Luca as uncomfortable as possible, her mother forces out a refined chuckle. “Well, that’s just wonderful. You’re very…skilled,” she says, and it sounds like a suggestion.

 

Daniela’s eyes go wide and happy with gratitude. “Thank you!” She gives Luca a look, wagging her eyebrows high as her son, having seemingly accepted the fate of the situation, remains silent yet slightly less crumpled than before.

 

The conversation continues like this. The adults speak to one another; Daniela and Caterina carry on about food, tech, and work. Verona’s father is in the locomotive business while her mother stays at home, tending to the house and her daughter. In contrast, the Paguros manage a farm. Daniela harvests kelp, crafting them into bundles to eat or to carry other stuff with. Libera, Daniela’s mother, doesn’t do such active labor. Instead, she spends most of her days weaving baskets or clothes (as needed) with the same seagrass her daughter collects. Lorenzo, on the other hand, tends mostly to his crabs and other small marine life—starfish, barnacles, clams, et cetera. And—before he moved to Genova, at least—Luca takes watch over the goatfish, guiding them to grazing grounds, and making sure they aren’t picked off by any predators nearby.

 

Almost everything they cultivate they try to use to the best of their abilities. What cannot be eaten is made into jewelry, clothes, furniture, or tools. What cannot be made into jewelry, clothes, furniture, or tools is used to feed what is yet to be harvested. They appear to be a society devoid of functional fixedness, and Franco is soaking in every last detail while Verona finds this all rather boring.

 

She is not interested in this part of society. Unlike her parents, she is not interested in the production and distribution of goods and services, the flow of commerce, or the state of the economy. She wants to know about relationships; how people speak to one another and what customs are present. Do roles still hold power when everyone is equal, or is it all just play? What major holidays are there, and how relevant is the Mother of Pearl that Luca speaks of to their society? What kind of prejudices are there? What kind of stereotypes? 

 

She wants to know, but she feels smothered by the discussion, and only keeps her head down as she eats, only listening with one ear as Daniela embarrasses her son, “Of course, Luca, here, never eats any roe. Still hasn’t even tried any sea cucumber, even though it really is just mild.”

 

Verona’s mother’s eyebrows furrow with scrutiny, tracing over the boy. “So, you are…vegetarian?”

 

“Oh, no!” Daniela bats off the notion. “He’s just picky.”

 

Luca blushes, looking up at his mother from his slouch. “I just get attached and then feel bad.”

 

Startlingly loud, Alberto coughs out a laugh. “You’d never survive in the wild,” he says with a wide grin that shows off yellowing, chipped teeth and punctuates his words with a clap on his friend’s shoulder.

 

“I—” Luca begins a retort, but he just sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

 

“Of course I am.” Alberto withdraws his hand. “I’m always right,” he boasts before continuing on about the undeniable superiority of human food, anyway.

 

Verona alerts with a small ball of energy unraveling in her chest, wishing to come out. She wants to argue him—even if she did think the seafolk cuisine detailed before seemed a bit bland or limited, it’s rude to talk ill of a culture when its members are within earshot. But she stops herself, because wouldn’t that be weird? He’s seafolk, too. Even if it might be the morally correct thing to do, is it her place to defend his own culture from him? She isn’t sure, and now, as he prattles on about some new dish he and Sig. Massimo have been practicing, his expressed distaste doesn’t seem ingenuine or out of self-deprecation.

 

Verona thinks that if she is to defend anything, however, it ought to be Luca, first and foremost. He seems frazzled, combing his hair back with his free hand as his fork twirls into his pasta. Clearly, he knew that Verona’s parents weren’t as progressive as others might be, and so he’s been keeping things flowing as smoothly as possible throughout this whole dinner (even if his attempts were mostly in the form of grumbles and complaints). He’s arguing half-heartedly with Alberto now, listing off available technology of the seafolk while Alberto talks over him—loud, incessant, and bullish.

 

At some point, Luca just throws his head back, conceding through a wild grin, “Ugh, you’re such a traitor!”

 

“Like you can talk!” combats Alberto, bouncing joyfully in his seat. “I’m not the one that ran off to Genova—that was you!” He jabs a finger against Luca’s chest.

 

Verona’s mother cuts in, “Sorry—you are a monster, too?”

 

Alberto blinks, mouth hanging slightly ajar and one eyebrow perked. For a split second, his eyes dart about as if he was making sure everyone else was seeing this. Then, he put his focus back on the woman, snorting through his words, “Uh, yeah. My name’s Alberto Scorfano . Piacere.” He takes a large bite of his meal and doesn’t look back up for a moment, his expression unreadable as he picks his nose and flings the residue elsewhere.

 

“Piacere.” Verona’s mother gives a small pause as well. “So, I take it you’re from the village as well?”

 

“Nah.” Alberto shrugs. “I live up here in Portorosso, signora.”

 

Verona’s mother’s eyebrows knit together. “But you are from the village?”

 

“Am I?” Alberto asks, looking up at her from beneath lashes and monolids that cover half of his leaf-green eyes. “You tell me,” he says as his two-toned smile pinches into his cheeks, a rich brown ochre smattered with more freckles than there were stars in the Milky Way. 

 

But, much to his apparent dissatisfaction, Daniela jumps in with a dismissive explanation, effectively ruining whatever game he was about to start up: “Alberto is a migratory seafolk. No one’s entirely sure where he’s from, exactly.”

 

Giulia adds, nodding, “He lives with me and my papá, now. We’re family—that’s the most important thing.”

 

“Oh.” Verona’s mother says. “I see.”

 

“Yeah.” Alberto’s nose twitches. He studies her expression once more with a playful, daresay almost flirty, question in his eyes. “You alright? I thought you uptown girls liked mysterious men.”

 

“ALBERTO!”

 

“Dude!?” 

 

“HEY, UH-UH!” 

 

“Hmph.”

 

The lattermost interjection is only a harsh grunt, delivered by Giulia’s father—the silent, foreboding man sitting on the far end of the table. He hadn’t spoken a word before this, and Verona didn’t think that he would ever—or even that he could make noise at all before this moment. But, that is all it takes.

 

Alberto cowers, albeit giggling mischievously. “Sorry!” he throws up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, Sig.ra Basaglia. My bad.” He lets out one little chuckle. “Sig. Basaglia, I’m sure you’re a very un-mysterious man.”

 

Sig. Basaglia just laughs through a toothy smile. “I hope so,” he says almost gleefully. This surprised almost everyone except for three: that rowdy boy Alberto, Sig.ra Libera, and Verona.

 

Verona knew of her father’s carefree congeniality beforehand. Every second from the minute he opened his eyes to this present moment, here, has been drenched in a halcyon glaze. He’s never had to worry about a job; he’s never had to worry about a bill. He had a house in his name by the time he was twenty-five, and he has never had to actively worry about the funds needed for a vacation. All that ever concerned him have been the company, the venues, and the wine. Yes, he was born fortunate, and he knows that this poor pescatore’s kid in this small, seaside town was no threat to him or his possessions. 

 

So, he laughs along and sips cheerfully, marveling at such a simplistic way of life, knowing the stains on their clothes will never grace his. His daughter found this state annoying at times, sure, but for the most part, it worked in her favor. So, she let it be.

 

Sig.ra Libera, meanwhile, still proved an enigma to her. She hasn’t even yet participated in the conversation, only ever contributing a steady gaze in her grandson’s direction or a low, raspy, two-toothed chuckle. 

 

In contrast, Alberto is becoming quite clear to her. He’s the class clown—that is, he would be if he ever attended a class. Though, he doesn’t appear dumb to her. Rather, he’s just ignorant and focused more on getting a crowd going than learning sciences, literature, history, or the arts. He has a way with words, and the light that shines from him is far brighter than the fairy lights dangling above the hoard. He glows in this space, sometimes so much that it burns to even glance his way. 

 

Verona can see why Luca enjoys him, no doubt, but she doesn’t know how long she could bear it, especially when his own eyes constantly shift from face to face, never stilling when there is a game to be played or a line to be delivered. And there almost always is, though she still doesn’t know how she feels about his exact choice of humor. 

 

However, when Verona’s father veers his attention towards Giulia, inquiring as to how humans got into fostering—he swiftly evades using the word “adopting”—a sea monster, Alberto isn’t as quick with a response, nor is anyone else.

 

Giulia shrugs as she takes a bite of her pasta. “I dunno. Just kinda worked out that way.” She gestures her fork in her friend’s direction, grinning calmly. “Luca came to live with me and my mamma in Genova, and Alberto stayed with my dad.”

 

Verona’s father nods, resting his fingers against his mouth and chin thoughtfully. Verona expects him to question Alberto more, as most would, but he doesn’t. Instead–after a short pause–he crooks his head to Luca. “And how is Genova, ragazzino? How are you enjoying the big city?”

 

Luca blushes in surprise, squirming in his seat. “Pretty well,” he answers, not looking the man in the eyes. He then, with lessening hesitation, briefly details his interest in all of its assets—the tech, the buildings, the knowledge, the food, the people. Giulia agrees, chiming in that he enjoyed her birthday party at the museum even more than she did. Though it’s not quite as wondrous to him as it was when he first arrived, there’s always something new to discover, and that’s what he likes about it. The human world is so vast, and his friends are really patient with him as he familiarizes things. He doesn’t know where he’d be without Verona, Franco, and Giulia.

 

Alberto quirks a brow. “So I’m just a rat to you?”

 

Luca splutters. “No!”

 

Verona bristles. It would have been a sweet sentiment, but then Alberto had to go on and make it about himself. Her discomfort develops further as her mother needlessly adds, “Verona struggled to make friends before Franco and Giulia as well. Truly a blessing.”

 

Alberto puffs through his nose—a laugh. “Blessing, for sure. If I didn’t come along, poverino, here—” his right arm goes to Luca’s left shoulder as his left arm goes to Luca’s right elbow, shaking him gently, “—would probably still be talking to his goatfish.” He giggles. “Loneliest little boy in the world.”

 

“Ah-ksh,” Luca tsks, blushing even redder, now. “Yeah, right. Whatever, amico.” He hangs his head, smiling with a furrowed brow, shoulders tensed beneath Alberto’s grip.

 

Alberto’s grin drops. In an instant, his back straightens up until he’s towering over the other boy, pompadour slightly bouncing with the backward buck of his head. “What? You’re just gonna take that? Ma dai, at least try to fight back.”

 

Luca’s jaw hangs open by a hair, eyes wide in a small shock. “Whuh?”

 

“Fight back,” Alberto commands.

 

Luca looks away, to the other guests at the table. “Alberto, I—can we not—?”

 

Alberto releases him. “Ugh. So lame.” He takes a bite of his meal. Then, whilst chewing, “You seriously need to work on your social skills, amico.”

 

“I think he’s fine, actually.”

 

Alberto leers at Verona. Though, perhaps leer isn’t entirely right. His eyebrows are furrowed faintly, eyes only slightly more than half-lidded with pinpoint pupils. His nose is wrinkled like the fragrance of the unseen rotting fish is finally getting to him, and his smile is one degree from a grimace, but everything is so small. The changes are so slight and narrow that they’re almost imperceivable—visible only with a strenuously trained eye, like Verona’s. Thus, her world goes quiet.

 

There’s no more talking about. Whatever side conversation the Paguros are having, all the clacks and clinking brought by forks upon porcelain plates evade her ears. The fairy lights may as well be industrial beams of bright white light. There’s only the echo of her words and Alberto’s stare, searing into her skin.

 

She continues, regretfully, “Luca’s a little awkward, but he’s fine. He…gets along well enough.”

 

“Right.” Alberto nods. “Anyway.”

 

The word is loose and isn’t laced with an ounce of spite, but it still stings like a hot iron placed scorching, scarring, her side. She shrinks into her seat with shoulders hunched, schooling her expression into something dim and reserved as everyone else carries on with conversation. Giulia and Alberto fight over the superiority of Portorosso over Genova, and then over the legitimacy of Alberto’s one-time visit to Pisa.

 

“Did you even go see the tower?” Giulia questions, crossing her arms.

 

“Ye-uh!” Alberto insists, nodding.

 

“Oh yeah?” Giulia tilts her head. “What’d it look like?”

 

Her brother stumbles, “Leaning!”

 

His sister howls, “You liar!”

 

And Verona wishes more and more that she was just a fly on the wall, silent and unseen. A cicada chittering on a tree, intermixing with all the other voices of the rural, summer night. Her ears burn red, but she knows they’re hidden by her hair. Her eyes are trained on her plate, regardless, and aren’t coming up any time soon. The Paguros, to her left, are talking with Franco, now, as her parents spark up a small discussion amongst themselves about planning the day tomorrow, and how they ought to ask one of them—one of the Marcovaldos—about any good spots to go sight-seeing or to grab a bite.

 

Eventually, Sig. Marcovaldo grunts again before the argument between the two siblings can grow physical, and Verona’s parents take the vocalization as an opportunity for conversation.

 

His daughter, however, answers for him: “There’s the ancient tower at the top of the mountain, and tons of walking trails! Oh, and Giulio’s Trattoria is pretty good.”

 

Her father nods in the direction of the sea. “Hm. Is there any way to get onto the island, out there?”

 

“Not for you,” Alberto says, answering nothing, and scratching a spot on his face. Then, he alights with a brilliant idea. “Oh! Luca, pretty soon, we should go to the island! We could go cliff-diving—or fix up Vespas like old times! It’ll be so much fun, remember?”

 

Luca laughs uncomfortably. Giulia’s voice sounds like she’s smirking: “Are we invited?”

 

A pause.

 

A twiney answer: “No…?”

 

Giulia throws her hands up, crying, “Agh! Fai schifo!”

 

And, after another hour of conversation later, they finally left.

 

——

 

When Verona, clad in her nightgown and slippers, walks into her assigned bedroom, she is surprised to find Franco, also in pajamas, sitting on her bed with a solemn expression.

 

“Hey,” she greets him, words full of air.

 

“What’s up?” he asks her, voice flat.

 

“I think I should be asking you that. Didn’t you say you wanted to read before bed?” Because Verona’s parents trusted Franco with their daughter far less than Sig.ra Marcovaldo trusted Luca with hers, they had been assigned separate rooms. Franco chose the bedroom that was sea-themed as it pertained to interests, and Verona chose the one that was adorned with and designed for begonias as it was the only one left.

 

Franco shrugs, stretching by rounding out his tensed-up neck. “I was just wanting to talk to you–what do you think of him?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Of Alberto.”

 

“He’s…” she began, drawing off. He doesn’t match up with the picture Luca painted of him. All night, she thought about the boy who wrote all those letters to Luca—all the little markings detailing the days wasted yearning, the painful anticipation of his return. She thought about the photos Luca showed her of Alberto as a lifeguard; as a fisherman; as a delivery boy working hard to scrounge up the money to pay for another year’s worth of private school. She knows how they met, sort of, as Luca had gone over it once or twice before, but now, she’s confused. She knows why they’re friends, but why do they remain friends? Their personalities are in complete contrast. Alberto looms over him ceaselessly, and Luca only seems to enjoy the shade half of the time. Alberto clearly shows a desire to have him in his life, but he does so in a way that demands attention from everyone else. Maybe Luca likes being used as a prop? But then again, it’s too hard to tell, and the first meeting put her off to a conspicuous degree. Maybe she’s just in a bad mood, and that’s skewing her perception. Maybe. “...Alright.”

 

Franco sits with this non-answer, saying nothing.

 

“What about you?”

 

Franco shrugs, getting up from the bed. “Well, Giulia and Luca seem to like him a whole lot.” He passes her on his way out into the hall. “Buonanotte.”

 

Verona calls after him, “Buonanotte,” and heads to bed with her brain swimming.

Notes:

comments/feedback are appreciated

Chapter 4: homophily

Summary:

In the morning, Franco discovers a kindred soul.

After breakfast the next day, Verona and Franco arrived at Sig. Massimo’s doorstep, a large “PESCHERIA” sign hanging over the teal-lined door frame. They didn’t stop to ring the bell or knock on the large door and for that Verona was glad. She never quite knew how far she should stand back from a doorway, nor did she want to knock for fear of getting a splinter—chipping paint was always a deterrent for soft hands. No, the door had already been propped open by a little stone statue, a welded sea monster with menacing fangs that flattened as it neared the floor. So, without much delay, she motioned for Franco to step in first. He made a face but moved nonetheless, and she quickly followed after him. 

 

At once, Franco gaped and tore from her side to size up every inch of the wall, and Verona couldn’t blame him. By the crates of fish crowding the outside and what glimpses she caught yesterday, she had already formed a small impression of what the inside of the pescheria would be like, and it was about exactly what she expected. It was the work of a dedicated laborer; the treasures of a ravenous collector; a grand display of effort and skill.

 

There were lines of ice stacked coolers all squished into the small space together like a pack of sardines with a surprising variety of fish stacked neatly onto the piles of ice. Near the back stood large tanks holding live fish and crustaceans, and a particularly large tank holding lobster. Directly next to the tanks was a long counter with more ice and fish stacked onto it. A small bell sat in the middle of the counter.

 

Verona maneuvered through the shop, slinking past the various counters and ignoring the stinging in her nose and eyes at the smell. As she went, her eyes lifted upwards to the walls. Each one was adorned with tens upon tens of tools—few of which Verona could name off of her head. Between, were pieces of art or photography. A monochromatic portrait here, a diagram on old, yellowing paper there. Many pieces of whittled sea life hung up on shelves for display as well as mounted fish, and not the singing kind you buy for a white elephant gift. The spectacle was enough to almost make her forget the crawling sensation creeping up her spine as squelching noises sounded out from her slow stride. 

 

Meanwhile, Franco was having a great time underneath a seven-foot-long, misty-eyed swordfish, swishing his feet back and forth as if Chubby Checker had just begun his urging, Yeah, let’s twist again like we did last summer; come on let's twist again, like we did last year . The accompanying noises were horrible, like wet nails on a gooey chalkboard. Finally at the counter—and as if trying to drown them out—she tapped the bell. A surprisingly loud ding echoed throughout the small room. 

 

With a jumpy heart, she steps back. Then, almost immediately, the side door in the far back corner—the one Verona knows to lead out into the side yard—swung open. Finally, Giulia’s father came into view. Sig. Massimo plods through, hand gripping the handle of an empty but terribly greasy tin bucket. Verona can’t tell if the alleged “grease” is more yellow or more red, and she doesn’t care to know which is the right answer. “Buongiorno, Signor Massimo, uhm—” she stuttered a bit under his gaze, “Where’s Giulia and Luca?”

 

The tall man’s eyes peek out from beneath his brow, twitching upwards, as he returns to his spot behind the counter. He is silent for a moment. Then, his mustache furrows as he answers slowly in a surprisingly not-entirely-deep voice, “Giulia and Alberto are making deliveries. Luca is at home.”

 

Verona feels her sears turn red as her eyes dart momentarily to the floor. “Oh. And, how long until they come back?”

 

“The boys work until noon,” he answers, setting down the bucket on the counter with an echoing clank.

 

Franco flashes his wristwatch to Verona. It reads ten, and Verona’s stomach turns like a little paper boat caught in a gutter’s whirlpool. Seemingly paying her no mind, Sig. Massimo takes up a rag that looks absolutely filthy already, wets it with tap water (the knob squeals as it turns), and begins to wipe down the countertop with an apparent lack of any actual cleaning agent.

 

Verona makes a mental note to never eat any fish the Marcovaldos serve her, no matter how praised their service and quality are, but Franco doesn’t appear to be forming any sort of stipulations. Rather, he’s watching intently, inching as close as he can without ever truly crossing the line to see the back of the counter, the boxes, tools, icers, and crates tucked neatly in shadows, out of sight.

 

Without even looking his way, Sig. Massimo asks, “Aspiring pescatore?”

 

Franco’s hands clamor upward to the back of his neck, pretending to rub out a sore spot. “Oh, no. Marine biologist, actually—hopefully,” he quickly corrects himself. Verona knows he likes to boast, but she also knows Franco knows better than to get too ahead of himself. He’s never been a Cassandra type.

 

Sig. Massimo’s head bobs to the side, back and forth as if turning around the notion in his mind. For just a second, he bundles up his rag, wagging a large, thick, grime-encrusted calloused finger, and then he returns to cleaning.

 

Franco attempts to grab his attention again. “Sorry, is that real?” he asks, pointing up to the aforementioned sailfish that Verona is now skillfully evading the gaze of as if it were an ex-boyfriend at a mutual friend’s birthday party.

 

The man nods. “Caught her myself twenty years ago.” His voice was never gruff—that much was an initial surprise—but there is a notable sing-song quality to it. One that wasn’t there before.

 

“It’s huge,” Franco marvels. “I mean, I already knew swordfish are supposed to be a massively impressive breed of fish when it comes to size, but seeing it in person is just—” he cuts himself off, whistling. “Takes up the whole wall, practically.”

 

Sig. Massimo grins, his already notably large chest expanding with conspicuous pride. “It was over two hundred kilos.”

 

“Over two hundred?” Franco blanches, voice and eyebrows rising. “Did you catch it in the Pacific?”

 

To his utter delight, Sig. Massimo shakes his head. Verona can practically feel the heat radiating from the stars in his eyes as he inches closer, knees buckling in an attempt to hold himself back. His mouth, however, appears to be lack of such restraint. It flies open with question after question; Sig.Massimo happily answers each one. Though the answers prove concise and largely nondescript, Franco’s glee suffers no stifling.

 

Before Verona knows it, Franco has been taken behind the counter. Verona didn’t know how he could stand it. From what she had only briefly seen, the space behind the counter was as cluttered as an antique shop, though it was actually hidden, and, upon closer inspection, seemed a lot more organized than a first glance would serve. There were shelves under the counter holding tons of various paper clippings and small signs touting discounts and special offers. Furthermore, there was a bucket holding discarded fishbits, mostly the heads. The sight almost made her gag, but Franco is completely unfazed. He excitedly questions after every tool in the drawers Massimo pulls out. When the man acquires a small, thin, arched knife, asking, “Ever dissected a fish?” the boy rocks on his feet, hands grasping the granite countertop for balance, ready with an unsure but no-less passionate answer:

 

“No, only frogs and pigs—but I’m really looking forward to it in university!”

 

Sig. Massimo hums. “Top pick?”

 

Franco laughs. “Padua, obviously, but anywhere’s fine, really.” Sig. Massimo delivers him an approving nod, and he picks up with another question. “Where did you go?”

 

“I dropped out of high school when I was sixteen.”

 

Verona, who had only been sitting in silence on a toolbox and staring out the open door at the passersby boredly for the past five minutes, looked back. For some reason, that surprised her. Not even a trade school? she wondered, remembering how her parents instilled in her the utter importance of post-secondary education—-how she’d thought never attending even a simple trade school was as damning as a meat suit at a zoo. She couldn’t say if her eyebrows furrowed as she listened in, but her focus skyrocketed to a record-breaking level nonetheless.

 

However, such focus was wasted. Sig. Massimo was a laconic man; he only looked down upon Franco, grinning fondly. Then, he looked away, over the tools in the drawers, over the cleaned countertop, across the floor and walls and even the ceiling, adorned with nets and teal glass spheres that Verona couldn’t begin to guess the use of. He puffed out his chest, placed one hand on his hip, and said, “I already knew what my future held.”

 

In an instant, Verona knew she’d be hearing much more of him later, and she wished she could pour over in excitement for the experience as well, but there was something she couldn’t let go. The little carvings on the wall; the faded tattoo on Sig. Massimo’s furry forearm. 

 

Even he acknowledged it, giving a quiet “...mostly” as he set the descaler back into the drawer, pushing it away. 

 

Franco, however, wasn’t deterred. He carried on with animated conversation, and Verona saw herself out.

 

———

 

Outside, Verona sits down on the corner of a crate. Inside of the crate are stacks of dead fish, gaping and gleaming in the bright sunlight, and though she did ensure her skirt was kept away, she doesn’t think of them. Her focus is outward. For a minute or two, her eye trains upon a group nearby. A boy, a grandfather, and a son speaking. The son is reticent, only speaking when spoken to. The grandfather seems to have some stipulation about the man never attending college and praises his grandson—Giovanni, he calls him—for attending school. Giovanni doesn’t say much. Rather, his focus seems to be unsteady. His eyes are darting over to the pescheria.

 

At first, Verona believed he was anxious at her presence and debated upon moving, but that wasn’t the case. The boy was trying to see past her, leaning a bit away to try to catch a glimpse past the doors. It was then that Verona realized the boy had been wearing a fisherman’s cap, curly bangs peeking out, a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up to give a “scissored off” impression, sandals, and a pair of shorts that are so bulky they’re barely kept up by a belt. Verona almost giggles at the prospect, delighting in her possible discovery, and then winds down with pity. Poor guy, getting a crush on a lesbian. She hopes Giovanni gets over it soon—if her theory is correct, of course. He could always just be imitating her for other reasons.

 

Then, her attention moves on. Three elderly women sit on a bench in front of a gelateria. At least, she believes it’s a gelateria. She can’t read the sign, but there’s a boy lapping at a pistacchio beside his grandmother, holding vanilla. Then, a young girl and her mother walk out holding two cones of their own, and it’s confirmed. The two pass by the three elderly women—one skinning, one knitting, and one with her hands clenching the rosary around her neck. They pause their gossip as the two pass by, then continue on. The girl and the woman make their way down to the docks, eating the gelato with their legs dangling off. Then, the woman tilts her head upward, back to Giovanni, his father, and his grandfather. She questions, “You sure you didn’t want any of this Tomasso? Papà?” and they do not.

 

Nearby, a group of children kick around a ball where they’re not meant to. A policewoman comes over, scolding them for a short minute, but the notecard she’s pretending to write in isn’t real. It’s only a collection of connect-the-dot pages, and the minute she turns away, the kids are back at it, again.

 

Verona smiles. She loves days like this—places like this. The sea lapping at the shore isn’t nearly as loud as it was before, but the sun is no less hot, baking the pale skin on her arms and calves. The sky is blue, and the trees on the mountain are as green as green can be. It feels like a true summer day, and though the town certainly isn’t large or as diverse in activities as Genova, Verona finds herself wishing to stay here for forever. Perhaps she can be like Giulia and Luca. Perhaps she, too, could convince her parents to come to this quaint little seaside town, year after year after year until her feet turn to immovable roots in the ground.

 

Then, her tranquility meets a most abrupt end.

 

“HE-E-E-EY!!!”

 

Verona’s hand snaps up from her palms, back straightening from the comfortable slouch it had reclined into. She stands up like a soldier, and then she breaks into a happy grin. “Hey!” she returns, waving, mimicking the girl before her without even realizing it.

 

Giulia hops off the bike and skips to meet the other girl. She clasps Verona in a hug, kissing her on the cheek in greeting. Her lashes are like butterflies against her cheek. They then depart, and from her new angle, Verona sees Alberto roll his eyes with a smirk, standing up from his “cool boy” lean to put down the break stand. He saunters up to stand beside his sister, muscular arms crossed over his chest. Verona wonders if he’s trying to make himself look imposing, or if he’s just naturally like that. Soon, Giulia releases Verona, but her energy has clearly suffered no blow. She rocks upon the balls of her feet, hands balled into fists by her side, swinging. 

 

“Come va? Hope we didn’t leave you waiting for long!” Giulia says. Her fiery red hair is tucked neatly into a blue and white polka-dotted bandana; her shirt is a flowy, sleeveless blouse stripped orange and white to complement her bulky blue shorts. Beside her, her brother stands clad in an off-white tank-top (referred to as a “wife beater” by some), black suspenders, and tawny pants. Unlike Giulia, he’s shoeless. Gross and potentially painful in this heat.

 

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ve just been people-watching,” Verona attempts to dismiss the worry with a half-hearted swat, but her words only escalate the situation.

 

“Oh no, that must’ve been so boring! My dispiace,” Giulia apologizes as her mouth turns into a gentle frown, brows tilting upwards.

 

Verona’s eyes widen in shock. “Oh, no!” she almost yells because she knows Giulia only ever people-watched back before Luca and Alberto were around to keep her company. “No, it’s super fun for me,” she assures without any stumble in her voice because she knows that it’s true.

 

Then, for whatever reason, Alberto tries to join in: “Oh, I like people-watching, too.”

 

However, Verona grants him only as much acknowledgement as a cat gives to its owner’s wishes. Which is to say, her eyes dart to him for a short moment, facial expression unchanging in any degree—just keeping a steady state of alertness—before carrying on with her stare stapled back onto her friend. “Right, well, I just like seeing how everybody interacts, you know? Plus, might as well get used to the scenery, seeing as we’re going to be here for a while.”

 

“For as long as Spewlia can help it,” Alberto corrects under his breath. Verona doesn’t understand why Giulia covertly jabs him in the side with her elbow immediately afterward. With a laugh, Alberto exits, taking the bicycle and now-empty cart with him. As he disappears into the side-yard, Verona finds her shoulders relaxing. She hadn’t known they tensed.

 

“Ignore him,” Giulia says with an amused tone. Her eyes fall closed for a short moment—she always does that when she’s gathering herself. Then, she starts up again, anew. “Anyway, how’d you sleep? What was the hotel like?”

 

“It was nice.” Verona nodded. “It had a lot of flowers in it, and I think I slept fine enough.” In reality, she had trouble sleeping in a space with so much light coming in through the windows. She had expected the night to be dark—street lamps were sparse, and there weren’t any neon signs or busy streets, like in Genova—but she had forgotten to account for the stars. Who knew a night sky could be so illuminated? Who knew such a beautiful view could be such a nuisance? Of course, she won’t ever mention this. Giulia and Luca always effusively extolled over the starry night sky in Portorosso, and Verona never wishes to be the one to dampen their delight.

 

Next, Giulia asked, “Any weird dreams?”

 

Verona shrugged. “Nothing freudian—”

 

Giulia slouched, popping her hip out with a hand resting against it. “Oh, boo.”

 

“I know,” Verona theatrically moped, then returned to her previous state. Not happy, not upset, just alert and enjoying the small talk. “It was more Müller and Pilzecker—meeting new people, awkward dinner party—the works.”

 

Giulia quirks a brow, leaning back. “Was it really that awkward? I thought you had fun. That was, like, a prime people-watching time!”

 

“It wasn’t terrible,” Verona offers with a shrug. “I think my parents just made it awkward, honestly.”

 

Giulia’s eyes fall off Verona, down to the blinding, coral-colored brick and leather straps of her sandals. Verona’s hand goes onto her arm, pawing anxiously at the joint of her wrist. She wished she hadn’t complained so much; now she’s gone and ruined a perfectly good start to their day. But, fortunately, Giulia didn’t stay too disappointed for long. She just said, “Welp, I know Franco had a good time, at least.”

 

Verona blinks. “Oh my god, yeah.” She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “He’s in there chatting up a storm with your papà, by the way.”

 

“What!” Giulia yelps—not in distaste.

 

Verona laughs. Giulia was always so loud about her emotions—it’s funny. She wished she could be as charming as her. “Just a warning.”

 

Giulia wags her finger, stepping closer but not towards her. “Ooh, lemme guess: fish?”

 

Verona cocks her head to the side. “How’d you know?” It is a rhetorical question.

 

Giulia gives her a half-lidded, comically unimpressed stare. “Amica, everything is always about fish.” Verona gets the impression that Giulia means more than just the animal, and then Giulia begins to walk past her, waving her in with an airy, “Andiamo. Let’s go stop them before Franco explodes.”

 

Verona wastes no time; she follows right behind her.

 

———

 

“Grazie, big guy,” Alberto says, his mouth half full of panini and patting his father on the shoulder. 

 

Sig. Massimo quirks a brow, mustache twitching wide. Verona can’t tell if his expression is amused or irked as he narrows his eyes down at his son, who now has a smear of crumb and condiment in the sides of his mouth, but she almost can’t help but crack a grin at the absurdity. Even Franco has to cough and turn away to cover up his snort.

 

Minutes ago, as soon as Alberto stepped in through the pescheria side door, Sig. Massimo threw his hand up, abruptly ending the conversation with Franco, and began making lunch. Typically, he’d be done by the time of arrival, but he had been distracted. Additionally, he felt compelled enough to make two more—one for Franco and one for Verona—just as any good host would.

 

So now, sitting in an old, creaky wooden chair at Sig. Massimo’s table, Verona finishes up her panini quickly, quietly, and graciously with her eye locked onto the kitchen clock—a neat combination of a clock and a thermometer—that reads just after twelve.

 

Then, Giulia taps her on the shoulder—a signal for her to stand. She heeds the order just as the other girl calls out, “We’ll be back before supper! Ciao!” over her shoulder. Then, her father waves them off, and they all file out. Alberto first, then Giulia, next Franco, and finally Verona, taking up the rear. 

 

Upon exiting the building and stepping back out in the sun, Franco questions, “Where’re we going now?”

 

“The boulders near the dock—picking up Luca,” Giulia answers as if she had forgotten that Franco and Verona were new to all of this. Her finger extends forward and a little way out to the right. Verona makes her hands into a viser to see, and she traced a dock. Tens upon tens of seagulls populate its length, boats line up beside it like patient school children all in perfect order. Near the end, it gives way to enormous sloping rocks smattered with dark, muddy green algae where the waves lap incessantly.

 

“Oh, cool,” Franco nods. No one says anything for a moment. It’s quiet as the group passes by the kids kicking around a soccer ball and the woman sitting, watching her son humor her daughter, playing together in the shallow sea waters. Then, the conversation continues, “So, Alberto. I got a question.”

 

Verona’s eyes twitched a hair wider. She hadn’t expected Franco to ask Alberto of anything—not yet, at least.

 

“Hit me,” Alberto says, waving at a little kid who waves back at him. He doesn’t look back to Franco. He just continues his stride, kicking one foot in front of the other, much like a rooster. 

 

“Do you always call your papà ‘big guy?’”

 

Verona gasps, but Alberto only shrugs. “Nah, only when it’s funny.” She sees him flash a grin, just barely. Then, he asks something odd: “What about you?”

 

“Huh?” Franco is confused. Verona believes this to be the proper response. She doesn’t believe she knows anyone else who gives nicknames to their parents, nor does she see why anyone ever would. 

 

However, Alberto doesn’t seem to realize that he’s the odd one out, so even with the strange, confused looks floating his way, he doesn’t waver. He only elaborates, “You got any nicknames for your papà?”

 

Franco shrugs, his hands in his pockets and his voice pointedly monotone. “Nah.”

 

Alberto clicks his tongue. “Shame.” Then, he suggests with a wagging finger, “You should call him ‘big guy.’ Trust me, it’s fun.”

 

From the corner of her eye, Verona sees Franco try to fight down a smirk, and suddenly she knows exactly what’s about to happen. She tries to bite down a terrible giggle, crossing her arms over her chest, fingers lacing around her neck, as Franco loudly states, “Yeah, I would, but my dad’s kinda dead so…”

 

Alberto whips his head back to face Franco, his half-second expression shocked, yet somehow delighted. Verona saw a flash of white; she could have sworn he was smiling. But why would he smile? It makes no sense to her; he’s not in on the joke. Perhaps it was the cause of mirror neurons? Perhaps he’s the type to find humor in horror? She wants to know, but she’ll never get her answer because just as quickly as Alberto looks back, he fixes himself. He looks forward, focused and stiff, picking up speed as he coughs up, “Damn. My bad, fra’, anyway–haha!” effectively dismissing the prior notion.

 

From there, the conversation carries on, though Verona doesn’t join in much. She’s far too busy in her thoughts, now, thinking about international love over letters, the stress of managing four very young children, and why in the world there’s not a limit on alcohol consumption when it can kill you in just one session. There really ought to be one, but it’s such a cultural thing that they never will, she thinks, and then, the group is at the end of the dock.

 

Alberto jumps off first, landing on the boulders bare-footed and without any apparent struggle or stumble. He doesn’t waste time looking back either, gliding across from rock to rock, each step perfectly placed effortlessly. Like it’s nothing to him. Like he’s done it a million times before, and, Verona realizes, he probably has.

 

Franco grins astonishedly, his golden hair gently swaying in the sea breeze while Giulia jumps down, looking back up at them patiently. He makes eye contact with her, then, he, too, hops off of the dock and lands with a little grunt. He tosses a small, courteous grin to the redhead before passing her to follow her brother. He gets along easily, though slower and much more conscious as he is in sandals.

 

Verona doesn’t realize she’s the only one left on the dock until Giulia calls up to her, “You coming?”

 

“Oh, right,” Verona blinks. Unlike her friends, she’s not very adventurous. She’s never liked to get her knees scraped up on soot or disregarded a collar torn on a tree limb. So, she sits down carefully, ensuring her skirt doesn’t get caught on any loose boards or nails. When Giulia extends her two hands to her—palm up, fingers poised—she takes them, and slides down. Her heart does jolt at the drop, but it’s brief, and Giulia doesn’t let her teeter. 

 

She’s always been quite jealous of Giulia. No matter what, she always seems so relaxed—ready to take on anything the world throws at her. Therefore, she’s grateful when Giulia doesn’t let go of her hand as they walk along. She feels protected, almost, as they pass by Franco, examining some carcass washed up from the sea. With someone as adept as her around, holding her hand, and guiding the way, she knows that she’ll be fine even if she does slip a little, here and there as the bumps grow less stable and the algae paints a slick, black smattering across the boulders. But that’s not just it.

 

She’s jealous of how she looks, too. Her hair plumes out of her bandana like a waterfall of red curls. She has a great sense of fashion; it’s vibrant without being overbearing. Everything she wears—from big, chunky earrings to her button-up blouses to her sandals that crisscross all the way up her calves—emphasizes her sporty figure beautifully. And her skin-–sunkissed and lightly freckled, particularly upon her blushing shoulders and cheeks.

 

She feels dim, compared to her.  Her hair is as lifeless as her personality. She doesn’t have freckles or sunkissed skin; and she doesn’t have a vibrant mind to reflect onto a vibrant palette or the confidence to wear much of anything that shows a lot of skin. Verona believes Giulia’s going to be a figure one day—she has stated she wants to go into law—but Verona doesn’t have much of a figure at all. She supposes her semi-bold choice of makeup makes up for some of the lack, but she wonders if it just looks out of place. 

 

Still, Giulia seems to quite like her presence, so she must be doing something right. 

 

For whatever reason, Giulia looks at her through the corner of her eye and smiles at her for just a second. Verona hums a response—a question. Giulia cocks her head up, and points down. “You’re getting along easier, now.”

 

Verona looks down, suddenly aware of her steps. They have gotten more confident. “Oh. Yeah, thanks,” she responds. She wonders if this means Giulia wants her hand back, but Verona has settled too far into the feeling. She won’t be giving it back, and she pretends not to notice. “We’re almost at the end of the rocks…I’m not seeing any sign of—”

 

“Luca!”

 

Verona’s focus whips to that boy—Giulia’s brother—who is now crouched on the very edge in a bird-like squat, his hands thrown up into the air in joy.

 

“Buongiorno!” comes a voice Verona can easily place despite the snuffing volume of the crashing sea waves.

 

Then, she sees Alberto reach down and pull something up. She can’t make it out in its entirety, but from the flashes over Alberto’s shoulder, between his joints, and between his legs, she knows it’s something large. Something green, teal, and blue like a yellow diamond under blacklight. She also knows Franco, standing behind her, must be reeling. Then, the water is brushed off, and there stands the boy Verona knows. She wishes she had been closer—she wishes she hadn’t been so slow upon the rocks—but what can she do?

 

She begins to step closer, but to her surprise, she’s held back.

 

Giulia stands stiff, feet spread wide, free hand balled in a fist on her hip. She smiles knowingly, and then Verona understands.

 

“How was herding? Barbara give you any trouble?” Alberto asks much louder than necessary, one hand on Luca’s shoulder, the other on his upper arm. From the way his back is entirely turned to the group—the way his bulk seems to completely shadow Luca from their view—Verona gets the impression that Alberto is purposefully trying to keep Luca just for himself in this one, particular moment. All the focus must be on him; that’s what he wants.

 

And, Luca, of course, doesn’t fight it. “Duh! But, it was fine,” he responded, and Verona could hear his dopey grin in his voice. She even thinks she saw him sway his balance from his left foot to his right. Maybe he even tilted his head to the side, but that could just be the wind blowing at his hair. “I reeled her in before she escaped too far.”

 

Alberto fixes his hat so it fits better on his head, rubbing at his nape. “Good, good. Hate to hear you’d be down to forty-nine, yeah?” He laughs, and the entire length of his broad shoulders shakes.

 

The conversation carries on another few turns, and it’s nothing particularly noteworthy. Soon, Luca does look beyond his friend and waves with a toothy grin, and he passes by Alberto to talk to Verona, Franco, and Giulia. And, Verona’s breath hitches in her throat. 

 

Luca was shirtless. She doesn’t think she has ever seen him shirtless before. He was barefoot, too, only having donned a pair of fraying, knee-length shorts made of woven kelp. 

 

Regardless, as Luca presses on to greet his other friends, Alberto quickly skips to his side and slings an arm over his shoulders without ever asking for consent. Luca stumbles a little beneath the force, but thankfully he doesn’t fall. In fact, he soon returns the gesture, roping an arm around Alberto’s waist while Franco stifles a groan.

 

On the way back to the dock, Luca and Alberto take the lead; Giulia and Verona follow close behind. Franco takes up the rear. “So, what do you wanna do?” Alberto asks Luca, tripping him a little in a sideways squeeze. “We can hit up la latteria and then go off to the island,” he offers before coming up with a better idea. “OOH! Or, we could go to the bookstore! I heard they just got a new shipment of comics from Soniathat sound right up your alley! . You wanna go?”

 

Luca seems to wring his hands out in front of his chest. He always does that when he’s nervous. “Oh, uh…”

 

Alberto’s grin drops, but he doesn’t look angry or disappointed. He only looks confused. “What? What is it?” he asks slowly, softly—not urgently at all.

 

Luca casts a weary glance behind him, and he doesn’t have to say a thing.

 

Alberto’s eyebrows furrow, his jade-green eyes darting back to his sister and his sister’s two friends. There’s a sense of sadness in his eyes like a child being told by their mother they don’t have enough money for a candy; a toy; a ride to the park. He understands, and his jaw hangs ajar in almost a pout. “But…it’s Wednesday.”

 

Luca forces a smile up at him. “We had Monday, no?”

 

Alberto tensed, his voice narrowing to almost a whisper. “But Giulia was there for that—”

 

Luca frowns. He almost stops, squinting at Alberto with brows knitted sternly together. Verona doesn’t think she’s ever seen Luca pull a face like that; she doesn’t think she knew Luca—poor, riddled-with-social-anxiety Luca—could even pull a face like that. “This is their first full day here,” he states, looking the other boy dead in the eye. “Don’t you think it’d be a little rude to just brush them off so quickly?”

 

Alberto is quiet for a minute, and the air is thick. Giulia sucks in her lips and waggles her eyebrows at Verona as if to say sorry you gotta experience this, and Verona just brushes it off as if it’s fine, though it’s really not.  She’d honestly be anywhere else right now; she just hates it when she’s present for an argument, especially so when the argument is over her. It always makes her back burn as if slogging through the Sahara.

 

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for Alberto to concede. “Yeah, okay,” he sighs, then rounds his shoulders back, letting his hand drop off of Luca so he can stuff it in his pocket along with the other. “But you’re making it up to me next week, amico!” he says. Verona supposes he meant it to be funny, but his tone reads exasperated only.

 

Then, to Verona’s increasing despair, Giulia lets go of her hand and skips forward, gracefully bouncing from boulder to boulder. “Hey!” she gets their attention. And when she has it, she continues, “If we’re trying to figure something to do as a group, Verona said she’d like to look at all the scenery?” and throws a thumb over her shoulder before looking back. “Vero?”

 

Verona nods, too focused on not slipping to make any real expression. “Sure, that’d be lovely.”

 

Alberto scrutinizes her for a short moment before puffing out a half-hearted little scoff that sounds more like a laugh. “Tourists want a tour, eh?” His nose crinkles as his smile returns, sharp and shark-like with hazy, half-lidded eyes that Verona doesn’t know what to do with. “Yeah. Alright. That can be arranged.”

 

There’s an odd quality to his tone, almost diminutive. Almost patronizing, but Verona is apt to checks herself, and she determines that she’s probably just shaken up from all of the boulder-climbing, people-meeting, and small-talk-making.

 

Alberto wants to be fun! So, this’ll be fun. And if it’s not, at least she’ll be able to make the most of it with all of her friends nearby.

Notes:

Chapter 5 is very close to being done.

Chapter 5: forming a cognitive map

Summary:

Tourists get a tour (and a little bit more).

Not wanting to spend the entire day in kelp, Luca had opted to swap for something more human at Sig. Massimo’s place. Giulia had quickly scurried after him while saying something about offering a hand, leaving Verona, Franco, and Alberto standing in wait outside of the Pescheria doors. They didn’t talk.

 

After about another quarter-hour of people-watching and scolding Franco for biting at his nails, Verona turns back to see Luca and Giulia bounding back down the stairs. Giulia waves a “We’ll be back before supper!” to her father, and Luca is now clad in a horizontally striped shirt of a greenish color, partially unbuttoned to give way to a teal ascot and show a little bit of skin near the naval. The shirt is large enough on him to cover up most of his shorts, too, but he doesn’t seem to mind it. Really, the only one seeming to take much note of it is Verona. This is the second day in a row he’s shown copious amounts of skin; he must actually like dressing this way—not that there’s anything wrong with it, of course.

 

In fact, she even goes out of her way to compliment him as he steps towards the group: “Oh, nice outfit.”

 

“Grazie.” Luca fusses with his hair.

 

Then, Alberto claps his hands together and holds them there, demanding the attention of all four. “Alright, ragazzi,” he addresses the crowd, eyes sweeping from face to face like a lifeguard about to give the run-down of safety precautions and make some silly edict to, above all, have fun. He is a lifeguard, isn’t he? Verona thinks she remembers that. “Portorosso looks like the back of my hand, probably even more than Giulia’s at this point!”

 

Giulia snrks.

 

“So hit me with your best shot,” he commands, grinning as he outstretches his hands, fingers woven together and cracking loudly. Verona notes that he’s flexing, too. “Where do you wanna go?”

 

“You mentioned a bookstore earlier,” Franco’s voice heightens as if it’s a question. “That sounds neat.” If he weren’t so busy squinting out the daylight, he’d probably be looking from face to face for some sort of agreement. And, he would get it, of course. This group is chock full of nerds and geeks and the like. Franco and Verona even initially met at a library, and they hang out at the one in Genova often either to study or just to be in a quiet place, surrounded with stories and information. Plus, there’s a quaint little cafe right beside it, and who doesn’t like starting up a new book over a cup of cappuccino?

 

Alberto, apparently. “That’s boring!” he carps. ”Let’s go somewhere actually fun.”

 

Huh. It’s almost as if he wasn’t the one who suggested it first. Verona side-glances to Franco, but Franco doesn’t return it. 

 

While Verona crosses her arms, Giulia’s hands clasp together. She bounces on her feet with exhilaration, leaning forward. “Oh, hey! Why don’t we show Franco and Verona all of our favorite secret hangout spots?” she suggests, and Verona hopes she’s taken up on her offer. It’d just be cruel not to, seeing how excited she is about it.

 

“What?” Alberto quirks a brow. “But those are secret.”

 

“Ma dai!” she exclaims, throwing her head back animatedly. “They’re our friends; they can know!”

 

And with that, the debate begrudgingly comes to an end. “Ugh, alright, but you two can’t go around telling anyone,” Alberto settles, wagging a finger their way.

 

“Of course not,” Verona assures, dutifully shaking her head.

 

“You don’t gotta worry about me,” Franco pledges, shrugging.

 

And then, they’re off again, though not as much in a line as they were before. Alberto still leads, and Luca is close beside (and a little behind) him, but Giulia, Franco, and Verona only gather together behind them in a group.

 

The first stop is an auto repair shop by Alberto’s request. It’s a small, yellow cement building with fading posters upon dark, unclean windows. If Verona squints, she can see a man—middle-aged and scrawny but with a noticeable gut—huddled over a propped-up Vespa. He sits on a toolbox, working on something out of sight. She doesn’t know; the chapter dedicated to automobiles and auto repair in the little notebook in her mind is perfectly blank. Pages are untouched without even a smear or coffee stain. The Vespas lined up outside look nice, though, save for one. Save for that little teal one with patches of rust and a missing pedal. It looks like it belongs in a junkyard, or, better yet, an art studio. She’s not much of an artist, but she does enjoy seeing the sculptures people make out of scrap.

 

And, she must have been caught staring at it, because Alberto grins at her. “This caught your eye?” he asks. She doesn’t have time to respond before Albeto cuts her off with a playful frown and unimpressed glare. “Well, you can’t have it. See how it doesn’t have a tag? Means someone called dibs.”

 

“Okay.” Whatever. Verona genuinely couldn’t care less, anyway, and she doesn’t retract her previous statements, either. The thing’s an eyesore, but at least someone is making use of it.

 

And Alberto just continues staring. He seems to be waiting for something—someone to say something in particular, like waiting for the “who’s there?” in a knock-knock joke—but whatever he’s waiting for never comes.

 

Next, they hit up a bakery, but they don’t buy anything. They only loiter outside, looking at the assortment of breads, pastries, and desserts. For such a small town, Verona is surprised they manage to stay open. There was a grocery store in the piazza, wasn’t there? But then again, the rent is probably cheap. That, or they own the house above it. The latter is the most likely option.

 

After that is the Antique Tower, situated at the very top of Mount Portorosso.

 

By the time they make it all the way up, the sun is halfway down the horizon. Verona can feel herself sweating, and Giulia has started to reek. She’s pulled off her bandana to fashion a loose ponytail to get her hair off of her neck, but with how thick her curls are, Verona doesn’t know if it actually does much. Franco, Luca, and Alberto, of course, don’t take note of anything or seem even the slightest bit winded, though they smell worse than anyone else. A dog and two fish; she tries to not make a face as they skip up the stairs.

 

The doors locked to their dismay—because why wouldn’t it be?—but then Alberto suggests they just walk along back to at least get out of the sunlight and is soon met with a chorus of agreement. Verona and Giulia follow the boys just in time to hear Alberto cheer, “Oooh, now there’s a good afternoon snack!” while pointing at a dead and decaying rat. And, of course, Franco is immediately on his knees and asking Verona if she thinks her parents would allow him to take it home in one of their tupperware containers or a plastic bag, if they brought one. Her answer is a resounding “NO.”

 

All of the locations are nice, however, and they do make her appreciate this little town. Again, she isn’t an artist, but the geometric figures catch her eye; all of the staircases crossing and turning in sharp angles. The houses and shops all built into the mountains, jutting out between trees and alleyways while stray cats stroll around, playing with mice in the orange-tinted shadows beneath laundry lines and in between potted plants.

 

And it all seems so familiar, but that may be because it is to her travel companions. A pair of women greet Giulia as they pass by their house and tell Alberto to stay out of trouble. A little girl asks Alberto for a ride on his bike, and he comforts her when she gets sad as his response; he didn’t have it. An elderly man playing solitaire on his own asks Giulia about her grades, and a middle-aged woman tells Luca to ask his parents if she’s planning on volunteering for the Portorosso Cup again.

 

She’s struck by the knowledge that they know everybody and everybody knows them. They know each curve, each shadow, each alleyway, each sunbeam. He got the phrase wrong before, but Alberto really does know this town like the back of his hand.

 

For a minute, it doesn’t seem nearly as lonely as Giulia makes it out to be, but then a teenager, their age but a few years older, waves down at them from a window, fluttering his fingers as he bats his eyelashes like a girl in a terrible romance film. “Buonase-e-e-ra, Rosa~!” he sing-songs, all abashed. His hair is golden, though more brown than Franco’s, and curly. From this angle, he looks short and stocky, face as plumb and rose-tinted as a cherub’s.

 

Verona grows hot-headed, boiling in anger to a degree enough to melt tungsten. No one gets to catcall her best friend on her watch, but she’s frozen in fear. Should she fight back? Is that safe? The teen—the young man—is far away, and they are in a group, but what would happen if she was caught on her own? It’s such a small town, too, but why aren’t the boys doing anything? Franco is remaining quiet for the most part, and she understands why. Franco doesn’t fight. Luca doesn’t either, though he’s certainly more athletically built than Franco. Alberto? Shouldn’t Alberto do something, he is her brother, isn’t he? Isn’t that what brothers are for?

 

And then, to her insurmountable relief, Alberto does do something.

 

Except it’s not yelling. It’s not threatening. It’s not widening his stance, calling out, telling Giulia to go while he deals with this obtruder.

 

Alberto just clicks his tongue, turns on his heel with one hip jutted out for his knuckles to rest against. Somehow, his unimpressed glare is soft and saccharine, and he looks up with a little pinched smile. “Ciao, Ciccio.”

 

Ciccio, he said. Tubby, he said.

 

Verona has no idea how to feel about that.

 

“What’s with the crowd?” the young man called down, now resting his head against his palms, arms—and they are noticeably large—propped up on the windowsill. Verona feels his gaze searing down into all of them like a cat looking over a sea of fish, picking its prize before the pounce.

 

“Spewlia’s uptownie friends from Genova!” Alberto answers. 

 

Another flash of horror strikes throughout Verona’s body. Don’t tell him where we live!

 

“Nice, eh?” Alberto finishes, sarcasm palpable.

 

The young man bats off the notion. Alberto just laughs, and then the young man rises up again. He pulls off a green, striped, number eight jersey from the clothing line strung before him and folds it over his chest without any pause or error, but the conversation doesn’t end there.

 

“What’s got you doing laundry, fra’?” Alberto’s smile quirks up into a coo. “Piss off your mammina again?”

 

You know what? At least Alberto is antagonizing him. Verona could very readily do without the underlying tones of misogyny and very blatant body-shaming, but at least Alberto isn’t just standing there, letting him verbally harass his sister—who is now scowling down at her feet with a wrinkled nose bridge—without any sort of retribution.

 

That said, the young man appears offended. His eyebrows raise and furrow, eyes wide as his head bucks back. “What? No. I like doing laundry. It’s methodical.”

 

Alberto squints. “Yeah, notice how you didn’t say fun?”

 

“Yeah, notice how you don’t have a mammina to piss off?”

 

Alberto’s jaw drops to the floor, and he bursts out laughing, holding himself as he nearly doubles over from a borderline maniacal cackle. “Dude, WHAT—?!”  Luca tugs on the back of his shirt, pulling his attention off of the young man overhead, and back onto the group. His smile drops ever so slightly when his eyes land on Luca, and he gets the last few giggles out of his system before carrying on. “Oh, man. Uh, catch— catch you later, amico! Gotta keep showing these tourists ‘round town.”

 

The young man sees the group off with another finger-wiggling wave, snootily chiming, “Yeah, have fu-u-un!” until he’s gone, out of sight, but nowhere near out of mind.

 

“I really don’t see how you’re friends with him,” Giulia grumbles. They’re on the way down the hill, now, and her eyes are wandering all over. Everywhere except for her brother.

 

“He’s a good guy,” Alberto sighs, still smiling. Verona cannot believe he has the gall to say that after what just transpired.

 

“He’s really not.” Giulia’s arms tighten over her chest, almost squeezing herself, and Verona’s heart hurts. Wordlessly—sympathetically—she puts a hand over the other girl’s shoulder. Giulia looks at her for a short moment but doesn’t do much to acknowledge the slight squeezing touches. If they weren’t in a group—if they were farther from that young man and closer to Sig. Massimo’s home—Verona would pull her into an alley to give her a hug, that’s for sure. She doesn’t understand how Alberto could be so callous, but it’s not just him. Luca isn’t saying anything either. Even Franco keeps quiet and reserved, but what do they know? They’re all boys. They don’t know how this feels.

 

Well, maybe Luca does, but only to some degree. He doesn’t experience catcalling so much as he does experience other forms of verbal assault, but that’s not quite on Verona’s mind at the moment.

 

“People change!” Alberto insists, and Verona feels nauseous again.

 

“Change takes time, and they harassed me for years,” Giulia hisses. Verona swallows. “For all we know, he’s just getting intel to feed back to Ercole so they can enact some kind of master plan—”

 

“You’re so paranoid!” Alberto groans. Great, and now he’s talking over her and basically calling her hysterical, too. “He’s a good guy, Giulia. He wouldn’t do that.”

 

Suddenly, undermining all previous expectations, Franco joins the mix. He steps forward, interrogating, “Aspetta, you said Ercole? Like that racer guy Ercole?”

 

“Yeah,” Giulia confirms with disdain. “That Ercole. And that guy back there was his right-hand man, and now, for whatever reason, Alberto is friends with him.”

 

“They apologized,” bemoaned Alberto, voice rising as if trying to silence his sister’s words.

 

Verona thinks Giulia is going to carry on with personal anecdotes, but no. She comes up with something far, far more damning: “They tried to KILL you! Twice!” And she’s not just huffing anymore. There’s a grating quality to her voice like a serrated sword, tough as nails. Verona never wishes to see herself on the receiving end of that fire; she doesn’t think she could stand to feel the burn even if it was in a similar situation. A situation in which Giulia was roaring both at her and for her. 

 

But Alberto, like her, is ingrained with a lion-like spirit. He doesn’t tuck tail with an apology or concede with a bow. He throws his hands open in exaggeration, fighting back, “So did a lot of other people!” And Verona’s breath catches in her throat. “So did Sig. Giacomo—so did Tomasso.” He counts on his fingers, and Verona almost recoils in horror. “Old Man Bernardi and papà!” His voice raises to an exasperated shout. This must have been an argument they’ve had a million times before. “Even papà, probably, like, a hundred times!”

 

And Verona doesn’t know quite what to do. It’s too much information to process at the moment. She looks to Luca for some kind of assistance, but he only looks down at the brick beneath his feet. Interestingly, he seems just as reflective as she. Quiet and solemn. Just waiting for this to be over. He’s holding his own hand, too.

 

Giulia, on the other hand, doesn’t take notice. She rolls her head as she rolls her eyes. “But that’s different—”

 

Alberto, again, cuts her off, but he’s shouting no longer. “Listen, I’m not asking you to be friends with them.” His voice lowers as he talks, but each word remains carefully placed and punctuated. Each syllable slow and enunciated, so he knows she hears it. “It’s fine if they’re just my friends.”

 

Now, Verona interrupts. “Wait—sorry—that guy back there tried to kill you?”

 

Alberto just looks at her and shrugs. “Yeah, but we’re cool now.” His nose scrunches as he fixes his face to a more placid expression. “Also, like I said, he isn’t the only one. Practically every fisherman here’s tried an attempt on my life.” He leans casually to the side and pats his chest—the area slightly above his heart—in two, rhythmic beats. “Never successful, though.” He sighs, looking off into the distance.

 

“Ugh, if only,” Giulia mutters beneath her breath.

 

Alberto casts a sneer her way. “Oh please. You love me.”

 

She angles herself farther from him, her arms still crossed and not looking to relax any time soon. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

 

“Uh, scusi,” Luca butts in, raising one pointed finger, “but it’s ‘never successfully, fortunately,’ Alberto.” His expression hardens, though his large eyes never read too intimidating. “Saying ‘though’ makes it sound like you wanted them to.”

 

“We-e-ell…”

 

Luca looks horrified. Alberto bursts open with laughter, clutching his stomach.

 

“Oddio!” Alberto throws his head up, spinning around to take a big step forward. “Loosen up, will ya? I’m just messing around!” He crooks his head backwards to give his friend an incredulous glance. Those condescending, half-lidded eyes pair perfectly with such insensitivity; they both sew horror and nausea. How do Giulia and Luca put up with someone so dense? Someone so lacking of any conscious or awareness that there are others—watchers, bystanders, and passerbys—around? 

 

Was he always like this? Did he always joke about death—about suicidal ideation? Had he always made excuses for his sister’s tormentors?

 

Surely not. This must be a recent development. It must. It makes no sense, otherwise. 

 

Verona can feel the sick clawing at her throat, the burn in her lungs and storm in her stomach brewing with each step. She’s so conscious, so aware of the distance between her and that boy, and she wants it to grow as far as possible. She wants him out of sight, out of mind.

 

But no one else is seeming to have this reaction. Giulia strides along fine, her hands swaying in balled up fists at her side, looking unimpressed in the face. Luca seems calm, though slightly tense. And Franco…

 

“Is that where you got all your scars from?”

 

Alberto beams like a lamp disturbing a peaceful sleep. “Oh yeah!” He’s so loud, but the blond boy hovering at his arm, inspecting a large slash across his tricep, doesn’t seem to mind. “Well, a couple at least.” He points to the one Franco is looking at, flexing ever so slightly and turning it this way and that. From her current position—to the right and a little ways behind—Verona can’t see it in full, but she assumes it’s large. “Got this killer nick the night before I met Luca, courtesy of Tomasso and Giacomo—fishermen.” His smile turns giddy. “I still have the harpoon, too, if you wanna see!”

 

“Hell yeah, I wanna see,” Franco says, almost as if insulted by the idea of him possibly rejecting such an oh-so-amazing offer.

 

“Cool! I’ll show it to you when we get back,” Alberto promises, then abruptly stops to hike up his pants until they’re at his thigh. Verona looks away, not caring for this conversation in the slightest. “And this is from broken glass!”

 

“Which one?” Franco asks.

 

“The one on the knee,” Alberto answers.

 

It takes a second, but when Verona looks back, she understands why Franco had to request a clarification. He was covered in knicks, scratches, and scars. Then, when she looked closer at his arms, she could tell they were the same, but slightly fewer.

 

But then Alberto is going off again, showing the space between his pointer and his thumb and chiming, “Fighting a seagull…”

 

“Why were you fighting a seagull?” Verona, as gently as she could, snaps.

 

“Don’t ask,” he quickly quips back. Verona’s teeth clench; she doesn’t like being told what to do, and she doesn’t like being so tersely brushed off. Then, Alberto begins the conversation right again, as if he’d never spoken to her in the first place: “You got any scars, fra’?”

 

Franco shows a small pink burn mark on his wrist. Verona already knows this story, but Alberto doesn’t and clearly harbors some fascination with danger, so he ogles and gawks with abandon. “Woah…”

 

Franco hadn’t been smiling before, but now a small uptilt quirks at the ends of his lips. Though, it looks more like a wince. “Slipped up while making tea for my sisters. Kinda lame, but, you know.” He shrugs, putting his hands back down stiffly to his side.

 

Alberto, who had been leaning down for a close inspection, looks up at Franco through his lashes with wide, glittering eyes and grinning devilishly. “Si-i-ick, man! Mark of devotion!” He claps him on the shoulder. Probably sarcastic. “How many sisters you got?”

 

“Three,” Franco puffs.

 

Alberto grimaces so hard his molars show. “Mamma mia. And I can barely just stand one.” The misogynist .

 

“Hey!” Giulia yells.

 

“Oh no, they’re pretty cool, actually,” Franco shrugs.

 

“I wish I had a sibling—” Luca begins to speak, but he’s cut off.

 

“No, you don’t,” Alberto insists, walking in looser, more playful strides, now.

 

However, just as Giulia’s irritation and Franco’s response went ignored, so did Alberto’s piece. Luca’s tone drops into a thoughtful steadiness as he taps a finger against his chin and continues, “I almost did, actually. I was gonna be a twin, and then, you know.” He shrugs, smiling. “Got hungry, I guess.”

 

And now, Verona’s intrigue is piqued. She’s read so many psychological studies on twins, so much information to absorb and keep her mind busy for days, if not weeks or months, upon end. So, she tries to lean in closer and questions, “Fraternal or identical?” as she sets aside her qualms with the other boy for just a moment.

 

Luca’s brow furrows ever so slightly as he looks up to the sky, thinking. “We were in the same egg, so identical, I think.”

 

It takes a short moment for Verona to place that he meant an actual egg rather than ovum—a stark reminder that one of her very best friends isn’t actually mammalian—while Alberto skids to a stop, shouting with wide eyes and his hands in his hair, “Wait, there were almost two Luca’s?!”

 

Luca laughs. Giulia elbows her brother, quickly muttering, “Oh yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

 

Alberto sneakily flashes his canines at his sister, hissing a fast “Shut up” at an almost undetectable volume.

 

“Huh. I forget that you guys are, like, actually amphibious sometimes,” Verona adds.

 

“How do you forget that?” Franco squints at her, but she ignores him. Of course he doesn’t share the sentiment. Ever since he found out what Luca was, seafolk have nearly become his entire world. And, of course Verona is interested too, but not to that same degree.

 

She’s about to respond to him, but Alberto shouts louder, commanding, “Wait, wait, wait. Everybody, stop. Shut up.” He swivels on his feet to face his friend, and siezes him by the shoulders. Verona could have sworn she saw a small flash of fear across Luca’s gaze, like the tiny, fleeting spark of a matchstick. “Luca.”

 

“Huh?” Luca voices. The grin on his face is still present, but everywhere else seems shaky and tense. Even his feet are almost on their tiptoes trying to keep a balance as Alberto unconsciously lifts him up to bring their faces—their eyes—closer together.

 

“How come you never told me that before?” Alberto interrogates, shaking him ever so slightly. “I’m your best friend, ragazzo! You’re meant to tell me everything! I tell you everything!”

 

Even if he hadn’t already made himself look like a complete asshole five minutes before, Verona thinks she still would have been rubbed the wrong way by this—his words—his speaking-for-him— this mortifying display of possession. Alberto didn’t say that Luca was his best friend; he said that he is Luca’s best friend. That he matters more to Luca than anyone else, but how can that be true? The only time they ever see each other is during the summer and on holiday breaks. Verona understands Alberto has done a lot for Luca, but this is too much. She can feel her skin raising with goosebumps, her pupils refining into two sharp dots. Even if it was ironic, it’s not even funny. It’s too much.

 

“I guess it just never came up?” Luca offers. “I dunno.”

 

Alberto drops him. Luca regains his footing with a little grunt, but there’s no time to focus on whether or not he’s okay—Alberto’s grip on him did look painfully tight—because Alberto is folding his arms, announcing to the world, “No excuses! Ugh, this is just like Sea Monster!”

 

Verona expects Luca to become annoyed—she’s certainly annoyed—but he doesn’t. He does the opposite. He grins wildly, throws his hands up into the air, and curses, “Madre di Perla, get OVER it already!”

 

Alberto pouts. “Oh, and now you’re not just betraying me, AGAIN, you’re just—shrugging off my trauma!” He knows the word trauma? “Great! That’s real great, Luca.” He kicks a rock as he starts to walk away, still pouting, still crossing his arms over his chest like an insolent child.

 

Luca giggles, stepping after him. “I did not traumatize you! You’re so dramatic!”

 

Alberto turns, again, to walk backwards while facing him. “How do you know that?” he yaps, poking a finger Luca’s way. “Huh?” he cocks his head to one side, and Luca still follows after him with a furrowing brow, half-lidded eyes, and a closed smile.

 

He’s blushing too…is this Luca flirting? No way…Luca doesn’t do banter…he must just be embarrassed! This is so embarrassing…

 

“The axe forgets but the tree remembers!” Alberto calls.

 

Luca skips to try to meet him and outstretches his hand—”I’m no axe! Alberto—!” but Alberto picks up speed, evading his grasp.

 

Alberto approaches a rail, framed only by a waving laundry line above and the open sea behind him. The afternoon sun beams brightly against his back, casting a dark, harsh shadow across his face. “You wound me so much.” He grins sneeringly, resting against the ornate metal rods. “So much, Luca,” He repeats, wrapping his fangs across the top, clenching with white knuckles.

 

Luca stops short a few feet in front of him. “Oh, can it. You wound yourself.”

 

Alberto hikes his feet up to balance on the lower rod, and Verona’s heart nearly jumps. She doesn’t like this guy—not one bit—but she doesn’t want to see anyone get hurt either, and the railing doesn’t seem all that stable. And, to her horror, he’s playing into that. “Oh yeah? And what if I wound myself right here, huh? What if I jumped?”

 

“You wouldn’t,” quips Giulia, and suddenly Verona’s reminded it’s not just her, Luca, and Alberto here. There’s also Franco and Giulia, and she has no idea what their perceptions of the whole disaster this past minute has been because she hasn’t been paying attention to them.

 

But she doesn’t have any time to get a read, because now Alberto is tipping backwards, his feet extended up, into the air, as if a child on a swing. “Wo-ah! Hahaha!”

 

Giulia stumbles forward. “Fratello, don’t—!”

 

Alberto comes back down, and his sister sighs, but then swings back again with far more force. “Wo-AH! HEHEhehehe—what’re you gonna do, Luca? Huh? Huh?”

 

Luca has donned a wide stance, his hands open and ready to grab as if he was back at the sand pit at school playing pallavolo with the rest of his team. “I’m gonna—” Again, he’s interrupted, but this time, it wasn’t by Alberto because Alberto now teeters himself more until his legs are fully up straight, into the air.

 

Rather, it’s Giulia, screaming “ALBERTO!” as her brother’s arms’ muscles visibly seize as he tries to get himself back up, but something goes awry.

 

Verona watches with horror as a wave of terror crashes over that awful boy’s face. His eyes are open, flinching in the direct sunlight. His fingers clamber for some grip upon that rusted rail, but it’s too late.

 

She screams. Franco yells. And, they all grow white as Alberto’s shriek fades into the distance as he falls down, off of the rail, into the nothingness. Verona shudders, whining terribly as a splash of water sounds, ever so far away—ever so below.

 

Then, Luca breaks into a hysterical laughter.

 

He clenches his stomach, throwing his head back as he’s wrapped in a sort of hysteria. He falls onto the floor, laughing in short bursts with tears marking the corners of his eyes. Verona doesn’t think she’s ever seen him laugh so hard.

 

Meanwhile, Giulia races to the railing, leaning over it to shout at the very top of her lungs, “YOU’RE NOT FUNNY! One day, you’re gonna ACTUALLY hurt yourself, and NO ONE WILL COME DOWN TO SAVE YOU!”

 

Then, Luca gathers himself up, still doubled over by the ceaseless, wheezing giggles to join Giulia at the railing. “Hahaha! Oh, Alberto, you’ve seen Franco’s FACE!”

 

And from a very, very big distance, a response comes to greet them: “Aw, was it funny?”

 

“PRICELESS!”

 

“Damn!”

 

Luca retracts himself from his lean, but he waves and points with fervent energy. “You stay there! I’m coming down!” he shouts until he, too, is on top of the railing. The curve of his feet press against the metal beam, and then he leaps up, into the air, before he arches into a dive and falls out of sight.

 

Verona didn’t know he had that in him. It feels like for every second that passes in this little seaside village, she’s learning something new about this boy that she’s known for years. She’s starting to feel like she doesn’t know him at all, but no. That can’t be right. It’s probably just the influence of the scenery and the people and the summer heat.

 

It must be because Giulia doesn’t show any signs of surprise. “Ugh. Boys,” the groans, her nose crinkling as if she caught a whiff of something foul. She then steps away, waving at Verona and Franco to follow her. “Andiamo. I’ll show you the sane-person way down.”

 

————

 

The sane-person way down is a bit of a misnomer. Rather than being down the mountain, it's slightly further up the hill to a thin, cliffside path that leads down until it gives way to an appearing-precarious mountain slide of rocks, pebbles, and boulders. But unlike the boulders that grew from the dock, Verona found a healthy, stable mix of dirt and clay. This time, she didn’t need any help moving her way down.

 

They meet Luca and Alberto as they lay on the beach. Alberto’s hands served as a cushion for his head, one leg crossed over the other. Luca was relaxed beside him on his right. His hands crossed over his chest, falling and rising through the short bursts of giggles Alberto, jabbering away, worked out of him.

 

Giulia plops herself down beside them, chiding, “You’re such a drama queen, Alberto!” It would have been a cute scene, had it not been for Verona’s boiling anger, painting her vision a bright, hateful red.

 

“Or, maybe I just know how to get a crowd going,” Alberto combats, smirking with shut eyes.

 

Giulia looks down upon him, wholly unimpressed. “Yeah, by throwing a fit whenever the spotlight isn’t on you.”

 

That got his attention. “I do not throw a fit—”

 

“Oh yeah?” Giulia’s voice heightens. She crosses her arms, leaning forward to get a real good look at his expression as she points towards Franco and Verona, who had seated themselves beside her—as far away from Alberto as possible—and quips, “Then why don’t you care to explain to Franco and Verona what, exactly, you meant by ‘Sea Monster’?” 

 

Alberto looks away while Luca cheekily grins wide. “That was different.”

 

“Was it, though?” Giulia smiles smugly.

 

“What happened? Franco asks, but Verona already had her ideas. 

 

Giulia tosses a lax glance his way, throwing a thumb over her shoulder, towards her brother, “Big Boy ‘Berto got all up in his feelings about Luca wanting to go to school and threw himself into the sea.” A pause. “This was before we knew he wasn’t a human, by the way.”

 

“I was making a point!” Alberto yelled, his hands now free from the weight of his head and gesturing wildly in the air. “And, I was right, by the way, in case you forgot!”

 

Verona wants to ask what he was right about, but Giulia is too fast with a comeback: “Oh, I couldn’t ever forget! Especially with the way you growled at me like some sort of animal!”

 

“Oh, per favore!” Alberto exasperates. “I wasn’t gonna hurt you!”

 

Giulia snorts. “But I thought you said you wanted to break my face in.” With the way she places careful yet playful influence upon those last four words, Verona could tell it was a reference to something, and that made her heart stutter.

 

Giulia knows. She knows her brother is violent—is outlandish—is crazy and she doesn’t do anything about it.

 

Verona tries with all of her might to hide her disgust, but she’s never been much of an actress. However—and quite thankfully—the attention isn’t on her.

 

“Okay. Well.” Alberto tries to come up with something, but he only blanks as if the little typewriter in his mind ran out of ink, the engine spluttering to a jostling stop. He throws his hands up again, then turns on his side. “Whatever! You win. Here’s your stupid trophy.”

 

Verona prepares for Alberto to magically brandish a shiny rock, or miniature teacup, or something to throw at his sister, but instead something much weirder happens.

 

He just…juts out his butt.

 

Verona, Franco, Giulia, and Luca all stare at him as if he has three heads. Then, he blaringly whines, hands thrown over his blushing face, “CAZZO! I don’t have a tail!” and all is explained. 

 

Luca rubs at his shoulder in an attempt to offer some comfort while Franco and Giulia snicker and holler at his failure to bury his sister with a sandstorm of his own creation.

 

And they continue like this for a short moment—Verona stable in an angry reticence, Giulia cackling, Franco giggling, and Luca trying his best to satiate his friend—until Franco finally catches his breath, resituates himself, waits for Alberto to look ready to talk again, and speaks, “Hey, I have an entirely unrelated question…For Alberto.”

 

Alberto looks his way. “Eh?”

 

“Why’d that guy—Ciccio? Why’d Ciccio call you Rosa?”

 

Huh?

 

“Oh, Francesco?” Alberto sits up, onto his forearms.

 

Wait, but…I thought…

 

Alberto spits globs into his hands, mushing them together, then taking them apart to show two magenta palms. “Rosa.”

 

“Oh, wow!” Franco’s face splits open with glee. “That’s sick! So, so it’s like a nickname for you? ‘Cause you’re pink?”

 

Verona’s gaze goes placid and distant as she reassesses everything.

 

“Just on a few parts,” Alberto sighs, appearing to have his confidence back.

 

And he doesn’t even seem at all disturbed! Or embarrassed! Most guys are mortified from even just being suggested to wear pink, and this guy’s just completely fine with being it!

 

“He calls me Rosa, I call him Ciccio, and it’s even.” Alberto shrugs.

 

Verona almost laughs at herself. She wraps her arms around her knees, humiliated by her own assumptions. “I thought he was catcalling Giulia…”

 

“OH, GROSS!” Giulia shrieks.

 

“Oh, he wouldn’t even DARE.” Alberto growls, wagging a finger at Verona. “If he did, I’d fucking kill him, and he KNOWS it.” Then, his grin returns but with a mischievous curve to it. It makes Verona a little sick, but not in the way it did before. “Besides, he’s a total fool for Chiara, anyway.”

 

Giulia slaps the ground. “What! When did that happen?”

 

“Last February! Valentine’s Day!” Alberto delights. “Got her flowers and chocolate and sang outside her window while me and Guido played music and everything! Che romantico, right?”

 

Giulia shakes her head, shuddering. “Santa ricotta. I think if a boy stood outside my window and sang with his dumb friends, I’d call Sig.ra Maggiore.”

 

Alberto laughs. “HA!”

 

But, because nothing can stay purely fun and catty forever, Verona has to apologize, “I’m…I’m really sorry.” She blushes as many turn a questioning glance towards her. Her shoulders tense, and she wishes she hadn’t spoken at all, but she presses forward. It must be done. “I…lacked context for your conversation with, um, Francesco, and I jumped to a pretty bad conclusion.” She lifts her gaze up from her feet, up from the waves crashing rhythmically upon the orange-colored shore, up to Alberto’s jade green eyes, staring at her as wide, as surprised, and as alert as ever before. “I misjudged you.”

 

Alberto blinks, and everyone turns their gaping stares towards him for some sort of response.

 

He just blew air out from his mouth and batted the notion away. “Nah. Nah, ragazza. No need to be sorry, you’re good.” He swallows, but now he can’t seem to look at her. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

 

Giulia was quick to make up for her brother’s lack of eloquence: “Honestly, I think most people misjudge Alberto when they first meet him, haha.” She moves her hands to cradle the air, as if offering some invisible object. Pity, perhaps. “I mean, I thought he was a complete imbecille at first.” She begins counting on her fingers, gathering more and more attention on herself to save Verona from the harsh heat of the limelight. “He couldn’t swim, couldn’t ride a bike, and he was gloating about how he was gonna win a triathlon that requires both swimming and biking!” And, just in case that wasn’t enough, she continued on, “Smelled like dead fish, dressed in a ratty pajama top and was using rope for a belt! Not to mention the complete lack of social skills—!”

 

“Oh, yeah!” Luca agrees, nodding fervently. “When I met him, I thought he was gonna skewer me!” He puts his hands up, like a shield. “But, in my defense, he came down in a goddamn scuba suit armed with a harpoon, so I really don’t think that’s on me—”

 

“OKAY!” Alberto sat up so fast his hair bounced. “That’s enough.”

Notes:

Congrats, you’ve made it to the end of the exposition! Chapters won’t be as long or take as long to publish from here on out (hopefully). Now we get into the good stuff (the buildup).

Chapter 6: Sensation-Seeking Theory

Summary:

Verona makes a plan, and they all play soccer.

Last night, Verona’s skin was alive. Her arms crawled with goosebumps, shoulders and spine never quite comfortable no matter how many times she twisted and turned upon the mattress. She wondered how long it had been since the owners had flipped it, then she concluded that the answer was most likely never.

 

But it wasn’t actually the shake in her legs nor the ache in her elbows nor the tightness in her spine that kept her awake. It was her mind.

 

Her mind was spinning with thoughts. She kept cycling through the day's events, weaving an internal monologue with seemingly no end in sight. It was that boy, over and over. He confused her terribly—more than anyone had ever before—and it angered her ceaselessly. She couldn’t make sense of it. She couldn’t make sense of any of it. It felt like she knew hardly anything at all, and that caused her heart to race. That caused her skin to become alive; her arms to crawl with goosebumps; her legs to tremble as if they were a bridge over the Strait of Messina.

 

The only thing that brought her any relief was the formulation of a plan: the next morning, she’d purchase a new notebook—she doesn’t want to clutter her personal journal with this—and she’d spend the entire morning categorizing everything she knows.

 

Everything she knows of the so-said fateful summer of 1963. 

 

Everything she knows of the Paguros and their culture.

 

Everything she knows of the Marcovaldos and their manner.

 

Everything she knows of that boy.

 

She’ll make sense of it, then. And, in case she doesn’t, she’ll make sense of it eventually. The more data the merrier, as they say.

 

So, she stumbles through the early-morning routine a little bruised beneath the eyes and alert but clearly agitated. She helps out her mother in the kitchen after breakfast without an edict, and her father grants her a handful of lire as a reward. She grins—her father always uses money as an incentive—and she takes off to the store before Franco can follow.

 

But that may be misleading. It’s not that she didn’t want him to come; it’s just that Franco tends to dawdle and leer over every object up for display. Verona doesn’t have time for that.

 

Verona is fast. She doesn’t waste time with heuristics. Like a drone, she zips right over to the craft-and-paper section and settles on a little, ringed, yellow sketchbook with thin pages perfectly above hovering the line between grainy and smooth. Less than thirty minutes past that, she’s home, criss-cross on the bed, writing furiously and surrounded by torn-out and paperclipped pages.

 

Her pen dances upon the line in an almost practiced manner, the ink spreading across the page without hesitance nor smear. She stops to admire her perfect penmanship and the way she organizes information from Roman to Arabic numerals to the alphabet to simple dashes and interpuncts. Then, she’s back at it again.

 

Verona enjoys displaying information like this. Seeing it all laid out clearly before her helps to clear her mind and allows her capacity for reasoning and logic to blossom into something not to be reckoned with.

 

But this doesn’t seem to be a case similar to that of her True Crime shows or her crime and mystery books. Instead of figuring out the killer within the first hundred pages, she finds that she knows far less than she presumed, and that worries her.

 

She finds that Alberto says a lot of weird shit, and seems to have high levels of Openness and Extraversion and low levels of Conscientiousness and Neuroticism. She isn’t too sure about Agreeableness so far, so she makes a note to pay more attention to that.

 

She also finds Franco standing above her, leaning over with his hands in his back-pockets, crumbs still hanging from his upper lip, and she startles.

 

Franco snickers as Verona jerks backwards, throwing a hand over her heart. Then, he asks, “What’cha writing?” in an imperceivable tone—possibly interested, possibly sarcastic. Verona doesn’t know, but she answers anyway.

 

“I’m just…taking some notes.”

 

Franco arches a brow and ambles closer. Verona can feel herself stiffening like a man beneath Medusa’s curse, her hands itching to throw themselves over the paper and cover up the entirety of her morning's work, but then that would expose her shame and skew the boy’s opinion of her. This is what she does! This is her element! There is nothing to be ashamed of—this is her passion, and Franco ought to know and respect that!

 

However, Verona knows him too well. She knows that just because he ought to respect it doesn’t guarantee that he will, so when he throws a hand over his face and exclaims, “Oddio, you’re doing your stalker shit again?!” she isn’t surprised. She just slouches in on herself as he continues, “Whatever happened to sticking to just random murderers and tv show characters? When you do it with people we know, it’s so creepy!”

 

And there’s that word again. Why is it always creepy? When Luca delves into his element, it’s inspiring! When Franco’s in his, he’s intellectual, and when Giulia’s in her’s, she’s passionate! Why is Verona always creepy?

 

“It’s not stalking,” Verona bites back, chaffed. “It’s psychoanalysis.”

 

Franco splutters. “Nonconsensual psychoanalysis, A.K.A., stalking.”

 

Verona darts an accusatory finger at him. “And you think those rodents in your bedroom consented to have their bones stolen and picked-through?”

 

Franco’s hands fly up as he flinches, backing away as if the sharp point on Verona’s carefully groomed nails were the sharp point of a twelve inch knife. “Hey, I’m not the one doing shit with people involved.”

 

Verona huffs, averting her eyes. She leers over her countless notes and scrambled diagrams and messily-erected timelines. All the collections of quotes with the notes leading down in perfect, organized rows. They glow like a fire in her eyes—a harsh, blinding light like the sun. She grabs one without looking, picks it up, and uses it to collect—cover—another. “Whatever,” she mumbles, picking up more and more, her heart hurting with each paper that enters her palms. She’s cleaning up.

 

Then, Franco changes his tone. His voice grows complacent and mellow, all of the volume and snide from before subsiding as he so coolly questions, “So, what’re your findings?”

 

Verona flickers her gaze up to meet him, shocked, but just as quickly disappointed to see he’s wearing some idiotic, antagonistic grin.

 

“Discovered any sociopathic tendencies yet? Any underlying mental illnesses, just waiting to rear their ugly heads?”

 

“Stop,” Verona commands, putting her palm up to his face. “Stop adding to the stigma.” She withdraws it to continue cleaning up, sorting the papers into a neat stack over her folded legs. “It’s not funny,” she reminds him.

“Sorry, sorry. Just playing around,” Franco apologizes. Verona knows that already, but she doesn’t care. She couldn’t care about anything he had to say until: “I am actually interested though.”

 

“What?”

 

Verona’s eyes flicker up to him, and his gaze is locked loosely upon the open window. The room is grey and dim under the white sunlight shining, filtering in through the sheer white curtains that barely provide shade to anything at all, but even here, she can still see his stark blue eyes. His pupils are trapped in an unfocused but unwavering pinpoint. “I mean, you’re definitely a creep for this, but you’re a creep with answers,” he concedes, expression unchanging as he adds, “Honestly, he confuses the hell out of me, too.”

 

Verona’s eyebrows raise. Franco rarely admits to being confused by anything—he’s too prideful for that. It’s almost weird to see him uncomfortably stuff his hands deeper into his pockets; leaning forward before stretching back; rocking anxiously on the balls of his feet. 

 

“Not like—not in the sense that he’s a confusing person. I mean, I like him.” His gaze hardens. Is he telling the truth? “But I just don’t see why Giulia and Luca are still friends with him. Even I’m not that close with any of my sisters, and he just seems so…”

 

Verona waits for his words with bated breath. Please. Please say it. Say it, so Verona doesn’t have to—!

 

“Nor—“

 

“NORMAL! RIGHT?!” Verona finished for him, slapping her fist-fulls of notes back onto the mattress so hard it squeals. 

 

What followed was not unlike the devastating eruption of Mount Vesuvius, except instead of smoke, lava, and ash spreading rapidly throughout the city streets, it was papers painted with a fantastical amount of notes. Instead of rumbling and sizzling and screams, it was Verona’s lips flying at a million-miles-a-minute as she exploded into a whirlwind of words and gestures.

 

She began with the Marcovaldos, as that was the first paper she nabbed. 

 

Maria Marcovaldo was an art teacher, and if teachers don’t make much, art teachers make nary a penny at all. She was married to Massimo Marcovaldo and split when Giulia was about eight due to a difference of stance in the existence of seafolk and, far more importantly, what constitutes an ideal future. However, they are still technically—legally—together, and they seem to have become better friends over the past few years as the prior point of contention was finally put to rest.

 

Oftentimes, a divorce—legal or not—ruins a child’s mental state, but Giulia doesn’t seem at all affected! She knows to be a little wary about bringing up one to the other, but she isn’t at all avoidant of confrontation. She doesn’t possess any anger issues or bear any bitterness. Though, she is slightly more reserved around her mother, but Verona is unsure if that’s due to her mother’s incessant manner-minding or if that’s just the freedom of summer.

 

Regardless, she seems a lot less restrained by her dad. Perhaps he’s lenient? Could an overabundance of leniency be the cause of her brother’s brutish behavior? He did call him Big Guy without getting much more than a quirked brow, but perhaps that’s just their humor. But doesn’t that contradict the conversation that followed? Alberto talked about it as if it was a prank, some sort of mischievous behavior meant to tease and irk for his entertainment. But that’s not anything to gawk at—that’s just how teenage boys are!

 

Alberto is sixteen years old. Sooner than later, he’s expected to challenge his father to a sparring match in order to prove he’s tougher than him—stronger than him. It’s almost a rite of passage; it’s almost a chapter in her textbook on Developmental Psychology. At this point, sixteen-year-olds are meant to sew a sense of acrimony towards their parents. They're meant to strive for independence; they’re meant to find a way to fly the coop. That’s just biology.

 

Then again, Alberto isn’t a human. His brain might not be wired that way. So, how is he wired?

 

The Paguros said something interesting during that dinner two days ago. They said he is migratory. That certainly makes things tougher. The sedentary seafolk seem to adopt a household style almost indistinguishable to that of a human. There appears to be no difference—none at all except for the fact that the community is much, much more involved. But, is Alberto wired for that? She doesn’t know.

 

She hates to do this, but she knows migratory animals typically travel in packs after feeling that innate need to carry on elsewhere. Perhaps he is feeling that? That draw? That desire to get away?

 

But then again, he boasted about knowing Portorosso like the back of his hand. Maybe he doesn’t want to get away at all—maybe he doesn’t want to migrate. What would cause a migratory animal to stop migrating?

 

“Loss of habitat, usually,” Franco offers. “That, or if they’ve got a stable food supply through the winter.” 

 

In order to determine the first, they’d have to know where Alberto is originally from, and that’s already been denied as a possibility by Sig.ra Paguro. Though it may be true, the latter is still the only sensible, testable option here. Plus, Alberto must be fed well with how robust he appears.

 

And that’s just another thing that makes him so much of an enigma. Again, Verona understands how much Alberto has impacted Luca’s life and how much Giulia seems to enjoy his company, but she wouldn’t guess that they’d be friends in a million years.

 

It was difficult to think of him as a real person before they actually met—before Verona heard his snarky, surprisingly nasal voice and crooked her head back to look up at him. Luca had said he was tall; had said he was strong; had said he was confident, athletic, courageous, and amusing, but she just doesn’t know.

 

He’s confident, sure, but being in his presence feels like bracing against a sandstorm. He talks loudly, assuredly, and insistently—he never signals any doubt or humility unless it’s sarcastic. He believes every single word that comes out of his mouth. Sometimes, it feels like he’s never been told no before. It feels like he doesn’t know what the etiquette of a stranger is, like he’s entirely unfamiliar with the concept of an inside voice or a noise complaint.

 

Giulia’s loud, but she knows how to quiet down. Contrastingly, Luca is almost never not quiet—at least, when in Genova. Luca seems like a different person, here. He seems so bright, like the moon reflecting the sun’s shine, and Verona is happy for him, but she just doesn’t know. His personality has changed, and she just doesn’t know.

 

If Alberto was a stage performer—and he certainly acts like it—Luca would be his assistant, getting into that box and willingly letting himself be cut up, become invisible, be switched around this way and that. He’d wait for the order so patiently, so keenly prepared to do anything Alberto wanted at the flick of his wrist, seemingly ignorant to the fact that Alberto could very easily just discard him for another. Toss him to the side and get someone else.

 

Why doesn’t he get someone else? There seems to be so many people willing, such as that boy in the window, Ciccio, for instance. But, perhaps there is an advantage to being such an odd pairing. Perhaps it’s something physically; they look so different, so it may draw attention? But, it could be a cognitive thing, as well. It’s intelligent to surround oneself with those with differing perspectives than you, but Verona isn’t sure Alberto is thinking like that. She isn’t sure, yet, how he thinks, except for the fact that he seems to be motivated most by sensation. Thrill-or-adventure; disinhibition; boredom-susceptible; experience. He displays them all as if a caricature. Someone faked, someone imagined.

 

Verona said it was hard to think of him as a real person before she met him, and that still feels true. When Giulia and Luca would talk about their summer escapades, it felt like listening to her friends rattle on about some fictional character in a book. But, even now, when she truly examines him—how he talks and acts and walks and laughs—he still doesn’t feel real.

 

Maybe that’s the problem.

 

Of course, she knew that people like him existed. Extroverts, popular girls, jocks, party-animals, and the like. But this still feels like a lot—like watching a group of amateur, young adult actors and actresses display all of the caricatures found in typical high school cliques in some bad television show. Is that it? Is he putting on an act? Verona doesn’t know, but that could be one explanation.

 

But, what reason would he have to put on an act? Everyone already loves him. Or, does everyone love him because of his thus-far-unproven act? No, it seems too genuine. If it was an act, she feels like he’d grow tired of keeping it up, day after day, and he wouldn’t have so easily made all of those crude remarks. Even Franco hesitated slightly before that statement an hour ago. She feels like Giulia or Luca would signal for him to drop it and act as he usually does, or have they been wrapped up in his scheme as well?

 

Verona wants to know, but she hasn’t gotten anywhere. All she has is a bed covered in papers, notes, and diagrams. Franco sits beside her, looking for a paper they haven’t yet gone over, and together, they find none. She leans back as Franco stretches. Maybe this is a little bit crazy.

 

Maybe Alberto really doesn’t have any ulterior motive. Maybe he actually just is a good, albeit very stereotypical guy that enjoys Giulia and Luca’s company with no puppet strings in play. Maybe she’s priming herself to assume the worst because she doesn’t have the chemistry with him that he has with everyone else, and maybe she’s been allowing herself to fall into the trap of fundamental attribution error.

 

In order to get any answers, she needs to not do that. She must stop herself from assigning attributes to him so willy-nilly without ever looking into the potential origins. For example, what if he was so friendly because people were awful to him in the past? 

 

Franco gives her an incredulous look. “Ragazza, everyone loves him.”

 

It was just an example, so it really doesn’t matter. But, then again, he did mention being attacked a lot by fishermen—Sig. Massimo included. So many brief dances with death could have messed up his psyche, but wouldn’t that deter him from the fisherman career? Wouldn’t that deter him from humanity altogether?

 

Verona doesn’t know. She barely knows anything about him.

 

She knows he was adopted, and she knows it was pretty recent. She knows no one else knows where he’s from except for the fact that it’s not from around here. She knows he pulled Luca out of the water, she knows he’s paying for Luca’s tuition, she knows Luca and he spent a lot of time on Isola del Mare before heading towards Portorosso.

 

She knows he was rude to Giulia because of jealousy; she knows that he knows a few psychology terms. She assumes his parents are dead—why else would he have looked back at Franco?—and she’s assuming they didn’t die because of humans because she knows he loves humans.

 

She knows he loves company; loves sports; loves adventure; loves danger and dark humor.

 

And he loves the limelight. He relishes in the limelight. He seems to do almost anything for it—so, again, what if it was all for show? What if it was all a lie? What if it was just all for attention? What if he wasn’t attacked by fishermen at all, and he just told Franco that because he thought it would be impressive? Giulia treated it like it was true, but Giulia is known for being a bit more dense—a bit more gullible—than most people.

 

Whatever, the clock’s handle is nearing noon, and they need to be going, now.

 

Franco helps Verona sort and organize the papers, and together they make a promise.

 

It’s just going to be a fun, little detective game! They’ll just ask him questions, figure him out, and they won’t fall to fundamental attribution error whatsoever. They’ll keep one another in check and informed, and nothing bad will ever come of their private investigation.

 

“Nothing’s gonna come of this. You know that, right?” Franco asks her on the way out.

 

“Maybe,” Verona acknowledges, unlatching the gate to step onto the stone-paved street. “It’ll be good practice, at least.”

 

“Practice for what?”

 

“For when I become a criminal psychologist—or just a regular psychologist. Whichever one works out.” She grins creepily. “Andiamo, now I’m excited.”

 

—————

 

On their way to the pescheria, Franco and Verona caught Giulia on her way down the mountain as well. She was making deliveries alone, so they decided to keep her company for the remainder of the route.

 

They asked where Alberto was, and she explained that he was fishing with her father today, just as he does every Thursday. “He’s a pretty busy guy, but he’s got a whole schedule going,” Giulia says, peddling slow so her friends can keep up.

 

“A schedule?” Verona questions.

 

“Yeah!” Giulia nods, then begins to count on her fingers. “Sunday, he doesn’t work ‘cause he’s got church; He lifeguards on Monday and Friday. Wednesday and Saturday, he runs deliveries with me.”

 

Huh. Verona certainly wouldn’t take Alberto as someone with a busy work-life—much less someone who actually keeps a schedule. He seems much more free-spirited than that. Then again, free-spiritedness gets expensive over time, and with Luca’s tuition in play, he certainly can’t afford that. That must be hard work.

 

Verona makes a mental note to later add this information into the physical notes. Then, down in the piazza, she and her friends all gladden as a little boat, Giulietta, neared the shore with a mountain of fish and a third passenger, Luca.

 

As he did the day before, Luca changed in Sig. Massimo’s house, and soon they were all gathered in the middle of the piazza, looking for something to fill up their time.

 

“How about the library?” Franco suggests, sitting on the rim of an old fountain that had some sort of balanced-stone-statue seated in the middle of it.

 

“And waste all this good weather?” Alberto gawks, throwing his arms open wide. “No way!” 

 

“Maybe we can go to the library when it rains,” Luca offers.

 

“Ooh, I love reading in rainy weather! It’s such a great atmosphere!” Giulia cheers, clasping her hands together.

 

“Yeah, until the lights go out,” Verona chimes in.

 

“Oh no, that’s even better because then you get to light candles!” Luca coos, and it’s a fine conversation even if it is a little boring. Verona is okay with this. She’s okay hanging around a fountain, sitting against the stone while Franco, lounging beside her, cools his toes in the water and coins. She’s okay with looking up at Giulia, with her hands clasped together and hair bouncing as she animatedly chatters away, and Alberto, with his arms crossed over his puffed-up chest, from this upward angle. She’s even found herself fine with looking up at Luca as his eyes dart to the other boy for some sort of acknowledgement or agreement for each input he gives.

 

Heartbeat feels as steady as the sea waves rhythmically lapping at the shore. She feels as calm and collected as the water in the fountain, settling themselves even as Franco gently splashes about.

 

She’s getting used to it. She thinks going over it all this morning really helped. It must have primed her, in some way, for dealing with it all. At least, it certainly made her feel very vindicated in her stance and therefore far more prepared to seize the day. In fact, she feels almost a little bit lighthearted—slightly more mature—slightly more empathetic. She’s ready to know. She’s ready to understand.

 

Then, Alberto slaps his hands across his face, leaning backward as he dramatically drags them down, creating small, white streaks across his face as he so loudly bemoans, “Mamma mia, what did I ever do to deserve being surrounded by a bunch of nerds?!” and those warm feelings turn a degree cooler like throwing water onto burning coals.

 

Verona’s smile falters ever so slightly. Giulia, on the other hand, grins ever so innocuously and asks, “Hey, Alberto, would you by any chance know how Vespas got their name?”

 

He puffs out a laugh. “Ragazza, that’s common knowledge.” Verona’s stomach turns slightly with the way her called her girl, but she knows that could just be her bias showing. Luca and Franco call her girl all the time, and it means nothing. Unobstructed, Alberto continues, “It looks like a wasp, and it’s prone to weird buzzing noises because of the small components of its typical two stroke engine—” then, he stops.

 

His eyes widen, eyebrows furrowing as his gaze locks onto his sister’s shit-eating grin. His shoulders go stiff, his mouth snaps close, and he sends daggers to the pavement or to nothing in particular.

 

“Figure it out yourself,” he snorts. If this was a cartoon, there’d be hot, grey clouds of smoke pluming out from his nostrils like a bull. “Idiota.”

 

“Nerd.” His sister steps closer, as if trying to force him to look at her.

 

His head whips back to her, but his eyes are closed, and his tone is no less arrogant and all-knowing as he combats, “It’s common knowledge—!”

 

Giulia laughs. “It is not!” She pokes him, painted finger pressing into his skin, and she’s pressing hard. Verona can tell from the way his skin gives way and looks almost plush under the pressure. “Nerds rule the world, Alberto, and stop acting like having an interest in something is a bad thing!”

 

Alberto elbows her hands away, stepping to the side, irritation as clear as day. “Oh my god, you’re so cheesy! No wonder you say that stupid Santa Mozzarella bullshit all the time!”

 

Giulia’s head bucks backward, and Verona realizes with tangible distaste: Oddio, we’re doing this again.

 

“Excuse you!” Giulia calls. “Excuse you, signore Giralamo Trom—!”

 

Like a lion to an unsuspecting gazelle, Alberto lunges at her. Like a snake to a sinless mouse, he constricts his sister in a headlock, and Verona wonders if this is their love-language. If antagonizing and fighting is how they communicate their familial affection for one another. She watches him cry, “You shut up!” as he steals off her hat—exposing a terribly stellar example of the oh-so dreaded hat-hair—and uses it to muffle his sister, and she thinks back to the pair of siblings she’s familiar with.

 

Being an only child, Verona never had the experience of tearing after someone in the hallway on a Sunday afternoon after they sprayed her with water or sticky foam. She’s never had to dance around a kitchen table or couch or what-have-you because she either pissed someone off or been pissed off by someone to high-hell. She’s heard Franco’s horror stories, but she’s never experienced them herself. So, she doesn’t quite understand what to do as Giulia and Alberto get into a game of limbs and shoving and repetitively yelling, “Give it back!”

 

Should she try to break up the fight, or should she just wait it out? What is aggravated and what is play? They look almost indecipherable as Alberto climbs to a stand and laughs, holding up the adored blue fisherman’s cap high above his sister’s head. She tries to grab it—tries to jump or lean against him for leverage—but it’s just too high. Alberto’s just too tall and giggling, “No, you gotta apologize first! Apologize first!”

 

Giulia shoves him and turns away with a huff, wiping something out of her eyes. Tears? No, Giulia’s too tough for that. “Urgh. This is so demeaning.”

 

Laughing more, Alberto lowers his arm—an opening! Giulia tries for it, but it only shoots up into the air again, impossibly out of reach.

 

“UGH, fine!” Giulia barks. “I’m just gonna go home and get another one.”

 

They all watch her stomp away a few paces, hands balled into fists by her side, curls bouncing with each heavy step she takes. Alberto scoffs. Then, as if on cue, she stops abruptly and, like a whip, she turns and takes off towards him. Head down and eyes aflame. Kicking up dirt as she goes, charging forward. Nearing without pause. Nearing without decline!

 

She crashes into him with a warrior’s cry, and she slams him onto the ground with a thunderous thump!

 

“Jesus Christ!” Franco curses, wincing as the game rages on. “Do they do this all the time?”

 

“Yeah!” Luca says with glee.

 

Verona keeps her comments to herself, but she makes sure she’s well out of the way as Giulia and Alberto continue to wrestle on like two feral cats of two combatant colonies.

 

“Give it back!” Giulia hisses.

 

“In your dreams!” Alberto bites back, and they continue pulling and rolling this way and that, surely burning their skin upon the hot pavement; surely cutting themselves with the pebble and rock; surely drawing tens upon tens of eyes upon them. Especially so, when Giulia grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks hard, causing the boy to squeal, “OW!”

 

“Haha!” Giulia laughs victorious. She’s grabs the hat back, and it’s returned to its rightful place atop her head. Verona grins. The Underdog always wins in the end.

 

Alberto pouts, sitting still as he tries to fix his faux-pompadour. At least, that’s what Verona thinks he’s going for. His hair style is more of just…upward leaning, tightly coiled curls that seem to somehow defy gravity. Seems unkempt, but that’s to be expected of a teenage boy.

 

Scars, boring clothes, dirt-wrought hands, bitten nails, and unkempt hair. Despite him whining “Giulia, not the hair…” he must not care about his appearance that much. She’ll make a mental note to note that, as well.

 

She whacks him on the back of the head with the back of her palm. “Not the hat, you hypocrite!”

 

Alberto pouts, not getting up from his seat upon the ground. Then, as if a lightbulb had ignited inside of his mind, his eyes alight with a shiny, excited gleam. “Hey, wait!” He calls attention back to himself (though it had never left). “What if we all took turns wrestling?”

 

Verona sends a weary look Giulia’s way. It’s not that she doesn’t like athletic activities, it's just that she’s wearing a skirt and a change of shorts is an hour’s walk away. She could also just quickly go buy a new pair at a store nearby, but she really doesn’t feel like spending money. A more lucrative option would be borrowing a pair of Giulia’s—if only she wasn’t nearly twice her size in width—or Luca’s—if only he wasn’t a boy.

 

However, she doesn’t need to do any of those things, because said boy is quick with a rebuttal. “No, my arms are already way too sore from work.”

 

“What work?” Franco quickly asks, gathering his legs up from the pool of fountain water to twist his body around and better see the other boy.

 

“Reaping kelp with Sig.ra Aragosta,” Luca simply responds. “It’s a lot of back and forth movement with your arms, see?” he elaborates, making a back-and-forth motion for clarity. Franco nods sagely, oohing out of genuine interest.

 

Giulia carries on the previous, more serious, conversation at hand. “Then what about calcio? That doesn’t require any arms.”

 

Franco shrugs, gripping onto the stone side so as not to fall. “Sure, that works for me.”

 

Verona internally debates the outcome. As long as she doesn’t trip, she should be fine. So, she also nods in agreement just as Luca cheers, “Yeah, that’d be fun!”

 

But, to almost everyone’s surprise, Alberto doesn’t seem so sure. His lips pull to the side in a hesitant frown, eyebrows pinching together as he stands back up, but not to his full height. Rather, he’s slouching as his eyes follow slowly to Luca, asking, “Aspetta, you sure you wanna play?” His worrisome frown turns into a burst of a little pitiful—ever so slightly condescending—chuckle. “No offense, amico, but you kinda suck at calcio.”

 

Luca steps to him, wagging a finger in his face. “Not when I’m goalie!” he asserts. “I’ve been playing a lot of pallavolo, so I’ve gotten really good with hand-eye coordination.” He sweeps a hand at the rest of the group, adding, “Plus, we finally have enough people to actually make teams!” and Verona thinks it’s kind of funny whenever he gets like this.

 

It’s just so obvious. He turns his entire body towards Alberto when he’s talking to him; he looks him dead in the eye with an infinitesimal, happy squint. He even rocks on his feet ever so slightly to get up to his height. It’s kind of endearing, now that she’s almost entirely gotten over the grossness of it all, but she’s still worried about him changing his personality and style for him. She doesn’t think he’s uttered a single word about his interests—nothing about astrophysics, nothing about astronomy. No mention of the Iliad and Odyssey; nor Frankenstein; nor Dante’s Inferno. But, simultaneously, he doesn’t seem to be holding anything back.

 

He seems like a much freer person here, but he doesn’t seem like himself. Verona wonders how long those two facts can coincide before some sort of conflict arises—if it hasn’t already.

 

“But won’t that hurt your arms?” Giulia points out.

 

Luca’s nose twitches. “I mean. Maybe a little,” he acknowledges, albeit very hesitantly. “But I won’t be using them as much as I would be wrestling, so I think it should be fine.” Damn, he must really want to play this game. Maybe he has something to prove? Someone publicly announcing that you suck at something sure does serve as the starting spark for the flame of spiteful motivation.

 

But even as much as she wants to help him prove that someone wrong, there’s another issue at hand. “But there’s an odd number,” Verona notices. “How should we divide?”

 

Franco is quick with a solution: “One person can sit out per game.”

 

And, just as quick, Alberto dismisses his solution with a wave. “Nah, that’s boring.” He crosses his arms, exuding that imposing confidence once again. “Let’s just do two versus three.” Then, he grins a sharp, shark-like smile—long, yellow canines poking out between his thick, bi-colored lips. Without another word, he begins walking away, but it isn’t so much of a walk. Rather, he struts as if he’s some sort of model on the runway, each step lifting and falling with a tangible air of self-assuredness as he offers, “Here. Since I’m kind of an expert at this, I’ll be on the two-player team.”

 

He considers himself an expert? Verona looks to her friends for some sort of acknowledgement just to see Giulia rolling his eyes, Franco sizing him up, and Luca stifling a laugh. When her eyes trace back onto the boy, she sees him standing proudly, his hands on his hips as he leans back, placid.

 

“Who else wants in?” He asks, and it’s obvious the direction in which his hopeful gaze travels.

 

Verona’s gaze follows to the same location, as does Franco’s and Giulia’s, though entirely on their own accord. They all stare for a happy agreement, but that isn’t what comes.

 

Instead, the joy in said location’s face diminishes like the receding shore, leaving only unamusement and disbelief. “Wo-o-ow,” Luca monotones, rolling his eyes. “Trying to force the two seafolk on the same team.” He looks away. “Thought you guys were cool.”

 

The hairs on Verona’s arms raise in alarm. An itch crawls up her spine, spreading to her extremities and her mouth, begging for a tenderhearted rebuttal. Her heart stutters, and nearby Alberto coughs up a snicker into his hand. But, she doesn’t have the time—nor the mental state—to scrutinize him at this moment. She’s too busy thinking up some way to say we didn’t look at you because of that! without making it clear to Alberto why they did, and, besides, Franco is already pressing forward.

 

“I’ll go, then,” he says, raising a hand.

 

“That’s what’s up!” Alberto cheers, raising his own, but before the high-five can come to fruition, Giulia throws out a hand in front of Franco.

 

“Woah! Nuh-uh!” she argues. “Let’s make this fair.”

 

Alberto’s nose scrunches. His hand drops with an ireful jerk. “What’s not fair about it?”

 

“You can’t have two tall guys on the same team!” Giulia exclaims. “We’re at a physical disadvantage!” she insists, and Verona doesn’t think she’s entirely wrong. Franco is tall—the tallest of their friend group. Even though this isn’t a sport that so heavily relies upon stature, he’d still be a hard obstacle to get around. Alberto on the other hand, good lord. He’s not only taller than Franco; he’s visibly athletic, too. And, now that she thinks about it, no one argued against him calling himself kind of an expert. Competitive, rigorous, and energetic Giulia actually saw him as a threat, and Verona remembers Luca fawning over his abilities back in Genova, too. Could he really be that good?

 

He could be, but that fact doesn’t seem to matter to him. “You have three players!” Alberto exasperates. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but Giulia cuts him off with a silencing flick of her hand.

 

“No. I refuse.” Then, her hand curls into a point, sweeping away from him—not to Franco—not to Luca—but to Verona. “Verona, why don’t you team up with Alberto?”

 

Verona splutters. Oh no, she was not prepared for this, and now it’s not only her arm-hairs standing up, but the ones on the back of her neck, too. “Me?” she yelps far twinier than she wanted to. “But I—”

 

“Yeah!” Giulia doesn’t let her get a single other word in edgewise, but she knows she’s just excited. “I can’t because I’m planning on kicking his sorry ass, Luca doesn’t want to, and Franco’s just unfair.”

 

Verona knows that. She’s well aware of Giulia’s plan; of Luca’s preferences; of Franco’s abilities, but she just doesn’t want to. Giulia’s gaze is searing into hers, her two large, black pupils like little sun-spots in her vision. She can’t look. She feels her fingers twitching into little claws, posture rigid, feet feeling as if they’re sinking into quicksand, because she just doesn’t want to. But is that fair?

 

Giulia, Franco, and Luca all had good excuses. What does she have? That Alberto kind of ruffles her feathers? That she is a little weirded out, and she wants to keep her distance? Is that fair? And if so, can she express that sentiment in any way without incriminating herself?

 

But Giulia is rising up on her toes, leaning in towards here with her two hands clasped together in front of her chest. She’s cocking her head to the side, letting her curls fall off and pool onto one shoulder. She’s sing-songing, “Ple-e-ease?” and tilting her head down to look up at her through her lashes with an award-winning, youthful, chipped-tooth grin. And, Verona can’t do anything.

 

She just stares at her, stock-still and shocked at the sight before her, then shocked at Franco, barking, “Andiamo dai, Verona!”

 

Then Luca commanding, “Be an altruist! Come on!”

 

Then Alberto chanting, “Al-tru-ist! Al-tru-ist!” until Giulia and Franco and Luca join in.

 

Then, she gives up. The blood pooling in her ears fizzles out as steam from her hot-head, the tension in her shoulders turns to sparks and electricity, eliciting her arms to wave around erratically as if caught in a current or surrounded with a swarm of bees. “Oh my god!” she nearly yells, “STOP. Okay! Fine!” and scurries over to Alberto’s side with heavy, sluggish steps scraping across the hot, sun-baked brick as her friends laugh, surely, at her expense. “You’re all so embarrassing,” she hisses between her teeth.

 

Giulia pumps a fist into the air. “That’s the spirit!” She cheers, bouncing with glee.

 

Verona sends her back a weary look as she stops short beside her new teammate. Then, that weary look turns into a short flinch of disgust as she realizes that her new teammate, who works in a pescheria, has apparently never heard of deodorant.

 

But it’s okay! Reframe: she had wanted a chance to observe him more. This proximity may grant her new, unforeseen opportunity to capitalize upon to the very best of her ability—and to the detriment of that little notebook’s clean white pages in her bedroom. 

 

While Verona is gathering herself, Giulia sends for the ball, and Alberto gives her some fluid directions: “It’s in the hammock, I think! Oh, no, wait—maybe beside the boat! That or in the hammock…It’s gonna be beside the boat...” And, Verona is surprised he’s still standing beside her.

 

Most boys within Alberto’s age and personality range would have already shrugged her off and hurried to chat up their friend, even if they were on the opposing team. But, Alberto didn’t do that.

 

Instead of disregarding her presence—instead of writing her off as a basketcase and focusing solely on himself—Alberto turned to her. He looked down at her with unreadable though lazy eyes and a small, placid grin. “Hey, so, Giulia says you’re, like, super crazy Eistein-level smart. So, you got a strat?”

 

Verona blinks. Is he actually asking for her input? Is he asking for her help, and she has nothing to give? This is even worse than being written off!

 

“Uhh…” Verona says, because now she feels like she has to say something. His horse blinders clearly aren’t as long as she thought they were.

 

“If not, it’s fine.” He shrugs. “I was just asking ‘cause Luca’s real, super crazy Einstein-level smart, and he’s always got all kinds of ideas—he’ll tell you himself.”

 

Verona’s surprise dwindles. Water over fire, yet again. His horse blinders clearly aren’t all that short either, and now he’s proven himself to be slightly ignorant to the fact that Luca talks to people other than him.

 

Of course she knows Luca’s all about ideas and planning and forward-thinking. She can see him huddled right over beside Franco, now, discussing a plan with a rapid series of gestures that give almost everything away. Plus, she’s his friend! He’s her friend! Is that not common knowledge at this point?

 

“Yeah, no. Sports aren’t really my thing,” Verona answers, trying to not be so stiff. “Sorry.”

 

Alberto shrugs, then says something very uncharacteristic: “Non preoccuparti. Everyone’s got their niche.”

 

Confused, though not wanting to be seen as such, Verona looks away. Just a minute ago, Alberto was complaining about so-called nerds, and now he’s fine with it? She wants him to just make up his mind—be the villain or be the hero—but as she’s avoiding his stare, something else catches her eye.

 

A little sign up on the wall. Small and rectangular, wordless with only an illustration of a soccer ball with a big, red prohibited circle and slash right through it.

 

Her heart sinks to her stomach.

 

She turns back to her teammate, gesturing limply towards the sign with a tentative tone as she ever so gently questions, “Aspetta—are we allowed to play here?”

 

“Technically not.” Alberto shrugs, picking out a piece of lint off of his shoulder and scratching at a piece of peach fuzz on his chin. “But Sig.ra Maggioni—town’s cop—really doesn’t care. Just don’t hit anything, and we should be fine.”

 

Oh no. No, no, no. Verona does not like the sound of that—not only completely disregarding the rules, but knowing the town’s cop by name.

 

Alberto, however, just starts stretching. “Trust me,” he commands as his hands raise together high above his head in bulky but pin-straight lines, his hips jutted out as he teeters to the left and to the right. “That sign’s pretty much just decor,” he assures as he twists his body around and kicks his legs up until the bottom of his feet nearly brush against his backside.

 

Verona frowns. She doesn’t want this. She can’t imagine the mortifying ordeal of being caught doing illegal activities, let alone in a town she isn’t a resident of! She’d never trespass, she’d never steal. She’d never walk on the grass, and she’d never play soccer where it is very clearly prohibited, but Alberto just laughs!

 

Alberto just bites his lip and laughs as he claps her on the back without any warning or consent. “Rallenta, ragazza! I told you—I’m, like, the greatest calcio player there is.” And whatever facet of his personality he was exposing before vanishes in an instant. He’s back to being the expert, back to being full of bravado and charm—so much it’s almost impossible to bear. “You’re in good hands, I promise,” he swears, and it only feels demeaning. 

 

Then, Giulia comes back, jogging up close before drop-kicking the ball towards them. As if turned on by a switch, Franco and Alberto both run for the ball, Luca gets into position, and the game is on.

 

Giulia takes a small breather before joining in. On the other hand, Alberto and Franco immediately go head-to-head, though there is a very clear defender and offender. Then, Giulia joins the fray, shouting for Franco to pass it to her, several feet away, but as Franco’s head swivels to get an eye on her position, Alberto forces himself forward, snatching the ball out from underneath his feet. It soars briefly through the air, then passes by Luca, who flinches out of the way.

 

For the first round, Verona finds that she had done nothing. She had just stood there, sticking out like a sore thumb, anxiously waiting for some kind of opening, but there was none. She just watched with her hands raised to her chest, with her heart beating out of her ribs, with no set purpose at all; with neither idea nor motivation to become included.

 

“Luca!” Giulia mopes.

 

“Sorry!” Luca cries, running to snatch it from in between two potted plants. “Little rusty—won’t happen again!”

 

“Wait, so, is that a point? That’s a point, right?” Alberto asks, and no one had a real answer for him. Somehow, they’d appointed Luca as a goalie but forgot to say, exactly, where the goals were. However, that error was quickly resolved, and Verona was given a position.

 

But even with a position and a location to protect, Verona very quickly discovers she is about as useful as a bucket with a hole in the bottom because Alberto is amazing.

 

Franco would swipe the ball from him, but before he would reach the fountain, Alberto would have the ball back again. He’d pass it far away and catch it himself as if two players, as if he were in two places at once. He’d kick the ball with incredible accuracy—insane precision and planning for a boy who doesn’t appear to think ahead of time at all. Half of the time, Luca would catch it, and send it back into play. The other half of the time, it’d fly past him too fast or too far for him to do anything.

 

His previously degrading routine of declaring he was the best; boasting that no one was better than him; announcing that he was practically an expert at a sport he must have only played for about two years quickly loses that abasing quality. Verona finds herself almost happy in her position, just letting herself watch and react to everything and anything that happened, because the ball would only ever roll her way once or twice before it was back in Alberto’s control.

 

She even finds herself chuckling and clapping when her teammate scores a point and walks around with his arms outstretched to the sky, soaking in the sunlight and sea breeze like some sort of victorious gladiator in the arena. Eventually, she finds herself no longer looking over her shoulder to see if any wary-eyed bystanders were leering about or any cops were incoming, seeing to a complaint. She finds herself content to watch the game proceed.

 

She finds herself excited to see Alberto snatch the ball from his sister’s footing before booking it over to Luca’s side. She sees his face turn slightly confused—slightly startled—as Franco leaps out in front of him, angling himself this way and that so Alberto couldn’t get a clear shot. She sees his muscles tighten, tongue sticking out between his teeth as Giulia starts towards him, running towards him from his right. She braces as he starts running backwards—running towards his own goal. He fakes-out a kick to the left, causing Franco to swerve as Giulia runs behind him. Then, he sends a real kick towards the opening.

 

The ball soars through the air in an angled arch. It almost appears to be floating, still rotating there, high in the sky, almost hard to see against the sun’s bright light. It begins to curve downward again, down and down, closer and closer to the goal on the other side of the piazza.

 

Through her blotchy vision, Verona sees Luca widening his stance, his own blinking, squinting eyes locked on the ball with his hands raised out, up in front of him as it comes closer and closer, like a meteor hurtling straight for Earth out of a terrible sci-fi flick.

 

Then, the ball makes contact.

 

The ball hits the target with an incredibly loud WHACK! that’s followed by a similarly loud thud and crack!

 

Verona gasps terribly.

 

“Santa fontina!” Giulia yelps, jogging over.

 

“Oh, cazzo!” Franco curses, quickly following behind Giulia.

 

“LUCA!” Alberto shouts, running past them both, because the ball hadn’t hit the ground first.

 

Rather, it had slammed directly into Luca’s face, and the boy crumpled like a house of cards. His back bent in a perfect arch, knees giving out and arms flying up until he was sprawled out on the ground, groaning in agony. 

 

Luca sits up slowly, and his face is beet-red with a giant welt spreading across his nose, cheek, and forehead. His right eye is rendered unopening—only staying closed in a painful wince. He pets at his nostrils—he checks for blood—then gently presses his palm against his cheek. 

 

Alberto clambors to a crouch before him. Without asking, he grips his friend’s shoulder and places his hand over Luca’s so that they are both holding his cheek, together. Apologies start gushing out of his mouth like water from a broken dam: “Oh my god! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Are you okay? I didn’t mean to hit you—there’s ice in the pescheria! Do you think you need ice? I can go get you ice!”

 

“I’m…okay.” Luca has to strain to get the words out.

 

Alberto looks him over more carefully, voice lowering from the prior shouting, but still staying loud and clear. Verona hasn’t yet moved beyond the fountain, and she can still hear him as clear as day as he wipes away Luca’s bangs and questions, “Are you bleeding at all? Merda, your face looks like a freaking strawberry—”

 

Luca shakes his head. “No, I– I don’t think so.” He tries to get up.

 

But, Alberto just pushes him down.

 

“Stay.” Alberto’s voice is sharp. “Don’t get up.” He rises back onto his feet. “I’m gonna go get you ice.” He starts to walk away, and Verona can see his face now. He looks almost…angry. His eyebrows are furrowed, pupils pinpoint yet frantic. “Just stay right there. I’ll be back.”

 

“Okay,” Luca says from the ground. Then, Alberto runs away, just leaving him there.

 

Now, when Verona looks around, she does see people staring.

 

Giulia and Franco approach him, nonetheless. Giulia extends her hand to him. “Andiamo.”

 

Luca looks up at her in confusion. “Alberto said not to get up.”

 

Giulia clicks her tongue. “Alberto’s just nervy,” she sighs. “Wasn’t that bad, was it?”

 

Again, Luca shakes his head. Franco, however, is skeptical. “Fra’, are you sure? It looked like it hit you square in the face—like it was some sorta missile.”

 

Luca chuckles, but he still doesn’t open his right eye all the way. “Swear to god, hit me right on the nose!” he laughs, and takes up Giulia on her offer. He’s still a little disoriented when he stands up, teeter-tottering on the balls of his feet, but he regains his balance pretty easily. “Almost a little too perfect, if you ask me.”

 

Giulia shakes her head. “Santa Mozzarella,” she breathes out with tangible disapproval, and Verona certainly has a lot more to put into her notebook.

Chapter 7: theory of obedience

Summary:

The Basaglias (and Franco) spend a day together.

Sunday, he attends church. Monday, he works as a lifeguard. Wednesday, he runs deliveries with Giulia. Thursday, he fishes with his father. Friday, he works as a lifeguard yet again, and he finishes up the week on Saturday by, once more, running deliveries. But what about Tuesday?

 

Verona mindlessly taps her pen against her chin as she contemplates whether Giulia had, in fact, mentioned something or if it had just slipped her mind. The tension in her temples and the crease between her brows increases as she thinks and thinks and thinks but, irritatingly, comes up with nothing. Trying to soothe herself, she logicalizes that fishing again would be the most sensible assumption, given everything else comes in pairs, but it also doesn’t matter all that much, anyway. The only time this information would ever be useful is if she needed to catch Alberto sometime in the morning, and she likely never will.

 

And, what of that catch, yesterday? 

 

He certainly proved himself one. He fits into that standard of peak masculinity perfectly—that tall, wide-grinning, all-star jock that all the regular girls turn head over heels for.

 

Though, he still doesn’t seem vain—in any regard.

 

In one aspect of the word, he doesn’t appear to be preoccupied with his image. He isn’t the type to meticulously gel his hair each morning, picking out just the right clothes to make the girls swoon. Given his apparent uncleanliness and plain dress style, he must not care about his image at all. His complaining, “not the hair,” was likely due the simple pain of having it tugged like that.

 

In the other sense, he boasts about his abilities, sure, but he has yet to be disproven. He did know Portorosso like the back of his hand. In soccer, he was a sight to behold. With each kick, he sent the ball exactly where he had wanted it to, like a militant sending a missile to specific coordinates. It reached the goal every time. Every time, the ball did exactly as he wanted it to; went exactly where he aimed it, and it never strayed from that desired path unless intercepted by an outside source.

 

But then, somehow, he managed to send it directly into Luca’s face, and Luca hadn’t even moved.

 

Each time Verona replays the scene in her head, she sees the same sight: Alberto kicks the ball, and it flies up, through the air. He grins with a droplet of sweat on his hairline, and he traces the ball with a doubtless gaze. He knows where it is going, and Luca widens his stance but, otherwise, stands perfectly in place. He doesn’t veer to the right or left because why should he? The ball is heading right towards him. It is determined. It is irreplicable. It is perfect.

 

Could it really have been a mistake?

 

But, it wasn’t only Alberto, Giulia, and Franco that watched Luca topple. They were in the middle of the piazza, kicking around a ball in the middle of the day. There were grandmothers grabbing gelato, kids splashing around in the sea, siblings making sandcastles, and couples grabbing lunch at the bar. There were so many people watching, and Alberto was catching all of their attention as he cried and fawned over his friend—the boy who he hurt.

 

Luca isn’t one for the limelight, but if Verona has picked up on anything about Alberto, it’s that he is.

 

He loves it.

 

He would do anything for it.

 

Verona sits up straighter as she sits with his hypothesis.

 

She bites her lip in the dim light of her bedroom, listening to the waves crash against the boulders not too far from her window, watching the leaves gently sway outside in the silence of her thoughts and memories. She gathers herself in this quiet space, clearing her head, trying to exhaust all possibilities, but she just can’t shake this awful feeling.

 

Could it have truly been a mistake?

 

For her friends’ sake, she wants to believe that it could—and she knows she’s been wrong about him before—but she just doesn’t know.

 

She sighs.

 

Then, the door to her bedroom swings open.

 

“Buongiorno, Verona!” her mother’s voice chimes, gratingly chipper as she drums her long, painted fingernails against the doorframe. “Time to get up.”

 

Yesterday, she was startled, but now she’s only annoyed. She’s used to her mother barging in whenever she feels like it, scratching and tapping at the wood to catch Verona’s attention—to be annoying but only in a way that demands some degree of assumed innocence, some plausible deniability. But Verona knows that her mother knows what she’s doing, each and every time.

 

However, this is still not like each and every time. Instead of being caught in the middle of brushing her hair or painting her face, Verona is caught in the middle of a whirlpool of notes. Instead of a wince of pain from brush bristled grabbing onto a knot, she’s wincing with anxiety as blood and embarrassment flood into her face, hands, and ears.

 

Her mind is buzzing with pleas—more prayers lifting up to the heavens in this singular moment than what the Vatican has to offer on a Sunday morning—that her mother just ignores the state of pretty much everything about her. But while her mother may willfully turn a blind eye to her daughter’s strive for independence, she does not turn a blind eye to this.

 

Rather, she releases the door frame, wags one of those painted claws, and questions, “Oh, you’re dressed already. What is that you’re writing?”

 

Verona’s stomach acid begins to eat at the walls, intestines transforming into Ouroboros himself. “Niente,” she dismisses, trying to gather up the notes as quickly and cooly as possible. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Her mother leaves the doorframe, stepping closer. “Oh, let me see,” she says, and Verona doesn’t even know why she even tries. When has asking her mother to not mind something ever worked?

 

“Madre, it’s really nothing,” Verona insists, but the room is small and with two clacks of her sandals, her mother is already at her side. However, her mother doesn’t get to look for long. Verona throws the feigned apathy to the wind and scrambles to pick everything up.

 

“Oh, you never let me see your work!” her mother carps. “What’re you hiding? What is it?”

 

Verona grimaces, holding the papers close to her chest as she goes. Then, to her horror, her mother nabs one right off of the comforter.

 

“Stop!” Verona cries, dropping her previous papers to get that one stolen sheet back. She has no idea what’s on it—it could be nothing, but it could be damning to the highest degree. She cannot take that risk!

 

Her mother steals it from her grip, yanking it out, then quickly stepping back with a sharp turn to skim over the page while it’s out of her daughter’s reach.

 

Her face screws together in confusion. Verona wants to go find the nearest, deepest, darkest, dampest well and just rot away there for eternity. “What…is this?”

 

“It’s notes,” Verona mopes. 

 

Her mother looks back over her shoulder—leers at her daughter through the corner of her eye. “On who?”

 

This conversation couldn’t possibly be worse. “On Alberto.”

 

Verona can’t imagine how just two simple words could change a thing, but she watches with airless lungs as her mother’s expression shifts into something she can no longer read. It’s not as confused anymore. Her eyebrows are twitching upward, not twitching together. Her nose isn’t as scrunched, but her mouth does pull tightly about the words, “Giulia’s houseguest?”

 

“Adopted fratello,” Verona quietly corrects.

 

“Hm.”

 

Verona hangs her head, but her mother hands her back the paper.

 

“Why do you need to know his schedule?” Her mother squints, and Verona feels a small wave of repose. At least it was that one instead of the History one. Unfortunately, her small, growing calm only lasts a second, snuffed like a candle’s flame beneath the douter of her mother’s next question: “You don’t like him, do you?”

 

Verona’s eyes snap open in shock. “What? Ew. No,” she asserts, and the certainty in her voice is clear and undoubtedly sincere. 

 

The tension in her mother’s shoulders dissipates as her expression grows to one of pure, utter relief. “Oh, grazie a Dio.”

 

“He just weirds us—Franco and I—out,” Verona explains. “We’re trying to figure out what his deal is.”

 

“Well, he’s certainly not what you’d call normal,” her mother puffs with a condemning hitch of her brow. Then, strangely, her stare falls back onto her daughter. Her mouth pulls into a sugary sweet, terribly condescending grin. She nods, almost coyly, as she looks into her daughter’s eyes and purrs, “And, tesorina, his deal is that he’s a little guy down at the bottom trying to work his way up.”

 

Verona’s mouth falls open by just a hair. Now she’s the one confused. “I…don’t think I understand,” she says, each word tentatively articulated and placed because asking her mother what the hell she’s talking about would be seen as incredibly rude and would, very likely, constitute a grounding.

 

Her mother sits down on the edge of the bed, leaning forward to pet her daughter’s hair. “Figlia, there are all sorts of people in this world, and most people—most people want to be like us.”

 

Oh well. At least Verona had at least one little grace period where she wasn’t nauseous.

 

“And, tesorina, that boy is not someone like us.”

 

Verona’s shoulders tense as she leans backward, trying to escape her mother’s grasp. “I don’t…think he’s like that.”

 

Her mother’s sweetness disappears in a flat second. “Tesorina, everyone like him is like that.” Then, she pats her head, sighing, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” and she gets up. As she dusts herself off and returns to her lean against the doorframe with utter severity in her gaze, she adds, “But, if he ever does bother you, be sure to tell us. We’re your parents. We will not let some—” she loses the words for a second, flicking her wrist in irritation before she continues, “—some roving hellion to harass our little girl and her friends.”

 

Verona’s brow hardens as she feels the hot nausea claw at her throat. She feels her stomach twist into knots as she thinks and thinks and thinks, but cannot come up with any sort of rebuttal that isn’t a call for empathy of the unknown.

 

When people strive for attention, it’s often due to some insecurity or loss. They’re hiding something; they’re disguising something; they’re taking control of something—anything.

 

Verona knows that, but she hadn’t yet thought to ponder this far. She was just trying to scratch the surface of the iceberg, but now it feels like she’s hit a weak spot and fell head-first into the freezing water.

 

But that couldn’t be it, right?

 

Her mother is operating upon bigoted views—ignorant fuel. She must be wrong. At least, her generalizations must be wrong, but Verona has to acknowledge that the specifics are there.

 

Alberto is, even if in metaphorical terms only, a little guy who was once down at the bottom. His personality isn’t anything to gawk at, but he’s still a sea monster amongst humans, a newcomer amongst natives. He is a bit of a hellion, and though she wouldn’t say that he is harassing them as that word provides an implication of avoidance, she does acknowledge that his antics get more than a little bit abrasive at times.

 

Still, she’s quiet.

 

She sits in a hard, stone-cold silence as still as a statue until she only nods and mindlessly squeezes the hem of her skirt, anxious.

 

Her mother must have got the memo because instead of carrying on, she only sighs and drums her nails once more, taking a loose glance around. “Alright. Now, get dressed. We’re going out—Franco too.”

 

Verona’s gaze jerks up to meet hers. “But, Franco and I were going to go hang out with Giulia—”

 

Her mother interrupts before she could finish: “Uh-uh. You’ve avoided us long enough. It’s high time you spent some time with your family.”

 

Verona kicks her legs off of the edge of her bed. “Has padre agreed to this?” She asks, trying not to sound accusatory.

 

Her mother shoots her an incredulous look. “Your padre is the one who came up with this,” she responds, and, for some reason, Verona can’t bring herself to believe that.

 

——————

 

First, they grab a late brunch at a local cafe. Her mother coos and awes over the crunch and sweetness of the bread, but Verona remains reticent.

 

In her solemn seat at the table, she wonders about Giulia, Luca, and Alberto. Where could they be? Perhaps they’d pass by so she could signal to them for some allotment of reprieve. She waits and watches and wonders, but they never come.

 

Eventually, her father spots a tourist’s guide poking out of the rack near the register. He saunters up, undaunted, and plucks up the pamphlet without asking if it was free of charge. He carries it back to the table, then smacks it down with a happy flourish. Together (without the say from their daughter or her friend) Verona’s parents draw up lines and circles upon the map in the back-fold, a whole day’s worth of outings.

 

Then, they’re off to the dock.

 

It’s a windier day than it had been before. It feels nice, though having to constantly brush hair out of her face grows a bit annoying. Thankfully, she’s already fairly accustomed to the scenery and no longer worries about tripping on a loose nail as her father begins an impromptu interview with two local fishermen. Instead, she simply follows along, wishing she had brought a hair tie or a hat as Franco jumps down, off of the dock, and onto the boulders they had strolled across days prior.

 

Her mother’s nose scrunches, hands worrying together as she looks down at the boy. “That looks unsafe,” she notes, turning slightly to look back over her shoulder toward her husband, finishing up the conversation. She opens her mouth to call to him, but Verona knows her father doesn’t like to be rushed.

 

So, she steps in: “It’s fine, actually. We walked all the way down to the end, before, with Giulia and Luca.”

 

Her mother squints against the sun as she traces Verona’s finger all the way to the horizon—or, at least, where the boulders meet the white, lapping waves. Her lips press into an unsure line, the cracks twitching with a clear unease. “Hm…”

 

Then, to her mother’s surprise, a hand lays over her shoulder. “This would be a great place to take photos,” her father cheers, two rows of perfect, pearly white teeth shining brightly as he puts on a salesman’s grin and, if he had noticed he had started his wife, he doesn’t make it obvious. “How about we come back at sunset for a photoshoot?”

 

Her mother retracts her hand from her heart and allows it to rest against her stomach. “Oh, that’d be lovely,” she agrees. Then, her focus returns to her daughter. “Verona, go fetch Franco. We’ll come back to this later.”

 

Never one to argue against an order, Verona does as she’s told. And, never one to argue against a friend’s family, Franco climbs back onto the dock and does his best to hide the little pout pulling at his bottom lip. On the walk back, her father eagerly mentions his idea of grabbing some pictures at a “hidden” beach, but that’s far, far up the mountain. And, her mother has a much closer inclination.

 

——————

 

Portorosso is a tourist location.

 

Meaning: Portorosso gets most of its economic flow from the streams of the wide ocean that is the wallets of wealthy strangers.

 

Meaning: Verona finds herself in a dimly lit clothing store tucked away on a busy street. Her eyes try to focus, but there’s so much merchandise packed into such a little spot that it’s nearly impossible to focus on any one thing at once. It almost feels as if she even so much as breathes in a little too much air, she’d end up knocking over a row of pretty felt mannequin’s necks, sending beads and pearls and buttons to cascade across the tiled floor.

 

It’s just like Signore Massimo’s pescheria, except instead of a giant swordfish strung up across the wall, there are colorful, intricately patterned lady’s handbags dangling from the ceiling. Every inch of wall space is covered with fabrics of blue, teal, gold, maroon, chartreuse, and violet. There are stripes and polka dots and chevrons and even a few fleur de lis.

 

There are bright, bulky pieces of jewelry neatly displayed behind glass boxes, and there are other bowls of surely hundreds of wide rings, only for a handful of lire each. Verona doesn’t know where to begin—or if there even was a beginning.

 

So, unlike days prior, Verona does, now, bother with heuristics. She saunters up and down the aisles, running her hands along all of the different colors and textures of the clothes she passes. A nice silk top makes her stop and second-guess, but the awkward patterning along the neckline allows her to continue on.

 

This was her mother’s idea, and though she does think it a little embarrassing (it’s never pleasant to be so obviously tourists), she does find herself enjoying this quite a bit. So, when she comes upon a rack of sunglasses, she does take an extra few minutes to try some on with the small, thin mirror nailed up nearby.

 

Turning her head this way and that, she asks, “What do you think about these?”

 

“They make you look like a Lennon,” Franco very bluntly answers, twiddling a pair in his fingers.

 

Verona pouts, but she takes off the glasses anyway. “That’s not very kind…but, fair.” She thought they looked quite nice. They certainly weren’t her style, but they were so modern! For a short minute of time, as she posed in the mirror, tilting her head ever so slightly so that her hair fell off of her neck, she managed to imagine herself on the cover of one of those for-teen magazines. Or, at least one of those Christmas periodicals her nonna has her encircle gifts out of every year. 

 

“Just looking out for you,” Franco sighs as they both depart from the sunglass section to slowly walk down an aisle full of hanging skirts.

 

Now, this is what Verona likes. She wants to stop and scrutinize each one, picturing what else her wardrobe yields and how utile this skirt or that may be if added to her ever-growing collection, but as she continues at a consistently slow pace down the aisle, she’s becoming increasingly aware of the boy dragging his feet behind her. Her mind starts to wander from all of the color and patterns. She begins to reprimand herself for taking so much time—he must be growing bored. How selfish can one be? Ensuring she doesn’t look too anxious, she turns for only a second towards Franco to loosely apologize, “Sorry for making you do this, ragazzo. It must be like torture.”

 

“What’re you talking about? I love this.”

 

This makes her pause. Her feet halt suddenly, head swiveling to get a closer—keener—look. “Seriously? You like shopping?” She doesn’t mean for her words to come out so surprised, but they do.

 

Franco, however, only shrugs. “Sure,” he says as if it’s nothing. As if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

 

Verona stares at him for one second longer, but his composure does not budge. His eyes do not dart; his hands stay firmly inside of his pants pockets. He’s telling the truth, and Verona can only nod and return to her browsing with a steady stream of slightly startled thoughts.

 

How had she not known that before? She had known him since they were just kids, but she cannot remember one time going to a clothes shop with him. Had she never invited him, or had it just never came up as an opportunity? To her despair, she knows it to be the prior. She and Giulia have surely spent hours together picking over items, sometimes with Luca at their side but mostly with only themselves.

 

While taking off a floral skirt off of its rack, she apologizes again, “Sorry we never invited you.”

 

Franco quirks a brow. “Oh, trust me. You’re good.”

 

Weird. Verona shoots him a confused glance. His tone felt a little bit too implicative for such a dismissal of guilt. Then again, Franco doesn’t have much control over his tone or facial expressions. He’ll be over the moon in joy, and the only evidence of it will be slightly widened eyes and a hastier pacing in speech. He almost always stays at a cool, mellow monotone that dips into sarcasm or irritation every now and again, but Verona knows he cares. 

 

Further into the store, Verona’s mother magically appears behind her, seemingly out of thin air. “You find anything you like?”

 

After turning sharply to ensure she had properly placed the voice, Verona nods, showing off a small collection of skirts and blouses gathered up in her arms. Not much—certainly not more than ten items total—but enough to please. “Just a few things.”

 

The lines about her mother’s mouth darken as she smiles, though it doesn’t feel as warm as Verona believes it should. “Oh, bene. Have you tried anything on yet?”

 

Verona shakes her head.

 

“Well, go on, then.” Her mother orders, making a shooing motion with her hand. She steps closer. Then, she leans down. For a moment, Verona believes that she’s leaning a little to ensure her hair doesn’t hit the row of hanging toddler’s tops even though it is well above her, but then her hand forms a cover to hide her mouth as she not-quietly-at-all whispers, “I think your padre is antsy to check out that hidden beach, so best be fast, okay?”

 

“Sì, madre.” Verona nods again as her mother snickers to herself, and she leaves.

 

For a minute, Verona only teases with the notion that such a small, cramped store would be able to fit a dressing room. They hardly even managed to fit a register between all of the bracelets, watches, earrings, hats, and neckties, but as her eyes travel up from the racks and shelves, up to the walls all around, she is quickly disproven once again. There, in the far back corner, a little wooden sign reads CAMERINI QUI in big, white painted letters.

 

“You coming?” she asks Franco.

 

“You want a second opinion?” His eyebrow quirks.

 

She thinks on it for a moment. “It wouldn’t hurt.” 

 

Franco shrugs. “Alright. Lead the way.”

 

On her grandfather’s grave, this store is a labyrinth. Only, except for the bones of those fallen before her, there are little faded stickers speaking of a long-past clearance sale, and instead of a mighty and ferocious minotaur, there are other patrons taking up entire pathways as they perused. It takes an incredible amount of effort and a fearsome amount of shuffling around, but Verona does eventually end up at the entrance.

 

However, the journey is never the hardest part.

 

Verona knows this, and yet she is still surprised when, just out of sight, she hears something that sends a wave of electricity throughout her spine—well over the amount needed to restart the heart of a horse.

 

“Hey, so, this is wildly off-topic…What is an altruist?”

 

“An altruist is someone who does good without selfish reaso—”

 

“Oh. Ciao.”

 

Both Luca’s and Alberto’s heads immediately swivel to hers.

 

Their two pairs of eyes settle onto her like four red sniper lasers, and she feels the muscles in her upper arm constrict. She braces for impact—braces for a clap over the shoulder, for jovial yelling, for a big brotherly bear hug that’s so completely unnecessary—but it proves pointless.

 

The reaction she had expected is not the one she receives.

 

Luca only grins and greets her and Franco with a little wave, “Oh, buongiorno, ragazzi!” but the corners of his eyes don’t crinkle nearly as much as his brow lifts in surprise. Meanwhile, Alberto gapes for a second’s notice, eyes wide and framed with upward-tilting brows pulling in to wrinkle his forehead. His hands jerk up in an exasperated, pleading position. He sits on a bench parallel to standing Luca, his legs partially crossed, and slouches before fixing himself. Before painting over his small but apparent despair with a clean, white wash of indifference. And, god, does it make Verona feel like the worst person on Earth.

 

He stays uncharacteristically quiet as Luca carries on, “Come state?”

 

“I’m alright,” Franco says, totally unperturbed.

 

Verona adds, “We’re good—just shopping with my parents.”

 

Alberto gives a small, acknowledging grunt, scraping (anxiously?) at the small, baby hairs along his nape.

 

Not much of a response. “Were you guys getting some new stuff, too?” Verona asks, gesturing to the small piles of pants and tops flanking Alberto on the bench.

 

“Mhm,” Luca confirms. Alberto has stopped making eye contact with her at all. “Just looking around.”

 

Verona’s eyebrows furrow. Something is going on. “…Right.”

 

Franco, behind and a little beside her, points to a closed stall in the far back corner. “That Giulia?”

 

Alberto readjusts himself, scratching his chin while looking up and away—presumably at the posters and advertisements adorning the walls, but Verona knows better. “Oh, she’s at the pescheria. You looking for her?” he offers, voice light but so weirdly monotone. His gaze returns to Franco, and it’s still half-lidded as days prior, but his lips don’t even quirk with a smile. They stay in a simple and insouciant line.

 

Franco shakes his head. “It’s surprising she’s not around,” Verona voices, though she’s unsure if it’s the right thing to say.

 

“Yeah, is she alright?” Franco asks without any hint of urgency. Verona grows a little green at his ability to stay so relaxed as everyone else seems to be suffering the effects of a terribly awkward conversation.

 

Even when Alberto laughs, it feels forced. “Uhh, yeah? Why wouldn’t she be?” His smile is more squint than it is a grin. His leg begins to bounce.

 

And, Franco’s stoic mask begins to crack. His eyebrows furrow if only by a millimeter. He almost grimaces as his spine rounds forward, questioning, “Are…you alright?”

 

Alberto shrugs. “I’m fine.”

 

Then, by the grace of god, Luca steps forward, placing a hand on Alberto’s shoulder as he stands closer—enough to the point that his knees grace the other boy’s outer thigh. “Haha, ci perdoni, ragazzi.” He smiles, and it almost feels genuine. Verona can’t tell if his light blush is from embarrassment or flusteredness as he explains, “Alberto and I were planning just hanging out alone, today, since this is kind of our friendship-anniversary—the eighteenth of June. That’s why Giulia’s not here.”

 

Oh god.

 

“Plus, Wednesday got skipped,” Alberto adds.

 

Ew, ew, ew.

 

“That too, right,” Luca acknowledges, hands clasping together.

 

And, Verona is thankful for the explanation, but good lord, that’s GROSS! No wonder Alberto hadn’t been too elated upon their arrival; they were intruding what is, essentially, a date! She doesn’t care if it’s technically only to celebrate their “friendship-anniversary.” This cannot be as innocuous as Luca put it. If she knows anything about Luca, it’s that he is always coming up with some plan to reach some goal he wants, and Alberto most certainly fits that description.

 

Although, is Alberto even obtainable at this point? Is he even gay? He doesn’t seem gay—he seems straight as arrow, but then again, it’s a terrible folly to judge a book by its cover. Say, what else is there to judge his sexuality upon? There was that one time her hit on her mother— NOPE!

 

Verona thinks she hides her cringe well enough with a long, twiny, and winding, “Oooohhhhh….” At least, she hopes so, because Franco’s mask of stoicism has completely fallen from his face and shattered into a million pieces.

 

“Va bene, have fun!” he yells, waving, as he exits the scene as quickly as possible. 

 

In an instant, he becomes a magnet. Verona’s knees and toes buckle, desperate to relinquish herself to the pull of it’s poles, to follow him out of the store and not speak to Luca or Alberto for as long as it takes to forget this terrible, seemingly interminable moment.

 

“Well, that sounds fun,” Verona attempts to speak.

 

Alberto nods. Luca smiles.

 

Her teeth clench together, but she presses onward, reminding herself of her purpose. She remembers why she even came here in the first place, and she uses it to her advantage. “Right, well, I need to use one of these, so…”

 

In a flash, Alberto stands up from the bench. Verona flinches backward, clutching her items tighter, but he only steps aside—steps beside Luca, grabbing his arm and pulling him back—and gives her a wide berth.

 

Verona doesn’t believe the grabbing was necessary, nor was the standing. He could have turned to the side; Luca could have gotten out of the way himself. He isn’t a child who's deaf to instruction, but Verona doesn’t have time to worry over that, now.

 

She shuffles past, apologizing as she brushes up against the two of them, and walks into the first dressing room available. Since there’s only two, she walks into the one that’s not closed—the one that Luca was standing in front of upon her and Franco’s entrance.

 

She catches her breath for a minute inside of the little stall. Unsurprisingly, there’s barely enough room to bend over. A large, life-size mirror takes up one wall, and a small, green, rounded-off cylinder protrudes from the other. Verona assumes it’s to hang up unwanted clothes when finished, but it’s already almost entirely taken up by a number of pants and shirts. She tries not to be too upset about it.

 

But as soon as her heartbeat settles, she finds she’s not out of the woods yet.

 

From inside of the little stall, she hears the conversation outside continue, and she has no choice but to continue to be an unwilling witness. Great. Should have followed Franco, she mopes as she begins to try on the first skirt.

 

“Anyway…those pants definitely look ten times better. You’re right.” That’s Alberto, undoubtedly. It’s a pleasant surprise to hear him admit that he was wrong—Verona hadn’t thought he was capable of that.

 

Then, her eyes alight with a realization: this is the perfect opportunity to see Alberto interact with those he’s familiar with. With those who supposedly know The Real Him.

 

This is Grade-A data, right here.

 

She almost grins in excitement. Who cares what her father wishes? She’ll take as long as she needs in here; her notebook is getting filled tonight!

 

“Fantastico!” Luca cheers, and she can just see his fists clench and sway in joy. “Now, what about the shirt? I think it’s great—it’s not at all constricting in the sleeves!”

 

“Well…”

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’s just…not really your color.”

 

Verona quirks a brow. Luca questions, “What do you mean? I love its color—it’s just like the Pillars of Creation!”

 

“Pillars of Creation?” Alberto dumbly repeats. He doesn’t sound as disbelieving as she would have expected him to be. Rather, he seems genuinely interested.

 

“Mhm! Famous nebulae in the constellation Serpens—all brown, green, and speckled with white. It’s one of my favorites, and doesn’t this just go so well with this ascot?”

 

Shuffling, humming, until finally: “Yeah, yeah. That’s really cool—you’ll have to show it to me sometime, but that just…doesn’t really…compliment you’re, uh.” Alberto loses the words. He gives up. “It just doesn’t look good on you. I’m sorry.” Ouch.

 

“What? What’s wrong with it?” Luca doesn’t sound hurt, thankfully. He sounds more incredulous than anything, and Verona wishes she had caught a better look at what he was wearing rather than gawking at the reality of his presence.

 

Fortunately, Alberto isn’t one to hold back—not anymore, it seems. “It’s the color,” he sighs, his words coming out short and quick yet still solemn and sorry. 

 

“But that’s the best part,” Luca rebutes.

 

“Amico, it’s color theory,” Alberto argues back, and now his tone is sharp and stern. There’s a weightiness to it, like the sounds from a bass drum instead of his usual snare and hi-hat. “You have really pink skin and dark hair. That shirt just won’t mix—say, why don’t we go back to that one you said was the same color as Nettuno? You always look so good in that tealish blue.”

 

“No way, that one’s boring!” Verona’s glad he isn’t giving in. Maybe he isn’t trapped so far beneath Alberto’s thumb as she thought he was. “This one actually has patterning on it, see?”

 

But before Luca even finishes the last syllable, Alberto speaks up. “I get that, but it’s still not your color.”

 

Luca huffs. “You call everything that’s not blue or green ‘not my color’.”

 

“No, no! You’d look good in a dark magenta or like a dark violet, too. It’s just that no one makes men’s clothes those colors, so I’m always stuck here telling you blue or green.”

 

“You’re not stuck here. You can leave at any time.” For as catty as his words are, his tone is more light—airy— coy . So he is into banter, huh?

 

Strangely, Alberto matches it. “Oh yeah? And who else’s hard-earned lire would you spend?”

 

And, as much as Verona loves a bit of friendly back-and-forth, she doesn’t quite enjoy that. Of course, she was already well aware of Luca’s financial independence upon Alberto. Signora Maria pays for some and Verona, Franco, and Giulia are sure to cover him every now and again if needed, but it’s a rare occurrence because, like clockwork, Alberto’s envelopes come in first with a letter and second with a good amount of neatly folded up lire to use however which way Luca pleases. Verona knows that the Paguros have no money at all to speak of, and she knows that the Marcovaldos are already struggling to pay for Giulia’s tuition, a house, an apartment, and, very likely, the diet and lifestyle of a sixteen-year-old boy. However, this doesn’t seem…safe.

 

What is to happen if Luca and Alberto had a falling out? What is to happen if Alberto no longer cares about Luca enough to pay for all of life’s expenses? 

 

She’s sure that she, Franco, and Giulia would do the best that they can to support him, but she realizes with subtle horror that Alberto isn’t only responsible for getting Luca to the surface. He’s responsible for his endurance, too, and that leaves Luca in an incredibly vulnerable position.

 

Furthermore, Luca seems to be aware of that. His words grow quiet as Alberto’s hang in the air. He’s silent and pondering, quiet and pleasant.

 

He’s malleable.

 

Verona gives him sympathy, of course. If she, too, were in such a scenario, she thinks she would do everything in her power not to walk upon his toes. She would do everything that was asked of her and more. She would, without a doubt, allow herself to become a magician’s and comedian’s prop. Dignity in exchange for a future—is this what this is? Is this why they’re friends?

 

Hopefully not.

 

Finally, he fights back, “Ugh. Color theory is such a pseudo-science,” but she hears the disappointment in his tone. He’s giving in. He’s being an obedient subservient—allowing his own wishes and wills to be discarded for Alberto’s desires. But what is the importance of a shirt color, anyway? Why would Alberto care what Luca wears? It’s not as if Luca’s image could ever tamper with his own, being so far up the social ladder.

 

Then, she remembers a story her mother once told her—how her old friend’s boyfriend began with the way she did her hair, then how she dressed. Next, he was picking out her friends for her, and soon after she wasn’t allowed to go out without his say. It began with a simple barrette, and it ended with total and debilitating control.

 

He could be taking control.

 

But, no, that couldn’t be it. They’re smart enough to not fall for that, though Giulia is known to be dense and Luca is known to be a bit naïve. But she’s been wrong about Alberto before, and she just simply doesn’t want to be right about this.

 

Then, a loud slap! rings out.

 

It takes her a second to process that the sound likely came from Alberto hitting his own thighs and not his friend’s cheek, who still has the leftovers of a welt painted across his entire face from a soccer ball he sent his way, as Alberto nearly shouts, “Okay, that’s it! I’m putting my foot down. That CANNOT be a real word!”

 

Luca is completely and utterly unphased. “What, pseudo-science?”

 

“Yeah, like, what does that even mean?” Verona can just hear his nose scrunch, and the vision sends a twinge of disgust to bubble at the base of her throat.

 

Luca explains, “It’s like another astrology. You know—it’s the culmination of a bunch of made-up but easy-to-believe ideas that are marketed as a science despite not being actually scientifically legitimate—” 

 

Alberto exasperates, “Ragazzo, color theory is scientifically legitimate.”

 

Luca tsks. “Says who?”

 

“I dunno! Some ancient artsy science guys!”

 

“I thought you said art is subjective.”

 

“Art is subjective, but that shirt’s just shit—”

 

Verona pushes open the door. She hadn’t meant for it to make a full swing, slamming into the wall with a loud, ferocious BANG. She blushes, gathering all of her belongings (her purse, two skirts, and a blouse) back into her arms, and pushes forward, shuffling past the two boys with a simple “Scusi!”

 

She wants to get away—her feet, calves, and ankles itch to take off and leave this place to never ever again return—but that is not her purpose. Rather, it is to throw a look over her shoulder, look Luca up and down from head to toe, and grin:

 

“Hey, nice top! That looks really good on you, Luca!”

 

She swears the daggers Alberto shot her were sharp enough to sear through titanium. Luca, on the other hand, only smiled and bounced on his feet. “Oh, grazie mille!” he thanked her with that ceaselessly warm, bubbly quality before sticking out his tongue at Alberto, who had slouched over with his head resting in his dirty palms.

 

Alberto mimed biting it off, his teeth making a harsh clack as they came together. Luca laughs, but even as Alberto turns his head away, Verona can feel his hateful stare upon her as she makes her exit. 

 

This isn’t good.

 

——————

 

On this cloudless yet windy day, the sunset isn’t the prettiest Verona has seen, but the sky breathes with orange, yellow, peach, and blue hues. From where she stands, she can see small sprinkles of stars cresting over the blackened mountains, the moon already as large as ever as it balances between the peaks.

 

Her father, ten paces away, shows Franco how to handle the camera. The boy gets a good grip on it—gets his fingers poised into the proper position—then waits patiently as the man jogs up to stand behind his wife and daughter.

 

Over her mother’s waist, her father’s hand lies while the other gently grasps her upper arm. She wants to squirm, a live wire beneath the press against her back, the hand on her arm and the two more on her shoulders, but she also doesn’t want to get into trouble. Still, her hands ball into one awkward fist near her naval. She smiles, wishing and waiting for this to be over already, but as least her father is blocking some of the wind from fussing with her hair.

 

“Smile with your teeth, Verona,” her mother says, grip tightening.

 

Then, the camera flashes, once, twice, until Franco lowers the viewfinder from his eye, quick to catch the paper falling out of the bottom—just a white rectangle with a pure, black square in the middle.

 

“You got it, ragazzo?” Verona’s father questions, unmoving.

 

“I think so, signore,” Franco answers, giving a thumbs up.

 

Finally, her father pulls away. Her mother releases her, following close to her husband as he claps loudly and cheers, “Stellar! Bravo, Franco.”

 

The boy only nods a thanks.

 

Verona’s mother picks up a conversation: “Bene, now, let’s go before it gets too dark.”

 

There comes no rebuttal to that, and the four begin to walk back up the dock, back to the piazza, back to the winding streets leading up to their pensione.

 

Verona had worried the walk back to town would be too dark to see, but even without many streetlights or neon signs or car headlights to illuminate the way, there were still windows glowing with faint gold light, candles flickering inside windows, lanterns hanging, swaying in the wind outside of doors.

 

It was undoubtedly darker than Genova, but it wasn’t blinding. In fact, it was almost nice—serene—like something out of a picture book. She supposes that a sky smattered with stars was good for something other than beauty. It sure helped to ease her nerves, but that doesn’t hold a candle to Franco walking beside her, asking, “You think it’s okay if that island was a bit in-frame?”

 

She blinked at him. “Huh?”

 

“I tried to get it out of frame as much as possible, but I think it still ended up being in the shot.”

 

She turned her head over her shoulder, back down to the dock, only the size of a pencil from here. And, sure enough, there was that sloping island settled upon the distant horizon, the one Alberto suggested multiple times that he and Luca go visit together—alone with no one else around. “Oh, uh…”

 

She turns back to Franco.

 

She shrugs. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Chapter 8: Neuroticism

Summary:

On a picnic-island-adventure, Alberto is not a happy camper.

Notes:

theme-heavy chapter again. Specifically for the “white activism” tag.

Sig. Massimo peers down at his daughter, his typically furrowed eyebrows lifted up as he squints, terribly confused. “You…want to go to L’Isola del Mare?”

 

The apprehension in his surprisingly gentle voice is odd—unexpected. Though, the events of the entire morning had been a bit odd. As expected, Alberto and Giulia were making deliveries. By their luck, Verona and Franco found them on their way down from the pensione, but the crate rattling behind Giulia’s bike wasn’t weighed down by only wood and produce. Luca sat, too, kicking his legs on the very end with a hand holding the stereo steady, as happy as a clam.

 

As it turns out, Luca has weekends off.

 

Meaning, the discussion about today’s plans had already began without Verona or Franco’s input, and it had been decided by the three that they all wanted to do something bigger. Yesterday had been a blunder—something that must be made up for, and fast.

 

Verona didn’t think she had much of a preference until Giulia, wanting to do something outdoorsy, suggested they all go bike-riding on the mountainous, cliffside trails to Corniglia. Then, she asked that they not do anything too active. Alberto said he didn’t want to spend any money—apparently still sore after yesterday—and Luca suggested that they only hike the trails, instead, crooning about the lovely views of the vast, blue sea from those wild, rocky peaks.

 

That was when Franco suggested they go to the island.

 

Giulia and Luca immediately jumped the bandwagon on that. Giulia mourned her missed chance from last summer, and Luca reminisced about the beauty, the nostalgia, and the intangible string always pulling his heart there, out to that little island on the horizon. Even Franco chimed in about its proximity to the seafolk population settled nearby—how he was just so interested in what all could be offered by just a view from its shores.

 

Alberto, however, was resistant.

 

He had been resistant days before, loudly boasting about how something was boring or lame or cheesy or dumb— but this was different. 

 

He didn’t loudly shout his indignations, he didn’t throw hands over his face while bending backwards, putting on a show of distaste and bitter-feeling. He stayed quiet. His brow hardened, lax eyes growing wide and pin-pointed as his crossed arms pulled tighter to his chest like bandaids squeezing a bleeding wound.

 

He still remained quiet—as silent as a whisper until Luca turned to him, gaze wary and hands knitting together in front of his heart. Fumbling slow, as if a prey realizing a motion-sensitive predator is only two meters behind. “But, it’s Alberto’s decision, really.”

 

This, Verona still doesn’t understand. She hopes her indignance wasn’t too obvious, but it was almost painful to watch Luca recoil in such a manner. She understands the island is special to Alberto, too. It’s where they met. It’s where they became friends. It’s their own special oasis—away and private where no one else can reach. But it’s not just Alberto’s space. It’s Luca’s, too, and the fact of him having to covertly ask for permission is just absolutely ridiculous. It sickens Verona the way it sickens her to see her mother request permission from her father to drive the car to the grocery store. It absolutely reeks of a power imbalance, and Luca must know that.

 

He must, because his eyes flitted to everyone else—making sure they were watching—as he tried to cover it up: “I mean, you are the one with the boat.” But it’s just a bad mask. Luca was never good at lying; he’s just too animated.

 

His smile is too uncomfortable, his nose too scrunched. Even his knees and feet buckle inwards, hands still up, wrapped together before his chest. All of that excitement burst into anxious energy. If he had his earfins out, they’d be pressed against his jaw, cowering.

 

Anyone with a working eye could see right through him, but no one is looking at him, now. They’ve all turned their gaze to the man of the hour, the boy with the boat.

 

For once, Alberto doesn’t seem to enjoy the limelight. For once, he isn’t giving any definitives. For once, he’s relinquishing control. “Yeah, I just…I dunno. I mean—do you want to?”

 

Luca admitted that he does. Then, Alberto clapped his hands and decided it. “Alright! We’re going to L’Isola del Mare!” he announced, suddenly perfectly okay! Snapped back to normal, back to that obnoxious, shark-toothed grin.

 

So, now they stand awkwardly, packed like sardines in Sig. Massimo’s cramped little kitchen. Luca anxiously wrings his hands around the back beam of a chair; Alberto stands tall beside his cooking father; Franco inspects a shark jaw balanced up high on a shelf, and they all listen to Giulia insist, “Yeah! We were thinking that, since it’s such a nice day—and Verona and Franco have never been—we could all go have a picnic over there and walk around some!”

 

Her father’s mustache twitches. His eyes look up from his daughter, down to his boiling pasta, and out to the window, unsure.

 

Why is this so difficult?

 

It can’t be private property. Is it just dangerous or something? Did a bad storm come? Did someone drown in a mudslide?

 

Giulia adds, “Plus, the beach is super crowded.”

 

Massimo looks at Alberto, and something is there. It’s some sort of silent conversation, words spoken in the crinkles of his growing crow’s feet. A heavy tone in the bristling of each and every mustache hair tugging downward before straightening out. A wince. A twinge of hesitance—apprehension. The pause for approval, for permission.

 

Alberto just shrugs. He nods, and he sighs, “Super crowded,” without meeting his father in the eye.

 

Massimo looks up, breathing until his shoulders rise and square. He looks to the window, but Verona can’t see how he may be checking the shoreline. Large, ripe lemons and tens upon tens of garlic bulbs hang in the open space. A thin curtain flutters in the small breeze. In an implacable tone, he offers, “It is tourist season. Might need a hand with the nets…”

 

But Alberto only huffs. “I’m good, papà.”

 

Rude. Verona has no idea how anyone could speak to their parents with such curtness—especially when they’re asking for such a responsibility. Sure, she speaks to her parents that way every now and again, but they typically deserve it. Thus far, Massimo has done nothing wrong, only said that he might need an extra hand, and Verona can see why. Literally.

 

Fortunately, Giulia is much more polite. “Yeah, we’ve got it all under control,” she chimes, grinning comfortingly as she tosses a look over her shoulder. “Right, Luca?”

 

Luca’s eyes snap open; he hadn’t expected to be called upon for input. “Oh! Right,” he repeats, white-knuckling the beam of the chair and bouncing ever so slightly on his tippy-toes for emphasis.

 

Giulia nods—confident, composed. “Right. So, where are the keys?”

 

Massimo gestured loosely with the wet, wooden spoon to the little key rack nailed up in the hallway. They all said their thanks—though Sig. Massimo pat only Alberto on the shoulder in response—and followed Giulia as she led the way out of the house with a pep in her step and a promise on the wind: “We’ll be back before dark! Ciao, papà!”

 

——————

 

The boat rocks gently upon the calm, clear waters. So far from shore, the waves lap at the edges of the cramped, little vessel but do not break into foam as the sounds of Portorosso diminish into the distance, leaving only the periodic gulp of the water or bird calling overhead. The sky is big and blue, lighter than the dark waters around them.

 

It’s an odd feeling that overcomes her when she looks down into those dark waters and tries not to feel fear. Having lived in Genova her entire life, she’s been near the water, but never thought it clean enough to swim. She’s much more accustomed to pools or lakes, not the imperceptible depths. And, she knows sea monsters exist—and that they’re friendly—but the thought of a giant squid or a megalodon or even a colossal leviathan does, still, scare her no matter how much Luca ensures no such things—except for the giant squid, of course—exist.

 

That may be why Verona cannot stop her heart from racing. That, or the fact that that boy stands almost directly in front of her, hands wrapped strong and determined about the steer and throttle. Giulia and Luca flank him, of course, and only sway a little as he steers the boat to the left, southward. Meanwhile, Franco almost topples over Verona, and Verona’s heel clacks loudly against the tin box of bread, meat, veggies, and cheese they’ll make sandwiches from later.

 

She groans a little as she gets back into place. She has a feeling she is going to be sore, anyway, from sitting on beams of seemingly raw, unpainted wood, but all of the jostling does nothing to aid her comfort. She can’t see how Luca, Giulia, or Franco aren’t wincing, too.

 

Alberto doesn’t apologize, though. Rather, he straightens out his back and looks over them all with a hard, stern gaze. “Alright? Everyone good?” he asks, his tone indistinguishable from that of Verona’s least favorite teachers.

 

Fittingly, everyone murmurs varying answers of approval—none strong enough to spark a conversation.

 

His nose scrunches but only for a second. Then, his eyes flicker downwards, and he continues, “Alright, so.” He wets his lip, then shakes out his arms. Verona wonders how much of it is actually nerves and how much of it is just showing off muscle. He’s already wearing a sleeveless top, too. “While we’re there, you all listen to me and Luca. If we say don’t go somewhere, don’t go. If we say don’t touch something, don’t touch it.”

 

Really, who does he think they are? They’re not children, yet he’s treating them all as if they’re a bunch of rowdy kids on a school field trip. She’s trying to remember if he had always been this bossy—this condescending—or if this is just sticky residue from yesterday’s alone time with Luca.

 

Additionally, despite the use of the royal we, it feels like he’s telling them all to listen to him than to listen to Luca. At least, it does until he sighs, “Okay. That’s all I got. Luca, you have anything to say?”

 

Just as he was in the kitchen, Luca is unprepared. “Oh, uh!” he stutters, and it’s such a pity. Is that residue, also? Yesterday, without her, Franco, and Giulia there to help him, had Alberto been so denigrative and commanding that he still feels uncomfortable to talk? Uncomfortable, too unsure of himself and his capabilities to make a decision? To encourage and be courageous?

 

She hopes not, but if Alberto was that critical about a simple shirt, she can’t imagine how he is about larger matters.

 

It almost hurts her when Luca looks down, shaking his head. “No, I think you covered it.” However, he doesn’t stay as submissive for long. When Alberto sits down, claiming a spot on the floor, allowing for Giulia to take over the throttle and for Luca to continue, “You know, just watch out for oleander and try not to fall” something miraculous happens.

 

Luca smiles. He lights up, grin sparkling like the sunshine atop dew-wrought hills.

 

“The island is just amazing, and I’m sure you’ll all come to love it just as much as I do,” he assures, gestures becoming loose, breaking free of the rigid chains of anxiety and uncertainty. Even as his smile simmers to create some degree of severity, he remains alert and unperturbed. “But, it can get pretty steep or thorny. So, do listen to us because we do know our way around.”

 

“And we’re not going in the tower,” Alberto adds, voice gruff in his hunched-over state. Verona can’t see his face for the thick of his arms, tucked tightly about his head, but she’s sure he’s scowling. Hopefully he doesn’t remain that way for the entirety of the journey. That would be a pain.

 

“Oh, yeah.” Luca nods, blinking as his eyes unfocus for only a second. “The tower is totally out of question—well, it’s not even in the equation, since there isn’t an entrance. So, it’s really if you break your spine trying to climb up it, we do not claim liability,” he giggles, but it’s breathy and feels forced. He looks down to Alberto, at his side, searching for reassurance like a child giving a presentation. “Otherwise…yeah, I think that’s it. Right?”

 

Now, Alberto nods. He lifts his head up, curving it backward until it rests against the rim. He must have expected Luca to continue on for longer, because his eyebrows twitch as if in reaction to a conversation—evidence of annoyed thoughts showing through, bubbling to the surface. He hums, “Yup,” as sharply and as exhausting as one can, then places one hand atop his knee to press and hold as he rises to an awkward stance. He flicks a leer their—Franco and Verona’s—way, then draws it back. “Now, I’m gonna go on ahead, and, uh, set up shop.”

 

Even with the breeze and waves and seagulls in her ears, Verona still manages to catch Franco’s breath hitching in his throat.

 

Franco watches wide-eyed, attentive to the highest degree, as Alberto turns to press the back of his thighs to the rim, thick, marred fingers encircling the wooden rail.

 

“Wait, what—“

 

Alberto cuts his sister off. “Ci vediamo,” he says, then tips backward.

 

It’s the same motion as before—the exact same—except this time the splash is not distant nor unseen. The splash is loud and striking. Water plumes up the side; the boat thrashes with the change in weight. Verona barely manages to react before Franco clambers over her, scrambling with desperation to see over the side of the boat. 

 

But, from behind the fabric, and the stringy blonde hair, and the sunshine beams bouncing off of the water, there is nothing that wasn’t there before. No hint. No flash of color—pink, was it? He simply disappeared.

 

Instinctively, Verona wants to call to Giulia to halt the boat. To stop and cry boy overboard! and search for some life raft to throw or coast guard to signal to, but her cognition clicks in.

 

Alberto’s fine. In fact, he’s more than fine. He’s in his element.

 

However, Verona doesn’t seem to be the only one experiencing some sort of knee-jerk reaction.

 

Luca has his knee pressed up to the wood before his hands stutter and pause. He’s muttering, “Oh, I should—“ before his voice goes out, giving way to a hesitant silence. His saucer-like eyes grow small and squinted, and it’s not due to the light.

 

He puts his foot down.

 

Franco, as anxious to see a sea monster as ever, quickly questions, “What’s the hold up? Jump in, dude.”

 

Luca’s gaze flickers to him. He looks almost upset. “It’s—I’m not…” He struggles to find the words. His mouth curves into a gentle frown, fingers curling as he shamefully hangs his head and admits, “I’m a Reefie. I’m not fast like him.”

 

Verona frowns. She doesn’t even smile when Franco finally returns to his own seat.

 

“It’d probably be faster for me to just stay on board,” Luca explains, and it must be false.

 

Alberto is likely faster than him, sure, being a migratory and all, but they’re animals of almost equal size and stature. Verona can’t say for sure, but she thinks that Alberto likely has the same fins and fin-placement as him. She looks to Franco for some input—some rebuttal—but Franco only stares at him with disappointment painted all over.

 

Verona feels a pang of empathy, though she knows it’s not the same. Franco isn’t as selfless as her. He must be disappointed that Luca is apprehensive to jump, to change in front of him, but Verona is disappointed in Alberto.

 

She was so excited to meet him back in Genova, but every opportunity he’s had, he’s used to prove himself a jerk.

 

Not only has he apparently sank his claws into Luca’s autonomy, it seems he’s torn into his self-assuredty. He’s went at the weave of confidence and utility with a machete and cut it all up, leaving only doubt and insecurity.

 

She doesn’t quite know what to do. Should she reassure him? Insist that he’s just as fast and skilled as he is, which will undoubtedly leave him to spend even more solitary time together, or should she remain quiet? Say nothing, and let his poor self-esteem take over.

 

She doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter. Giulia makes a decision. “Just go.”

 

“But—“ Luca tries to argue.

 

“Alberto would want you to go,” Giulia insists before Luca can continue on. She smiles warmly, but the flicker of determination in her eye doesn’t budge. However, her voice does lower as she reminds him, “Plus, we’re not supposed to leave him alone, remember?”

 

Luca’s expression wavers, hands stuttering over the rail. He grips it harder, steadying himself as he begins to nod. “Right—right, okay,” he says as he turns and hikes one leg over the rim—Franco leans in as if an avid fan at a sporting match—then the other, and he kicks off.

 

Again, the boat jostles. Skillfully, Giulia settles herself easily, and, yet again, Verona finds herself trapped—blind—beneath Franco’s weight as he throws himself to her side, desperate to catch a view.

 

Verona tries to draw in air. “Do…you want to switch seats?” She wheezes.

 

Without another word, Franco leaps to his feet. Then, he’s sat back down, now on the other side of Verona. She watches him almost humored as he drops his hands over the side to dip into the water, tracing, watching, and waiting while water only breaks beside his fingers, palm, and wrist. It’s like watching a puppy play with a ball—like a child pointing a pair of toy binoculars to the world outside the window. Even Giulia giggles a little; she must be finding humor in it too.

 

Verona wants to laugh and tease, but that would be rude. This is his element; she’s not going to intervene. She’s not like him. She’s an aspiring criminological psychologist, and she believes she has a knack for picking up on the little things folks typically skim over. So, still smiling, she asks, “So…what was that about not being able to leave him alone? Why not?”

 

Giulia blinks. She doesn’t look at her. Then, she does. She looks at Verona, snorting with an implicative, captious tone, “Oh, well. Alberto tends to get a bit distracted and Luca grounds him well.”

 

Verona doesn’t know what to make of that. “Ohh…” she drawls, trying to come up with something. She never took Alberto for a daydreamer, though she wouldn’t put it past him to stray from the subject at hand. Most boys like him would rather do anything in the world rather than what they ought to be doing. Luca certainly isn’t in that category; it’s a part of why she likes this group so much. Instead of having to deal with idiots who don’t know the material or imbeciles who assume she’s going to gladly do all the work for them, Giulia, Franco, and Luca all do their part! They always stay on task; They always make sure their head is in the game; Luca, especially, is never, ever distracted—

 

Verona’s thoughts draw to a screeching halt.

 

“Wait, seriously?” she voices, tone drenched in indignation. “Luca’s head is always in the clouds.” That is right! Luca daydreams constantly! He’s smart and he works hard, sure, but as soon as he’s done his part, he wraps up in his arms and takes a nap! Sometimes, Verona will catch him staring off into the distance without even having laid down, and he’ll say he’s just brainstorming, but they all know. They all know no one has a worse time keeping the world behind their eyes locked down than he.

 

Giulia, however, stands her ground. She scoffs a laugh, tossing a thick, red chunk of curls off of her shoulder. “Please. Alberto is way worse, trust me.” Then, like a small flame igniting, she comes alive. Her finger wags, her voice heights, and her eyebrows reach high as she nearly exclaims, “Literally, I’ll be having a whole conversation with him, and then out-of-the-blue, he’ll start talking about something completely off-topic as if he wasn’t even listening to me in the first place—”

 

“OH MY GOD!” Franco yells.

 

“What?!” Verona squeals, hiking up her legs.

 

“LOOK!”

 

Verona traces his finger out to the open, blue horizon, but there is nothing. It’s only steady, blue waves, fluffy white clouds, and that small, sloping body of land and flora. Fearfully, she scans the water for tentacles, for shark fins, for an enormous eyeball and gargantuan rows and rows of fangs, but there is nothing.

 

Until, a splash.

 

It’s small, almost imperceivable by the distance, but it’s enough. She gasps while Franco hollars, “YES! YES! AHAHAHA! YES!” because there’s a long— long— body of blue and purple arching up from the water with a smear of yellow followed by a curl of green, blue, and white. It twists—he twists—and the bodies look less like projectiles and more like animals. There, she sees the arm and legs. The tail, torso, and head.

 

Franco is fully whipped around, clutching onto the sides of the boat, bouncing on his knees like a child outside of the fence. “IS THAT HIM?!” he asks, not ripping his eyes away even as they disappear into the water once more.

 

“Yeah!” Giulia responds. “Cool, right?”

 

“SO COOL!” Franco corrects her. “HE IS SO COOL!!!”

 

Giulia laughs. “Yeah, okay, amico. Just remember they’re the exact same ridiculous dorks they were this morning.”

 

——————

 

Green. The first thing Verona notices about the island is that everything is so, so green.

 

It shouldn’t have surprised her as much as it did, given how vibrant the flora of Portorosso’s surrounding hills are, but now, so utterly surrounded by it, she can’t help but be in awe.

 

Second, if it isn’t green, then it is a warm, light, inviting brown often with yellow and orange accents. There, is the bark of the trees, the pebbles beneath her feet, and the large, water-licked rocks enclosing the area not like staggering, ominous walls but like the cushiony arms of a well-loved rocking chair. And, she could swear she heard rocking, but that could have been the creak of the branches, leaves rustling in the sea breeze, tickling her nose along with hints of musk and pollen.

 

And, speaking of smells—Alberto sits on the rock, thicks arms still folded over his chest, though awkwardly. Luca had been sitting beside him, a conversation passing between wrapped in whisper, but the second the boat drew into the basin, he jumped up on his feet. His hands flew in the air, waving enthusiastically. 

 

“You’re here! Fantastico!” he cheers. Alberto jerks slightly.

 

Suddenly and with wild abandon, Franco clambers to the other boy and siezes him by the shoulders. He grips him so tight, he almost shakes him. “You’re so cool,” he pants, breathless and raspy. Verona would pry him off, but she has her hands full with the heavy basket of ingredients. “We saw you guys jumping from the boat, and you were so cool.”

 

“Thanks,” Luca laughs a little, leaning away but clearly flattered. Alberto jogs up to him. For a moment, Verona thinks that he’s going to be the one to pitch a fit and force some distance between the two friends, but he stops short. His only stiffens, silent still. Besides, it’s really no matter. Franco releases Luca from his grip, and after taking a slight step back, Luca addresses everyone, asking, “So, where do you guys want to set up?”

 

“What’re the options?” Verona questions. Habitually, her gaze flickers first to Giulia, then to Alberto. Neither manage to get a word in edgewise before—

 

“Could we stay near the water?” Franco requests so loudly and so urhently it nearly sounds like an edict. “You know, in case we see any seafolk?” His head turns back to Luca, and Verona nearly snorts. Mamma mia, he’s like a little kid. “Do seafolk come up here? They ought to, don’t they?”

 

Luca blinks. “Oh, well, no. Not really—”

 

Alberto talks over him. Rather, he yells, “Oh yeah, this is a perfect spot! We could totally stay right here, right up against the nice, clear waters—” She doesn’t have the time to analyze his whiplash grin or wide, alight eyes before another opinion enters the mix:

 

“Yeah, I’d really rather go further up,” Giulia politely disagrees. “Might as well take in the scenery while we’re here, vero?” Unlike Franco, she doesn’t look around. Her focus stays pointedly on her brother. Everyone knows she’s only asking him, but he just…doesn’t respond.

 

Alberto just stares at her. He wears the same smile, squint, and wrinkle-lines perfectly, but he stares at her. His eyes, atop light pink bruises Verona doesn’t think she’s noticed until now, bore into her, pupils only thin black pinpoints like the end of a pricking needle. Verona recognizes that expression of one of barely concealed fury—an expression she’s seen from her mother many-a-time after she embarrasses her in front of relatives and visitors. She can’t lash out now—Alberto can’t lash out now—though she wants to. So, she just smiles.

 

Scary.

 

But, she has to agree.

 

Thoughtlessly, Verona nods.

 

“Verona? You want that, too?” Luca asks, wagging a finger.

 

She shrugs. “Yeah,” she offers, finding it oddly difficult to raise her voice. “I mean, it’d be a shame to pass up this opportunity, no?”

 

Luca nods. Then, a lightbulb goes off. “Oh yeah!” he says, clasping his hands together. He always does that when he has a fun idea. “And, I can tell you all about the island while we figure out a place to eat!” But, just as quick, he simmers down. His posture slackens; his voice quiets until it rests just a notch below average. He turns his focus back to Alberto, almost hesitant—almost meek. “If…that’s okay?”

 

Verona swears his eye twitched. Actually twitched. “I mean, there’s not really much to see,” he says, readjusting his arms tighter. Scraping his nails against his skin until it leaves chaffed, white streaks. “But, if that’s what everyone wants.”

 

————

 

Contrary to Verona’s initial assumption, they didn’t have to hike far.

 

Truthfully, they didn’t have to hike at all.

 

Immediately after agreeing to yet another impromptu tour, Luca assumed the role of leader. He stepped a little back from the group, shoulders square, back straight, eyes glowing with nostalgia.

 

He sweeps a hand to bring the ground to their attention. Hot, colorful pebbles that may burn if it weren’t for the soles of sandals and sneakers mixed in with peach sand and red, wet clay. His voice is clear and direct as if a man on a podium as he begins, “Alright, well, I guess we can start here.” A swallow as he tries and fails to bite down a terribly bashful grin. “This is where Alberto taught me how to walk. I was really bad at first, but he was a pretty good teacher, so I managed to catch on well.”

 

Franco, rapt, raised his hand. Once Luca turned his attention to him, he questioned, “You swim horizontally, right? Like a shark? What was going from being horizontal to vertical like? Dizzying?”

 

Luca shakes his head. “No, no. I don’t think so,” he assured. Verona has a feeling today is going to be one that Franco cherishes for a very, very long time as he elaborates, “See, we only really move around horizontally when in motion or when laying down. Otherwise, we’re always upright—“

 

“That’s a lie,” Alberto interrupts. A mean smirk tugs at his lips as his bitten finger pointed a swirling circle around his friend’s person. “He likes to twirl upside down.”

 

Luca scrunches his nose. “Okay, well. Yeah, but that’s kind of a me thing.”

 

Alberto snorts. “Was trying to walk on air just a you-thing, too?”

 

Luca huffs, and begins to walk away. “No, that was a getting-used-to-gravity thing.” As the group follows him out of the cove, he turns to look over his shoulder, though Verona can clearly see his eye lingers on Franco longer than anyone else. “Really, if anything was needed adjusting to, it was the fact that everything was suddenly so heavy…”

 

From there, he trails on. The island never quite opens up in full, though there aren’t nearly as many trees as Verona had expected. Rather than long, untouched oaks, there’s more bushes, tall grasses, and thicket. And, interestingly, footpaths.

 

Earlier on, Alberto had made it a point to listen and follow his (and Luca’s) every instruction in case of danger, but as Luca traces a dirt and sand-ridden slope, talking about how this was the hill he and Alberto would ride off Vespas from , and one time, a seagull got caught on Alberto’s face!, and it only started working when we started riding together—one on the back and the other holding onto the front, Verona thinks it unnecessary. The horizon is rarely obscured. The ground gets steep and the flora grows dense in some parts, sure, but it’s short. From any point, she can very easily place where she is and where she has been. If she fell, the ground isn’t wet enough to cause her to skid. If she gets lost, she could easily find her way back.

 

However, and as always, she takes up the back of the train. Luca leads in front. Gleefully, he gets dreamy and lyrical with his descriptions and answers to Franco’s questions as he marches onward every which way. His love of this place is so clear, it rubs off on anyone else. He shines, even, and Verona doesn’t think it’s even half of the yellow summer sunlight’s doing.

 

Close behind him is Franco, eyes wide and alert, ears hanging on his every word. Franco gets along easily. He stumbles a little, yes, but he carries on headstrong and hopes high. Question after question flows from his mouth while his eyes search for bones or shells or rotted carapace along the ground.

 

Behind Franco follows Giulia. She, for the most part, stays quiet but with a clear, happy smirk. Every now and again, she’ll giggle or snicker as something Luca says or Franco blurts out. Less frequently, she’ll even ask a question or two of her own, but Verona gets the impression that she knows pretty much everything already and is only moving things along.

 

And, Verona likes to watch the rhythmic swish of her pendulum ponytail as she takes each big, lunging step. She’s more of a clunky walker than Franco is, but there’s power to each stride. It keeps her figure confident. It makes the island feel much more adventurous than before. Something new, something to be explored. Maybe even something to be conquered—something they can make their own.

 

Verona thinks she likes that. She likes almost everything about her—any endeavor she takes—and rarely ever finds a fault in her actions. However, one thing does dissettle her.

 

Giulia keeps looking back.

 

Franco doesn't look back; he looks to Luca. And Luca doesn’t look back; he looks forward to the path ahead. To that tree with the funny limb that makes for a great sitting spot; to that berry bush you can pick and eat right off of; to that cave with the best echo and acoustics than any place on the face of the grand, planet Earth.

 

But Giulia does, and for a while, Verona thought she was looking back at her. She thought her ever so-slightly tentative gaze was meant to serve as support. She thought it was a small peanuts of motivation Giulia was throwing her. Small glances whispered to keep up! and nice going! and still comfortable? but, as Franco and Luca pick through a patch of palm-sized clovers looking for luck, she realizes that Giulia isn’t looking back at her.

 

She’s looking farther; she’s looking to the boy behind her.

 

Originally, she didn’t have a clue as to why. Alberto was getting along well. He had since released his hands from beneath his armpits, swinging them, now, as balled-up fists at his sides. He was talking; he was participating.

 

Then, he got quiet.

 

Verona only knew of his presence from his constant, off-beat footfalls trailing behind her. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t cough; he didn’t laugh; he didn’t even breathe. 

 

Where, before, he was mouthing off about how the summer is the best season and Luca was too scared of knives to ever play with the pirate's sword, he had fallen quiet, as silent as a statue except for the dragging of his feet against the stone, dirt, and grass.

 

He was off. Something was off about him, Verona could tell.

 

She tried to recall all known past information about him, but all she could hear was Luca’s ceaseless jabbering about how he once spent the night here, after his parents tried to send him to The Deep; how there's a big, rocky cliff way up that's super fun to dive off of; how the two of them must have spent over a month, here, just playing and having fun in a wash of true, unadulterated freedom.

 

Running his fingers over the top soft, yellow layer of a thick patch of flowering fennel, Luca waxes poetic about how amazing finally having time away from his parents was. Verona has to voice her agreement, plucking off a strand to twirl between her fingertips. Freedom truly is lovely; that's why she looks forward to adulthood so much. She can't wait to finally be on her own.

 

Then, Verona hears Alberto sneeze. “Ah-ksh…”

 

She tosses a glance over her shoulder, but she doesn’t see him wiping his nose or retracting his head from his sleeve. The pollen of the fennel hadn’t affected him, but something clearly had. He was wincing, clearly upset by something. His face was skewed in pain that he violently shook off like a dog to water. A piece of dried skin peeled off of his lip from the rake of his sharp, yellow teeth. It dotted with blood; he licked it away, not knowing he had an audience.

 

Verona turns back when he lowers his head to play with the front curls, eyes shadowed as he begins to whisper—mumble—hiss something unintelligible.

 

It’s ceaseless. They walk and walk, and he never stops talking, though never joining in on conversation. His words spiral and grab onto a rhythm, never stopping.

 

She can hear him breathing now between phrases, is it prayer? It sounds almost like a prayer, but it’s making her skin crawl like a demon’s foul incantations. He is Catholic—can Verona look back to see if he’s clutching a rosary, or would that be too distracting?

 

She’s already distracted herself. The conversation Franco, Luca, and Giulia are wrapped in has become lost on her. Luca leads the discussion, wistful and almost in a trance. Franco interrogates, still, and Giulia helps to answer some. They’re talking about seafolk. They’re talking about some old ladies with a surname meaning Lobster, but the conversation is lost on her.

 

Her mind is lost. She can’t focus for the raised hairs on her neck; the buzz in her mind; the strain of her ears to pick up on something, anything, he’s saying.

 

Finally, something does slip through:

 

“Fucking—shut…up.”

 

A jolt runs up through her skin.

 

“Shut up. Shut. Up.”

 

A tsunami of nausea splashes up to Verona’s throat, adrenaline racing.

 

Without a second more, Verona jogs ahead. 

 

She hadn’t realized how far back she had allowed herself to fall until it takes several paces to catch up to Giulia’s side. 

 

And, when finally at a safe distance, she looks back.

 

His eyes a squinted closed; has walking without sight. One hand wraps around his ribs; the other clutches a fist full of his hair, yanking, tugging, and pulling. His mouth is still moving—faster, angrier.

 

He’s agitated—he is out of his fucking mind. And, Verona—moreso than anyone else—knows not to hang around someone like him in a situation like this.

 

She’s not going to get caught in the crosshairs. She’s not going to get bruised, battered, or mauled. She’s going to keep her distance and keep her belongings to herself. She isn’t going to be a victim in the books she reads; in the shows she follows; in the stories her mother, aunts, and cousins repeat.

 

She knows not to approach a rabid dog.

 

So, she stays right beside Giulia, quiet as before, but safer under the protection of her friends.

 

And, eventually, they come upon the tower.

 

————

 

“And, why can’t we go in here, again?’ Franco questions with an undignified arched brow, pointing upwards to the tall, stone structure.

 

“There’s no entrance,” Luca explains, before Franco points at the ladder, dangling from the top.

 

Verona scrutinizes it. Parts of it are ladder, no doubt, but the most she looks, the less safe and more Frankenstein it appears. There, is an old wading board with some of the planks missing. There, is an old door. A piece of an old chair, a slab of stone held up by two rotting knots of rope. It cannot be safe, and she goes to object, but Luca beats her to the punch.

 

“No, no—that won’t—“

 

“It’s haunted.”

 

Everyone turns to look toward the voice—toward Alberto. And, god, he looks like a wreck.

 

“The people that lived there died,” he explains, eyes wide and urging. His tone isn’t the same as it had been before. His confidence has washed away and been replaced with a tangible unease. He barely even manages to finish, “Badly.”

 

Franco laughs a little. “Uh, yeah,” he says, “probably, since it’s a Roman tower.”

 

Alberto’s mouth hangs open, crease between his eyebrows forming. Verona feels another wave of fear— Franco, what are you doing?

 

He continues, shrugging coolly. “Lots of people probably died in it.”

 

The edges of Alberto’s mouth pull, exposing fang.

 

“Soldiers, mostly, but still people.”

 

Luca and Giulia exchange glances—worried.

 

Alberto’s hands twitch at his sides, blinking and blinking. Shoulders rising to his chin, to the level of his mouth, twitching and twitching.

 

His hands ball into fists, dirty, bitten fingernails pressing into the calloused palms of his hands.

 

Luca tries to touch him.

 

He explodes: “Yeah! See? That’s why we’re not going in there! Fucking haunted!”

 

His hands claw at his hair—yanking and pulling. Knuckles digging into the scalp—grinding and punching. His feet move before anyone can even try to respond, mouth overflowing as he tries to get away— “Stupid—fucking stupid! Just SHUT UP—!”

 

Luca goes to follow him.

 

Giulia calls out: “Are you getting him?”

 

“Yeah—“ Luca pants. He glances over his shoulder. His eyes lock in Franco. He frowns. “Franco—“

 

Franco doesn’t answer; he’s in just as much shock as Verona.

 

Luca’s frown hardens. His hand, once free and happy to drag across soft leaves and petals, balls into a fist. He snorts. “Try being at least a little bit sensitive sometime, okay?”

 

Franco gawks, hands free out by his side. Giulia winces, holding the picnic blanket tighter. Verona stands stock still, food basket raised defensively up to her chest.

 

Then, Luca goes off. He follows Alberto’s trail into the branches and bushes. His voice draws to a distance, foggy close as he calls out, “Alberto, aspetta!”

 

Now, stand the three humans. Alone on an island, beside the great shadow of an old, abandoned tower, wrought with moss and weathered to no end.

 

The bugs buzz around them carelessly; the wind through the leaves elicits an eerie ambience.

 

Without anyone to say anything anymore, it almost feels silent. Crushing, insufferable silence.

 

Verona looks to Franco, looking stern, eyes angled down at his feet in shame. She looks to Giulia, and Giulia doesn’t look too different, but the worry in her eyes—Verona can tell—isn’t for herself.

 

She traces her gaze to the ground closer to where Luca and Alberto had disappeared from, and she wraps her free hand around the warm thick of her arm. “Are you alright?” she asks, voice almost a whisper. “That was scary.”

 

Giulia blinks at her, shifting out of her grasp. “Scary? No, no…” she says, but Verona can see it. Her unease is almost palpable. She reads her expression as easily as a children’s bedtime book, and in it is apprehension, shock, and fear. She lies, “Alberto isn’t scary—“

 

Verona argues, “Scared me,” because she knows how to get out the truth. Make it okay, take away the possibility of punishment. If Verona can admit it, she can, too. It’s okay, and she feels, now, that it must be something acknowledged.

 

How long has this been going on?

 

It must have been a long, long time because Giulia’s mouth hangs ajar as her eyes steady upon Verona’s solemn, honest expression.

 

Verona looks also, to Franco. 

 

Franco meets her eye, then shrugs. His face has been overcome with a blush. “I’m fine,” he says, fixing his hair—digging his heel into the dry dirt. “I…feel sorry, though. I guess.”

 

Giulia gives him a pained expression. “It’s…” She loses her words; she shakes her head. 

 

When Giulia doesn’t appear to want to ever go on, Verona fills in the gap, questioning, “Is…Luca going to be alright? He—your brother—he seemed—“

 

“Luca will handle him,” Giulia assures. She steps away from Verona, talking away from the tower. “Let’s just go find somewhere to eat.”

 

As they start to walk away, Verona feels the ground change beneath her heel. Long grasses brush at her ankles, soles rolling upon acorns, weight crushing small sticks. She looks back, and finds that they’re not following the footpaths anymore.

 

She looks back, and she notices that the tower is encircled in a big, giant ring of a footpath beginning to slowly heal.

 

She skips closer to Giulia. “Do you think they’ll come back?”

 

Giulia nods, humming. “The island isn’t that big,” she explains dismissively. “It’s actually pretty small once you get used to it, and Luca isn’t gonna let him go far.”

 

————

 

"Right here is a good spot," Verona suggests, and it is.

 

Verona, Franco, and Giulia gather in a small spot away from the bushes, tall grasses, and low-hanging trees near the tower. Also, unlike the space about the tower, this is not near the peak of the island, but a naturally formed shelf of sorts. A small, flat piece of land with a perfect view of the shimmering waters and of Portorosso’s busy bay, something that brings her a small bit of comfort and something she knows will bring Franco a large amount of delight.

 

However, Franco doesn't seem so confident. "You sure?" he asks, inching forward, tapping the ground as he goes despite the fact that Verona has already confirmed it's safe. "Looks hard." Verona figures he means dangerous, but is hesitant about having his fear of heights on display.

 

Giulia gives him a piece of solace by stepping forward, also, and releasing the big picnic blanket from her arms until it rolled out over the ground. Verona watches her—helps her smooth it out—and tries not to care too much about her long skirt snagging on thorny roots or twigs. Besides, it's probably already torn; they've done a lot of walking around today already. She hums, "Hm. Those soldiers must have sat out here a lot."

 

Franco, now standing closer, glances down at her. "What do you mean?"

 

"Look," she says, tracing her finger across the ground beneath them, then away, back into the bushes and tall grass. "It's a desire path." As Franco falls quiet, she sits down on the blanket, and Giulia sits down beside her. "I don't know if you noticed," she begins again, "but we've been walking over them pretty much this whole time."

 

"Oh..." Giulia voices, eyes wide but expression otherwise blank.

 

Meanwhile, Franco's hardens. "Yeah, I don't think so," he argues, sitting down. V notes that his contention isn't delivered as sharply and condescendingly as before—Luca's words really must have stuck. "Desire paths don't last that long. It's more likely that there used to be a road that was recently removed."

 

Verona looked at him incredulously. "Why would they remove the road?"

 

Franco can only make an odd, unsure sound and shrug. Then, he turns and wags a finger at Giulia, "You like environmentalism, right?"

 

Giulia nods, looking down at her hands. "Yeah, I mean-" Her legs are crossed over the blanket, shifting, trying to get into a better position. Her thumbs twiddle together as she straightens and unstraightens her back. "I like anything that helps the Earth, but...maybe it was just for materials?"

 

“That could be it,” Franco acknowledges, nodding slowly and relaxed. Then, he bucks his head back, higher up the island. “It looked like they took out some brick out from the tower, too. There was a big opening, but I didn’t really see any chunks of it lying around.”

 

Mirroring him, Giulia only nods. Looking away, she plucks off a dandelion, twirling it around in her fingers until some of the seeds break off, flying away, but that doesn’t suffice as an answer, nor does it serve to fill in the odd, befallen silence.

 

It’s strange. Giulia is never this quiet—she never looks this solemn, this contemplative. Her hand reaches behind her head to play with a lock from her big ponytail. She isn’t wearing a hat today, Verona notices. She typically grabs onto the rim of her beanie or her bandana’s bow whenever she gets anxious, but now those tell-tale signs are unavailable, missing in action. 

 

Franco attempts to fill in the silence: “Was about to say something, then Alberto got all pissed off.”

 

Giulia scowls. She actually scowls, and she pinches the little dandelion tighter. It wilts in her grasp, but she doesn’t say anything. For a minute, it looks like she wants to—like there’s something knocking at the back of her teeth with lit torches and glistening pitchforks—but she only shakes her head. Then, she sets the weed aside, sighing, “I dunno, ragazzi.” She leans forward, taking up the lid of the food basket and pulling it off. “Mangiamo. I’m starving,” she says, but it doesn’t come out as inviting as it should.

 

Inside the box were ingredients—bread, lettuce, meat, and cheese—along with five oranges, one for each person, and paper plates. There are not, unfortunately, beverages of any kind. It’s a terrible pity that moves Franco to nearly cry out, “Aw man! We forgot drinks—”

 

“Hey! Sorry it took us a minute—”

 

At once, Verona, Franco, and Giulia’s heads whip to the voice. And there, striding happily toward them, is Luca, swinging hand-in-hand with Alberto, who looks…fine.

 

His gaze is cast downward, still, but his hair isn’t fussed up anymore. His free hand—his left hand—dangles carelessly about his waist, and the crease between his brow has subsided along with the tension in the corner of his lips.

 

Giulia beckons them both over—“Ma, non preoccuparti! Just come on, sit down!” with a wave. Suddenly, she’s perfectly alright, too, and so is Luca. Verona doesn’t spot any sign of struggle on him. No red spots, no hint of worry. If anything, he seems just as happy and bright as he was before—possibly even moreso, now, that he’s holding that boy’s hand. Giulia, too, extends a hand to Luca, and he takes it as he sits down in a criss-cross beside her on the blanket. Meanwhile, to Alberto, she asks, “Stai bene, big guy?”

 

Alberto nods vigorously, tipping forward and back as if on a teeter-totter. “Yup!” he exclaims, and Luca finally retracts his hands to himself. “Lost my mind for a second there, but I’m all good now.” He grabs an orange, tosses it up in the sky, and catches it. 

 

But, he doesn’t start peeling it.

 

Rather, he just stares at it. Verona wonders what he’s doing—checking it for bruises? Contemplating the ripeness based on the color? Simply enjoying the feeling of the ridges? All possible answers, but not anything Verona would bet on. No, something’s going on behind his eyes, still. She can see it, even as Luca simply stares at him happily; even as he drawls, “Good, good, good…” until his gaze meets Luca’s. He looks away, and he rocks once, twice, three times more.

 

Though, he is smiling. That, at the very least, accounts for some degree of improvement.

 

Eventually, things do settle down. Alberto still fidgets, his eye flickering up to Luca twice every minute or so, and Luca’s hand has long since settled over the thick of his thigh, but conversation progresses almost entirely without a hitch.

 

They talk about minor things. They talk about the food they're eating—the taste; the color; the temperature—then, they talk about the food at school.

 

For as long as she can remember, Verona has always packed a lunch. It’s always been juice, a sandwich, and a small tupperware of fruit along with a water bottle to drink from throughout the day. Franco, Giulia, and Luca, however, either don’t eat and grab lunch from a vender on the way home or buy food from school, and they’re all in heavy agreement that the prior option—even if it is slightly more expensive and leaves them feeling starved by the early afternoon—is superior.

 

Alberto asks Luca if that’s why Luca asked him to send him a little bit more money recently, to which Luca only giggles and shrugs. Alberto calls him a leech—Verona grows green once again—then he boasts about never having to eat out of a cafeteria once. Still aware of the tightrope, no one points out that it’s because he’s never once attended a school before.

 

Franco even says he’s lucky, loudly complaining about how the pasta they make is somehow always both charred and undercooked. “It’s like they’ve got fifty Luca’s working overtime,” he bemoans, before yelling, “OW!” as Luca socked him hard on the shoulder. to which said boy pulls on his ear. Miraculously, Alberto actually laughs. Verona had tensed, worried about a protective retaliation, but Alberto only laughed to himself and took another bite of his sandwich.

 

Though, something always does have to go awry, and, of course, words from Verona’s mouth come as a catalyst.

 

When the conversation turned towards the prospect of claiming a spot in the school’s courtyard next year, rather than claiming the bottom and backside of a stone-cold, spider-infested staircase, she notes, “Oh yeah. It’ll be just like this—super nice.”

 

And, regaining his characteristic curtness, Franco adds, “Could’ve been nicer if we stayed near the shore.”

 

And, Alberto agrees, “Yup, sure would’ve been awesome!”

 

And, Luca laughed, “You really want to see seafolk, huh?” before continuing, gesturing to the ground beneath them, “That’s really funny—you know, Alberto and I used to come sit in this spot to human-watch—” He cuts himself off with a gasp; he sits up. He leans closer, eyes widening—a revelation. “Franco, come to think of it, you’re kind of a reverse-Alberto!”

 

Franco’s eyebrows raise. “That so?” he says, leaning away to better scrutinize the other boy.

 

“Oh yeah!” Giulia very loudly agrees, her smile so wide, she squints. “That’s so right—Alberto was just crazy about humans the same way you’re crazy about seafolk!” Then, aware of herself, she quiets to a more appropriate level. “At least, so I’ve heard, ha-ha. He’s a little bit too assimilated now.” 

 

Alberto concedes, “M-m-m-mhm-m-m-m. I fit right in like a lock in a key.” He’s the first to finish his meal, and, now with two free hands and two closed eyes, he stretches to rest his nape against his palms while still sitting up. “Don’t have to come all the way up here just to people-watch anymore!”

 

Verona stares at him. “Oh yeah…you did say you liked people-watching.”

 

“Sure, did,” Alberto nods, eyes snapping open to smirk down at her. “What, you thought I was joking?” he asks, and, again, his leg starts to bounce.

 

“N-no—” Verona tries to argue, but Alberto’s attention has already turned away.

 

“Humans were a real spectacle, you know?” He grins, and, for whatever reason, it’s sharp, again. He throws his hands up into the air, joyfully exasperated. “You guys just—had it all. Had…everything!” He snorts, looking through each and every one—never at. His eyes never focus, they never still. They flit from place to place, never meeting another pair.

 

They stay upon the horizon, upon the waters, upon the colorful, sunbaked and warmly painted townhouses of Portorosso even as Franco questions, “Oh yeah? What’s your favorite part?”

 

Alberto clasped his hands together. Now, his eyes do still, but they lock onto the place between Giulia and Verona’s faces. They don’t look to anyone; they look to the clouds. To the great, big, blue sky above. “Oooh, tough question!” he giggles. Then, “Kidding! It was Vespas.”

 

Luca covers a little laugh. “Oh, holy carp, yeah! He loved Vespas—you guys know this.”

 

Alberto nods sagely. "Mhm. Still do; never won't," he declares definitively, and no one asks any further questions. Giulia and Luca are already very familiar with his affinity for such vehicles. And, just as Luca implied, Franco and Verona have heard word of it many, many times before. Not to mention his little spiel about the etymology of the company name from before.

 

So, Luca takes over. "I might've said this before," he acknowledges, threading his fingers together near his chest, "but my favorite part is the nature or the sky."

 

There's a wistfulness in his voice that Verona picks up on easily. She knows it; she's heard it before in classrooms, in the library, through alleyways, and around Sig.ra Maria’s round dining table. This, she knows, is how his happiness shows through. Wistful. When Giulia is happy, she's loud; when Franco is happy, he's urgent, but when Luca is happy—above everything else—he's wistful.

 

"It wasn't ever much to look at beneath the surface," he explains, letting his hand fall off, down to the cold, naturally-growing grass blades poking out from beyond the blanket. He wraps one around his fingers and pulls. It snaps; his nose scrunches. "And, besides, you'd get in major trouble for just looking up, anyway." Then, he looks upward. Like Alberto, his gaze locked onto the clear blue and the giant plumes of white dotting the horizon. "And, now, it's just so...clear."

 

His eyes turn to Franco, then to Verona and Giulia. His eyes are larger than the average person's and far more spaced out-just a hint of what's lying beneath the surface. So, when he stares, even smiling, it sends a ripple throughout Verona’s spine. Strangely, she doesn't think she's yet experienced that with Alberto, but, then again, they're not the same type.

 

"You humans really have no idea how lucky you have it, especially at night."

 

Everyone nods in solemn agreement.

 

"Yeah, I can't imagine," she says, though she thinks that she can, if only partially. In Genova, the buildings are too tall and bulky. Laundry, signs, and telephone wire further cloud the view. But even in clear areas, smog and steam float up and smother out the greater sky. And the stars of night are vastly out-competed by neon signs, streetlights, and headlights.

 

If she had something like this in Genova—a little island to escape off to, two miles off the coast without any bright lights or pollution to destroy its view, she'd come over every chance she'd get.

 

So, thoughtlessly, Verona adds, gesturing around, "And, that's part of the reason I don't understand why seafolk don't come up here more often." A pause. "I mean, it’s such a nice place, and isn't the surface less taboo, now that you two have integrated Portorosso?"

 

Alberto’s mouth hangs a little open.

 

Oh, right. "Or-scusi. You're not from the colony, right."

 

"Right," he says.

 

Hastily, Luca steps in: "Ye-yeah. L’Isola del Mare isn't really open to visitors much." With a small smile, he awkwardly half-shrugs. "It's kind of off-limits to everyone except for us."

 

Verona isn't about to ask, then Franco’s eyes dart to her—an edict. She speaks for him, "Why?"

 

And, there is the nail in the coffin.

 

Alberto puts his head into his hands, resting elbows atop the fat of his legs. He smiles coyly, sharp jade green eyes relax upon her until they manifest as a gaudy—flirty—half-lidded stare. Breezily, he sighs, “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”

 

And Verona jolts.

 

Franco chokes; Luca frowns; Giulia scolds, “Woah, Alberto—“

 

And, Alberto flinches at the flick of his sister’s hands, his own flying high in defense. “Sorry, sorry! Bad timing,” he moans, “Jeez, tough crowd!”

 

That's when it breaks.

 

His nose scrunches as if in pain; his eyes squinting almost closed, one eyebrow twitching as he twists and looks away. His smile falters into a grimace, and Verona realizes that she had been right.

 

He had not settled down from the moments before. He had not been fully placated-tamed. He was only smiling, only yelling, only hanging on every last person's word to smother it all down like a bad dog on a shock collar. Teeth mashing to bite, but never doing so for fear of retribution.

 

He is still angry; he is still neurotic; he still poses a threat.

 

Verona wants to leave. She has to leave.

 

Then, Luca jumps to his feet. "Hey, Franco, you said you wanted to see some seafolk, right?"

 

Franco, still in slight shock, nods. “Hell yeah, I do,” he says, though it comes out indecisive—fearful.

 

Luca grins, resting to fists on his hips like some sort of superhero. He locks eyes with Alberto, then nods away, out to the distant horizon.

 

Alberto lights up like a child on Christmas. "Oh, FINALLY!" he cries, clamoring to stand. Luca giggles as he helps pull him up, and Verona doesn't think she quite knows what's happening, now.

 

Giulia, however, does: "Uh, guys, I don't think anyone brought swimsuits-"

 

Swimsuits?

 

"Sucks to suck!" Alberto dismisses her, grabbing Luca by the wrist. Horrifyingly, he passed by Franco and Verona, who could only sit and watch. He stood right up against the ledge, the cliff's end, with his back turned. "See ya! And if I don't, I'll eat ya!"

 

Then, he spreads out his arms like an eagle. And, when he jumped, Luca disappeared with him.

 

Pitifully, Verona wonders when all of the cliff-jumping and thrill-seeking is going to stop. She likes Luca—she really, truly does—but she doesn't know how much more she can take of this.

 

Giulia sighs, and she starts packing up. "Alright, we need to get jumping."

 

The blood drains from Verona’s face. "You do not actually expect us to—"

 

"Ragazza, that was a threat," Giulia says bluntly, snapping the lid hard upon the basket. Verona’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. As Giulia hastily—and with help from Franco and Verona—lifts up the blanket, she continues, "Trust me. It's in our best interest if we leave before Alberto gets suspicious, so andiamo dai. We're going the crazy people way down."

 

Verona’s tongue becomes fat and swollen in her mouth. Her heart begins to race, and she combats, "Absolutely not."

 

"Uh," Franco mumbles.

 

"Nope!" Giulia barks. "Sorry. We don't get a choice. Come on." She chucks the blanket and basket down, over the ledge, then reached for Verona’s hands.

 

Verona backed away. "G, please-"

 

But Giulia was quick and had already made the decision for her. Now, Verona realizes that there's a terrible, terrible downside in having a confident, athletic, and robust friend nearly two times as strong as her. Giulia tries to comfort, "I know it looks scary, but it's actually a ton of fun—"

 

But before she can finish, Verona snaps back, "I am in a skirt-"

 

"Amica, no one here cares," Giulia argues, and it is true, but Verona can't think of that right now. She can hardly think of anything except for the fact that Giulia’s hands are now roped around her arms and tugging her, pulling her with all other might closer and closer to the edge. "Just hold my hands and close your eyes," Giulia suggests, but Verona is already doing that and more. She digs her heels into the earth; she tries to pull back her arms; she thrashes and shakes her head, teeth grinding together, preparing for the pain.

 

She doesn't want to do this, no, no, no! She wants her autonomy back; she wants her arms back! "Giulia, I'm serious—!" She doesn't want to jump over the cliff-she'd rather do anything but that! A eats her face off, fine! Let him!

 

"Uh, guys—" Franco tries again, but only to fall upon deaf ears.

 

"Ready?" Giulia asks.

 

Verona creaks her eyes open and, sweet-baby-jesus she's right on the edge!

 

"NO!" Verona yells, crumpling. "NO, no! Giulia, NO!"

 

Giulia begins to rock, swaying back and forth. Once,

 

"One..."

 

"Giulia, PLEASE—"

 

"Two...!"

 

“STOP—”

 

“Guys, I can’t—” Franco winces, but it’s too late.

 

Giulia cries, “THREE,” latches onto Verona in a great, big bear hug, and jumps.

 

————

 

Suffice to say, Verona screamed bloodymurder the entire way down.

 

She spent a total of three seconds in the air, clutching onto the skin and clothing and hair of the other girl the entire time, wind battering them on the way down, head filling, already, with illusions of a blood-smattered boulder, of the great, powerful jaws of sharks ripping and disemboweling and coloring the clear, blue waters red, red, red.

 

But rather than breaking into shards and meat upon tall, sharp, and hard rock, her head met the water-cool, forgiving, serene.

 

Now, finally in the water, Giulia relinquishes her grasp, and they both kick for the air above.

 

First, she hears Giulia crying with laughter. Then, she hears a gleeful chime: "You made it!" and places that it's Luca. Next, a less enthused drawl: "Gre-e-e-a-at," and she remembers Alberto is around, too.

 

While Verona catches her breath, Giulia starts up the conversation again: "Hehe, yeah! We weren't going to stay up there without you guys."

 

"Grazie," Alberto thanks her, though it's a bit too huffy to sound genuine, and, god, Verona hates wearing wet clothes. She can already feel the neckline of her blouse constricting her neck, already anxious about her skirt surely billowing up underwater even without sight. Once again, Giulia had the smart idea to wear a practical pair of green denim shorts. When will she finally figure out it's more to be more like her?

 

Then, having finally caught her breath, Verona wipes her dark, water-slick bangs out from her face and blinding droplets out from her eyes. She squints at Giulia baring teeth as she wags a finger and snarls, "Don't you ever do that to me again." Then, her vision turns, and she grows quiet. "I—woah..."

 

She had already seen Luca. She's seen him in this state more times than she can count on her hands. She's seen his green scales in the bathroom, his red and gold eyes after crying. Indigo paddles in the rain; blue webbing after washing hands.

 

However, she had not yet seen Alberto.

 

Perhaps in washed-out, brown monochrome phonegraphs. Perhaps in her imagination, using Luca’s descriptions as a handy guide.

 

But seeing him in person is startling.

 

His muzzle is nearly as long as her hand from wrist to nail, and it’s a silvery, scaly—but not hard—periwinkle hue broken up by a myriad of scratches, nicks, and scars. They show far more prominently in this form, fleshy pink and white divots sticking out like a thousand sore thumbs. He looks battered, once bruised. He looks like he could fight—like he could win. 

 

He locks eyes with Verona—needle thin pupils flaring into small, round diamonds. He grins, and his teeth are sharp and long, canines nearly as long as her finger. He loops a large arm with enormous, thick, and razor-sharp fins around Luca’s neck and shoulders, and he snarks, “See something you like?”

 

Verona can’t help but flinch away in disgust.

 

Then, from above, she hears a call: “Hey!”

 

Verona looks up to see Franco, supposedly crouching, with his hands wrapped around the dirt of the overhand, head poking though but barely visible for the bright sunlight almost directly above. Immediately, Luca cups his webbed, teal hands to his mouth and shouts back, “FRANCO, JUST JUMP!”

 

Between cruel snickers, Alberto adds, “YEAH, YOU WON’T DIE! Probably…”

 

Luca shoots him an unimpressed gaze, earfins flapping in distaste. Even his pointedly flattened smile is much harsher in this nearly reptilian form. He wriggles—swims—out of his friend’s grasp, and it’s weird to watch.

 

Luca had explained how they swam to Verona and Franco before. Hands down, limp at the side. Not up and down, but back and forth. Flippers for starting, hands for halting; fins and tail for pretty much anything you can think of. But, it’s still so weird—it’s almost comical! He really does go limp, swimming from side to side until he reaches a decent pace away—one closer to the outcropping, one almost directly where Verona and Giulia dove in.

 

He outstretches his arms, up into the air, coaxing him down like a cat from a tree. “ANDIAMO DAI! WE WILL CATCH YOU!”

 

Alberto scoffs. “We?”

 

Luca corrects himself: “I WILL CATCH YOU!”

 

But, strangely, that still doesn’t suffice to placate the other seafolk. “What?”

 

Though from that distance, Franco can’t hear Alberto’s small indignations. He only responds, “You swear?!”

 

“YES!” Luca promises. “JUST JUMP!”

 

Franco disappears from view.

 

For a grand total of five entire seconds, he remains obscured by the dirt, rock, clay, and grass of the cliff. The four in the water can only look up in wonder and in wait.

 

Then, he reappears again.

 

Unlike, Verona, he doesn’t scream.

 

He doesn’t yell; he doesn’t make any noise whatsoever.

 

He does not, however, dive, cannonball, jack-knife, or very simply flop. 

 

He thrashes on his way down. He kicks, arms outspread like an eagle, trying to bat away the air and gravity itself. He plunges into the water as a great disaster of flying limbs, clothes, and hair, and the impact ends with an incredible splash that Verona doesn’t manage to escape from in time.

 

“Eugh!” she winces as a wave of saltwater, again, blinds her. Wonderful, because it wasn’t at all as if she was having a hard time keeping her face dry, already.

 

Slowly, she picks droplets out of her eyes and drenched hair out of her face. And, when she opens her eyes, she sees Luca smiling, now, beneath Franco’s arm.

 

“I got you,” he comforts.

 

“Grazie, fra’...” Franco drawls as he becomes entranced.

 

Alberto’s earfins sag in misery, the spitting image of a kicked puppy. Verona can’t help but smirk;  schadenfreude is always sweetest when it’s made with someone you dislike.

 

But that isn’t to say that she dislikes Alberto. Alberto is fine, he’s just a bit scary, and unstable, and has a dangerously large hand in how, exactly, Luca’s life is going to pan out, being in control of his finances and all. Plus, his humor is too crude for her tastes, and he’s a bit of an attention-hog and a freak—but not in the good way. Not in the Giulia, Franco, and Luca way. But, otherwise, he’s fine.

 

Although, speaking of freaks:

 

“Dude…” Franco gasps, gently patting at Luca’s skin. “Is that…mucus?”

 

Luca laughs awkwardly, almost sinking until his softened chin reaches the water. “Heh-heh…yeah…Sorry if that’s gross.”

 

Franco’s free hand flies up so fast that the movement creates a cloud bubbles. “No, no! You’re good! It’s super cool. Oh, and—this isn’t uncomfortable for you, right?” He shifts in weight, but Luca only follows his motions. “I’m trying not to press too hard on any of your scales—or your dorsal fin—”

 

Luca bats of the notion, earfins flexing, flattered. “Non preoccuparti! They might not look like it, but they’re actually pretty flexible!” He attempts to explain, “Also, my fins are just floppy for the most part—” but he’s interrupted before he can finish.

 

“Yeah, until he gets mad. Or scared,” says Alberto, of course, with a chide little grin peaking through. “Once you got his blue fins all perked up, that’s how you know you’re in—” his voice turns to sing-song, “trou-u-ble-e-e—!”

 

Luca nods, turning his focus back to Franco. “Yeah, so you’re really okay.” Then, he gestures over to Alberto. “He’d, you have a harder time with.”

 

To answer Franco’s oncoming question, Alberto raised his arm above the water. Just as Verona had seen before, he exposes a row of eight long sharp purple spines held together with thick, violet webbing. Franco gapes in awe. If someone had been looking at Verona like that, she’d be blushing for sure, but Alberto only relishes it. His smirk grows wider, nose tilting snootily upward.

 

“Is the fin type determined by the type of seafolk?” Franco asks earnestly.

 

Luca looks to Alberto, who only looks back at him. “Uh,” Luca hesitates. “Not…that I know of?”

 

“Wait, also–” Franco wags a finger at Alberto. “I thought you were pink. Why are you blue—or,  bluish-purple?”

 

And, to answer that, Alberto wrapped a hand around his shirt’s collar and pulled it down. It was loose enough to expose a great deal of one of his pecs and, with it, another myriad of slashes and cuts across his chest. But, sure enough, his light blue scales do turn to a silvery purple before giving way to a wide wash of magenta. However oddly, he does ask, “Can you see it?” and gestures to his long, wide muzzle. “I can’t uh, really—”

 

Giulia gives him a thumbs up.

 

He thanks her. “Grazie, Giulia.”

 

And, Franco’s grin turns almost manic. “That is so cool—” he effuses, before reeling it back. “Ragazzi, I’m sorry if I’m asking too much—this is just…so cool.”

 

Luca’s head tilts back as he laughs, paddles falling over Franco’s arm. Verona can see how he jolts with another burst of excitement, but scolds himself to stay composed, again. “You’re alright!” he assures.

 

But Alberto swims closer. “Hey, I got something to ask.”

 

“Yeah?” Franco permits.

 

A small crease forms over the top of his muzzle—the inches before his eyes—like a dog pulling back to bite, but only slightly. He prods one claw at the other boy, the human. “Why are you holding on to him?”

 

Wuh-oh.

 

Franco’s eyebrows scrunch. Gratefully, Luca answers for him: “Franco can’t swim.”

 

Alberto splutters with laughter, bucking backward. “You can’t swim?” he repeats indignantly. “What’re you, five?”

 

Franco’s excited smile vanishes in an instant. He lowers his head until he’s looking at Alberto through light, blonde lashes in a harsh, cold, embarrassed gaze. “You’re off by a decade.”

 

Alberto coughs up more and more laughter. “Yeah, I’m off by a decade, and you wanna be a fish-scientist!” Talking big game for someone who doesn’t yet know the actual word. Alberto squints at him, so close to the water like a crocodile about to snap, snickering and giggling. “How the hell are you gonna be a fish-scientist that can’t swim?”

 

Verona’s hand covers her mouth.

 

“Alberto—” Giulia starts to scold him, but Franco isn’t one to step down from a fight, especially a battle of wits.

 

Loudly, he logicalizes, “An inability to swim doesn’t dictate one’s success in a marine-based field.”

 

Alberto snorts. “Uh, yeah, it kinda does.” He puts his hands up in defense, backing away, but his smile and high-arched brows only read callous condescending, a perfect match to his following statement: “Look, I’m not trying mean, I’m just being realistic here.”

 

The interesting thing is, seafolk are not the only ones with eyes that change in time with their emotions.

 

A sea monster’s pupils will stretch wide and thick with interest, then become sharp and narrow during fear or aggression. They’re substantially larger than that of humans, making the changes far more obvious, but dilation and constriction of the pupil isn’t an ability reserved for just their species.

 

Plus, Franco’s irises are a bright, cool blue. That, alone, makes it very easy to see as his gaze goes dark and angry—pupils thin, barely visible behind a half-lidded stare.

 

Oh, he is pissed.

 

“Not everything is fieldwork,” he argues. “I can study seafolk by interviewing them, too, or taking samples in a lab. Plus, who knows what kind of technology we’ll have in ten years?” He throws an accusatory finger at the other boy. “You sure don’t.”

 

“Jeez.” Alberto’s earfins flap with distaste against his folded arms, holding up his head. “You humans are so creepy,” he critiques, leaning back to float upon the gentle waves, and Verona knows what he’s going. It’s a show of power, of strength and security. 

 

It’s something Verona had asked Luca about, before, when she was reading a book about the evolution of language and gesture and how such communication has impacted humanity’s psychology as a whole.

 

Just curious, she ran though several different types of body language differences for seafolk.

 

“We’re not supposed to smile with teeth,” he noted, “because it can be mistaken for growling.” He continued, “Also, earfins are a big component, kind of like eyebrows. They can tell you a lot.” But, the most important piece of that conversation from long, long ago was this:

 

“Swimming on your back is a big, big deal.

 

"Like, doing it to twist around is fine, but if you’re just swimming around like that—especially around someone—uff.

 

"You’ll rarely see anyone doing it, because it’s either super intimate or SUPER rude, because it shows off your under-side, you know?

 

"You’re either telling the other person that you feel really safe and comfortable around them—

 

"—or you’re telling them that they’re so lame and weak, that they’re not even worth the energy.

 

"So, I guess the human equivalent of that would be..uh…”

 

“Mooning?” Franco offered.

 

“What’s that?” Luca asked, and very soon, he wished he hadn’t.

 

But it is why, now, Luca’s face stretches wide and open with alarm before his eyes dart up to the big, blue, innocuous sky, while his grip on Franco tightens, actively trying to pull him away from this fight.

 

“I’d get why you’d want to study us, though,” Alberto acknowledges. “We’re way-y-y cooler than you humans.” He flicks his tail above the water, sending a small splash not to Franco, but Verona and Giulia.

 

“Ugh!” Giulia grunts. “What did we do?”

 

“Alberto, be nice!” Luca admonishes. Verona is surprised—she didn’t think he would.

 

Alberto glares at him. “What? It’s true, isn’t it?”

 

Luca’s expression hardens. He holds Franco further away—protective. “You’re being rude.”

 

A giggles impishly. “Per favore!” He gets out of his lean to rush forward. “You were just telling me how much fun it felt to be back in your own skin, and how much better I looked in mine!”

 

Luca backs further away, flushing a dark, hot indigo.

 

But Alberto keeps closing in. “It’s much better to be a monster than a lame, gross human that can’t even swim right.”

 

Luca says nothing.

 

But that doesn’t stop him. Alberto will pry it out of him if he has to. “Right, Luca?”

 

Luca stares at Alberto. Then, he looks to his friend.

 

That day—the day they discussed language, gestures, and kinesics—wasn’t only filled with talk about interpreting a smile or reading an earfin. It progressed. Eventually, it became just talking about how one looks—how others interpret them, and they interpret themselves.

 

Verona talked a little about finding her own looks lame and dull, but comforting and nostalgic. Her mother likes her being modest, and she likes being wrapped up—being able to fade into the background. But, she would like, some day, to have the chance to wear something slightly more colorful than what her wardrobe already entails.

 

Giulia talked about having bright, huge, curly red hair, and the comments she constantly received from that. People asking if she was irish; people scared of her because they believed her to be evil, an anti-christ. An assumption not at all aided by her big, hook nose and fiery disposition. Franco tagged onto that, noting once how someone mistook him for a German, then believed he was stupid just because he was a natural blonde. 

 

However, all of those stories didn’t compare to what Luca had to offer.

 

He stayed quiet until the end, solemn and listening until it was his turn to speak: 

 

“I don’t really expect any of you to really understand this, but, I don’t really…like this?” He readjusted, tugging anxiously on his ascot. “I mean, as I said before, I have to constantly adjust the way I express things because I don’t have my fins or tail anymore. Really, it just kind of feels like I’m missing a ton of limbs all the time?

 

“I get, like, homesick for my own body, and it feels really weird when people say ‘we humans’ or bring attention to my skin or hair or—literally anything—because I don’t think of myself like that.

 

“I don’t think of myself as a human.

 

“I had red eyes, you know, and green scales and blue paddles—” he pulled at a lock. “---Not this stringy hair.

 

“I’m not this.

 

“I’m a sea monster.”

 

And, he knows this.

 

Rather, he knows that Verona, Franco, and Giulia knows this, because they’ve made it a conscious effort not to talk about such things—or use such generalized phrases—around him since.

 

So, backed into a corner, his earfins tug to the front and sink downward, catching on the thick of his cheek, cowering, caught not in his lie, but his painful truth.

 

“Yeah, it…it feels really good, honestly,” he admits. “And you guys are a little bit gross.”

 

Alberto smiles, victorious. “Exactly.”

 

And, a small, deep, dark part of Verona’s heart realizes it doesn’t ever want to see Alberto victorious again.

Chapter 9: Just Noticeable Difference

Summary:

They have a quiet, indoor Sunday.

Notes:

I fr felt a little bit sick (evil) writing parts of this soo have fun. mind tags, themes, etc. we're 60k+ words deep, yall should know the drill by now

It’s Sunday.

 

No matter where they are in the world, no matter what’s going on, and no matter what feelings Verona holds, every single Sunday, the Basaglias attend mass. In the eyes of her parents, the only valid excuse for missing church is tragedy, a hundred-degree fever, or expulsions both violent and unstoppable—none of which are a factor to Verona’s current uncomfortable state.

 

Rather, it’s the itchy lining around her collar and the stiffness of her monochrome, olive green dress. It feels like she can hardly move. She can only take slow, small step after slow, small step for fear of what might happen if she walked in her usual long, quick stride. Thankfully, the small, hard flats weren’t much of a problem, for her socks provided her a suitable shield against blisters. However, sliding them on atop said puffy white socks proved a slightly frustrating ordeal.

 

But now, she treads carefully over the stone brick polluted with pebbles, dirt, moss, and grime. She keeps her eyes down, at least a little bit grateful for the shade provided by the large, round, lime-green hat her mother, dressed similarly, forces her to wear. With it, she doesn’t have to squint against the morning sun, and she doesn’t need to worry about her hair flying askew at the strong, rolling waves of wind.

 

They batter her face like they had done days prior, but the smell of salt is less pungent than before. For a moment she wonders if the sea, itself, has calmed down, but that cannot be it. It’s just habituation, just like this walk.

 

It was exhaustingly long the first time. All the way down the mountain, all the way into the piazza. It felt nearly interminable and gave her a great deal of ache, but now that she’s been here for nearly a week, it’s nothing. She knows what to expect; what shops are along the way; how the road’s texture changes as they near the main marketplace.

 

So, breezily, she begins conversation with Franco: “I think I finally figured out his Big Five.”

 

And, from her peripheral, Franco squints at her. “What.”

 

She’s quick to explain: “According to psychologists, personality can be determined by measuring the levels of five variables. Those are what’s known as the Big Five.” 

 

Franco’s eyebrows furrow as he looks away. He doesn’t respond in words—not yet. He only gives a small grunt in response.

 

Verona isn’t sure what to make of that. He’s probably still upset from yesterday, though he could also be upset about the morning’s plans. Or, he could also be completely fine. He is afflicted with a bad case of RBF, after all. So, unable to do anything else, Verona continues, “Those are agreeableness, conscientiousness, extro—”

 

Franco hastily waves off the rest of her sentence. “Okay, okay. I remember now,” he says, tone as bored yet airy as white sails on a windless day.

 

Verona huffs. She wanted to list them, oh well. “Okay, so, Giulia was right.” She swallows. “From what we’ve seen yesterday, he definitely has high levels of neuroticism—“

 

“From what we’ve seen yesterday, he definitely has high levels of being a manipulative fucking asshole.”

 

Wow.

 

“Uh.” Verona bristles.

 

“A bonafide Machiavellian!” Franco announces, contempt like lava as the girl’s eyes dart to her parents to gauge their attention. “I mean, hell, even his cat’s named Machiavelli—that should have tipped us off—!”

 

“Don’t curse so loudly,” Verona shushes him, leaning in and pressing a finger to her mouth. It feels a little odd; she’s not wearing much makeup today. Walking closer until their shoulders nearly brush, she quietly offers, “Giulia’s dog’s name is Nerone.”

 

“I was making a joke,” Franco quips back. She doesn’t know how much she believes that.

 

Verona cocks her head to look up into his eyes with a harsh, stern glare. “Okay, you’re angry, I see that—” she nods for emphasis— “but that doesn’t mean you have to displace your anger onto me. I didn’t hurt you.” A pause. “Alberto did.”

 

Franco sighs, stuffing his hands into his nice, cream-colored slack’s pockets. “Sorry,” he groans, “He’s just—”

 

“An asshole, yeah, and thinking about him pisses you off because of what he said to you,” Verona finishes his statement for him.

 

She knows she’s meant to feel sympathy in this moment, but, deep inside, her chest swells with a small bubble of pride. She’s good at this; interpersonal communication is what she likes to do. She’d even regard it as her field of expertise—knowing exactly what her friends are struggling with without even having to speak. Knowing exactly how to best respond, how to create a tone perfectly balanced between authority and humility—the consummate medium of counsel.

 

Headstrong, she continues, “And, he is wrong, by the way. You know that.”

 

“Of course I know that.” Franco scrunches his nose. “He’s never even been to school—why would I give merit to any of the moronic shit he spews?”

 

“Exactly!” Verona agrees. In her excited state, she incidentally takes a big step forward, only to end up stumbling slightly  on her dress. Franco politely halts his snicker as she gathers herself and quickly carries on, “He’s ignorant, so don’t listen to him.”

 

“I’m not,” Franco says.

 

But Verona wasn’t done: “And, that’s not falling to Fundamental Attribution Error, because he is, as you said, factually uneducated.”

 

“Yeah.” Franco agrees, expression skewing into something harder—something hateful. “Yeah,” he repeats, voice growing louder, “And, you know what? Maybe he’s just a dick!”

 

Verona blinks. She’s known Franco for half a decade. She’s seen him in every color of the rainbow, in all of his emotions. But this—this outburst of rage—sent her head spinning still. She can’t remember the last time he was this angry or this theatrical.

 

“Maybe he’s not manipulative. Maybe he just finds it fun to make the people around him into little puppets who feel like shit about themselves,” he raves. “And, I mean, being a true Machiavellian requires some degree of higher intellect, and his head’s about as empty as a black hole!”

 

Verona glances over her shoulder. It doesn’t seem like anyone’s following—like anyone’s listening.

 

Then, her focus goes back to Franco, gesticulating wildly: “You could crack his head open and his brain would just be a raw chicken breast. Not a wrinkle in sight—!”

 

Finally, she steps in: “Okay, well—there are eight different types of intelligence, you know.” Unlike Franco, her voice is small; contemplative; meek. She doesn’t want to agitate him further by sparking an argument, but she needs to keep the record straight. “Even if he may be lacking in the logical-mathematical department, he may be very well equipped in the interpersonal,” she explains. “That’s how politicians who are charismatic but not intelligent can win over ones that are intelligent but not charismatic, and also how you get so many simultaneously deadbeat and abusive husbands.”

 

Franco scowled, gnawing on his lip.

 

“Really, as long as you can alter the way people think, you can win…” she finished, drawing off.

 

Then, Franco began to nod. He nodded harder, eyes pinched nearly closed. His hand drew up from his pocket, steps becoming forceful—powerful—as his finger began to wag (as Verona nearly flinched). “Yeah, see! See, that’s what I’m saying, then!”

 

Jeez. He’s like a train without breaks; no matter what Verona does, he’s just going to continue onward. But, isn’t that one of the core features of a therapist? 

 

Listen, then respond later? Allow the client—not patient—to rant and rave to their heart's content, then help them pick up the pieces?

 

“So far, we’ve seen him instill insecurity in him, control him, and fucking isolate him. Isn’t that, like, the top three warning signs that a relationship is toxic?” Franco snaps.

 

And, he is right. It surprises her more than it should, but, at the same time, it doesn’t at all. Hasn’t she always known that? Hasn’t it always been obvious?

 

The boy continues on without hesitation: “And, it’s only been, what, a week?” False laughter. “Can you imagine what he’s going to do to him over the summer if we don’t do something?” He’s not just angry at Alberto for mocking him; he’s worried for Luca. Furthermore, his thoughts aren’t nearly as scrambled as Verona had expected. In fact, they’re fully cognizant and fully right. “Plus, they’re not even dating, and it’s not even a mystery why. I mean, if hitting on your mamma wasn’t evidence enough—”

 

And, that’s where Verona draws the line. “Stop— stop.” When he shuts up, she tells him, “Calmati. Take a breath.”

 

Franco follows her instruction.

 

Good, she thinks. Not because Franco’s calmed down—she just doesn’t want to hear about her mother in that way.

 

“Okay, I agree. Alberto is seriously toxic, and he needs to go,” she says. “But what would we even do?” She muses, “Typically, you’d tell a trusted adult and hope that they do something, but everyone loves him.”

 

“Sig.ra Maria?” Franco offers.

 

“Sig.ra Maria isn’t here right now,” Verona dismisses, forgoing reminding him that Sig.ra Maria has probably listened to Luca ramble about how just so freaking amazing Alberto is ten times more than them. “What would she do?”

 

Franco shrugs. “Tell Sig. Massimo?”

 

Another door slammed in the face. “Sig. Massimo seems way too permissive. He wouldn’t be any help, and neither would my parents, given they don’t like Luca, either.”

 

Franco raises a brow. “They don’t?”

 

Verona shakes her head, solemn, looking forward until her eyes settle on the figures marching forward, several paces ahead. She hates how much they look alike—her and them—but she supposes there’s nothing she can currently do about that. “They don’t feel safe around any seafolk, even though Luca clearly wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

 

“Okay, well, then, why don’t you and I do something—”

 

Verona’s nose crinkles at even just the thought. “Like what? Confront them?” She tries to make her apprehension clear in a nasal, incredulous tone, but it just flies over Franco’s head along with the birds and wind.

 

“Yeah, or just try to talk to Giulia and Luca about him ourselves—”

 

Verona’s heart does a small flip, scared, hesitant. “I don’t think that’d work,” she argues, but she really doesn’t know. She says, “Luca is way too far under his thumb, and Giulia seems to really like him, too. I don’t think talking to either of them would actually do anything,” but she doesn’t know how much of her words are just wishful thinking or confirmation bias.

 

Luca is Luca. Naïve, tender, and dovish to a fault. Even if they did say something to him—even if he wasn’t completely infatuated with that Machiavellian—he’d probably just wring his hands out until they shriveled up like raisins.

 

Giulia, on the other hand, works to destroy any empire of injustice at any chance she gets. She will willingly insert herself into intense, high-stakes drama if she sniffs even the faintest scent of inequity and offense. That’s why she’s scary; that’s why she’s good to have around; that’s why Verona hurts with a little pang of worry at the truth of the offender being someone so close to her.

 

How has she not done anything yet? Could she, herself, be one of the mind-warped victims in this? It’s a possibility. 

 

“Okay, then, we go back to my original idea, and we confront him ourselves,” Franco urges, picking up speed.

 

Verona tugs on his sleeve, pulling him back. “Not yet.”

 

“Why not?” He gawks down at her, pulling away. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not looking to just stand around here and let him hurt Luca any longer—”

 

“Let’s just give it a few more days, okay?” Verona pleads, gripping until his sleeve’s fabric folds over her hand. “If we’re going to confront him, then we need an airtight argument with proof and a motive. Otherwise, he’s just going to make up some excuse again, and we’ll be back to square-one or worse.”

 

Franco scowls. “We have proof,” he states. “We’ve seen the shit he pulls ourselves, and you’ve been taking notes. That’s documentation and two primary sources.”

 

Verona’s eyebrows raise. Just as before, Franco surprises her by actually having retained a bit of information about her interests.

 

“And, ragazza, the motive is control. Or attention. Or just because he likes being a jerk, and Luca is an easy target.”

 

She blinks. “You think Luca is an easy target?” she repeats, but not because she disagrees. She just wasn’t expecting for Franco to say what they were all thinking.

 

He clicks his tongue, clinking a pebble to roll down the hill, finally clinking against a big, terracotta pot hosting a wimpy lemon tree. “Luca is a puppy of a person and a borderline social reject.” He swallows, trying to fix his face but to no avail. 

 

His stare remains cold; his voice drops to a low, rumbling note.

 

“He’s low hanging fruit. If I was Alberto, I’d go after him, too.”

 

—————

 

The inside of the church looked just as ancient as the outside, if not even moreso.

 

As she moved from the anteroom to the chapel, the hard heels of Verona’s shoes clacked loudly but incongruously against the textured, slate grey stone floor. Between the cracks of each time was grime, sand and dirt. The walls looked no different—large, stone brick of varying grey tones,  speckled with white, black, and brown.

 

Along the walls were rows of round oil lanterns emanating flickering light, and between each of the tall, stone-and-spackle columns, there were pews. Long, hard, light-brown benches that filled up the entire room. They barely left any space to walk except for three small pathways—one down the middle, one beside the far-left wall, and the last on the far right.

 

The front of the room had most of the decoration, though Verona could barely see to it with the number of people gathered around, shoulder-to-shoulder in their nice dresses, nice blouses, nice dress-tops and ties. But, with enough stretch, she could make out a painting of Mary hoisted up on an easel, an altar, a pot of flowers, a cross, several candles, and baskets of bread.

 

She struggles to breathe, but she doesn’t believe it’s just the congestion or the dust up her nose.

 

When she’s in places like this—these small pockets of the world that feel as if they haven’t altered in hundreds to thousands of years—she fears breath. Her lungs grow still and shallow, scared to even draw in air for fear of the entire building caving in upon them all.

 

Plus, she always feels a little bit restricted in a church, no matter the space.

 

Miraculously, her family finds a space for them all in one of the far, far back rows. Her face flushes as a few passerbys glance their way— are they taking someone’s spot?— but soon, her mind begins to fill with other questions.

 

What will the sermon be today?

 

It’s the twentieth of June—the month of the sacred heart—so they must have something big planned even if they are just a quaint little congregation.

 

She wonders how that affects the dynamics of the area, too. Are the rules stricter here, given everyone knows eachother’s business, or are they more lenient, as emotional relationships are far more developed and intertwined with daily life?

 

She hopes they’re looser; she’s never been one for the rules that religion proposes. At least, not two in particular.

 

Everything settles. Song floods the building, but Verona’s mind is still elsewhere as the priest—only one—walks in.

 

Giulia is pretty much the same as her, only far more untamed. Both of her parents are Catholic, but they’ve always been lenient. From what Verona’s heard, they’ve never been cruel or stubborn—never forced her to go when she felt ill or had a bad night’s rest. They follow tradition, but she plans to tell them that she’s a lesbian by the end of the summer, and doesn’t appear to be afflicted by any worries.

 

If anything, she seems excited.

 

Verona, on the other hand, has no idea how her parents would react. They like to pose themselves as nice and accepting, but she knows better. They’re only nice because they don’t perceive a threat. A gay man? At least they’re leaving women alone. A gay woman? So long as they contribute to the economy. But their own daughter dating a girl —risking the skin on her neck for a romantic inclination? For what is regarded by the general populous as depravity and perversion? Now, that’s a threat. 

 

That’s one of the reasons Verona clicked so much with Luca. She understood what it must have been like to have a dream tampered by one’s parent’s need for social upstanding and safety. But, unlike Luca, she’s still living it. 

 

Also unlike Luca—she thinks as the sermon finally begins—she’s not polytheistic.

 

She doesn’t quite know why that fact surprised her so much when she first learned about it. It seemed a little…barbaric. But, she supposes that was a small, internal bias that she had (and one that she has since fought against and won).

 

Who cares if Luca thinks life is given by a giant, otherworldly whale-goddess? Who cares if he, his mother, his father, his grandmother, and everyone else in their village believes The Change is the result of a terrible, villainous, and also otherworldly crab-man?

 

Verona shouldn’t, and she doesn’t.

 

Though, perhaps a few pieces should be put in past tense.

 

The school they attended was a Catholic institution, and Luca, that sweet summer-child, terribly mistook Bible classes for just a special history class. That misunderstanding was only put to rest by an incredibly lengthy conversation in which it was revealed that Catholicism—and Christianity as a whole—was just one out of hundreds of human, unproven religions. So, now, if you were to ask him about it, you’d just watch his face crumple into an exhausted, nauseated disinterest as you listen to his mouth tell you to either ask him something else or to just go away.

 

Franco, however, very rarely goes away.

 

He’s not interested in the social dynamics of societies or how the beliefs of one’s macrosystem affects the day-to-day, but he sure as hell is interested in everything and anything pertaining seafolk. So, he asks, and he listens. But, it doesn’t alter his own belief system, because from the moment he found out that the church doesn’t believe in evolution, he sunk his feet into the great, concrete blocks of atheism and never looked back.

 

Speaking of Franco, Verona is gently knocked out of her stupor by a bump on her shoulder.

 

Quickly, she blinks back into reality. How long had her knees been aching like that? Has her neck always felt this stiff? All questions she cannot address, because she’s trying to figure out what in the world Franco is trying to communicate to her while barely moving an inch.

 

His eyes are flitting forward, out and away. Looking at him from the side, she watches them dart to the same spot once, twice, with an infinitesimal nod. Just a twitch.

 

She traces his stare to a flash of red behind drapery, patterns, and cloth. Forgetting herself, she smiles for a moment— hey, that’s Giulia!— then she fixes her expression to one of passive approvement. Her nose tilts upward, a small grin tugging gently at the corners of her lips, but Franco’s pinky presses into her thigh for her attention.

 

That wasn’t it?

 

That wasn’t it.

 

She looks again, now, as the congregation stands to receive communion.

 

And then, just for a split second, her eyes catch a glimpse of rich, orangey-brown.

 

Oh, gross. Her stomach swirls with a tight, hot, hateful warmth that she knows has no place in a house of worship, yet she can’t help it. The room feels smaller, even more packed than before. A second ago, she was fine, but now she knows they’re sharing space. Now she wants to leave and be rid of this whole experience as soon as possible.

 

As people start filing outwards, speaking softly with the priest, and filing back in, Verona feels herself growing stiff. Her eyes can’t help but lock onto him, two drones watching and analyzing every infinitesimal movement.

 

His shoulders are lax; his attire is modest. His clothes are ironed but laced with small traces of cat fur. His walk appears dishonest—allowing several people to go in front of him before he moves into the aisle, then looks around to make sure his chivalry was witnessed. He speaks to the priest again, and when he walks back, Verona sees his face.

 

Another wave of nausea.

 

His smile is barely noticeable, but it stretches awkwardly upon his face. Has his mouth always been that wide? Had his lips always been that full? It looks weird—unnatural—not to mention his hair. The least he could do is wear a hat. Allowing it to just plume upward like that is so rude; it completely blocks the view of everyone behind him. Verona bets he didn’t even try to style it this morning.

 

Really, she’s surprised it took her this long to notice him at all. He stands out so much; he just doesn’t fit. He doesn’t look like he should be here—he doesn’t look like he’s respectable enough to be here. Should he even be here?

 

Why is he even here?

 

He’s seafolk; he’s not human. This isn’t his culture, as much as he acts like it is. But, of course, he’s popular so no one’s going to stop him from appropriating everything in sight. She didn’t want to say it before, but it’s fetishistic, almost, how much he likes humans.

 

Like, Franco is into seafolk, but only because they’re a marine-biological breakthrough. He’s probably the only (aspiring) marine biologist on Earth with this kind of opportunity—this proximity—to seafolk, and, goddamnit, he’s going to take every chance he gets. Plus, he was interested in marine biology way before he ever met Luca, so there’s a precedent. What precedent is present here?

 

None, as far as Verona can tell, and she bets he buys isn’t the whole creationist crap, too. Luca did say he was uneducated, after all. She wonders if he’s bigoted—if he believes disabilities, both mental and physical, are a punishment for God, if he believes Verona and two of her closest friends are doomed to burn in Hell for all eternity for the divine crime of loving the “wrong” person.

 

He probably does—no.

 

From the type of person he is—from everything they’ve seen of him and everything they’ve heard—he definitely does, and she just has to prove it.

 

—————

 

Outside of the church, Verona takes in a big breath of air. She stretches, twisting this way and that in the sunlight as the crowd moves around her. She’s already agreed with her parents to return to the pensione for supper, but until then, she and Franco have all the time in the world.

 

So, they walk along. Franco scans the crowd far easier than Verona does, and very soon, he finds Giulia speaking with her father. They quickly walk to meet her, threading through the bustling crowd.

 

Soon, Giulia spots them, and a smile spreads across her face. “Uh, I’ll meet you at home, papá!” she says, waving her father off. Amicably, he pats her on the shoulder, and the second he departs, Giulia bounces on her feet and skips quickly to meet Verona and Franco where they stand.

 

Verona was expecting Giulia to come rushing toward them—was expecting to have to stumble a little backwards to give herself space—but she had not expected for Giulia to grab her two hands, holding them close as she chimed, “Hey!” and gasped, “Santa Mozzerella, sei così carina!”

 

Verona erupts into a blush as Giulia, still not letting go, ogles over her with obvious delight.

 

“When did you get this dress?” the other girl questions earnestly. “I love it!”

 

“Ah—a while ago,” Verona’s tongue feels fat in her mouth. Giulia’s hands feel sweaty, but it’s not a particularly negative sensation. “I don’t think I’ve ever worn it around you before, though.” She can feel her fingers tensing, infinitesimal tremors traveling up through her wrist into her palms before shooting off into her fingertips pressing gently, anxiously, against the back of the other girl’s hands. “And—you look nice, too,” she compliments, though she hasn’t actually looked very hard at her much. Really, she’s finding it hard to look at her at all, but in the peripheral, she can see Giulia’s dress is a nice, albeit muted, emerald green. “That’s a really good color on you.”

 

Giiulia grins. She squeezes her hands tight., and Verona’s heart does a small flip. “Grazie!” But, then she lets go.

 

Giulia steps a small pace backward, leaning down to look over her own attire. Verona can see it clearly now, as her own two hands fumble together to either preserve or diminish some of that lasting sensation. It’s a simple dress, stiff material with simple sleeves, a white collar and waist line that’s hiked up far above the navel. Small, yellow flowers that serve only to slightly texturize the predominantly green pattern.

 

She tugs a little at the skirt. It barely gives. “It’s kind of new actually,” she notes. “Alberto gave it to me for my birthday, back in March.” She sighs, hunching over. “Ugh. He has such good fashion sense. I’m so jealous.”

 

“He dresses like a homeless person,” Franco—who Verona had all but forgotten was standing there—interjects.

 

A big, big mistake.

 

Up until Franco let those (very, very true!) words fall from his mouth, the day had been going fine. There were the lingering burns left over from yesterday’s events that still needed some time and healing, sure, but nothing yet had actually happened. They’d walked to church, attended church, saw that boy in the crowd, then left. In fact, it was hardly even noon—the day had hardly yet even begun.

 

And, this is how it starts:

 

Giulia’s eyes bulge. Something about the words struck her deeply, like someone had just driven a stake into her chest. She stumbles backwards, coughing up a laugh laced with only incredulity and shock. “What?” she asked, tone high pitch and wary, pupils in wavering pinpoints between the boy and girl before her.

 

Verona’s breath caught in her throat; Franco had clearly misstepped. He was right—Alberto wears simple, raggedy clothes often stained with fish guts and oil—but that didn’t matter. Verona sees: his anger had blinded him. For a split second, he became an Icarus and forgot Giulia wasn’t on his—their—side.

 

Still, dumbly, he soars. “I said,” Franco raises his voice, hunching over so slightly so Giulia could hear him better, “he dresses like a homeless person.”

 

Verona’s jaw drops open. He should not have repeated himself—that was NOT an invitation to repeat himself! Verona knew Franco had a tremendous lack of knowledge in social skills and social cues (almost every member of their little quartet did to some extent), but she wonders if this is on purpose. Can it be on purpose— is Franco that bold?

 

Yes. Yes, he is—she realizes that now.

 

And, Giulia must as well.

 

The other girl angles her body away. One hand hovers near her side, tense with fingers curling like claws. The other wags one at him as she warily—suppressingly—states, “No, I heard you. I was just surprised—didn’t think you were the type of person to say that.” She laughs again, but she doesn’t lean down.

 

Verona has her friend’s laughs—their real laughs—all embroidered and framed near the back of her mind. (In the hippocampus, to be exact.) Luca throws his head back and holds his heart, almost to the point he falls; Franco’s nose scrunches like he’s about to sneeze and his shoulders tense up into an almost perfect square. Giulia doubles over, and she is not doubling over now.

 

It’s fake—she is not happy. But, she doesn’t look angry.

 

She says, “That’s—holy shit, ragazzo. That’s really bad,” but her eyebrows don’t crease, nor does the bridge of her nose. If there’s any hint of her emotions, it’s the wildness in her eyes, still open like saucers, still wavering.

 

But, they’re not looking at Verona or Franco anymore. They’re flung around with the small turn and flick of her head. She surveys the crowd—looks over her back.

 

Is she scared? Verona can’t tell. Giulia doesn’t get scared—at least, not enough for her to categorize all the little twitches and idiosyncrasies into something she can easily read. Hell, even when they go to the movies, she doesn’t flinch.

 

Is she flinching now?

 

No—but she is grabbing her hair. “Wow, I am really glad he didn’t hear you say that,” she sighs as her hands travel upward, threading through her thick hair, casting it off of her neck before twirling and twisting it down. A nervous habit—not scared, but she is nervous.

 

Why is she nervous—what should she be nervous about?

 

Disturbing the peace is one thing, but her words allude to something greater. Could Alberto really be that vain—so insecure about his own appearance to the point that he can’t handle even one person saying that he looks bad (and, he does)?

 

It sounds incredibly Narcissistic—

 

A Narcissist.

 

That’s in cluster B of the personality disorders—dramatic, erratic, and emotional. That’s a need for admiration—a crave of attention with bad insecurity—a total lack of empathy.

 

If only he wasn’t so confident in himself, he’d totally be a Narcissist.

 

While Verona momentarily wrestles with this profound realization, wracking her memory for any times Alberto seemed insecure or inhibited, Franco gawks. His eye twitches, suddenly confused—likely because he doesn’t have the in depth knowledge about psychology that Verona does. Ignorantly, he tries to cover his traces, “I’m—I’m sorry—?”

 

And, finally, Verona pulls herself together and steps in. “Anyway, no, I think you have a really good fashion sense!” she insists, heart beating fast on that rush of adrenaline which comes with every near breakthrough. “Honestly, if I could dress like you do, I would. You always have the coolest outfits.” God, if Alberto wasn’t such a threat to the mental health, autonomy, and, quite possibly, physical health of two of her best friends, he’d be a great case study.

 

And, Giulia seems to be settling down. Her hands travel to the long curls in the front, just holding them over her shoulders. “Ma, grazie,” she says, tone traveling downwards to her regular, tomboyish pitch.

 

Politely, Verona smiles and nods. Like a tourist, she covertly changes the subject, adding, “The church’s architecture is really cool, too. It feels so medieval, like we had entered some sort of time-portal.”

 

Giulia’s eyebrows raise, grinning. It’s not as genuine as it was before, but it’s a smile nonetheless. She always did have an affinity for sci-fi, after all. “Oh yeah, medieval is right, actually!” She informs in a pointedly calm tone, but Verona can still see her eyes darting, unsteadily, to Franco. “I’m pretty sure it was built all the way back in the fourteenth century.”

 

Franco stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Goddamn,” he breathes beneath his breath. Verona makes a mental note to assure him that Alberto does, in fact, dress like a homeless person later on.

 

Then, Giulia offers, “We can go back in and walk around some, if you’re interested.”

 

“No, we’re good,” Verona quickly responds, but she hadn’t fully listened to the question. Behind Giulia, several paces away, something much more demanding of her attention was taking place.

 

Alberto smiled at a woman as he held open the door for her. Verona can’t read lips, but she saw the woman thank him and he return it with a slight nod. Then, the woman leaned down, looked him in the eye, and asked him something that made his shoulders tense. He shakes it off—gives some careless response—then they part ways.

 

Verona’s heart dropped to her stomach when she realized he was walking up to them, and she quickly reverted her gaze back to the girl before her.

 

“So, what’re your plans for today?” she asks, trying to school herself to look as placid as possible.

 

Giulia just shrugs. “I dunno.” She looks around. “There’s nothing open today, so usually it’s just quiet—”

 

“Ciao, ragazzi!” Alberto grips his sister’s shoulders, nearly toppling her over. As he practically throws his weight onto her back. “What’s going on? What’re we talking about?” he questions, happy and excited like some dog in a field. He’s wearing that fake, idiotic grin. His eyes are wide and crinkled, but they reek of camp counselor energy. He’s looking down upon them like they’re kids, just smiling like nothing ever even happened—the whole of yesterday’s events just washed away and nullified when they aren’t.

 

From her peripheral, Verona watches Franco sour. The hurt is still there, bleeding and angry. A smile isn’t going to fix that, but knowing Alberto, he’s just going to brush it off and act like it never happened—or act like Franco is in the wrong for “holding a grudge.”

 

“We were talking about what we were going to do today,” Giulia says as Alberto slinks off of her—what a weirdo. Who greets people like that? “You got any plans?”

 

Alberto pretends to think, looking up to the clouds in a theatrical display of deep pondering. “Mmm, no. I was just gonna work in the garden some, then help out papá with dinner.

 

“Are we not grabbing Luca?” Franco questions, voice low.

 

Alberto looks to him, then looks away (upset?). Giulia explains, “No, he stays with his family on Sundays.”

 

“Oh, che peccato,” Verona sighs, but it’s disingenuous. She’s glad Luca gets some time away. The more time he spends out of Alberto’s clutches, the better, she thinks.

 

Giulia rolls her head back. “Yeah, it’s a major bummer, but we can still hang out, vero?”

 

And, strangely, Alberto tenses up yet again. He scratches the back of his neck—plays off his insecurity with another big stretch. “I guess you guys can help cooking—”

 

Giulia cuts him off. “Ma, no!” she assures. “You have fun with papá, and we’ll just hang out on our own, today.”

 

Everyone agrees to this, and Verona feels a small smile tug at her lips. Before anyone notices, she bites it down. What a gift, that girl is. She didn’t even have to say anything; Giulia pushed him aside all on her own!

 

Verona wonders: could Giulia find his presence grating, too?

 

—————

 

Giulia spends nine months out of the year in her mother’s apartment, and Verona has said goodbye to her as she packed up and left for her father’s on many occasions. Every time, Giulia has only ever brought two things with her: her suitcase and the clothes on her back. For that reason, Verona expected her room to reflect that.

 

In other words, she expected her bedroom to be barren, devoid of any characteristic decoration, but as she steps into the small, little room, she finds herself absolutely slapped in the face with her own error.

 

There was barely enough space for all three of them, but Franco, Verona, and Giulia all managed to squeeze into the little space that wasn’t taken up by bookshelves, a nightstand, an armoire, a trunk, a bunk bed, and several miscellaneous items strewn across the ground.

 

Verona marvels at the prospect of it—the room must be only slightly larger than her bathroom. She wonders how Giulia can stand it, especially given the fact that she has to share the space with a whole other person. And, as any good host would, Giulia catches Verona staring, and she offers to show her some of her stuff.

 

Happily, Giulia toys with a little red radio until it sings in a low, romantic hum. The noise of it almost drowns out the noise from the room over—a famous aria playing at the loudest volume available and mixing with the sounds of cutting, scraping, bubbling, and stirring. At her legs, Franco crouches, looking through a stack of vinyl. Despite scoffing at a few (Giulia—Quattro Villaggi. Really?), he asks why they don’t play some of these on that gramophone, sitting on the leather chest.

 

That’s when Giulia explained that that gramophone belongs to Alberto, and he gets super weird about people—anyone other than Luca—touching his things. Plus, it doesn’t work.

 

Franco raises a brow. “I thought these things were made to last a century.”

 

Hastily, Giulia explains that it’s waterlogged and it got smashed one time. So, it’s really just for show…or sentiment. “He got in the day he met Luca—broke it when they had a fight. You know how it goes,” she says, and the hairs on Verona’s neck stand up.

 

Yet another note for the mental jar of proof of his violent tendencies. Thank you, Giulia.

 

But, besides the gramophone, Alberto also stressed that no one is ever to touch his whittling tools, his art supplies, his vespa poster, his taped-to-the-wall drawings, or his bunk bed.

 

The last of the list, Giulia pointedly ignores, plopping herself down and patting the seat beside her, beckoning Verona to come sit.

 

So, she comes and sits—Franco as well—and all three start going through Giulia’s photography album.

 

“This is nearly movie-level quality—incredibile!” Verona compliments.

 

“Oh yeah, last summer, I worked double-time in order to get my dad to buy a better camera for me.” Giulia giggles. “So worth it, right?”

 

Franco nods with a little approving grunt, and it’s fun.

 

It’s fun to go back on the photos and reminisce over the school year—over the school years.

 

Verona doesn’t think she realized Giulia’s been taking photos for so long. Sure, she’s seen the cardboard box in her closet that she keeps all the stacks in, but it seems like she’s pulling out album after album. 

 

There’s a photo in there of all four of them, back when they were just thirteen and fourteen year olds in those ridiculous little blue uniforms. Neither she nor Franco had their glasses then, and Giulia’s hair wasn’t nearly as long. They’re standing outside of Sig.ra Marcovaldo’s apartment—all smiling with books and book bags still in their hands. She doesn’t remember such a photo being taken, but she’s sure glad that it was.

 

The nostalgia is good for her, she thinks, and so is the scent of pasta and warm bread through the air.

 

She’s about to ask Giulia to take the photo out so she can inspect it further—lean into the feeling just a little longer—but a knock on the door interrupts.

 

Thankfully, it wasn’t Alberto, but her father.

 

Sig. Marcovaldo pokes his head in, peering at his daughter. “Giulietta?” he calls.

 

Giulia looks to him, a little confused. “Uh—yeah?”

 

Sig. Marcovaldo opens the door a little further and nods away—a gesture for her to follow him out into the hallway. 

 

Clunkily, Giulia scoots the album into Verona’s hands. She gets up, patting her dress down, and assures, “I’ll be right back, ragazzi,” before following her father out.

 

He holds the door open for her. She disappears into the hallway, and the door closes with a resounding click.

 

In the sudden silence (minus the radio, still humming along), Verona looks at Franco, and Franco looks at Verona.

 

At once, Franco throws both of his legs up to press himself against the wall beside the bunkbed, not caring if he touches Alberto’s oh-so-precious Vespa poster now that Giulia isn’t here to reprimand him. Meanwhile, Verona leaps up. She goes to the door, only white painted wood rather than the thick concrete and stucco. The sound will travel better through it, she thinks.

 

And, she’s right.

 

At the just noticeable difference, she hears three voices: Giulia, her father, and Alberto. It sounds serious, and Giulia is talking moreso than anyone else. But, her voice is low. Verona can’t make out the words, though the tone varies between humble pleading and righteous indignation. She hears the words “That’s not fair!” before silence. But no, it’s not silence. It’s just her father speaking to her, as quiet as ever.

 

But, strangely, he isn’t reticent. In fact, he talks for quite a while—longer than Verona thinks she’s heard him speak before—until Alberto steps in, sounding upset.

 

Her brow tightens. In her mind’s eye, she sees him moping like a child not having got his way. She wonders what he could be saying—what isn’t fair—until it’s back to arguing again.

 

It takes a total of fifteen minutes for the three to reach a conclusion. 

 

An entire quarter hour goes by as Verona and Franco try to listen in, just scrabbling for the changes in pitch and any single other syllable that may provide a clue as to what’s being said beyond the walls. Then, the voices grow silent and only gentle barefoot footsteps along cold tile reach her ears.

 

Verona speeds back to the bedframe; Franco throws his legs back over the edge of the mattress. She doesn’t make it—doesn’t manage to sit down—before the door creaks open, and internally, she prays that no suspicion sprouts.

 

But, Giulia’s always been a little bit dense—it’ll probably be fine.

 

“What’s up?” Franco greets her.

 

But Giulia doesn’t even look at him. “Hey, ragazzi…” she says, a shadow spreads over her solemn, downward stare. She lets go of the door handle, but she doesn’t even close it. She just lets it linger there, half-open, exposing the dim hallway exit. 

 

If she’s trying to hide her upset, she’s not doing a great job of it. That’s another one of Giulia’s vices—she’s always been far too animated for her own good. Verona wants to ask what’s wrong, what they spoke about, what the whole argument was, what isn’t fair, but she just stands there, a scientist in a naturalistic observation. Just watching, listening, learning, and never tampering for results.

 

“My dad says it’s about to rain.” Giulia’s eyes dart away— a lie? “So, you guys kind of need to go now…”

 

Verona’s mouth falls open; Franco looks to the window. Verona follows his gaze, and it is, actually, overcast. Mindlessly, her hand wrings out the bedframe as her thoughts continue to churn. “Oh…well, we can finish this up tomorrow, vero?” she asks like any friend would.

 

Giulia nods, but she doesn’t seem so sure. “Yeah—yeah, sure we can.”

 

“Well, alright then.” Verona shrugs, fully standing up from her lean. Franco gently closes the photo album, laying discarded upon the sheets. Wordlessly, Giulia takes it from him and returns it to its cramped spot upon the bookshelf.

 

Then, Giulia says, “We’ll walk you home,” and Verona immediately understands that we refers to both the girl before her and the boy in the kitchen—the one she has almost no interest in seeing.

 

She has a feeling the walk home isn’t going to be pleasant—that Giulia’s words will be, more than anything else, a forewarning.

 

————

 

They didn’t need help walking home. This must have been known by Giulia and her brother—they’d walked home alone every single day before, after all. Yet, here they were, walking through a nearly emptied piazza, watching the grocer put away his produce; a woman in an apron closing up the umbrellas at a cafe. Both of the siblings swing an umbrella at their side.

 

It’s quiet. Verona hadn’t expected it to be quiet. She thought Alberto would make a big deal out of it, undoubtedly. She thought he’d put on a show for them and the world—everyone, gather and gawk! Alberto is being such an altruist, walking the tourists home through the oncoming rain.

 

But, no. That isn’t happening. He’s staying quiet, and the air hangs heavy with petrichor. It’s only the early afternoon, yet golden streetlamps flicker to life to cast out only small bursts of blue, green, and purple shadows.

 

It’s awfully pretty, Verona thinks. Genova is always just a dreary grey when it rains, but she thinks Portorosso may just be more colorful than ever. If only Giulia’s camera wasn’t monochrome, she’d implore her to take a picture up the winding streets as it begins to drizzle. The cobblestone sparkles, silver.

 

But the peaceful silence doesn’t last. A single breath casts it away: “Attenzione. It’s always the slipperiest when it’s just started.”

 

Franco shoots him a death glare. Verona doesn’t think such an action is quite necessary, but at this point, any word from that boy’s mouth is sure to set her friend off.

 

Giulia nods, then turns to look over her shoulder. But, she doesn’t look at Verona. “You don’t think it’ll be like that week we had in April, right? That was bad.”

 

Alberto shakes his head, looking down. “You know, the boardwalk nearly flooded.”

 

Giulia nods. “Yeah, I remember you telling us about that.” Verona quickly understands that us refers to only her and Luca—not the entire group. The exclusion upsets her a little bit, but not enough to make a fuss. “And, business was good.”

 

Alberto looks at Giulia confused— about what? —then he nods, stronger this time. “Oh yeah, had a huge haul right after, plus a lot of extra cash from running errands for everyone stuck inside.”

 

“Mhm,” Giulia voices, forcibly chipper. “Just one of the good things about being a seafolk, eh?” She elbows him, but he only stiffens up.

 

Giulia looks at him, then sighs. It feels as if Verona is witnessing something she’s not meant to—a private, wordless conversation between siblings she could so easily read if only she’d march up a little further up ahead. Just enough to see their faces and nothing more.

 

Fortunately, halfway up the walk, she got her chance.

 

The sky finally opens up. The light drizzle, not even worth the hat she was still wearing, tears apart into a full summer shower. Giulia unbuckles and opens up an umbrella, turns around, and stops in her tracks.

 

She looks at Verona expectantly with big eyes and a simple smile. She’s always so nice.

 

“Grazie,” Verona thanks her as she skips to her side, arms crossed to hug herself away from the rain rather than to show displeasure.

 

Quickly, she turns to look to Franco–to offer him a spot in the cover—but he’s already preoccupied.

 

His arms are crossed too, face screwed into a terrible, seething scowl.

 

He seemed to hate Alberto for offering him his umbrella, and Alberto knew it. He looked just as distressed himself, trying to angle it so that it’d still cover the other boy while ensuring their arms don’t touch—that he wasn’t in the way; that he wasn’t even in sight.

 

It’s pathetic, really, and Verona groans. There’s the show she was waiting for. There it is, with the rising action, the climax, and the fall—Alberto hands the umbrella to Franco, then sidesteps away.

 

He’s halfway in the rain—halfway purple, indigo, and violet.

 

If Giulia notices it, too, she doesn’t show it. She just keeps marching forward, all the way up the hill, all the way back to the pensione.

 

————

 

Her mother always ensures every door and window is sealed tightly shut, for fear of a robbery or an assault every single time they go out, no matter the fact that they live in a perfectly safe part of the city. Vacation is no different—nowhere is different. Honestly, she’d probably do the same even if they were staying on a deserted island.

 

So, Verona is absolutely nonplussed when she tried the knob and finds it locked. She only sighs below the overhang, Franco rolling on his feet at her side, looking at her for some sort of action. Giulia stands a little bit away, holding the umbrella over her head, and Alberto, of course, allows himself to get completely drenched like the sad little showpony he is.

 

But before Verona can do anything, Franco grabs the handle and knocks one, two, three harsh times.

 

The light to the foreroom flicks on. Three seconds later, the door bursts open with a worried mother’s cry: “Verona! Finally—!” Her mother’s eye drops to her dress. Verona had almost completely forgotten she was still in her church clothes, but she’s slapped upside the head with the reminder as her mother’s surprise crumples into a vain anguish. The few inches at the bottom had gotten soaked. “No, what did you do to your dress? You’ve got mud all over it—”

 

Verona stiffens as her mother grips her by the shoulders, raking her eyes all over, then beyond her. “Come on—come inside,” she beckons, stepping aside for Verona to enter and for Franco to follow.

 

She doesn’t let go of Verona even as she steps inside the pensione. It’s only when Franco, too, steps inside, and she gives a small, grateful wave to the two still on the step that her hands begin to fall off.

 

Yet, that is not where this scene ends.

 

Big, thick, and sharp claws latch around the door. They pull it wider, but only enough to expose just a few more inches. A solemn expression, wrought with falsified fear.

 

“Wait—” Alberto winces.

 

His earfins are tucked downwards, and he’s barely managing to hold eye contact, too. Jeez, he really is a good actor, Verona thinks as, horrifyingly, his gaze travels to the boy beside her. “Franco, can I…talk to you outside? It won’t take long.”

 

Apprehension, disgust, hatred, pain. Verona sees them all flash across Franco’s face as he scrambles to make a decision.

 

She knows he wants to tell him no. She knows that if it was anyone else—at least, anyone else other than Giulia, Luca, or herself—that he would. He’s never been incapable of standing his ground, yet it’s him.

 

And, Giulia’s there.

 

And, so is Verona’s mother, sighing as she relinquishes the door from her grasp. It swings open with a damning creak.

 

“Uh. Yeah,” Franco tries to hide his disgruntlement. “One sec,” he says to Verona, stepping outside, back into the rain.

 

Verona wants to have a repeat—do exactly as she did when inside the small, confined space of her friend’s bedroom—but she doesn’t have time.

 

Her mother grips her again. “Go on,” she orders, plucking at the fabric about her shoulders. “Get changed out of this mess.”

 

“But—” Verona attempts to plead.

 

But her efforts are only in vain. “Now,” her mother insists.

 

Her mother isn’t taller than her by any truly noticeable means. In fact, Verona might even be taller than her, but it’s no matter. When she’s looking down at her, just like this, she’ll always feel small.

 

“And, you ought to take a shower too, but don’t do that now. We’re about to start supper.”

 

Verona hangs her head, pouting as she goes to her room.

 

It feels wrong to be wearing pajamas so early in the day, but it’d feel worse to wear something old and dirty from days past. So, she gets into her nightgown as if she’s getting ready for the night—she’ll probably just be sleeping early, anyway. The rain outside is already drawing out a yawn from her, after all.

 

Though, the face in the mirror disettles her a little.

 

When she’s taken off her glasses and wiped off her eyeliner and gloss, she looks a bit like her mother.

 

It’s there, in her height; in her skin; in the way her hair frames her face—two perfectly symmetrical waves. If you could even consider them waves. 

 

She doesn’t, though her mom does.

 

But it’s no matter. That’s just genetics. There’s nothing she can do about that, except…

 

Franco walks into the room as Verona is tugging her hair this way and that. What if it was cut like this? What can I use to style it like so? she asks herself before being asked a question, herself: “What’re you doing?”

 

“Ah, nothing,” she dismisses it, petting her hair back down to normal. She had heard the door open; she had watched him walk in from her peripheral. But, she knows Franco isn’t one for worrying and carrying on. 

 

But when the bed squeaks behind her, she still turns to look.

 

This time she isn’t surprised by Franco’s presence. What surprises her, as her eyes rake all over, is that there seems to be no signs of struggle—and the fact that she’s looking for them.

 

She knows it’s bad, but a part of her scrutinizes him for any cuts or bumps. Any strand of hair out of place—any smears across his shirt—but there is nothing. Not even his glasses are in disarray; they sit perfectly balanced atop his nose, just as they had done before.

 

Yet, more strangely—and much more importantly—he doesn’t seem angry.

 

His eyebrows are furrowed, sure, and his frown is as present as ever. But, it’s not as stiff. It’s not as cold.

 

“You alright?”

 

Franco nods, stretching, but only to return right back to his slump.

 

Verona grows worried. It’s not like him to be reticent. “So…what was that about?”

 

Franco drives fingers through his hair; he doesn’t make eye contact. “He apologized for…making fun of me.”

 

He apologized.

 

Verona’s eyes widen. Of all the things she guessed were transpiring behind that closed door, that was not one of them.

 

“And, about getting weird yesterday.”

 

Verona’s eyebrows knit together. “Getting…weird?” Weird— Giulia is weird. Luca is weird. Franco and her, both—they’re weird. Whatever Alberto was yesterday, he was not weird. Whatever he was yesterday was far beyond and far more dangerous than that.

 

She wonders if that’s Franco’s phrasing or Alberto’s. She deduces it to the latter as Franco continues, “He said the island makes him freak out a lot. Scares him or something.” He finishes abruptly. Was there more he was going to say?

 

“What did you say?”

 

Franco shrugs. “Said it was fine.”

 

Verona gawks. She doesn’t know what to think—what even to say.

 

After a long moment of befuddled silence, she can only ask, “Is it fine?”

 

Franco looks her dead in the eye. The coldness floods in again, an avalanche of piercing ice, and she knows. He clicks his tongue and looks away, and she has her answer.

 

Still, he grumbles, “I didn’t buy it.”

 

Verona sighs with relief. Everything is still in order.

 

And, to better or worsen her nerves, Franco continues, “You know, this is probably how he’s managed to keep Luca and Giulia tolerating him for so long.” Another stretch; a thoughtful series of taps on the knee. “Fuck up, then go perform an apology that makes the other person look like a dick.”

 

Verona nods. Despite the relief and assertion, she still asks, “It didn’t feel genuine at all?”

 

“No it a bit.” Perfect, just as she expected.

 

Franco stands. He walks to the door lazily, each step slower and more tentatively placed than the last.

 

“I’ll admit, he’s a good actor.” He shrugs. “But not good enough to me.”

 

Franco disappears into the hall with those words. Verona looks to the journal, crammed with torn-out papers, lieing on her nightstand.

 

But, a moment later, her mother calls for dinner, and it has to wait.

Chapter 10: threshold

Summary:

They go to the movies.

Notes:

just for clarity: this chapter is slightly nonchronilogical. The first scene takes place later in the day than the rest. Also, warning, there’s a PG-13 line in this.

Verona’s right hand sits in Giulia’s left in the dark room. Her hand is sweaty but happy, rolling a thumb across the back of her palm—squeezing in the tense moments. She smiles at her every once in a while, though that is not the reason her heart races, nor is it why her shoulders tense so terribly. It’s not even responsible for her other arm crossing over her navel like a rookie sailor about to be sick.

 

It’s something else, and it’s not the movie playing by the giant projector—some god-awfully boring sci-fi/horror flick Giulia and Franco, sitting on her other side, wanted to see. But, do not be mistaken. She isn’t scared; she’s never even been into this type of horror. No matter how convincing, no such zombifying plague exists. The only horrors that’ll ever cause her to shiver are the crimes that occur so close to her daily life.

 

Cautionary tales her mother tells of her friends’ abuse; aunts and cousins warning her of where not to walk and how to hold her purse like so. A grandmother’s goodhearted advice to just not fight, to let him have what he wants so that her life and whatever dignity she has left may be spared.

 

Reality—that is what scares her.

 

True crime—that is what sickens her, what incites her into action like a toy wound up far too many times. That is what causes her fingers to curl tighter around Giulia’s, not muted imagery of zombies loudly clambering against a door adorned with crosses.

 

The words of that boy…

 

That Machiavellian.

 

Her hand grips Giulia’s hand tighter, the other one crinkling the fabric of her blouse.

 

Giulia tries to stifle a laugh so as to not annoy the other movie-goers. “It’s not even that tense of a scene!” she whispers, buck teeth showing through her bright, dense smile. “Rilassati, ragazza,” she says because she does not know.

 

She did not see what Verona saw; she had not heard what Verona had.

 

The words she heard, just a little over an hour ago, from the maw that monster—they are the cause of her fear. They are the fuel for her fire.

 

—————

 

Just a little over an hour ago, Giulia stretched in the sunlight, curling her hands behind her neck to let it breathe from her suffocating hair. Dark, wet strands stuck to her skin, but she pulled them off, too. “It’s so humid,” she groaned, stepping into the shade behind a big, dome overhand. “This was a really good idea,” she said, turning to look over her shoulder.

 

Verona nodded as she caught her eye. Franco, meanwhile, skipped out ahead of the group—all of them—to catch the door. Though, he only held it open for Verona and Giulia. Verona suspects he would have held it open for Luca, too, but Alberto and Luca had been walking as a single, indestructible unit this entire morning.

 

Earlier this morning, Verona and Franco caught Giulia in her daily delivery run. They had long since nailed down her route and routine, so it didn’t take much searching around for them to find her. They followed her to her father’s house, and Franco assisted her with dropping off the crates in the side yard as both Luca and Alberto stepped out the side door to greet them.

 

Verona was surprised; she hadn’t thought Luca was already here. But, apparently, as Alberto had been lifeguarding, they met early in the bay. And, since then, haven’t separated since.

 

It grosses her out how close Alberto hovers beside, behind, and in front of him. It makes her worry—the fact that he hasn’t seemed to have let go of Luca’s arm, hand, or shoulder since they’ve arrived.

 

Even as Alberto stepped forward to catch the swinging door, he still didn’t let Luca go. His hand stayed, locked firmly on his forearm, tugging him forward ever so slightly before stepping to the side—letting him pass through first.

 

He’s such a control freak, pulling Luca around like some sort of toy then acting as if he’s doing him a favor, but Giulia doesn’t see it. Giulia just croons, “Ooh, and it’s gonna be super cold inside the theater too! Ahh, that’s gonna feel so nice,” and remains completely ignorant to her brother’s abhorrent actions.

 

Though, she is right.

 

Verona immediately feels better as she steps inside the cool, dimly lit environment. Stone tile, feeding into a line of maroon carpet, replaces sunbaked terracotta brick beneath her feet. Posters line the walls, each under its own little wall-lamp spotlight. Farther down the hallway, there’s a booth with an usher that barely looks college-level. A family talks to him, and he sends them on their way with their tickets. Then, the next comes and he approaches them with the same, politely bored look. Verona can see some novel lying face-down on his desk. It looks thick, and, as she goes to get in line, she thinks it a little ironic to be reading a book at a movie theater. But, it was a misstep.

 

Neither her friends nor Alberto follow her. Instead, they gather around a couple of the posters. And, Verona has to quickly skip back.

 

“Mhm!” Luca agrees, rocking on his feet. “That’s why I brought the sweater.” Alberto adjusts himself, throwing a hand on his back as Luca gives a small tug to his sleeves. “It’s practical and fashionable!”

 

Alberto tries to hide his snicker, showing chipped, yellow teeth, but fails.

 

Thankfully, Luca ignores him and turns around so the other boy’s hand momentarily loses its hold. “See? It’s even got stars embroidered on the back.”

 

“Che bello,” Verona compliments.

 

But, Alberto just laughs louder.

 

Now, Luca is forced to acknowledge him. “What?” He manages to keep his grin.

 

“You’re such a dork.” Sciocco, he said. It’s not the worst insult in existence, but Verona knows Luca is sensitive when it comes to people insulting his intelligence. Having only been a student—having only been in an actual school—for two years, he’s got quite the setback.

 

Luca is smart. No one who starts school nearly a decade late and doesn’t fail within the first semester must be smart, but intelligence, intuition, flexibility, and pure determination can only take you so far. There’s rarely a concept Luca can bring to them—to Giulia, Verona, and Franco—that they haven’t heard before. (Except when it’s on the topic of seafolk, of course). Sometimes, he’ll announce a miraculous discovery, and it turns out to be the simplest, most commonly known fact. For that, he’s gullible, too, and his kind and placid demeanor does nothing to set the impressions astray.

 

Very early on, Franco would tease him a little. He’d land just small, condescending jabs and think nothing of it, but that was before Franco knew. That was before anyone—minus Giulia and her mamma—in the entire city of Genova knew. And, he understood that, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

 

Franco knows, now, not to laugh a little when Luca says something ignorant or gawks over something so quotidian. He’s still learning; he hasn’t quite got the hang of the surface, yet, but he’s getting there.

 

And, his friends know not to call him a fool—an idiot.

 

He’s good at hiding it, but it does hurt his feelings. It causes him to grow quiet—participate less and less in conversation and struggle more and more in order to never seem like an idiot again. 

 

But, just because Luca is nonconfrontational, that doesn’t mean he’s weak. Instead of ducking down, he tilts his head up and takes the insult in stride, no doubt supported by his three friends gathered around, ready to step in if things escalate. “Oh, grazie mille. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 

Still, Verona slightly verts the subject. “Did you do the embroidery yourself?”

 

Luca shakes his head. It’s hard to see where his eyes are going in this dark. “Oh no, signora Maria made it for me.”

 

“Yeah, my mamma’s done a few for me, too,” Giulia says. “She’d probably do one for you if you asked.” After a small pause, she adds, “...during the school year.”

 

Franco shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and Verona realizes they only gathered about the posters to talk a little bit more and relish in the shade—not to actually discuss what they were going to see. “I guess, like, a squid or some other cephalopod would be cool. Just as a patch.” He tilts his head, pondering. “Or a crab, since they’re biologically immortal.”

 

Luca nods, humming knowingly. Oddly, Alberto raises one eyebrow, slightly rocking backward in disbelief. “What?” he voices. “Crabs die all the time; we sell them at the pescheria—?”

 

“He means they don’t die of old age,” Luca corrects him, voice low so as to not bruise his fragile ego.

 

“They don’t?” Alberto questions, entirely incredulous.

 

“No,” Luca whispers, insistent, but Alberto just looks even more perplexed than before.

 

Verona wonders if Alberto was dropped on the head as a child; the back of his head is nearly a 90-degree angle, so it’s clear he wasn’t held as a baby very often (assuming seafolk have the same cranial development as humans), anyway. Really, how dumb do you have to be to question the word of those clearly of a higher level of intelligence than you?

 

Though, that’s a problem she needs to learn to not bother with. You can’t teach stupid—after all, the dumbest ones always think they’re the smartest guy in the room.

 

That said, she wonders why they’re on this topic again. Literally on their first day in Portorosso, it was established that this exact fact was common knowledge to seafolk. It’s why they use the crabs in the race; they only get better with time, just like wine. For a second, the image of that one bleach-brained “blonde” girl in her class (who pours more energy into hosting parties than her academics) loudly exclaiming that Africa is a country flashes in her mind. Then, she supposes not. It’s much more likely that this instance can be attributed to the findings of Lev Vygotsky.

 

Alberto’s a migratory; he likely never had to deal with crustaceans until he came to Portrosso.

 

Luca just dismisses him, “I’ll explain it later,” and Verona tries to get the conversation back on track before a headache starts:

 

“Yeah, I wish I could do something like that with my interests.”

 

“You could do a brain!” Giulia offers.

 

“Or the DSM,” Franco suggests, but Verona just makes a face at both. Unimpeded, Franco continues, “It’s just a big rectangle with some letters on it—or an oval with squiggles. Mine would probably be a lot harder, honestly.”

 

His words are true, but difficulty was not what Verona was worried about. Rather, it’s not her style. “Yeah, I think I’ll just stick to my florals,” she sighs.

 

And, finally, someone acknowledges where they’re standing. “Yeah, so you ragazzi wanna get going?” Giulia asks, waving a hand in gesture to the line of posters. “We have quite a few options—what’re you guys interested in?”

 

Of course, Alberto is the first to answer. “Not anything I’ve seen before. Waste of soldi.”

 

Verona wonders if it’d kill him to not make everything about himself for once.

 

“Right so…what does that leave us?” Giulia questions. Verona wishes she would have addressed her brother’s unfair demands (what if they wanted to see something that he had already seen? What if the only thing he hadn’t seen is something no one else wants?) in a different manner, but what can she do?

 

“Uh…” Alberto’s mouth hangs open, catching flies, as he looks over the options. “Tre Notti d’Amore…and L’Utimo Uomo della Terra.” He mumbles the latter.

 

Verona balks. Two? Out of all of the options—of which there are five—he’s only not seen two? How often does this guy go to the movies? That’s ridiculous; he has way too much time on his hands. And, he mumbled through one, so it’s so obvious which is in his favor—which one he’s going to force them all to go see.

 

It’s strange, though, how he picks the rom-com over the sci-fi. He’s totally the type of guy to moan and groan through one due to it’s girly nature; Verona bets he’d laugh at the prospect of a guy simply wearing pink, too. He is nicknamed Rosa by his friend, but all nicknames come with a bit of scorn—a slight pinch of tease and bullying.

 

She had apologized for misjudging him, then, but now she knows better. She won’t fall prey to his tricks and dismissals again—she knows the kind of person he is.

 

Giulia stares at the posters for a second, eyebrows scrunched in contemplation. Verona thinks she’s going to do what she wants—going to argue against her brother—but no. She says, “Ragazzi, how are we feeling about Tre Notti d’Amore?”

 

Thankfully, Franco is quick with a response: “Hell no.”

 

Verona almost grins; some of her tension subsides. She can always count on Franco to voice his opinions, and, fortunate for her, they often mirror her own.

 

Giulia, however winces. “Okay…I think we may have to split up on this one.”

 

Oh, that’s even better! Verona wonders if she plays the cards right, she’ll be able to orchestrate a scene in which Alberto goes to Tre Notti d’Amore and the rest of them go see something without him. That’d be just lovely—a dream come true!

 

Graciously, Luca agrees, “Oh yeah, that’s a great idea!” But, that is where the luck takes a small turn. Verona watches, tension returning to her shoulders ten-fold as Luca gestures to himself, Giulia, and Franco suggesting, “Why don’t we three go to L’Utimo Uomo della Terra,” before he smiles at Verona and Alberto, “And you two go see Tre Notti d’Amore?”

 

Alberto grips Luca’s hand so hard his biceps show. “But, I don’t want…” His voice draws off.

 

Luca just looks up at him confused.

 

Alberto says nothing, but his apprehension is clear. He scratches the back of his head and looks away, like a child needing assistance.

 

It’s starting to get hard to even look at him. Verona doesn’t know how much more of this she can take.

 

Luca closes his eyes, sighs, and makes a decision. “Okay,” he says. “Giulia, Franco, Verona—you guys go see L’Utimo Uomo della Terra. Alberto and I will go to the other.”

 

Verona knew it was getting to be too good to be true, but she didn’t think her luck would turn on her so quickly—so drastically! Luca being alone with him even moreso than he already has to day is the last thing she wanted.

 

She opens her mouth to give a rebuttal, but Giulia beats her to the punch. “But, Luca—”

 

Luca waves her off. “It’s fine! I’ll see it some other time,” he insists, wriggling himself out of Alberto’s grip while Giulia is still formulating a response. Quickly, he holds her by the shoulders and begins pushing her further down the hall. “Just go, go buy your tickets. Yours starts sooner than ours, anyway!”

 

Luca finally stops her in front of the ticketman, and Giulia huffs. She frowns at him—not something aggressive, but something a little bewildered and a little frustrated. Verona is a little bewildered too; Luca rarely ever does something so theatrical, so dramatic. But, he’s been acting odd ever since they came to Portorosso—showing more skin, voice more loud. Actions and demeanor followed suit; he’s almost an entirely different person now—nearly unrecognizable.

 

But, Giulia’s gentle frown does not stay for long. Rather, it hardens into a terrible, hateful scowl as her focus drifts off of Luca and settles upon the usher. She looks at the teen with a spark of disgust flickering behind her usually friendly brown eyes, green disgust creeping upon her tanned skin. “Urgh,” she groans before digging her hand into her pocket, taking out the coin her father gave her this morning and the bills Verona, who did not have pockets, let her hang onto. “Three,” she grunts. “Per favore,” she sneers.

 

The usher wordlessly takes the coin and rips off three tickets. Giulia uncharacteristically snatches them out of his hand, but before she can stomp away, the usher sighs a small, “Have a good time,” that she has to wave off.

 

Verona jogs slightly to keep up with her, Franco taking big strides behind. “What was that about?” Verona asks as they near the end of the line for concessions. It’s oddly long in such a small town, but she supposes they have to get their entertainment from somewhere.

 

Giulia snips, “That’s Guido—another one of Alberto’s shitty friends.”

 

Verona’s eyebrows raise. “Oh…”

 

Verona has heard of Guido before—more times than she can count. Still, Giulia carries on: “I just don’t get it! How can you be friends with an attempted murderer, you know? Someone who bullied your sister for, like, half a decade?!”

 

“I have no idea,” Verona affirms her feelings. But, she can think of a couple reasons how: for starters, he could be just as shitty himself. But, obviously, Giulia cannot see that yet.

 

Giulia continues, voice easily loud enough for Guido—for Alberto and anyone around her—to hear, “I don’t care if they apologized—I wouldn’t be caught dead talking to someone like that.”

 

Franco nods silently. Verona agrees again, “I can’t imagine.” Then, she offers, while taking a step up in line as a couple carries off their drink and popcorn, “Have you…talked to him about not being comfortable around him?”

 

Giulia’s gaze hardens, staring daggers down into the floor with her arms crossed over her chest. “Believe me, Guido knows I don’t like him.”

 

“Talked to Alberto,” Verona quickly, but gently, clarifies. She knows her whispering is useless when Giulia is too loud to keep this business to herself, but she does it anyway. It just feels unnatural to talk about arguments so publicly. “And, I mean really communicated your worries to him.”

 

“Certo, but he still does it anyway!” Giulia exasperates. “Guido isn’t even allowed over at our house because of what he did to me, him, and Luca, but Alberto still practically forgave him the second he said sorry.”

 

Giulia sighs; Verona is struck with a sense of pity. Franco sends a side-glance to her, asking her now? But, no. It’s not the time. Right now, she just wants to make sure Giulia feels better before they head into the film.

 

Meanwhile, Giulia sighs. Her hands uncross to raise up to her temples, massaging small circles. “I dunno,” she deflates. “Maybe I’m the bad guy for holding a grudge, but I don’t care.”

 

Quick as a whip, Verona grabs the other girl’s shoulder. “Woah, wait—you are not the bad guy,” she insists, stepping to look her dead in the eye. “You’re never the bad guy for disliking someone that hurt you. Forgiveness is gifted, not owed, remember?” She questions, knowing she and Giulia have had this conversation plenty of times before and will likely have it many times again.

 

Being someone so outspoken and quick to fight for her beliefs of what is right and what is wrong, Giulia gets into a lot of arguments. Most of which, she doesn’t win. Most of which, she gets tormented for the oncoming weeks as people follow her around, call her every name under the sun, and spread nasty rumors behind her back.

 

For that, she’s fine to hate them. She’s meant to dislike them and make herself a sturdy wall against the onslaught of insults and abrasions. But, some arguments do grow old. Pieces of the puzzle go missing in her box of memories, certain faces swap with others’ names, and the reasons she hates them still become muddy, but the feelings do not subside.

 

They stay perfectly clear as day even as the weeks and months and years drone on and on. The wound never heals as it’s cut open moment from moment to bleed again and again. Apologetic stitches rarely work—gifts of gauze and trying to do better do better, but it never quite does the trick.

 

So, Verona often only validates her feelings. She could try to help work it all out—stop the problem at its root rather than taking them one by one—but she fears it’d just be picking at a Gordian Knot with Alex out of sight. This may be her expertise, but she’s only fifteen and she knows she still has a bit to learn.

 

So, she’s thankful when Giulia just takes it. She just sighs, “Yeah, you’re right,” with a blank expression, shoulders falling down.

 

Then, Franco interrupts, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, “Ragazze, this is great and all, but the movie starts in fifteen, and there’s no more line.”

 

Verona follows his thumb to the concession worker, boredly flipping through a magazine. She makes eye contact with her for a short moment, clicks her tongue, and flips to the next page. Verona feels heat deep into her cheeks, but Giulia is already grabbing her hand.

 

“Right—andiamo,” Giulia says, and then they’re off.

 

Quickly, they all move forward, voices clear but low and fast as they discuss what they want. They agree to get one enormous bucket of popcorn and share it between the three of them. Franco tells Giulia to order a soda for him, but Verona isn’t one for caffeine (she’s killed that addiction long ago), so she asks for a limonata.

 

But, while they’re moving, something else catches her attention.

 

“You…” someone far behind her snarls.

 

“You!” a painfully familiar voice returns it, far louder.

 

Verona looks over her shoulder, and she sees what Giulia must have foreseen up at the booth—Alberto and his friend chatting.

 

 “What’re you doing here?”

 

“I could say the same to you!”

 

“I—“ Guido stutters for a moment. “I work here.”

 

Verona smiles a little. Alberto is embarrassing himself.

 

“Ah. I…Let’s just forget I said that.”

 

Guido huffs a laugh.

 

“It’s Monday, fra’! Gimme a break,” Alberto moans.

 

“That’s what I’m saying!” Guido agrees. “This is the first set of the day, and my legs are already killing me.”

 

Verona covertly looks over her shoulder not to scrutinize Alberto, but her friend. As expected, he’s standing beside him, but apart. He doesn’t look to want to join in on the conversation at all, how sad. Can Alberto not see how disinterested Luca is, or does he just not care? It’s likely the latter; people like him never care for the thoughts or details of another. They’re always far too self-absorbed.

 

That said, Alberto asks, “First set?”

 

“I’m here until five.”

 

Alberto winces, sneakily sliding over two soldi. “Jeez, I almost feel bad for asking, but could I get two tickets?”

 

Verona can’t see Guido’s expression—Luca’s still hasn’t changed, though he’s picking at a loose thread on his sweater now—but she expects it’s one of distaste.

 

“Oh, also, while we’re at it—could you kick Ciccio in the nuts next time you see him?”

 

Luca’s eyes bulge, startled. Verona gawks, equally disgusted. And, the concession worker is still taking her time filling up the drinks.

 

“And tell him it’s from Rosa.”

 

Rightfully so, Guido expresses his indignance: “The fuck? Why?”

 

Alberto gives him a half lidded scare. “He’ll know.” Then, he leans over the counter, one hand on his hip and the other nudging against the glass as if he owned the place, and says, “I’ve been meaning to do it myself, but I’ve been working all mornings and spending the rest with Luca’s and Giulia’s weirdo friends.”

 

Luca stares at him, unimpressed. Guido responds, “Alright. Whatever you want man, so long as you two don’t start making out in my theater.”

 

“GOD!”

 

Verona’s heart drops to her stomach; hairs raising along her arms and neck. Her head swivels over her shoulder to look back—

 

“Stai ZITTO, idiota!” Alberto yells.

 

Luca stands stock-still beside him. Mouth open, shoulders tense, eyes blank and open. Staring, staring, and not breathing at all.

 

“Don’t say freak shit like that,” Alberto bites, nose crunched and eyebrows furrowed. Beat red with heat—with anger—with embarrassment.

 

Luca stays still, so still like a deer in headlights. Face stuck halfway between dread and nothing at all.

 

Verona’s heart cracks, splitting open inside of her chest.

 

Alberto grabs Luca by the arm—not the hand—as he grabs the tickets off of the counter. She can see Luca flinch with his grip, teeth grinding together as he’s yanked away like a dog on a chain. 

 

Alberto barks, “Come on,” and Guido just laughs.

 

Verona can’t breathe.

 

She, too, is still. Mouth open wide; eyebrows upward curved in horror. It was watching a bunny have its neck stomped on; seeing it twitch and writhe and kick before the boot came down with a loud, harsh crack! and came up with white fur caught in sticky red strings, leading up to rubber.

 

Alberto forces lire into his hands. “Here—go get what you want,” he commands. Luca takes it without saying anything. He looks at Alberto, but he doesn’t look at him the same way he did this morning.

 

Alberto jogs away, back to the booth. But Verona cannot look at him any longer.

 

Luca’s eyes are wide and hot. Frown still open as he tries to catch his breath, several paces behind them. He’s staring at the lire in his hands, but no, he’s not. He’s looking beyond it—looking at the image in his mind, whatever it is.

 

Verona takes a risk. She calls to him, voice slightly raised as the concession stand worker hands Giulia the bucket and Franco the drinks, “You alright?”

 

Luca doesn’t hear her.

 

She tries again. “Luca.”

 

Now, he blinks. He looks up at her, breathing like a man just rescued from the riptide. He shrugs. “I’m—I’m fine.”

 

But his eyes were golden—pupils turned into slits encased in rings of red. One blink, and there were tears. A second, and they were gone, but even in this dim light, Verona caught it.

 

Luca turns from her slightly to look back over his shoulder, hidden heartbreak still washed over him as he watches Alberto start to stomp his way back, even redder than before.

 

Then, Verona feels an ice-cold nudge against her shoulder.

 

She turns, and Franco stares at her, holding out her drink.

 

She takes it as they start to walk away, but Franco doesn’t break contact.

 

There’s a flame in his eyes, burning out the blues with grey smoke and ash. He caught it, too, and Verona knows:

 

This has to end. Now.

 

Notes:

If there’s any confusion, please ask away in the comments. We’ll try to explain as much as possible while avoiding spoilers. But trust, everything will be explained (or at least implied) by the end.

Chapter 11: just world phenomenon

Summary:

Verona and Franco confront Alberto.

In her bedroom, Verona sits just as she sat nearly a week ago. A whirlwind of notes scatter across the bed; Franco hovers, tense, nearby.

 

Crossing his arms, he grows pushy: “Verona, we have to do this now. If we don’t step in before noon, them we have to wait another day.” His stare is harsh, but not cold. Rather, it’s hot. It burns as brightly as a thousand red giants constricted into two black smoldering dots. His voice rises with his insistence: “I am not waiting another day.”

 

“I know,” Verona huffs. She hates being pressured, but she knows time is of the essence. She takes up a paper, glances at it—useless. She discards it and picks up another—the same. “Hold on. I wrote down his schedule here somewhere.” Franco’s tapping foot becomes a grave metronome, counting each and every second wasted. Her hands work faster. Her eyes dart across multiple pages in long, quick slashes; fingers only flipping over pages rather than entirely picking them up. Fortunately, they were not as endless as they felt. A sharp grin slices open her face as she picks it up.

 

And, just as fast, it crinkles in her angry grasp.

 

Franco’s frown hangs open, stern. “What’s wrong?” he exasperates.

 

“It’s Tuesday.”

 

Franco doesn’t understand.

 

Verona hands him the paper. 

 

Sunday, attending church. Monday, lifeguarding. Wednesday, running deliveries with Giulia. Thursday, fishing with Sig. Massimo. Friday, lifeguarding again. Saturday, delivering once more.

 

Tuesday, blank.

 

Tuesday, God only knows.

 

Of course it had to be fucking Tuesday.

 

Verona feels like a heavy boulder upon the bed, an anchor chained to her core that drags her deeper and deeper into the earth. Her throat closes as she chokes on the ground—the frustration. She hates this. She isn’t a spontaneous person; she hates getting off-schedule, and this is worse than any schedule mix-up she's had in years—as far back as her memory can take her! Her plans are completely out of place. Her timing is so totally off, and she had been so prepared.

 

Last night, she and Franco rehearsed what they were going to say. They went over each and every detail they’d witnessed, argued over how certain sentiments ought to be phrased, reanimated old critiques over the theories that just attempt to scratch at the surface of the enigma that is that boy—that wretched, narcissistic, machiavellian, degenerate delinquent. And, what now? What are they to do, now, that they can wait no longer but have no clue as to where to even begin?

 

It’s hopeless; it’s useless; it’s all for naught—

 

“Let’s just go find him.”

 

Verona blinks. She looks at Franco, gaping.

 

He simply puts the paper down and saunters to the door. “It’s a small town,” he resigns. “Andiamo dai.”

 

He waves for her to follow him out into the hall, undoubtedly leading to the front door. Wordlessly—though with a stomach still churning—she follows.

 

—————

 

Together, they walk down the mountain. They leer down every alleyway and peak around each corner they pass, but to no avail. Verona sees all of the familiar faces: the crybaby-kid with the gelato, the gossip group hanging by the pungent butcher’s barrels. Franco toys with the notion of asking them, but Verona stands strong in her opposition.

 

Here, Alberto is praised as if royalty. Here, Alberto is adored as if some angel-on-Earth, despite the fact he is everything but. If things go south—a slim possibility, but a possibility nonetheless—they don’t want anyone else’s suspicions sticking to them. That’d only make things harder.

 

So, they don’t ask. They move along. They peer into the windows of bars and trattorias—perhaps this is the day he makes time for his other, equally abominable friends?—but they’re nowhere to be found.

 

Eventually, Verona and Franco arrive in the piazza. They look around, but he’s not haggling with the grocer, nor is he bothering the fiorista. The priest is talking with a policewoman outside; Verona recognizes her as the woman Alberto was speaking to a few days ago. But, that doesn’t help. Down by the docks, fishermen are unloading, preparing, and unleashing their boats, but Sig. Massimo’s only bobs lonely on the crystal blue water.

 

So, they go into the pescheria.

 

Verona hugs herself away from the sharp tools littered across the walls, the radio drawling an old eerie tune. Giulia doesn’t greet them, but Sig. Massimo’s knife dances across a fish’s body. Scales clink like raindrops into the tin bucket. It’s a nice sound, but the blood seeping is no less present—no less red and grimy.

 

Verona stands silent, unable to tear her eyes apart from the gruesome sight. Franco, undaunted, questions, “Is your son home?” If he was trying to hold a neutral tone, it only partially worked. Still, she can’t blame him. Besides, he’d probably gag if he tried to actually speak that boy’s name, now, so a little anger to counteract the overwhelming disgust is a fine trade-off in her book.

 

Sig. Massimo’s beady eyes squint at him below a furrowed brow. Verona tenses, but he only gives a low grunt.

 

They take it as a no, thank him shortly, and see themselves out.

 

It’s a step back, but the hunt must go on.

 

So, they travel to the spots Alberto showed them. They deepen their survey of the bay, straining their eyes to see all the way down the far, far dock where wood breaks off into perilous, algae-slick boulders. A few teenagers sit together, fishing. A couple walks down, hand in hand in their bikini and trunks. Several more simply loiter around, enjoying a book or cornetto beside the lapping waves. It may have been a struggle if Alberto looked like someone regular—like Franco, Luca, or herself, but he doesn’t. He stands out. He is the easiest person (besides Giulia, with her enormous red hair) to find in these crowds, and they don’t see him.

 

So, they trudge back up the mountain.

 

They pass by the mechanic where he boasted about someone reserving that old, beaten-up Vespa. The Vespa still sits, still looking like a hunk of scrap, but he isn’t there.

 

They scour around the hidden beach where he tried to throw sand onto his sister, only to make a fool out of himself. It’s vacant.

 

They encircle the ancient tower, where he exclaimed about eating that rotting rat. It’s not there anymore, and neither is he.

 

They even pass by his friend’s house, Francesco—the boy he calls “Ciccio,” fatty. No laundry on the clothesline, no window open to give out the sound of boyish snickering in a game of insults and casual cruelty, no sign of life.

 

The sun lurks high in the sky, almost to a full stand. They duck down an alleyway beside a small, chalkboard sign and potted plants. Cold, stone stairs and the shade of tall, coral-colored buildings provide a little grace. What a nice spot to sit and mope. Though, only Franco takes that opportunity.

 

While he sits with his head in his hands, eyebrows scrunched and pensive, Verona stands. Stone is still rock, stairs are still ground. She doesn’t want to dirty herself, but her expression does droop, sullen. It’s nearly noon, and they still haven’t found him. Giulia, too, seems to be nowhere in sight. Luca is undoubtedly still underwater, or else they would have found Alberto by now.

 

Now, there’s a thought.

 

“Urgh.”

 

“What?”

 

“He’s un mostro marino,” Verona groans. “He could be underwater. And, I’m pretty sure Luca did say something before about him helping out with his chores during the school year.”

 

“Mannaggia,” Franco curses, putting his face into his palms. Verona empathizes in full, the feelings shared completely. Franco’s words from this morning—I am not waiting another day—ring clear in her mind. But, they just might have to. The victor’s flag may have already been waving high, horrifically, in the sky before this battle had even begun.

 

And, just as this realization begins to form yet another heavy stone in her core, a cat plods by them.

 

Despite what one might think, Verona isn’t much of a cat person. Franco, however, is. So, reflexively, he throws weary kisses at it and reaches out to pet its short, white fur. But just as his hand narrowly graces its black ear, it turns and erupts into a growl like a thunderstorm directly overhead.

 

Sharp fangs flash between enormous jowls, golden eyes slitted until the black is barely visible at all. Claws jut out from black and white paws to scrape against the stone. Back hunched, black-tipped tail puffed.

 

Franco yanks his hand back, just narrowly escaping a vicious swat.

 

The devilish cat hisses as it scampers off.

 

“Jesus,” Franco breathes, still holding his hand close. “Last time I try petting a stray.”

 

Verona quirks a brow, looking down upon her friend. “A stray? It looked well fed.”

 

Franco scrunches his nose. “No. It didn’t have a collar; it’s probably just big on testosterone. Just a tomcat, you know.”

 

Verona isn’t sure. 

 

Again, she doesn’t care for cats. None of the studies she’s read have ever used cats for anything because cats are a scientist’s—a psychologist’s—worst nightmare. They don’t obey. They aren’t loyal. They aren’t loving like a dog is. Yet, she is curious.

 

So, she walks forward. She walks down the few steps, out of the alley, back into the main street to scrutinize that stray again. She meant only to continue this time-wasting argument—to give them something else to think of rather than how they failed, how they’d have to do it all again tomorrow, but no. It won’t be tomorrow. He’s making deliveries with Giulia tomorrow, and he’s fishing with his father the day after that.

 

Though, it won’t be the day after that. It won’t be the day after that, either, or the next, or the following.

 

It’ll be right now.

 

Right now, as that feral cat stretches before purring and interweaving itself between its owner’s legs—Alberto’s legs.

 

“Okay, okay…” he says quietly, voice sounding low and broken in a way Verona hadn’t ever heard before. Fragile, like glass with a crack. Quiet and squeaky, like a mouse scurrying across the floorboards. Broken, like that same mouse stepped on. Shattered, like the glass dropped onto hard, white tile.

 

He scoops up the cat—Machiavelli—in his arms before putting him on his shoulder. He scratches his throat with his cracked, dirty fingernails. Machiavelli makes a calm expression—eyes closed, ears forward.

 

And, Alberto smiles, but it doesn’t look real.

 

His eyes are beet red and puffy—swollen like he’d just walked through a cloud of pollen. The grin he wears is weak, his free hand clammy and fidgeting at his side.

 

He doesn’t look good.

 

Perfect.

 

“Andiamo!” Verona whispers, urgency obvious to anyone with ears or eyes.

 

“Wait—you see him?” Franco springs up to an eager stance.

 

Verona doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. She strides forward, back into the day—into the blistering high noon. Portorosso is always so hot, but she can’t worry about that now.

 

Alberto’s smile—if she could even call it a smile—falls as his eyes land upon her. Confusion spreads across his face; Machiavelli, his cat, rumbles a low growl again, tail thwapping wildly.

 

“Hey,” Verona greets him, paying the animal no mind. Her motive is clear in her mind and in her eyes, though the moron before her is surely too dumb to notice it.

 

He greets her back, “Uh. Hey.”

 

Franco stands quiet. Solemn, a guard at his post. A knight before the chamber.

 

Verona asks, “Are you busy?”

 

Alberto shakes his head. “No,” he answers plainly. He doesn’t meet her eyes, looking down at his feet, but she doesn’t suspect him of lying. “I was just—on my way home.” Though, she does suspect him of discomfort. When his eyes raise, they don’t look at her. They look through her, like they did on the island. Then, they bounce around. He’s searching for something—a way out?

 

Does he know?

 

He must, Verona thinks with a small, creeping sense of delight.

 

He must know he’s caught, and how wonderful it is to finally corner a predator; to make the hairs on their neck stand up for once. To make them suffocate beneath the blanket fear they smother over everyone else.

 

“Could we—” She gestures to herself and Franco , still beside her. “—Talk to you for a moment?” Her head cocks to one side, but she hasn’t stopped looking at him.

 

As she talks, gestures, and turns, her eyes stick to him. She doesn’t stop staring. She doesn’t blink; she doesn’t tear her eyes away for even a second. 

 

She’s creepy when she stares. She’s heard it too many times before for it to not be encoded, stored, and ready for retrieval. She’s creepy, and she knows how to use knowledge to her advantage.

 

She knows how to make a boy squirm, and squirm he does.

 

It’s almost fun.

 

He is beat; the tables have turned. His puffy face and clammy hands weren’t just random; something had happened just before she and Franco caught him. It’s going to be an assisted kill, and, hopefully, it’ll be one that lasts.

 

“We have something that we need to talk to you about.”

 

Alberto’s eyebrows scrunch. He nods. “Oh—oh yeah, sure.” The finger through the belt-loop grows tight. The rest scratch upon the denim, awkward and stiff. Nervous habits.

 

Machiavelli jumps down. Franco tenses ever so slightly, but the cat only runs off. Alberto watches him go with a small wince of disappointment.

 

Something most certainly happened—but Verona doesn’t have time to think about that right now. She only needs to be glad half of the work was done for her, and thank God for whichever wonderful soul that was. At least something is putting him in his place in this town.

 

But, then he says something weird: “I do too, actually.”

 

Verona stifles her distaste, settling for a blank, empty expression. Meanwhile, Franco deadpans, “Really.”

 

Alberto nods, swallowing. “Yeah.” His wrist grinds against his pocket as he attempts to straighten his arms out. Some wrapper inside of it crinkles audibly.

 

Verona, pointedly careless, throws a thumb over her shoulder, back to where she and Franco were loitering before. “Would you mind it if we stepped out of the main road? It’s kind of important.” That there aren’t others around, her thoughts finish.

 

It’s a lame excuse; it says almost nothing at all. Yet, Alberto still receives it without—as far as she or anyone else can tell—a second thought. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”

 

She turns. Franco takes off his rectangle-lens glasses, hooking them in the collar of his shirt. Alberto follows behind, like a child, like a lamb being led to the slaughter, but do not be mistaken.

 

When they’re in the alley; when Alberto awkwardly gestures and says, “You—you guys go first,” Verona sees no lamb.

 

She knows exactly what she sees, and the minute her mouth opens, each and every drop of doubt and hesitation and regret falls off of her, just murky rainwater, and drains away.

 

————

 

There are three tell-tale signs of an abuser.

 

Number one: They isolate.

 

Isolation is always the entryway for abuse. With no one else around, who is there to save? What is there to fall back upon, should things go awry? With one’s mind treated to so heavily focus upon just one, singular entity, what else matters? No one; nowhere; nothing at all.

The risk of isolation is why the first step in recovery is to retain a support system, a first line of defense. It’s why so many domestic abuse cases begin with one of the partners shunning the other’s friends and family. Keep them isolated; keep them behind walls; keep their hands locked behind their back so they can never hope to reach out. That is how it always begins.

Although, it doesn’t start out that way—to that degree.

It doesn’t start out with doors locked, with car keys hidden, with all the mail checked, ripped, and thrown into the fire. It comes together like a puzzle—just little pieces put into place. Just small tricks of the mind to make oneself seem more desirable, more dependent, more important than anyone else.

One trick an abuser can play is eliciting gratitude or compliments even when the spotlight isn’t shining upon them. For example, should others offer a victim aid or support, the abuser may shun them and claim total responsibility.

The support of others is his Achilles’ heel, a poison. It must not be taken, must not be gained.

The victim must stay, believing that the abuser is their best friend—not the people he actually spends the majority of the year with. Not the people who’d actually catch him if he fell.

He may try other, less direct paths. He may try to make it an issue of us versus them—boys versus girls, seafolk versus humans, and so on and so forth. After all, isolation from individuals can pack a punch, but isolation from entire peoples can bring an entire city crumbling down inwards, decimated, desperate, and dependent. Dependent upon anyone who extends a helping hand, and, of course, the abuser will quickly cast fire to any others that get close.

There comes the physical destruction—the invitations with no plus-one’s allowed. The fury that follows after company still follows along, anyway, like that of a rabid dog fighting off rivals from its territory. Then, the punishments—the faces battered and bruised—and the further attempts. The hands locked with a ceaseless, tight grip about arms, shoulders, and wrists. Sights of others blocked—a demand that the victim pay attention to him and only him.

But, the tricky thing about isolation is that there are multiple pieces in play. If an abuser is unable to perfect the constriction, then other means to make his victim bend to their will become necessary.

Number two: They demean.

Demeaning isn’t always direct. Sometimes the little hateful words and actions are hidden in the shadows, said off to the side—implied yet still heard. Small, but still impactful like snowflakes falling upon a mountainside, soon to be an disastrous avalanche. An insurmountable loss of life and limb—of self-worth and will.

 

It can be an infusion of embarrassment, goading his victim’s mother to resume her degrading antics. It can be insisting that the culture of humans is superior to that of seafolk, the one he holds so dear. It can be a guilt trip from a singular scar of years past—one small action unearthed again and again to try to counteract the bad balance.

 

Or, it can be to his face.

 

To his supposed inability to “never survive in the wild”; to his pursuit of passions in a faraway city; to his loneliness and the temporary fix for said loneliness.

 

It could be calling him lame for not fighting back. It could be an edict that he work on bettering himself, his social skills, his athleticism, his old struggled with adjusting to a world never before stepped into, his choice of wear.

 

Shit, the abuser called it. His victim liked that shirt, wanted it, looked forward to wearing it, and he called it shit.

 

But that isn’t the worst.

 

None of those could be the worst—not the insecurity instilled in him in regards to his looks, nor in regards to his past, nor in his skills.

 

The demeaning of his being, his heart, his love.

 

Humiliating his victim for something he cannot change; degrading him for wishing for something different—for the very thing that keeps him forever, helpless, in the shackles.

 

One would think that, by then, he’d run. But, why would he?

 

He’s isolated his victim; he sees no out.

 

His spirit is broken, and here is this oh-so perfect being granting reprieve.

 

He thinks himself ugly, inept, haunted, and depraved—and here is this man standing at his opposite. Handsome, adept, sinless, and moral. He ought to think himself lucky for having someone so perfect still standing beside him isn’t that right?

 

He ought to think himself so fortunate for having such an Adonis, a Renaissance man, there to so humbly guide him the right way. Where would he be without him?

 

Still in the sea; still talking to goatfish; still ignorant and ugly and revolting, right?

 

At least, that’s what he wants him to think. He doesn’t want Luca to know he isn’t dumb, he isn’t disgusting, he isn’t deficient in any way. He wants his spirit broken.

 

The abuser needs his victim’s worship and kneeling; he needs him shattered into pieces so he can pull them all together and glue them back the way he wants. He needs him powerless so he can have complete and utter power over his person. He needs control.

 

Number three: They control.

 

They control what their victim wears—not that shirt. Blues, greens, and purples only. Cold colors, not warm, so the distinction is clear. Short sleeves and shorts, not the more comfortable sweaters and slacks. 

 

They control what the victim does—don’t get up. Stay down, and reveal everything there is to know. History, interests, quirks, and struggles. Don’t keep secrets. Don’t do surprises. Heed every order, regardless of what everyone else thinks.

 

They control how the victim spends—it’s his money. Don’t waste it on that movie, that food, that clothing, that school, that city, those people.

 

They control how the victim speaks—don’t correct. Don’t question. Just agree; tend to him and his emotions alone.

 

They control each and every aspect of their victim. They pick up the pieces and glue them together into someone unrecognizable from their past self. They don’t look the same. They don’t act or speak the same. Their interests change or veer off course—they become an entirely different person, and Verona and Franco have witnessed it happen.

 

They’ve seen it all happen, one by one. Not from the beginning, but from the end—the aftermath.

 

But all things must settle. Towers must crumble, tyrants must rot away in graves. In the wreckage and in the soil, new life will sprout. Relief and healing will come creeping in as moss and lichens, taking over and rebuilding the realm anew.

 

But first, someone must swing the axe. 

 

First, the tyrant’s neck must bleed.

Notes:

I do like writing Verona’s character (even tho i lowkey feel like Vladimir Nabokov half of the time) because she is just so good at escalation. Like girlie calm down. There’s still six chapters left.

Chapter 12: self-concept

Summary:

Alberto is "sick," but summer must go on.

Notes:

peep the new tags

They didn’t see Alberto for the rest of the day, yesterday. Wherever he was, he stayed out of sight yet hardly out of mind as Verona kept reflecting back to everything they had said to him. Each and every little phrase that came out slightly wrong, each and every piece of evidence that could’ve been phrased more impactful—more indisputable.

 

It isn’t that she had any doubts in herself; no, not at all. She just prays her message gets through and stays there. She just hopes Alberto will take their words and does as she sees fit. She just wants him to stay the hell away from her and her friends.

 

So, as Giulia, Luca, and even Sig. Massimo wondered worriedly about his sudden disappearance, she wrung out her hands and worried, curling her hair between her fingers—a habit she surely picked up from Giulia, who then comforted her.

 

Giulia laughed a little. I didn’t know you cared so much about him! she said. But, don’t worry, ragazza. This is super normal—Alberto’s just being Alberto.

 

Sig. Massimo agreed. He noted that his son had a habit of running off. That he’s tried to fly the coop multiple times before, but only when he was really upset. (And he just lets him? How permissive.) That this withdrawal wasn’t actually out of his character at all; he’s only surprised that it happened during the summer, when his sister and quote-unquote “best friend” are present. But, he was sure that Alberto would come back soon, just as he always does.

 

Still, he didn’t turn up.

 

At least, not until late in the night.

 

Giulia said he looked “like death” when he arrived, cheeks sunken and eyes beet-red and brimming with water. Trembling arms wrapped around his body as he stumbled in through the window and unceremoniously fell onto the bed with only about an hour ‘til midnight left on the ticking clock. He wasn’t okay. He looked terrible, haunted, and Giulia could tell he hadn’t eaten.

 

Verona had asked if he said anything to her, obvious only to her male counterpart that she was trying to see if Alberto had informed her of the private intervention, but he hadn’t. According to Giulia, he revealed nothing. He didn’t say where he’d been all day. He didn’t explain why he looked so disheveled and wounded when he arrived. He kept quiet, and Verona felt relieved.

 

And, now, the story is that he’s sick.

 

Sick with what, no one knows.

 

Because he isn’t actually sick, he’s just making up lies to get people’s sympathy so he can feel better about his own shitty actions like the manipulator he is, Verona thinks. But, she doesn’t say that, and neither does Franco.

 

But, Giulia says that—because he’s seafolk-and-all—they don’t yet know if they can diagnose him. And, for that, they won’t waste money on going to the clinic and getting him examined. 

 

How fortunate for him, right? It must be so easy to fake being sick when no one has the technology to determine that you’re just a liar, and Alberto is a good liar. He must be, since he’s evidently had so much practice with it.

 

Anyway, they’re rowing past the island now.

 

Rather, Giulia is, since she’s the one with the most muscle-mass between the three of them and is most familiar with the motions and journey. She huffs as she goes, taking a break ever so often to wipe the sweat off of her brow before picking up the oars and rowing with even more vigor than before as Franco and Verona, seated facing her, keep her company.

 

Like the days before, the water is calm. All the way out here, the waves don’t break. They roll smoothly one into another, yet so peacefully that they hardly appear to be moving at all, only disturbed by the slap of the oar and the wood hull piercing though in perfectly rhythmic motions. As Verona continues to study Giulia, Franco looks down. Yet, he sees nothing. Just the deep, endless indigo of the sea.

 

Finally, they stop.

 

Verona looks past Giulia, back to the shore. The distance doesn’t scare her as much as it did the first time they all went out on this little raft together, but the sight of the island does cause a small disturbance—a small churning in her gut.

 

It’s nearly half a mile away, and she swears it grows smaller as the boat attempts to settle upon the waters.

 

What happens if they get lost? What happens if the boat capsizes while they’re so far out? Verona did wear shorts beneath her skirt this time around, but Franco still can’t swim.

 

All of these things rush about her mind at once, but she quickly calms them. They’re nonsense; they’re never going to happen.

 

Plus, they didn’t come all the way out here just to satiate some summer boredom; they came out here for Luca.

 

“This should be it,” Giulia says, tightening her goggles and putting on something that looks half-backpack and half-harness with two big oxygen tanks attached.

 

“How long will you be?” Verona asks, holding her own hand and looking up at the other girl intently. She doesn’t ask if she’s sure; she already knows Giulia is perfectly capable of what is about to come—of what is required of her.

 

Giulia shrugs. “Eh, probably just about fifteen minutes?” Then, she smiles warmly, assuringly, and winks. “Let’s say thirty, though. Just in case.” 

 

“Alright,” Verona nods.

 

Then, Giulia throws two flipper-wearing feet over the side of the boat, puts the mouthpiece between her teeth, and jumps.

 

Franco and Verona both watch as her shadow hesitates for just a moment before disappearing into the blue. Franco sighs.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I hate my mom,” he moans. “Who doesn’t teach their kid to swim in freaking Liguria?”

 

A very valid complaint. Verona gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly. He rolls his eyes, and Verona hopes he’s not still thinking about it. There’s no use in dwelling on it any longer, she thinks, now that the offender has been knocked out of his throne. Now that the issue is basically over; now that that asshole has gone into hiding.

 

It was good timing too, she has to admit.

 

She didn’t know it before—though, it had been implied in previous conversations—but Alberto has apparently been forcing Luca to spend Wednesdays with him and him alone. Away from their parents; away from Giulia; away from anyone that could have saved Luca from falling prey to his deceit and demands. She wishes she had known that sooner. It would have made an excellent key-point in yesterday’s intervention, after all. But, even without it, the intervention still worked.

 

Alberto is still holed up in his room—probably in his bed—barely talking to anyone or doing much of anything, according to his sister and father.

 

Verona’s words had struck him so deeply that he removed himself from society in less than a day! And, she’s sure that society—especially that of which belongs to his microsystem—is far better off for it.

 

And, speaking of his microsystem, Giulia’s and Luca’s heads breach the surface, several yards away.

 

They’re at too great of a distance for Verona to make out what they’re saying, but she squints against the sunbeams bouncing off of the water to see Giulia pull off her mouthpiece, say something to him that makes his earfins droop dismally against his cheek.

 

Verona does feel a small pang of empathy for him—having plans go astray is never a pleasant experience—but she knows that this is for the best. So, she watches them swim back. Giulia expertly freestyles back to the boat as Luca slinks through the wave, floppy fins cresting above the surface.

 

They arrive at the boat, Luca before Giulia, and Franco and Verona, respectively, help them climb aboard.

 

Franco makes an off-handed comment about how stubby Luca’s digits are. Luca laughs only a little, still obviously sad from the prior news, and pulls his hand away. The two boys sit on the far front of the boat, and the two girls sit in the back—exactly how it was back at school. Verona contains a small smile to herself; old habits die hard, she supposes.

 

As conversation begins, Verona keeps her eye on Giulia as she takes off her flippers, the backpack-harness-thingy, and her cap. She laughs a little as Giuila struggles with the lattermost listed shortly before it comes up with a pop! and an incredibly cartoonish reveal of big, thick, and entirely disorderly curls.

 

Giulia smiles at her, and it feels nice.

 

Then, Franco ruins the moment by asking Luca what he and Alberto typically get up to on Wednesdays.

 

As Verona and Giulia begin to row back to shore, Luca rubs his arm anxiously. “Well, we typically just swim around and hang out around the island…” he says, disappointment apparent in his small voice and an upward curve of his brow.

 

It’s hard not to pity him, but Verona still knows better. It’s good that he isn’t spending the day with him anymore. It’s good that Alberto has removed himself from the situation, even if it hurts Luca to not have someone to be seafolk with. Then again, an overlapping identity, trait, or ability alone does not warrant a friendship—or a relationship.

 

Friendships ought to be founded upon mutual understanding and trust, and they must be strengthened by new memories. New memories are how a friendship continues to live—how any relationship continues to live—but they can be diluted. And, sometimes, if said friendship must end, new memories must come in to dilute the old.

 

Perhaps there is nothing she can do about Luca’s experiences with Alberto on the island. They were happy. They were fun. They existed and will continue to exist, but they don’t have to be everything that Luca thinks about every time he turns his head to gaze upon that landmass. He can form new memories, new experiences, new neurological connections, and he can do it all without any machiavellian attached.

 

So, Verona offers, “Why don’t we all go back to the island, then?”

 

Luca is quick to shake his head. “Oh, no. We couldn’t—not without Alberto.”

 

Verona slumps. She had been expecting Luca to try to preserve the speciality of the island—of their activities together. She knew Luca wanted to keep this tradition and the privateness, even with the new “development” of Alberto’s illness, alive, but it has to die. In order for him to start healing, he needs to learn to leave Alberto behind and attach new memories to all of those little reminders.

 

“You sure?” Verona questions again. She hardly notices the questioning side-glance Giulia shoots her in her peripheral. “It’s just right there,” she says, gesturing with her elbow to the island, still a little ways ahead of them before she returns to rowing.

 

She wishes Sig. Massimo let them take the boat with the motor instead; Giulia appeared to work it perfectly well. But, without Alberto present, Sig. Massimo wouldn’t allow it. Her arms are already beginning to ache; she sighs.

 

“No, we can’t,” Luca repeats. “It’s his place.”

 

Verona looks up to him. His place? She raises a brow.

 

Franco is equally incredulous. “But you said you go there all the time?”

 

Now, Luca’s brow turns a little bit stiff. His shoulders square as he nods from side to side as if his head was a glass of a fluid drift and the notion was the little toy ship stuck inside. “Okay, it’s our place, but—”

 

Franco interrupts him, “Then invite us over? Just tell him that you said it was fine.”

 

“I said no,” Luca exasperates, hand now tightly encircling the wooden plank beneath him.

 

Giulia, too, cuts in, but not to offer any help to Franco and Verona’s case. “Listen, ragazzi. We were lucky that he let us all go over there the first time, anyway. Why don’t we go explore somewhere else? Like, the walk to Corniglia really isn’t that far—”

 

Verona’s brow hardens. Now, she’s determined. “But what about the tower?” she asks, leaning forward. “Back at school, you—” she addresses the boy before her— “said you two built Vespas with the scrap there all the time?” Luca’s jaw hangs open, eyes wide at her words as if she was insulting his ancestors. “We could build sculptures or our own hideout—”

 

He stands up. “I said NO!”

 

Verona flinches back. Franco hugs the wall.

 

“We’re not going to the island, so stop asking!”

 

Verona blinks, apologetic. “Okay, okay. I’m—I’m sorry.”

 

“Luca, relax,” Giulia frowns. She’s stopped rowing. “And, sit down.”

 

Luca sits down.

 

Jesus Christ.

 

Sometimes, Verona must admit, she forgets Luca is a guy. Almost always, he keeps his voice light and bubbly, speaking with an odd, diffident sort of inflection that makes him appear as harmless as a rabbit. He isn’t very masculine in matters of taste or hobby either—opting for romantic pop music, quiet days spent in libraries, and even the effeminate form of ascot tied about his neck.

 

So, it’s always quite more than just a bit of a shock when he gets aggressive—when he bares his teeth, clenches his fist, and growls with a low—grating— angry voice.

 

Despite the shock, she isn’t scared at all. It’s not in Luca’s nature to be unkind. He isn’t an aggressive person, and the anger he exudes is a lot like that of a yipping chihuahua. Try as he might, he can’t hurt her. All bark and no bite, except the bark only comes about maybe once in a blue moon. That’s why Giulia’s good for him—why they’re all good for him.

 

So, Verona only smoothens out her skirt and picks up the oars again as Luca slouches on the side of the boat, head in his hand and looking away—looking towards the island—eyes full of quiet annoyance.

 

Then, albeit with slight hesitation, Franco speaks up again: “Hey, since we’re kind of already here, could we go down to your village?”

 

At first, it didn’t seem like he wanted to. Reluctance was still obvious, but it wasn’t the same as before as the anger washed away. And, with a little bit of support from Giulia, he eventually agreed as they sorted out the details.

 

Franco couldn’t swim, but that was very nearly reduced to a non-issue as Luca agreed to just pulling him about places by the hand. Apparently, he’d done it a couple times before with Giulia, and she assured Franco that it didn’t hurt too much as long as Luca went slow and kept aware of his tail placement.

 

That said, he still needed Giulia’s scuba gear in order to breathe. So, she helped fit it on him, washed off the mouthpiece in the salt water (“Here. Clean.”) and gave him a little bit of brief instruction. Again, she assured him he’d be fine, though did break the bad news of the temporary yet necessary muteness that came with the activity. So, Franco wouldn’t be able to ask any questions, but he just shrugged it off. The opportunity to see the civilization, itself, was worth it—even if it didn’t feature several long, detailed, and quite possibly awkwardly personal interrogations.

 

Then, they hopped off the boat and disappeared into the deep, steady blue.

 

The boat bobs silently on the water. Gentle wind fills the air along with the distant sounds of seagulls and the acrid smell of salt.

 

Giulia sighs, leans back, and lets her long, thick hair fall over the side. Verona looks at her, then looks away. But it isn’t awkward—it isn’t awkward at all. It’s just weirdly quiet, strangely private—oddly intimate.

 

To break the silence, Verona begins to say, “So…you know how Luca and Alberto—”

 

But, Giulia cuts her off. “Santa mozzarella!” she laughs. “Can we stop talking about the boys? Everything’s always about the boys,” she complains.

 

Verona is quiet for a short moment. She should have been expecting that. “Mi dispiace.” Another pause. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

 

Giulia’s wide grin closes into a smile. Verona doesn’t know how she can stand to have her face upwards like that—the sun shining so brightly overhead, making her freckles pop out against her warmly tanned skin. “Hm…” she hums, clearly with an intention on her determined mind. “How about…” she takes her time speaking, each word coming out lazy and saccharine. “...We start talking about us girls?”

 

Verona nods, feeling her tongue expand in her mouth and an odd, urgent buzz in her mind as Giulia’s head drops to the side to glance up at her shortly.

 

“Oh—okay,” Verona agrees.

 

And, they talk.

 

—————

 

The next day, Giulia courteously holds open the door to Portorosso’s one-and-only bookstore-slash-library. Verona thanks her with a small smile, feeling her chest ache ever so slightly against the cool burst of air. But, she doesn’t give it any mind; it’s probably just the anxiety of entering a new environment.

 

This particular outing had meant to be just for the two of them—that was the original plan they had decided upon whilst alone on the boat—but Franco and Luca just had to tag along. It sews in a small disappointment, but she does understand their reasons.

 

Alberto’s stuck suffering against that “mysterious” “illness” at home again, and Luca is experiencing that same odd feeling a battered dog must get when it’s finally released of its chain and shock collar. It must be weird to be released. The newfound freedom can be scary and hard to adjust to, and that fear must be the reason why Luca so worriedly insists, “Maybe I can just go check on him—”

 

Thankfully, Giulia hastily dismisses him. “Oh, no. You do not want to do that.”

 

“Why not?” Luca frowns for the millionth time, quickly hugging his arms against the sudden chill. Despite the fact that Alberto still isn’t around—he’s still wearing those ridiculously small shorts and a half-open top. Though, she supposes that’s not entirely his fault. Giulia was the one to hand him a change of clothes, since Sig. Massimo doesn’t want anyone going upstairs to disturb his oh-so-poor and ill-stricken son.

 

Giulia shakes her head, though her voice does lower to a respectful whisper. “You do not want whatever he’s got. He’s barely been able to leave our room. The guy’s practically bedridden at this point.”

 

Luca winces. “It’s that bad?”

 

Giulia only nods and widens her eyes for emphasis. The group moves forward, but Luca’s worrisome frown only deepens.

 

The library is cold—way too cold for it to ever be comfortable—thanks to huge fans looming overhead. Otherwise, it’s nice. It has all of the qualities the one in Genova has to offer, except it’s only a single story and there aren’t nearly as many sections. Not even the children’s section is divided up into subgroups—nonfiction, fantasy, mystery, and so on. Everything is just labeled under “children’s.” She supposes that’s just one of the costs of having such a small collection, and she wonders how anyone gets any reading done in this town. With so few choices, how does anyone find out what they like? How does anyone find what they need?

 

After every piece of their quartet breaks off, Verona finds herself walking quietly up and down the aisles. Still, she can sense where they all are. Giulia and Luca both went into the drama section. She and Franco, meanwhile, both headed into nonfiction.

 

She soon finds that there are subcategories in the adult section, only that they’re still awfully broad. Mystery encompasses both horror and true crime; whatever Franco was looking at held both diaries and scientific novels. Naturally, she assumes the magazines and the comics are mixed as well—hadn’t Alberto said there was a comic Luca liked?

 

Whatever.

 

She finally finds a book she likes—one with a stark black and white cover with big, red lettering across the front. It’s thick, but it’s only a collection of short stories. Perfect to spend a quiet afternoon on; perfect to not actually rent or buy. She thinks herself lucky for finding something so applicable to her current situation.

 

And, soon, they regroup. Everyone had managed to settle on a book, and now they all lounge about in a comfortable circle made of chairs and a couch, which Giulia and Luca share.

 

For some reason, Verona feels a small pang of disappointment as she settles in. Rather than Luca, she realizes, she wants it to be her, but there’s nothing she can do about that in their current position. Besides, it looks as if they purposefully picked up multiple copies of the same book.

 

Verona attempts to lean forward in order to catch a glimpse of a title, but Franco is the first to flash and announce his pick: a small study on the formidable Pachyrhinosaurus. After him, came Verona. She shows her choice, to which Giulia amicably—affectionately—giggles, “Of course you would.”

 

Then, it was their turn. They picked the books up and revealed them in lockstep, Luca becoming slightly less slouched than his counterpart. Verona read the concealed pride shining behind his otherwise neutral face, before she read the title of their book. Othello.

 

Huh.

 

While Franco nods approvingly, his bottom lip slightly jutted out, Verona quirks a brow. “You sure you’re going to be able to read that?” she earnestly questions, whisper squeakier than she’d like it.

 

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, but he must know.

 

Still, Verona shrugs. “I dunno, it just has some pretty…complex vocabulary in it.” The boy’s mouth hangs open ever so slightly. “Thought you’d go for something simpler.”

 

Now, Franco, too, leans forward. He scrutinizes the title, visible gears turning behind his mind before he speaks, “Oh, yeah. Don’t overwork yourself during the summer, amico.” The blonde boy looks up at him with a serious sense of care in his eyes. “Just pick something easy.”

 

But, Giulia waves a hand at them. “He’ll be fi-i-ine,” she draws out the last syllable. “Plus, we’ll be reading it together.”

 

Luca slouches forward. He puts the book face-down in his lap, nervous fingers curling across the top. “You’re gonna get ahead of me in a day.”

 

“Ahh, no! I promise I won’t read it without you,” Giulia swears, throwing an arm around him to shake him slightly.

 

He shoots her a wary stare. “You sure? I don’t want to hold you back if it’s—”

 

“Certo!” she assures him again, squeezing his shoulder. “When have I ever failed you?”

 

Luca smiles, but it still doesn’t seem happy. Verona sees his gaze flicker to Giulia’s hand for just a second, and Verona realizes that’s one of Alberto’s signature moves. A typically friendly gesture, but a gesture she doesn’t believe she sees Giulia doing all that often.

 

It must be hard, and it does feel a little bit evil. Even if he was absolutely terrible to him, Luca did truly like him a whole lot. But, it’s necessary. It’s for the greater good, and Verona knows that’s the hard truth.

Notes:

Verona: you should fuck off and die bc you’re a terrible person and all of your loved ones, Luca especially, would be better off with you gone.
Alberto: Sir, yes, sir.

Chapter 13: external locus of control

Summary:

The more Verona learns, the more questions she has.

Notes:

apologies for the long wait, life happened

Friday comes, and Alberto is still acting sick. But, they don’t mind. His absence doesn’t take much adjusting to, nor does it do much to hinder the dynamic. It feels easy, almost, walking back from the end of the dock with Luca, still dressed in his seafolk garb, in tow. It feels like they’re back in Genova, again. It feels as if the peace has returned, and everything is back as it should be.

 

For as far as Verona can tell, it has. It is. Everything is perfectly in place, and she delights in the company of her three friends as they all traverse across the winding, cliff-side trails that lead to Corniglia.

 

This activity doesn’t quite suit her interests, but she isn’t at all uncomfortable. Today, she had the bright mind to snag a pair of pants from the armoire in her parent’s room. It’s the first time this season she’s opted for something other than a skirt, and it’d be a lie to say she didn’t slightly relish the happy surprise in Giulia’s eyes when she met her this morning.

 

But, Giulia always gave her compliments. With a small smile, Verona supposes she could slip and slide down a muddy hill, and the other girl would say “Santa mozzarella, that’s a really nice color brown on you!” or, more likely, “Good job for being so adventurous!” because Giulia likes that kind of thing. She likes adventure. She likes sports. She likes the outdoors, and all the activities that came with it—hiking, fishing, stargazing, rock-climbing, and more.

 

Verona doesn’t really like those things. She’s a total homebody and she knows it, but she does quite like how happy it makes Giulia to engage in such activities and all the little scars and tans and bruises and chipped-teeth that come with it. And, she does quite like doing it when she’s with her.

 

Giulia points up at a spot where three trees break apart, the sunlight filtering in streaks through the swaying leaves. “Oooh, pretty!” Giulia coos. “I wish I had brought my camera, that’d be a perfect picture to send to my mamma.”

 

Verona nods, but she isn’t the only one. Luca and Franco came with them, the prior only nodding quietly along and the latter with his eyes glued to the ground searching, searching, searching for treasures.

 

Verona keeps her eye on the ground, too, but not for the same reason.

 

Portorosso, just like Genova, is near the coast. And, with a coastline comes a lot of rain no matter the reason. Though the trail is in the foothills of the Apennines, it’s still not high enough to get above the common clouds. So, there comes a streak of mud, and Verona is quick to pull Giulia out of the way. Even though she’d probably laugh it off, she doesn’t want her possibly getting a sprained ankle or bruised tailbone when they’re so far away.

 

Had it been a week ago, Verona would have said it was strange when Giulia didn’t let her hand go, afterwards. But, she doesn’t find it strange now. In fact, it feels normal—overwhelmingly normal—and she doesn’t think she can let go herself. It feels like they’re glued there, the sweat in the other girl’s hands forming an adhesive between their palms, and she can’t let go.

 

And, somewhere along the trails, Luca glances up towards the sunlight filtering between the leaves and hums, “You know, after Alberto gets better, I think I’m gonna come out to him.”

 

And, suddenly, Verona’s hand is crushed by Giulia’s sky-rocketing grip force. “Oh, FINALLY!” the other girl cheers, practically bouncing on her feet and causing Verona to stumble a little forwards. Then, Giulia’s face grows slightly concerned. “Aspetta—you aren’t going to tell him you like him, are you?”

 

Luca waves away the notion with both hands for good measure, blushing slightly. “No! No,” he assures, but he doesn’t have time to finish whatever it was he was about to say.

 

Franco already is cutting in: “Hold on, are you serious, amico?” with much more concern than Giulia. His brow creases along with a small, displeased frown etching upon his lips as he says what they all must be thinking, “Even after what he said at the theater—”

 

That’s when Luca’s face falls. His expression crumples to match that of the other boy, but there’s more shame in the way his brows furrow, a darker shadow over his eyes. “Oh…” he winces, “you heard that?”

 

Franco nods, and so does Verona. Luca looks between both of them in slight, nauseous surprise as more blood rushes to tint the tips of his ears, hands fiddling with one another, now, before his chest. The sunbeams don’t feel as warm, either.

 

Franco, however, just shrugs. “It’s not exactly like he was quiet about it.”

 

Luca looks away, avoiding their stares. “Okay, well—”

 

But, again, he’s interrupted. This time, it’s Giulia, raising her voice and promising with high exasperation, “Ragazzi, Alberto isn’t like that. Trust me.” But, as soon as her eye-roll is finished, her gaze lands back onto Luca, just as delighted and excited as before. “Anyway, do you want help?” she asks before her eyes light up with an idea and she lets go of Verona’s hand to clasp her own, so full of anticipatory energy.

 

Verona cannot deny the small disappointment she feels at this—and the insurmountable desire to dig her heels into the ground and stop her friend from ruining his social life and mental state even further by confessing to a capital-A Asshole—but Giulia is still talking.

 

She continues, rambling off one idea after the next, “Oh, we could make a poster! Oooh, or a collage! I’m sure the Aragostas would give us a ton of ‘hot men’ magazines to cut up—!”

 

Luca’s face turns as bright red as a ripe tomato. “NO!” he shouts. “No, no! None of that,” he pleads, though there is still a smile—the smile of a lamb not knowing it’s walking willingly into the slaughter—still across his face. “And, no. I just want it to be us.”

 

In an instant, Giulia’s face turns from excited to sly.

 

Her brow relaxes, as does her eyes and grin. No canines show, only two buck-teeth as she smirks at him, leans a little bit forward, and hums, “Just you two alone, huh.”

 

Luca scoffs, clearly not one for her teasing antics. “I was planning on telling last Wednesday, actually, but…you know.”

 

Verona blinks, the world around her suddenly becoming so clear and white. “Ohhh,” she breathes, steps slowing as her mind traces back to days prior, when Luca was all frowns and sighs for as long as the day was long. “That’s why you were so upset,” she finishes, letting her realization dawn upon the rest of the group, who also murmur in acknowledgement.

 

Luca even shrugs and offers, “Eh—partially, yeah,” but Verona suspects it's just keeping-face. It may embarrass him to have his friends know he was so bent out of shape over just a confession that wasn’t-even-a-real- confession, but she knows better. They don’t judge; no one here does because they’re all equals here.

 

If everyone’s an underdog—if everyone’s a geek, a weirdo, and a bit of a freak—then no one is. But, that sparks another train of thought, one closer to the subject at hand. Verona thinks. “Hm…my dispiace, but I think I’m with Franco on this one.”

 

Luca glances at her, confused, as Giulia arches a brow.

 

She offers up her palms, keeping her voice light and ever so gently argues, “I just think telling him might not be a good idea, you know? I mean, he reacted terribly to the suggestion of you two kissing. If my memory serves me right, he called it freak shit. ”

 

Luca’s face falls.

 

“I’m just saying, maybe wait a little bit longer. It seems like he has a lot of growing to do before—”

 

“Ragazza, Alberto isn’t like that,” Giulia very suddenly interrupts, voice and air loud and stern as she exasperatingly repeats herself. She insists with a pleading gesture, “He’s a good person; he’s one of us.”

 

Franco arches an incredulous brow, leaning over to hear better. “Wait, like he’s actually gay?”

 

Giulia’s eyebrows furrow. “Well. No, but—”

 

Luca’s voice heightens, speaking over her, “Well—”

 

Giulia raises her voice more, speaks over him, “WELL, as of right now, no.” Her pointed stare at Luca is visible from even a mile away. “We do not know. BUT, he is an underdog, just like us.”

 

Franco puffs, incredulous. “In what capacity?”

 

Giulia whips her glare to the other boy. “Franco—” she twines, but it falls short as the counter dies on her tongue. She sighs, reaching her hands upwards to tighten her ponytail. “Just trust me. He’s one of us.”

 

For a while, it’s left at that. The group trudges on, twigs, sand, and fallen leaves crunching beneath their feet as they weave through the mountainous trails. It’s not morning, so there isn’t much birdsong, but salty wind from the sea below does provide a slight melody along with the distant crashing waves. For a while, it’s just calm and quiet, like it was on the island as they walked along, looking for a place to eat, without Alberto and without Luca.

 

That was such a weird day, Verona thinks.

 

Alberto had been weird in the morning, and there was a tense air surrounding him that seemed to increase with each meter they inched towards that far-off body of land. Giulia and Luca clearly felt it; they seemed to have been tip-toeing around him and allowing him to make each and every decision, from what Verona can recall. Then, he started to lose it.

 

Talking to himself.

 

Tugging at his hair.

 

Trailing the back of the group, not leading as he had been days prior.

 

It must have been surprising to Giulia, Luca, and Franco. It must have appeared as if it came out of nowhere to them, as they were so busy in their own conversation. But, Verona wasn’t. She had heard.

 

She felt the intense anger boiling inside him, and when he inevitably lashed out, it scared her but it wasn’t surprising. 

 

He was neurotic; he is neurotic. That much is clear, now, and perhaps that’s what Giulia’s talking about. His neuroticism makes him an underdog, but that doesn’t mean they have to be friends. Especially not when his neuroticism inflicts harm upon other people—drives him to demean, isolate, and control those that are trying to help him.

 

It’s sad, but they don’t have to take responsibility for Alberto’s problems. Alberto needs to fix them himself—needs to get control over himself and his impulses—or else the endless cycle will just continue spiraling onward forevermore.

 

Yeah, he can learn how to be a good, stable person on his own without forcing Giulia and Luca to be a part of the equation—without forcing Giulia and Luca to put themselves in harm’s way.

 

He can just crash and burn by himself. That’ll fix it, Verona is sure of this.

 

She walks on, and so does the rest of the group in silence.

 

Then, Franco—startlingly sudden and far louder than necessary—tries again, “I mean, it’s just that the guy is—”

 

Giulia flaps her hands through the air like swatting through a spiderweb. “OKAY!” she yells, teeth showing—a full 180° from the elated demeanor she had on just minutes before. “Can we not talk about this?” She turns back to Franco, almost glowering at him head-on, her entire body turned so he knows she’s serious. “Honestly, I’m getting kind of tired of talking about Alberto all the time. Let’s just talk about something else, like, look!” she says, pointing to a random tree. “Doesn’t that tree look so pretty with all of those vines and huge mushrooms growing up it? It would be such a good place for a photoshoot!”

 

Verona follows her finger, and it does. It’s an old tree with dry, crackling grey wood, lush green vines twisting every which way and competing with billowing peachy-orange mushrooms. There looks to be hundreds, and they’re all of different sizes. It looks like something Verona saw in a pop-up book she had as a child , only there aren’t any fairies fluttering about.

 

It would be an awfully nice place for a photoshoot, and Giulia does adore photography. But, she didn’t bring her camera, nor did Verona bring her father’s. 

 

So, they trudge onward. But, now with naturalistic beauty as a topic at hand, sparse comments float around the group about the leaves, the branches, the few animals they see, and more. It’s appreciative and a good change from the past discussion, but nature beauty isn’t the only thing to gaze upon these trails.

 

A turn in the trail, and suddenly two boys Verona instantaneously, nauseatingly, recognizes appear out of the bend.

 

The blonde one, Ciccio, blinks stupidly for a second as his huffing and puffing stops short. His gaze falls upon the girl beside Verona—his victim of many, many years—and Verona can feel Giulia go stiff beside her.

 

He tries to greet her, “Hey, Spew—”

 

His friend knocks an elbow against the thick of his arm.

 

His eyes flash wide, and though he was already blushing and clammy from carrying a decently sized cooler of what Verona can only assume to be fish, given the fishing poles sticking out of the half-zipped duffle bag strapped behind his friend’s back, Verona can see his face flush of red, hot embarrassment.

 

He corrects himself, “Giulia,” and the girl in question’s face contorts in pure, utter disgust at hearing her own name through that vile pig’s voice.

 

She doesn’t say anything back, so instead of wasting time with more pleasantries (or just walking along and forgetting they ever bumped into each other), his friend asks, “Would you…by any chance know where—”

 

“He’s at home,” Giulia interrupts him sharply. “Sick,” she glares, and even Luca winces.

 

Both of the older boys’ faces fall. “Oh…” Ciccio mutters. His hand is straining. He must want to move the cooler to the other hand, but doesn’t want to make any movements, like a prey knowing its being stalked. Though, he isn’t any prey. Verona is sure of that much, and she can’t help from scowl at him as well as he ever so gently questions, “Do you know when he’s gonna be good to hang out…?”

 

Giulia just shrugs, saying nothing.

 

“Okay, well,” Ciccio tries, looking awkwardly to his friend. Does he have a name? Verona can’t remember. “Tell him to get better soon for us.”

 

Giulia scoffs and starts walking past him.

 

Verona doesn’t think she’s going to dignify him with a response. She suspects she’s going to stay quiet and calculated—as sharp and pointed as a well-kept knife, but only when she needs to be. Only when she’s sure to slice skin. Verona doesn’t think there’s an option for that, here. She thinks silence is the best form of rejection, the best reminder that they are not friends, will never be friends, and Giulia has no obligation to do them any favors.

 

Yet, as they pass by one another, Giulia does bump into his shoulder. She does mutter, “Send him a card, if you care so much,” and the groups go their different ways.

 

So much for a nice walk around the mountain trails, Verona thinks. But, it seems that even with him not even present to participate, Alberto is able to ruin what would have been a perfectly good day.

 

—————

 

So, it turns out that Alberto isn’t sick, but Verona knew that already.

 

Apparently, this Saturday morning, Giulia’s father finally gave in and tried to take her brother to the doctor. They nearly set foot outside the door when Alberto, too, crumpled and admitted it: he wasn’t sick. He wasn’t ill, and he’d been worrying his family and friends over absolutely nothing. He hadn’t even been taking the medicine they so cautiously fed to him because he didn’t need it, and he knew he didn’t need it.

 

He was having what Giulia, in a hush-hush conversation with Luca alone in the middle of a grocery store, referred to as an episode.

 

With a bag of cavatappi crunching in her hands, Verona’s ears, twinging red, perk up and she listens in, but she can’t hear anything. Even though they’re only an aisle away, they’re talking too quietly—too quickly—and their conversation cuts off short before she can hear anything else.

 

Though, she isn’t entirely sure if she needed anything else. An episode already tells her a lot.

 

It tells her this type of thing has happened before. It tells her that it’s happened enough that Luca, Giulia, and Sig. Massimo are all able to recognize it as something Alberto habitually goes through.

 

But, is it periods of isolation, or periods of something else? Something more concerning—something that could be coupled with his apparent neuroticism to reveal something greater? Something that could cause Verona’s stomach to twist in guilt, but only a slight amount.

 

She means, it wouldn’t be such a big thing if Alberto was actually afflicted by something. Like, she’s already hypothesized the possibility he’s a narcissist. But, even then—or even if not—it wouldn’t make her and Franco the villains in this, even though she can see the way worry is wrought in every line and feature in Giulia and Luca’s faces, because he’s still the abuser.

 

Being afflicted by something doesn’t make one’s actions nullified, just explained. They don’t. They don’t excuse, they just provide a reasoning—a basis. That’s all. So, Verona doesn’t feel guilty. She doesn’t, but she knows she’s not about to tell Franco about this, either.

 

Anyway, that isn’t actually what worries her. It isn’t. Rather, it’s Giulia now standing awkwardly in the piazza, wringing her hands out, not looking her in the eye, and admitting, “Yeah, my papá doesn’t really…want you guys coming over. Like, not even into the pescheria.”

 

Verona just stares. Franco, always one to speak his mind, indignantly gawks, “What? Why?”

 

Giulia slumps. “I don’t know, ragazzi,” she sighs, lolling her head back, over her shoulder. Luca looks at her, then at his feet, but it doesn’t appear that he knows anything more than Verona and Franco. His hands fumble with the bag of ingredients in his hands, but he just looks confused and quiet. He always gets quiet when he gets confused.

 

Then, Giulia says something revealing:

 

“It’s so not fair, but I tried, and there’s nothing we can do about it. He won’t budge.”

 

It’s so not fair, she said, and Verona remembers her own eyebrows scrunching on that rainy day that feels so far back. She remembers asking internally, with her ears pressed up against the thick wooden door, what’s not fair? And she knows, now.

 

She knows why Giulia had been so awkward and unsteady when she walked back into her bedroom. She knows why the excuse about the rain came out of her mouth wobbly yet fast; it was a lie.

 

They hadn’t returned to the Marcovaldo house after that day, and now she knows why Giulia has been so adamant about them all going and doing something “out.”

 

She and Franco had been kicked out, and they were not letting them back in.

 

Verona leers. That motherfucker…! her thoughts curse, but that isn’t what she says. Instead, she just sighs, “Well, that’s unfortunate,” and turns her angry gaze away before offering up her pensione. Her parents are out exploring Monterosso and very likely won’t be back until late, anyway. 

 

So, the group walks up the mountain, up to the pensione, and gets to work.

 

Four people is a bit of a group to make such a simple meal, but it goes without a hitch. No fires start (they don’t let Luca man the stove), no fingertips are cut off (they don’t let Giulia handle the knives), and no weird comments about the muscular and joint structure of a chicken occur (they don’t let Franco handle the meat). All in all, it goes well, and they enjoy their lunch together just as they would on a regular day back in Genova.

 

It feels good to be in this group of four again. It feels right, and though Verona doesn’t feel any ounce of guilt, she knows that if she did, this would undoubtedly snuff out every last ember.

Notes:

I’m just gonna “reveal” this since it isn’t really super obvious/might not be picked up on, but Verona thinking that Massimo has a permissive parenting style and *that’s* why Alberto is so rambunctious and controlling is meant to be ironic, because Verona’s parents are actually the permissive ones, hence her general behavior.

EDIT: to goatee-hater, I accidentally uploaded this chapter twice the first time around and your comments on it got deleted 💔💔 so sorry but do know that we appreciate the everlasting support and think Verona + Franco ought to go to jail as well

Chapter 14: top-down processing

Summary:

Alberto makes a small appearance, and the humans deal with the consequences of days past.

Notes:

Sorry if this chapter is kind of all over the place

Admittedly, it was a bit of a surprise to see Alberto’s brown mass of curls peeking out over the congregation's many heads.

 

Verona was almost certain he’d give it a few more days at least before ever daring to rear his ugly head in the light of day again, but she supposes that this certain day doesn’t belong to her, nor him, nor anyone else. It belongs to the Lord, and Alberto appears to be nothing if not a humble servant to him.

 

Except, perhaps humble is an overstatement, because he looks worse than he did past Tuesday.

 

Back then, he stood straight with his flat cap serving to shadow his gaze. His hands were trembling as veins and tendons popped in his wrist, excited, as if preparing to ball up—as if preparing to throw a punch.

 

Of course, they were ready for that. It was not lost on them that Alberto may be the fighter type—people like him always are—so Franco has poised between them. As Verona’s tongue became a whip, Franco stood before her, ready to get involved if things got ugly. He was never one to shudder at sticky blood or grime, after all.

 

But, it wasn’t needed. Alberto took the lashing without uttering a word. He stayed still, impossibly still if only for his marred and dirty hands, and didn’t say anything. He just took it with a shadow over his eyes—without ever landing a rebuttal.

 

That is to say, Verona’s point was made without interruption. Everything she needed to say was delivered quickly and firm, no repetition in her speech in sight.

 

That is to say, it got boring pretty fast. They both had prepared for more, but there was no push-back. There was no counter. There was no rebuttal.

 

He just took it, and he looks worse now.

 

Now, that ridiculous attempt at a pompadour wasn’t gelled. It didn’t plume upward, but laid down in a still-poofy mound atop his head.

 

He looked shorter than he did before.

 

She doesn’t quite know why her mind latches onto that fact, but she scrutinizes the difference between Giulia, he, and his adoptive father. Now, he didn’t seem all so great, nor all that adult.

 

Logically, Verona knew Alberto was only a year or two older than her, but something about him made him feel much, much more adult.

 

His looks.

 

She knows. She knows it’s his looks. The scars and scratches, the shape of his face, the proportions of his body—possibly even the tone of his skin. They all made him feel much, much older than her. Or, at the very least, much more intimidating.

 

Franco had explained a long, long while ago that someone’s features can make them seem more aggressive—a sharp, naturally straight or downward-pointed brow in particular.

 

Verona wonders if that was something Alberto was tapping into, could he be that smart?

 

Machiavellians like him were cold, calculating—and worst of all—charismatic. They know just what to do to manipulate the minds and perceptions of those around him; could that be a reason why Alberto styled his hair in such a weird way.

 

It drew attention to him, but it also subconsciously imposed his presence upon others. By making himself look taller, larger, less people would try to argue against him.

 

Then again, Verona knows she’s probably giving this guy way too much credit. Alberto’s a moron who can’t hardly even write a decent letter, why in the world would he know to alter his appearance to better manipulate people?

 

Then again, the apparent stupidity may be just a disguise used to cover up how smart he actually is.

 

Argh. Verona doesn’t know.

 

She doesn’t, and they’re taking communion now, anyway, and she’s back to looking at her feet as they trudge across tile by tile.

 

She doesn’t see the dark bruises beneath the boy’s eyes. She doesn’t see the wavering frown painted across his lips to match with a darting yet glazed-over stare. She doesn’t even see how his posture has been ruined, slumped over in the pews with both hands tightly in his lap as he tries to make himself smaller and smaller and smaller.

 

She doesn’t, nor does she see him as he leaves church and, with his head held down, makes a bee-line right back to the pescheria. Out of sight, out of mind, just as monsters like him ought to be.

 

No—instead, she and Franco run into Giulia and within just five minutes of conversation, Franco’s convinced her to go along with his plan to go bone-hunting alongside the coast.

 

Of course, they still have to get changed and eat lunch. But, as soon as that is finished, they regroup in the piazza and are off. 

 

Again, Verona isn’t one for this kind of activity, but her friends are. She takes up the end, silent and observant, just as she always does and always is. Giulia and Franco effortlessly use a hanging tree limb to climb down to a lower level, and she hesitates. But, with enough support and reassurance, she does get down eventually.

 

Not much conversation happens—at least, none that is deep. As they walk along the rocky shores, stopping to pick small pebbles out from their sandals every fifty feet, and scour across the ground for anything cream-colored and protruding, they talk about littler things. Things like what they’re going to find, how quiet it is out here as compared to Genova, if Giulia had ever found any bones in this area before.

 

And, unfortunately, they don’t find many bones. They do, however, find a washed up, cleaned out clam and—when they sat down to catch their breath for a minute—an orange rock that was perfectly in the shape of a heart.

 

Without thinking, Verona presented it to Giulia, and she smiled, taking it from her.

 

She hadn’t meant it as a gift (she was going to just throw it back into the ocean, never being one to keep things like rocks or shells or bones herself), but Giulia had grinned at her with her bucked, chipped teeth, squinting against the afternoon sun. She pocketed it, said she’d put it on her shelf, and Verona never voiced her true intentions as something weird began to make itself known inside of her chest.

 

—————

 

One week left.

 

Verona, Verona’s parents, and Franco have spent two weeks thus far in Portorosso, and now there is one week left before they repack all of their belongings and head back to Genova. One week left before they see neither hide nor hair of their two friends for another two months until they’re all together at school again.

 

Typically, this wouldn’t worry her. Before she even knew her, Giulia had already been going off the warmest season (and holidays, of course) with her father. When Luca came along, it was quickly established that he’d have the same routine. Stay for the school year, leave when the weather heats up. It was sad to watch them go, but it wasn’t like phone calls and the mail system didn’t exist. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t be seeing them when September started.

 

But, now things are different.

 

Verona doesn’t want to leave her—leave him—but not because this town has grown on her. Not because she couldn’t stand the thought of a long separation, but because she’s worried.

 

What if Alberto is only staying away because they’re still here? What if, as soon as she departs, everything will go right back to the way it was—all of her efforts nullified as the wheels screech along the track?

 

What if it was all for naught?

 

She stares daggers down at the seven small splinters stuck in the palm of her hand. They sting, but only a little. The redness makes it look worse than it actually is, though it is hard to hold a book when she can’t properly close a fist. She knew using that tree to swing down was going to have repercussions. She knew it, but she only noticed them this morning.

 

Franco, laying down on the smooth pebble with his book held up above him, glances her way. But, he doesn’t seem to care that much. Luca doesn’t notice either, nose deep in his own novel and bumping shoulders with Giulia as they read along together—at least, until Verona makes a small hiss as she tries to turn a page and Giulia’s eyes flicker her way.

 

“Stai bene?” she asks with such sincerity in her eyes it almost makes Verona feel like a child.

 

“Yeah,” Verona nods. She shows her palm to her. “Just got a few splinters from yesterday.”

 

Giulia frowns. “Oh no,” she voices, and she moves away from Luca ever so slightly. “Those look super red—they aren’t infected, are they?”

 

Verona shakes her head. She hadn’t meant to make a scene, but now the attention is on her and it’s burning her back like the sun. “No, I don’t think so,” Verona says. “I did wash my hands this morning, but I wasn’t able to get any out.”

 

Giulia furrowed her brow, crawling away from Luca and toward the other girl. “Hm…did you use cold water?”

 

Verona nods. “Probably, why?” She hadn’t thought about it, but given the cold water is always on the right, and that’s where her hand naturally gravitates to, she probably had.

 

“It’s better to use warm water,” Giulia explains, sitting before her, now, and pulling a bobby pin out of her hair. A loose strand towards the front of her face falls from her ponytail and handkerchief, but she brushes it away, not minding it.

 

“What are you going to do with that?” Verona arched a brow, cradling her hand near her chest.

 

Giulia lightly laced her fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand to her as she inched in closer. Their knees bumped together. “I’m gonna get them out,” she said simply, then smiled. “Non preoccuparti—I’ve done this tons of times before. It won’t hurt.”

 

Verona blinked. “Oh, okay.” And, she tried to settle her shoulders (being relaxed might help?), but Giulia was warm. Her palms were sticky with sweat, but they were always like that. Her skin was a sunkissed orange with small brown freckles here and there. Most people would think they were ugly, but Giulia wore them well. So well, along with her caramel colored eyes that were so often kind and caring but could turn so serious and focused within a drop of a hat. 

 

She scooted in even closer, still, bowing her head down to get a better look, and Verona could barely even feel the refined pressure and scraping against her skin over the rapid thrumming in her heart and the heat around her legs. Yes, Giulia had wrapped her legs around that of the other girls and got in close. So close, Verona felt like she had to lean away or else it would be too much.

 

So close, she swears she should feel her breathing against her arm.

 

So close, she wonders how in the world they’re going to get out of this position.

 

So close—

 

“Uh, Giulia, do you want me to continue reading, or are you…” Luca’s voice breaks up the blood deafening Verona’s ears.

 

She waves him off. “Yeah, keep going!” she encourages, but she doesn’t stop her work. She doesn’t turn, and she doesn’t back away.

 

Verona’s own book lies a derelict upon the sunbaked pebble, and she hardly even thinks of it as Luca begins to read.

 

That’s when Verona remembers why she doesn’t exactly like listening to other people read—particularly Luca.

 

She doesn’t mean any offense by it, and it’s really not too bad. It’s just that he’s slow with his pronunciation and his pacing is unsteady. She can’t blame him, of course, as language is one of those areas in which a critical period of development is involved, but it does get a bit annoying after a while. Giulia must be a godsend for him, she thinks. She doesn’t know anyone else with as much patience as her.

 

At least, certainly not Franco, now speaking up: “It’s corrigible.”

 

“What?” Luca asks, looking up from his page.

 

“Corrigible authority,” Franco says blankly, each syllable rolling off his tongue as slow as molasses. 

 

Luca steadies himself. “Right.” And, continues reading: “..the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills…”

 

Minutes go by. Pages and minutes pass, and not much changes. Verona only leans further back, propping herself up with her free hand. Meanwhile, Giulia still sits way too closer, poking and prodding at her palm, still working on splinter #3. Franco, however, has moved to be closer by Luca so he can partially follow along his page while he still reads his own book, correcting him here and there. Everything seems to be settled into a state of stagance. Everything except…

 

“It cannot be that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor, —put money in thy purse, —not he his to her; it was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an answerable se— seque…”

 

“Sequestration.”

 

Luca looks at Franco.

 

He doesn’t say anything. No words come out of his mouth. He just looks at him, silent with eyes half-lidded beneath a shadowy brow.

 

He pinches the book, readjusts his seating position, and continues: “an answerable sequestration …put but money in thy purse.” He breathes. “These Moors are changeable in their wills;—fill thy purse with money:—the food that to him is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly bitter as col…” A pause. 

 

Franco’s gaze flickers up to him.

 

“Colonq—”

 

“Coloquintida.”

 

Luca slaps the book shut.

 

Franco nearly flinches.

 

“Wha—Luca—” Giulia begins to speak.

 

“I’m done,” he states, putting the book back atop Giulia’s matching copy.

 

“No!” Giulia pleads. Now, she does turn away, but the scene is too shocking for Verona to mourn. “Luca, ma dai—Franco was just—”

 

“I don’t care,” Luca interrupts her. “It’s getting late.” It’s hardly even sunset. “I’m going home.”

 

“Amico, he’s sorry. Per favore, don’t—” Giulia nearly begs, speaking for her friend.

 

But, Luca just stands up, walks to the shore, and dives into the ocean without another word.

 

They all stare at the bubbles formed on the surface until they pop and disappear as if there was nothing had even broken the easy, rhythmic flow of waves lapping against the shore. Verona doesn’t know what she feels, but it comes as a tight uneasiness in her chest, barely allowing her to breathe. Giulia looks upset—dissappointed, no doubt, and she shoots a stern, disapproving frown at Franco, sitting gobsmacked with his jaw hanging ajar.

 

“Franco,” Giulia reprimands, voice uncharacteristically harsh, using the same exact tone she does whenever Nerone gets into the trash.

 

“Mamma mia,” is all that he says. “I was just trying to help.”

 

“You know how sensitive Luca is when it comes to this stuff. Why’d you have to do that?”

 

“I didn’t mean to,” Franco defends himself. “I didn’t think he’d be upset.”

 

Giulia sighs. “Whatever. Just—make sure you apologize to him tomorrow and don’t do it again.”

 

“Okay, mom,” Franco says.

 

Giulia shoots him another glare of her shoulder before turning back to Verona. “You wanna keep going?”

 

Verona nods. She had nearly forgotten herself. “Yeah—yeah, sure,” she says, but she really doesn’t. The awkward tension in the air is almost thick enough to cut. If she wants anything, she wants to take a break or to open a time-portal to go back twenty minutes and make sure Franco just keeps to himself.

 

But, that isn’t an option. What has been done cannot be undone. She knows that, and though it may suck a little bit right now, she does hope that universal truth protects her friends’ peace in the oncoming months—when she and Franco won’t be around.

Notes:

hehe mom friend!Giulia how I love her

Chapter 15: inattentional blindness

Notes:

Alright lets get back into it.

Verona thinks it’s a little bit ridiculous that they have to walk to the very end of the dock every single day in order to fetch Luca when he could just as easily swim up to the bay. She also thinks it’s a little bit ludicrous of Franco to press so far ahead of her and Giulia when they ought to be walking together as a group in case one of them slips, but that’s just the way he’s always been. Plus, she doesn’t exactly mind hanging back—she never has. For as long as she can remember, she’s always been the caboose of their train, but it is a wonder that Giulia has joined her now.

 

She looks to her, studying the way the shadows carves out her features as the sun beams against her back and the old wood of the dock whines beneath her steady step, and she notices that she seems tense.

 

That’s different.

 

“Do you think he’ll be angry?”

 

Giulia’s eye flickers to meet hers. “Huh?” she voices, not wincing, so it isn’t the sunlight dancing on the waves that’s causing her brow to furrow.

 

“Luca,” Verona elaborates, signalling to the boy several paces ahead of them. “Do you think he’ll be angry that Franco’s going to meet him first—before us.”

 

Giulia’s mouth presses into a contemplative line. There’s a moment of pause before she answers with a shrug and an, “I don’t think he’ll care. It’s not like it was that big of a deal, vero? Franco corrects everyone.”

 

Verona nods in agreement. “That, he does,” she says in a playful, mock-voice. It’s a reference to something, though she can’t remember exactly what. Perhaps some old detective show her mother put on one time, but it’s no matter. It doesn’t work—Giulia’s face doesn’t falter. Her lips stay tightly closed, not even toying with the idea of a smile, and her eyes remain focused upon that boy beneath a knitted brow. She isn’t happy, that much is clear, and that much is a stark difference from days prior. And, for that, Verona steps a little bit closer and questions, “Stai bene?”

 

Again, Giulia buffers a little before answering. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” she assures, but her voice is a lower pitch than it usually is. It rumbles underneath the crackling waves, nearly drowned out entirely.

 

Verona doesn’t take it. “You sure? You seem really tired. Been sleeping okay?”

 

Giulia cocks her head to the side, letting a bit of curl fall off her neck. It must be hot; even Verona feels hot, and she has neither the length nor the volume that Giulia does. “Ehh—not really. Couldn’t go to bed until, like, two or three.” Her head teeters to the other side. “Then, of course, I still had to wake up early to run deliveries. Can’t get out of those,” she says, but she isn’t ever one to complain. At least—not about minor things, such as this. If there’s some injustice or misinformation spreading about and tainting the experience of her and those around her, she is undoubtedly going to be the loudest one about it. But, not minor things like a bad night’s rest. She says it takes up too much energy, but that’s her belief.

 

Not Verona’s. “Giulia, that’s super unhealthy. You know how important getting a full night’s rest is—”

 

“It’s summer, it’s fine,” Giulia dismisses her, batting her off.

 

“No, it’s not,” Verona insists, refraining from huffing. “There’s nothing more important—”

 

Giulia cuts her off with a look—different than the last. It isn’t unsure, nor sleepy, nor unsteady. Like a dagger, it’s sharp and cutting right into the heart of the argument, searing right into her words and reminding Verona that she is a friend, not a mentor—though she knows instinctively that such an action wasn’t Giulia’s intention. She’s far, far too nice for that, and Verona knows that it’s only a byproduct of her current state. She knows that she cannot hide her emotions well whether she likes it or not, and that’s all it was. A small reveal—a habitual frown, not a purposeful bearing of teeth.

 

But even so, Verona still apologizes: “Mi dispiace. I didn’t mean to lecture you so early in the morning. It’s just—three is really late, and you haven’t said what you were doing so late so…” Verona’s hands wring about the hem of her blouse. “It’s worrying.”

 

Giulia hums a response and continues walking.

 

And, Verona doesn’t want to interrogate her, but that isn’t nearly enough. “What were you doing, by the way?” She guesses, “Stargazing?”

 

Oddly, Giulia’s frown sinks.

 

It doesn’t deepen. It doesn’t lessen, but it relaxes. Less tired—more solemn, like a white flag waving. Like a soldier hanging his head in deafeat—she hangs her head—and admitting, “I was staying up with Alberto.”

 

Verona blinks. That wasn’t at all the answer she had been expecting, nor is it an answer that makes any sense.

 

“Why?”

 

Even if Alberto is worth less than three cents, Giulia does see him as a friend. And, friends—especially in teenage years—do tend to stay up very late gossiping or joking or getting intro trouble with one another. But, that is a cause for fun, for gloating, for mischievous giggling the next day when both are exhausted but grateful with the extra time spent with one another. With having gotten away with something most actual adults would frown upon.

 

“He was just having a hard time.”

 

But, she clearly isn’t happy about it. There is nothing about her that seems happy—just dull and tired and clearly not herself.

 

“Going to sleep?”

 

Verona scrutinizes her more, and she finds that, no. Giulia does not seem herself. Her light had dimmed, and the light Verona sees in her is only the sun’s work. But, where the shadow falls, there’s truth. On her face, in her features, in her eyes.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Her eyes that were once gazing limply outwards as the rotting, whining wood turns to boulders contaminated with slick algae and animal remains.

 

“He’s not a child, you know. You’re not his mamma.”

 

Her eyes that now turn to her, and her mouth that, now, hangs open with silent, unspoken words. Her expression that is unreadable, and her feet that have stopped abruptly upon a flat, wide rock big enough for the both of them.

 

“Why do you have that look on your face…”

 

Verona stares at her, halting as well. “What look?”

 

Giulia turns her body, but she doesn’t cross her arms. They hang by her side with tensed fingers, looking as if they want to prod but won’t. “That look you get when you’re analyzing someone.”

 

Verona leans a little ways back, head bowed to look the other girl through her lashes. “Am I that obvious?”

 

And, finally, Giulia smiles. Some of the light returns—some, not all, but enough, and for that, Verona is glad. “You don’t hide your emotions as well as you think you do,” Giulia says, and it feels as if she just pulled her hand out from beneath a wooden mallet.

 

They continue walking. “You say that as if you can hide your emotions at all,” Verona points out.

 

Giulia snrks, “Yeah, well at least I own it,” and for a minute, the morning begins to feel light.

 

Yesterday had ended very abruptly and on a very heavy note. The three hadn’t quite managed to pick themselves back together after Luca, ever over-sensitive, ditched once Franco’s assistance had him feeling scorned. After he left, Giulia no longer attended to picking out the splinters in Verona’s and—and refused to read her book. Franco was left not feeling guilty but confused and slightly frustrated—he was only trying to help. Verona tried to rectify the situation, but Giulia made the call to let it go. The day had been a dud, and it wasn’t worth fighting over. They ought to just come together tomorrow, put it behind them, and start anew.

 

No one could argue against her; she always knew best. Though, the few splinters left in Verona’s hands still sting slightly every time she tries to mess with them, and she isn’t about to ask her mom for help for fear of her mom fussing over the dangers of going out into the woods even if she is accompanied by friends.

 

So, she’s glad she’s smiling again. But, her joy doesn’t last for long.

 

Verona’s heart nearly jumps out of her chest as Giulia, only a second later, continues, “And—I know you don’t really like Alberto.”

 

She noticed?

 

“That’s fine. You don’t have to like him, and, believe me, that imbecile gets on my last nerve all the time, too.”

 

When did she notice?

 

“But, I really don’t want your advice on how to handle him.”

 

“Oh,” Verona says, because what else can she say? What in the world does anyone say to that—what does anyone in the world do in such a situation, and what else does Giulia know that she isn’t letting on? If she had noticed Verona’s dislike of him, then she has undoubtedly noticed Franco’s. But, how does she know? Had she passed by them in the alleyway when confronting her brother—could she have been making deliveries that late into the morning? Would she have just passed on by and let it happen? Verona doesn’t think so; Giulia likes Alberto. Whether he’s a good person or not (and, he is not), she still thinks they’re close—still thinks of them as friends, as siblings.

 

Giulia must have noticed Verona’s internal spiral, too, because her hands fly up. She waves them in front of her, not even blinking against the sunlight as her eyebrows shoot up and her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, mi dispiace! That came off way harsher than I meant it to—I meant, I don’t really think your advice would be all that applicable to the situation at hand.”

 

Several times, Verona attempts to respond, but she truly doesn’t know what to say to that.

 

This must be a morning of surprises—Giulia has never once dismissed her like that. And, her advice is her best quality. It’s how she communicates and approaches other people’s problems; she’s a problem-solver. That’s who she is. What can she give to this situation, if not advice?

 

A rebuttal?

 

Please, what would that even look like?

 

Um, actually, I’ve been studying and taking actual, physical notes of your brother, and I noticed that he was a complete Machiavellian controlling both you and Luca—but especially Luca—so I confronted him. And, since then, he’s been locked up in your house. That’s right, I caused the “situation at hand,” so my advice would be much, much, much more applicable to anything you can come up with?

 

Absolutely not.

 

Revealing that too early would surely do nothing but incriminate her; she hasn’t revealed Alberto’s wickedness to Giulia yet. Knowing her, she wouldn’t understand nor receive it well, because she follows her heart and she doesn’t focus on the little things, like Verona does. Before Verona could ever give a proper rebuttal to that statement, she must set the table. Everything must be laid out in perfect, pristine condition, and, as of right now, it’s all still stuck in the cupboards, cabinets, and drawers.

 

As of right now, everything is wrapped in silence.

 

As of right now, Verona is actively choosing not to respond, only walking ahead and feeding into the silence she hopes isn’t so heavy, awkward, and—above all—suspicious. Though, it isn’t like she’s doing anything wrong. It isn’t like she hasn’t done anything wrong; she’s merely taking her time to make sure she has all of her ducks in a row before she takes this leap, just like she had done with the confrontation. It had taken her weeks to work up the courage to confront Alberto—to compile evidence and arrange an argument foolproof enough that even someone as conniving and corrupt as him couldn’t help but fall to.

 

And, it worked. It did work just as Verona hoped it would— better than Verona had hoped it would. And, she doesn’t blame herself much for Luca’s growing misery or anything, because, so far, that seems to be the only setback. But, a little bit of restraint is to be expected. No change comes smoothly, there’s always some bumps in the road to progress, and Luca will get over it, and Giulia will eventually grow numb to people bringing Alberto up, rather than shutting down the conversation every time.

 

But, that isn’t exactly right. It isn’t every conversation, because this one is still going, and something more—

 

“Huh.”

 

“What?”

 

“I think this is the first time you were the one to bring Alberto up, first.”

 

Giulia nearly falls on a smaller boulder; it’s the first time it’s ever happened.

 

But, Verona manages to catch her. And, once she’s settled—their hands still pressed together—she continues, perfectly awake, “Usually, it’s been Luca, but you haven’t shut down this conversation yet, either.”

 

She feels Giulia’s fingers grow tense in her palm, as if they’re trying to will them out and away.

 

Does she want them to be out and away?

 

Is there a reason her smile is starting to droop, again?

 

“Oh. Yeah, that’s—”

 

“HE-E-EY!”

 

Both girls’ focuses snap to the sound.

 

In the distance, face obscured by the sunlight and glare against the sea, Franco waves at them, beckoning, “Are you guys coming or what?!”

 

Giulia steps forward quickly, and her hand drops out of Verona’s with the first big stride. “Yeah—Yeah, we’re coming!” she shouts back. “Wait up!”

 

———

 

Luca’s face contorts into something that is so obviously disgust as he looks up from the water, his hand still outstretched.

 

The three are gathered at the end of the rocks, two standing back and one in front, crouched down, grasping his palm in his, and Luca seems to hate it. His nose (if you can call it that) crinkles while his red eyes flicker between the ground and the boy before him until he’s far up enough on the rock that he no longer needs the assistance.

 

Frankly, Verona doesn’t think he ever needed the assistance. On the way to the island, she saw how far Luca had jumped up from the water. He could very likely, and very easily, crest over them all, or he could just swim up to the bay. But this is the formality they’ve set: they always go retrieve him from the boulders at the end of the dock. Someone always leans down with a hand outstretched and pulls him up onto land. Ever since Alberto left, Giulia’s been the one to pull, but today, it was Franco.

 

Franco, now offering him an awkward “Ciao.”

 

Franco, who Luca responds to with a short “Giorno” and nothing else.

 

Franco, who walks beside him as the four now begin their tread back to the piazza.

 

Franco, now attempting, “So, about yesterday—”

 

Luca cuts him off. “It’s fine,” he says, his words still short and as tense as his shoulders, only sprinkled with a pale skin creeping downward. “It’s just—whatever.” His nostrils flare as Franco nods, and Verona realizes she’s staring.

 

She didn’t mean to stare, but Luca hasn’t yet dried himself off yet, and this form is still a relatively new sight to her eyes. It was less odd when they were in the water, themselves, and she couldn’t see the near entirety of him—only his head, shoulders, and arms. She doesn’t mean to stare, but it’s hard to when he doesn’t look like he should be here, and the wet thwapping of his un-dried flippers against the smooth stone boulders is a bit of an uncanny sound.

 

She wonders why he hasn’t dried off yet.

 

Then, Luca starts wiping it all off.

 

Days before, he just shook like a dog, and that did the trick. Yet, he’s now taking his time. He spends a minute clearing off his face, then reaches upward to pat down his hair. The blue paddles shrink and pop out, now thin, caramel strings. They curl into a perfect pattern without the need of a comb or conditioner. 

 

And, Franco stupidly chimes in, “Did I ever tell you your hair is so wicked cool to watch?” but wasn’t that the point of this? She and Giulia are leaving them alone so they can talk—so they can have a decent conversation again and remember that they are friends. So Luca can recall that Franco isn’t just some uptight asshole that constantly corrects people; so Luca remembers that he enjoys Franco’s friendship and it isn’t worth ruining the remaining days left over just one little hiccup.

 

Luca looks at him with wide eyes. “Huh?” he says, angling himself a little bit away. Verona wonders what’s wrong now. It’s just a compliment.

 

Franco gestures, pawing near his forehead to map out the shape of Luca’s central spiral. “It just perfectly goes back into shape. You don’t have to put any effort into styling it or anything—” He interrupts himself, eyes alight with a new idea, “Wait, can you style it? Like, I know it’s meant to mimic normal hair, but it’s not keratin, so—”

 

“Yeah.” Luca nods, shaking off the scales on his arms. “Yeah, I can style it.” He slits his thumb into the cord of what Verona thinks to be tightly woven kelp holding up his shorts, and he looks down at his feet, still wet. His nose (his actual nose) scrunches again, and then, with a wary, weary smile poking out from his lips, he sighs, “Actually, one time—before we ever went to any human town—Alberto showed me how to use snail slime to get my hair up like his is. It was pretty funny. It looked pretty ridiculous.”

 

Before Luca could finish the last syllable, Franco’s hand was already rising into the air. “Aspetta—you used snail slime?”

 

“Yeah,” Luca confirms with a slight nod, wistful tone sharpening into something more pointed, but not enough to cut. “It’s not exactly like we had gel or hairspray.”

 

“Sick,” Franco acknowledges, and the conversation doesn’t progress from there.

 

The group walks back to the piazza with an awkward silence permeating the space. Verona doesn’t know why they tried—why they had thought everything would go back to normal immediately. Whether Luca wants to talk about it or not, Franco had upset him greatly by constantly correcting him during his reading. He hadn’t let even Giulia try to consolidate him, for Christ’s sake; he just dove into the water and didn’t see them for the rest of the day. Honestly, he didn’t even bother changing back into his seafolk clothes or take off at the dock, which would make the journey that much easier. He just got in the water and swam away.

 

Honestly, Verona doesn’t know what to do. If there is anything she can do. Luca doesn’t seem one for quarrelling; every time he’s been targeted at school, he’s just bowed his head, took the blows, and tried to make the most of the rest of the day because of his unique position.

 

But, that’s just frivolity. Franco’s actions have nothing to do with the fact that Luca’s a creature posing as a person—they only have to do with the fact that Franco cannot for the life of him read a room and therefore doesn’t know when to withhold his help, which he so often strives to supply. It’s only a happenstance that Luca’s ignorance stems from such a fact, nothing more.

 

However, when Luca, now dressed in more fitting attire, followed Giulia out of her father’s pescheria, he looked sad.

 

Not in the sense that he had just been rejected or received bad news. There was no gold in his eye; his lip was not jutted out. He just looked…tired. Like something was weighing on him, something that was not present before.

 

Verona steps closer to him. “You alright?”

 

He shrugs away from her, slightly angry and staring at the ground. He doesn’t respond.

 

Then, Giulia suggests they all go grab a gelato.

 

——

 

The inside of the latteria is cold, but not uncomfortable. A girl who can’t be more than twenty-five works behind the counter, serving up scoops to a boy around Verona’s age and said boy’s grandmother. He makes eye contact with Giulia, she gives him a little smile and a wave. He flexes his hand at her and carries on, taking wide licks of his dessert before exiting.

 

Verona doesn’t exactly know why she’s jealous, but it doesn’t matter. Besides, Franco’s already put in his order, Giulia is up now, and Verona is next. She needs to pay attention; she needs to not screw this up or else the lady behind the counter will think less of her and less of her friends, as an extension of her. Verona doesn’t want that.

 

Thankfully, she manages to get her gelato without much of a hitch. She gives a polite thank you to the worker and then is on her way, out of the store to go meet back up with her friends, now congregated at a table outside.

 

Oddly, Luca immediately follows her.

 

From her seat beneath a big, yellow umbrella, Giulia’s eyes trace Luca as he slumps down beside her. “You aren’t going to get anything?” she asks, voice gently heightening.

 

He shakes his head, revealing only the already-apparent sadness. “I’m not in the mood.”

 

Giulia spares him a pitiful glance, but she doesn’t press on.

 

“Hm.” Verona wonders—why not? Shouldn’t Giulia press on? She’s always such an insistent person, an unstoppable force at everything and anything she puts her mind to, so why doesn’t she put her mind to this? “You seem upset,” Verona says, but she’s not really thinking about what she’s saying, only verbalizing whatever her mind brings to her. Hadn’t this all been for Luca, anyway? He was upset, so Giulia insisted that they go do something to cheer him up. “And, Gelato is one of the world’s most common comfort foods, so—”

 

Luca winces. “I know, it’s just—”

 

He cuts himself off with an abrupt, heavy sigh like a dam finally releasing its water. Verona wonders if he surprised himself—his voice had been so loud—as gaze turns embarrassedly downwards to his thumbs twiddling in his lap. “Alberto and I have this kind of…tradition. But, he isn’t here for it, and it’d just be wrong without him, so—”

 

“Dude, just go get some gelato,” Franco interrupts.

 

All of their eyes snap to him. Him, with his head rolled over the back of the chair. Him, with his double-scoop of fragola already dripping red over his hand.

 

Luca snorts—not as a laugh. As a bull. “I’m not going to.”

 

Franco leans forwards, looking at the other boy over the rims of his rectangular glasses. “Look, it cannot be that big of a deal—”

 

Luca cocks his head to the side to shoot him a harsh, steadying glare. “Says who? Surely not you.”

 

Giulia tries to reach for him. “Ragazzo—”

 

Simultaneously, Franco’s voice raises, determined. “You don’t seem to have an issue when we’re in Genova,” he points out, and Verona’s jaw drops open.

 

“Well, we’re not in Genova now, are we?” Luca bites, and Verona wonders how this happened? Where had it come from?

 

“Luca—” Giulia tries again, and Verona tries to retrace the day's events. How had Franco thought this was a good idea? That not only was this a fight he could win, but a fight even to be had in the first place?

 

“No, but—” Franco cuts in, and Verona curls away. Perhaps it could be because of Alberto? The mentioning of Alberto, the fact that it’s about Alberto. That he still has his hand in the pot, even though he and Verona worked diligently to critically and irrevocably kick him out?

 

“But nothing!” Luca interrupts him.

 

Franco’s eyes go wide.

 

Luca continues: “This was the first human food I ever had— we ever had.” A blush settles over his face. “And, whenever we’re together—” Verona can’t tell if it’s from anger or shame— “we always make a point of—”

 

“Well, you’re not together right now. So, I’m sorry, but I still don't know what the big deal is.”

 

Luca stares at him.

 

From a seat adjacent, Luca stares at him with pin-point pupils and a mouth hung open. The sadness from before washed away into an impenetrable white, inhumanely still—barely even breathing. For a solid ten seconds, it felt as if there was no sound. No wind. No sun. Only his blinding, silent stare with canines poking out of his lax, open jaw.

 

Then, he shut it. He slouches in his seat. He tears his eyes away as if Franco was the one scorching.

 

And, he mutters, “...Nevermind. You’re not gonna get it.”

 

You’re not gonna get it.

 

Non lo capirete.

 

For a moment, no one says anything. They had all prepared for some type of explosion—some type of declaration much harsher than that, but even that cut right to the bone. Verona can’t hook onto an tactful thought nor a thought that was still intact as her chest hurts against the sudden push away. He’s pushing them away, but Giulia manages to, again, try to reach out:

 

“Luca, we understand,” she says, her own voice coming out constricted. She must feel the tightness too. “Franco’s just being obtuse, like always.”

 

Franco furrows his brow. “Hey—”

 

Giulia cuts him off. “Oh, don’t argue—” Then, she catches herself. She closes her eyes, leaning back to pinch the bridge of her nose. Her paper bowl of gelato still sits untouched on the table, a derelict. “Okay.” She tries to steady herself because someone needs to take charge, here, and it’s going to be her. As the leader of the group, it must be her; it’s always her. “Okay, I get that everyone’s kind of upset right now, but can we not fight? We’ve barely spent thirty minutes together, and we’re already arguing.”

 

Verona blinks. She didn’t think everyone was upset. Giulia didn’t seem upset, she was just taking control. Franco didn’t seem upset, he was just kind of awkward. Verona didn’t think herself as upset, just unsure of how to join such a tense conversation. Because, what could she do to make this better? She could contribute to the discussion, but that would just come off as arguing, also. She could try out her psychology skills on Luca, but therapy doesn’t work for those who don’t want it, and Luca does not seem open to it at all right now.

 

He isn’t even listening to Giulia: “It’s not my fault he—”

 

“I know it isn’t,” Giulia insists. “We all know it isn’t, alright?”

 

Luca looks at her, but his eyes hold no challenge. They bear only surprise, and Giulia looks down.

 

She hadn’t meant to get angry. “I’m sorry.” She bows her head, and her red hair falls to cover her reddened cheeks and ears.

 

Luca pauses, averting his stare. The world shrinks in to only one half of this table—their half. Luca sighs. “I’m sorry too,” he apologizes. “And, I’m sorry for being in such a bad mood lately, but I just…”

 

His bottom lip curls in.

 

“But I just miss him and…and it’s starting to eat at me—”

 

Away, out of this solemn picture smothered in the cloak of a hush-hush conversation, Verona’s eyebrows furrow.

 

Luca looks up to look Giulia in the eyes, through his lashes like a dog—like a puppy scolded and feeling guilty after gnawing on sandals or destroying a room.

 

“Do you think it’s my fault?”

 

Huh?

 

“What?” Giulia immediately voices her disbelief. “What are you talking about?” she asks, but Verona knows.

 

Whether he’s consciously aware of it or not, Luca suffered an incredible amount of hurt and degrading from Alberto. Likely for as long as he knew him, he had been bearing the subtle insults thrown at him in casual conversation, both with and without an audience. Alberto has spent years—two years—chipping away at Luca’s self esteem to turn him into the pliant, dependent lamb he is today. So, of course Luca would believe he is to blame.

 

“Well, he doesn’t want to see me, and—”

 

It’s disgustingly common for abusers to hurt their own feelings or dramatize a situation in which their victim is responsible, and Verona wonders if that is something that has happened before when, yes. Yes, it has: the tour. The Sea Monster . Luca had once hurt Alberto before, and Alberto brought it up years after it happened in order to knock him down—to remind Luca of his place. Hell, he even referred to it as a traumatic event, but it certainly wasn’t one. It couldn’t be; truly traumatized people don’t talk about such events so flippantly.

 

“He doesn’t want to see anyone.”

 

No wonder Luca blames himself, Verona thinks as her heart begins to ache for her friend.

 

(Of course, she knows that it’s not his fault. She knows this isn’t Alberto dramatizing something Luca had done to him recently, because she knows it was her doing—because she knows this is just a desperate ploy for attention. But, it still hurts him. He still blames himself, and this exact upset is still Alberto’s fault.)

 

“Yeah, but I’m the one who forced us all to go to Isola del Mare.”

 

Verona’s attention returns to the conversation at hand. Why would that have been an issue?

 

Luca continues. His hand is carding through his curls, now, a pained expression dressed over his face. “I knew—” he strains, “I knew there was a chance it’d upset him, and I made us go anyway.”

 

Giulia, only for a brief millisecond, flickers her eye towards Franco and Verona. Then, she gives her full, honest attention to the boy before her, vanilla gelato still dripping. Does this umbrella provide any shade? “Luca,” she begins, her voice lower, gentle, and serious, “I really don’t think that’s it.”

 

Verona pulls away. It’s a good sentiment, but something more certain would have been better. To entertain the notion even a little is to still entertain it; if Luca’s worries are going to be put to rest, Giulia ought to say something more definitive.

 

But, she didn’t. So, Luca argues, “But that’s when it started, wasn’t it? When he started—acting weird?” He looks almost desperate. “And, I can’t think of anything else that would have done this—can you?”

 

Giulia falls quiet.

 

Verona and Franco share a look—knowing, not guilty.

 

Franco, who Verona has just recalled is present for this, seems uncomfortably stiff, but hasn’t stopped eating unlike the two girls. He doesn’t seem to be paying much attention, either, looking away towards the elementary-grade children playing pallavollo down at the beach. He doesn’t want to be part of this conversation; that much is clear. However, Verona is glad. Even as it hurts her heart to see him in such a state—so torn up over a boy—she is glad, because it opens up this door.

 

It’s granted her a perfect opportunity to set things straight, to speak her mind and begin part two of their plan to cut the strings Alberto uses to manipulate Luca, his marionette for not much longer. Verona opens her mouth to speak—to say something about how he’s a good person and how if Alberto wants to be mature, he’d tell Luca what’s wrong himself (and, he obviously won’t), but then Giulia slips in before her. 

 

Verona opens the door, and Giulia whizzes past her with an assured, “Look, I will make him spend tomorrow with you so you guys can talk, okay?”

 

Verona’s eyes widen. Her aching heart drops to her stomach.

 

“I swear, I’ll drag him out of the house myself if that’s what it takes,” Giulia promises.

 

Then, Verona cuts in: “Aspetta, do you really think that that’s—” a good idea? “—necessary?”

 

They both seem surprised at her input, almost as if they had forgotten about her presence entirely. After a moment of pause, Giulia shrugs. “Only if he makes it necessary, but he can’t avoid you”—her attention returns to Luca—“forever. This whole ordeal has gone on long enough.”

 

Luca sighs again, deflating. “Okay,” he breathes. “Grazie, Giulia. You’re the best.”

 

Giulia nods, crossing her arms. “You better believe it.” Then, she waves him off with an insistent, “Now, go order something while we’re here. It feels awkward having you be the only one empty-handed.”

 

Luca moves to stand up. “Yeah, okay.”

 

Oddly—as if he actually had been participating in this conversation—Franco stands up with him.

 

Luca leers at him.

 

Franco is quick with an explanation: “I’ll pay for you.”

 

Luca’s anger falters. “Oh—you don’t have to—”

 

Franco puts his hand up, shushing him. (He doesn’t see the look of defeat that crosses over Luca’s face as the words die out on his tongue). “It’s fine,” Franco dismisses him, and they both walk back into the latteria.

 

Once again, like they were this morning, Verona and Giulia are left alone. However, Verona isn’t thinking about that, now. Her mind is too busy remembering how, with every September, Luca gets upset. He’s never happy in the start of the school year, because school starting means he can’t stay in Portorosso any longer. He has to go to Genova and part from Alberto for another nine months, and Verona used to eat up his wistfulness like it was just words from a sappy romance novel—like it didn’t always have an underlying tone of co-dependence and a bruised self esteem.

 

But, he doesn’t seem that way anymore. Again, he’s parted from Alberto, but that same sadness isn’t there.

 

Of course, Verona knows that this is partially because of Franco’s actions, but he seems frustrated moreso than usual. Like someone took scissors to his fuse that’s typically miles upon miles long, and cut it short—short enough to bleed.

 

Mindlessly, Verona raises her cone to her lips and begins to eat. She doesn’t notice Giulia as she stabs the spoon into hers.

 

—————

 

High winds and heavy rain overnight—that’s what the weather report had said.

 

Being on a beach town, even just for a few weeks, it’s smart to pay attention to things like that. That’s why Verona’s father has had the radio turned to the weather every morning they’ve been here, rather than the music Verona and Franco so-desperately desired. It’s always far, far more fun to listen to music while having breakfast rather than listening to how your day is going to be potentially ruined, but it’s a safety precaution.

 

Thankfully, the radiohost assured every listener that the rain wouldn’t start until much later on. However, Verona knows that such predictions are never a hundred percent accurate, so she still put on a sunhat to keep her hair out of the way before she went, with nothing else better to do, on a morning walk.

 

She supposes she could have stayed inside and read her book, but it is growing boring. Repetitive, superfluous, and uninteresting, and she thinks that she might as well try to get another feel for and appreciation of the location while she’s still here.

 

So, she walks.

 

She walks down to the piazza, then up through the winding streets.

 

With a crinkling nose, she wonders why Alberto had pointed out that old, dingy Vespa that one time. With a creeping intrigue, she wonders why all of the cats here look so well-fed as compared to the ones in Genova. She wonders how long these movie posters and juice advertisements had been hanging about—they look about as ancient as that tower.

 

And, she wonders how anyone could live in such a place as this. It’s just like her book—small, repetitive. Pretty, yet unsurprising (as if there was anything to surprise her, here, in the first place).

 

Honestly, the most surprising thing about this entire town might have been Alberto, himself, but who cares about him? She doesn’t want to think about him, but why was he here? What right does he have to come in like an oil to a deep meadow—just come in and poison this otherwise welcoming corner of the world with a presence such as his? What right did he have to just insert himself into the lives of her friends and change them for the worst?

 

And why was he even here in the first place?

 

But, that doesn’t matter, Verona reminds herself. Alberto—for whatever reason—is here. There’s nothing much to do about that. However, the rest, she put a stop to. His reign is over, his head has rolled, and there isn’t even a week left of her and Franco’s stay, here, anyway.

 

Soon, this will all be behind them, Verona thinks as the gravel beneath her feet turns into a dirt path laden with grape vines, luscious green leaves, and scattered chicken wire. Soon, they’ll be able to march forward and heal from this unfortunate experience, she assures herself as the leaves give way to long grass and weed-like ferns and untrimmed bushes.

 

She hadn’t meant to venture this far up the mountain, but she does quite like it here. The breeze is just as the weatherman said—steady, hard, and eastward. It flushes up from the sea, carrying with it the smell of salt and sand. It prickles Verona’s nose as her hat tilts slightly backward, but it isn’t nearly as bad as the dock. It’s hardly even noticeable, as is the glinting light.

 

So far up the mountain, the sun doesn’t hurt nearly as much. This early in the day, shadows are long and, here, there’s plenty of natural cover by way of trees and sloping cliffs. The light is gentle and a soft blue hue, like something you’d paint an infant’s room with. The clouds, though she knows are going to eventually bring rain, are moving quickly and are still only white, wispy streaks. They don’t scare her. They’re calming, even if there aren’t any easy examples of pareidolia without billowing bodies to provide the shape of a bulbous nose or an egregious pompadour.

 

So far up the mountain, Verona has found herself staring down and out, enjoying the silent shush of wind sweeping through long grass and birds chirping in the trees. She finds her mind suddenly quiet with the absence of people and on-lookers.

 

She wonders why she doesn’t do this more often.

 

Then, she nearly screams.

 

“Verona! Buongiorno!”

 

“Gesù Cristo, Giulia!” Verona squawks, stumbling backwards and white-knuckling the fabric of her shirt. “What are you doing here?” she asks as it’s the one and only question now on her mind.

 

Giulia laughs, putting her bicycle into park and haphazardly dropping off. Verona doesn’t even register that the darkness doesn’t seem to touch her. Her being is one of pure light and yellow, standing out against the muted blues of this morning and the harsh shadows that plagued her just the day before. Her body bounces with her laughter, just like it did before, as easy-going as the breeze around them. “I had to go run some tonno up to the Lombardis.” She points up to a hidden house far, far up the mountain. “What are you doing here?”

 

Verona gapes. She had no idea Giulia’s deliveries went that far—no wonder they don’t ever meet up until noon. Then, Verona’s focus returns. “Nothing, just going on a walk.” And, as Verona’s focus returns, she notices that Giulia’s hair looks darker and stringier than usual—and her face is flushed red and glistening—and the colors of her shirt dip darker as they near the outer edges.

 

“Wow, you’re drenched,” she blankly notes. It must have been one hell of a workout, she thinks—then, remembers. “I hope you slept better last night than you did yesterday.”

 

Giulia pauses as if she doesn’t know what Verona is talking about, but Verona understands. Sleep and information-retained have a direct relationship, so if it takes her a minute to remember, she’ll wait the minute.

 

Finally, Giulia’s eyes widen a little with recognition, and she nods. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I did.”

 

Then, Verona realizes there’s no one around. No one to interrupt them. No one to scrutinize them, should one say the wrong thing, and Verona has spent plenty of time ruminating, already, and there’s a question she wants answered.

 

“So, about yesterday,” Verona says, rocking slightly on her heels, “I was wondering—what were you going to say?”

 

Giulia stares at her blankly. Again, she doesn’t seem to remember, but this time, Verona is quick to help jog her memory:

 

“I pointed out that you’ve been avoiding talking about your brother, and you were going to say something, but Franco interrupted us.”

 

And all of a sudden, the shadows hit her.

 

“Oh…right,” Giulia nods, and as her bangs fall over her forehead, a soft blue comes with them, but the light doesn’t completely fade.

 

And, Verona cannot help herself but continue on, “Yeah—I had meant to continue the conversation after we got gelato yesterday, but Luca’s whole deal kind of made it slip my mind, sorry.”

 

Giulia’s head bucks backward, her grip on the handlebars of her bike stiffening. “Oh, that’s—” she begins, but she cuts herself off with a whip of her head to the cart settled on the dirt path behind her. It’s empty; there aren’t any more deliveries to make today. Then, she twists to glance back at the farmers working the fields with baskets of fruit, vegetables, and nuts. They’re far, but not far enough for their voices to fall upon deaf ears—only to be reduced to a muffled hum.

 

She turns back to Verona, revealing a determined chin, a hunch in her spine, impatience in her eyes, and conspiracy in her voice: “You aren’t busy at all, are you?”

 

Verona shakes her head, walking closer to her. “No, of course not. But why—”

 

“Hop on.” Giulia throws a leg over the seat, and kicks up the stand.

 

“On the—?”

 

Giulia nods strongly, and without any more preamble, Verona climbs aboard.

 

Truthfully, Verona hadn’t had much of an idea of what was about to happen when she fixed herself upon the back of Giulia’s cart, legs short enough to dangle off the side without catching any scuffs on her shoes as the ground beneath them became fresher, grassier, and much more bumpy. Giulia was still biking along the footpaths, no doubt, but this wasn’t a path traveled very often—that much was clear. And, facing away from her, Verona watches as the farmers in the fields and their baskets of produce become blurry and covered in a haze.

 

As the farmers shrink to ants, Giulia pulls to a stop along a well overgrown footpath marking the top of a rolling, seaside hill. Then, she hops off of the bike, walks a little bit aways, and sits down onto the grass.

 

Verona follows her lead.

 

As soon as Verona’s beside her, Giulia begins conversation again: “So, you know how everyone’s been kind of miserable, lately?”

 

There it is again. “I wouldn’t say miserable, but—“ 

 

But, Giulia’s head cocks to her, dropping off of her shoulders to give her a strong, sober stare through her lashes.

 

Verona’s argument dies on her tongue; she swallows it like a large pill. 

 

“It…has been rough,” she admits, drawing her knees closer to her chest, hands wrapped around her calves as her face gently skews in confusion. “But, how does that have anything to do with my question?”

 

Giulia sighs.

 

She lays back across the grass, her curly red hair spilling into the lush green and yellow grass. For a slight second, Verona basks in her beauty as Giulia’s mouth carves out the words, “A whole lot more than you’d think, ragazza.”

 

Then, the moment is ruined.

 

“And—and, for that, I really wanted to apologize—and thank you.”

 

And then, it begins: the most nauseating, most exhilarating, most confusing, most cataclysmic conversation Verona has ever experienced in her fifteen years of living.

 

First, Giulia thanks her so warmly for her ability to have stayed sane and stable throughout all of this. Stable, she called her. Stable! Like a rock battering against the heavy waves, not the sediment ever-moving with the waters. 

 

(As if she wasn’t the one to cause Alberto to disappear in the first place.)

 

So, instead, she nods humbly—as if she actually agrees wholeheartedly—and speaks only a smidgen about how she’s been trying to wrangle the boys into being friends again, and expresses her disbelief at Franco’s emotional un-intelligence.

 

“I know, right!” Giulia agrees, throwing her hands up into the air. And, she says that she loves him, but his inability to see that Luca doesn’t always enjoy “that” is exhausting. But, “that” isn’t explicit enough for Verona.

 

She turns to look down at her with one quirked brow. Before she can stop, her mouth moves to question.

 

Giulia explains: it’s the seafolk stuff.

 

Of course, Verona can understand why he may not like being reminded of his otherness all of the time, but it’s so interesting! Even for her, someone with little to no interest in biology whatsoever, it’s a delight to hear about his experience, his abilities, his—

 

“But, if it rains and he doesn’t have an umbrella with him, he’s dead—you know?”

 

Verona pauses.

 

Giulia looks up at her.

 

“Of course,” Verona nearly whispers.

 

Giulia is quiet for a moment before continuing on. “Or, if someone—if he, himself—spills something on him. Or, if there’s someone around when he’s washing his hands.”

 

Her lips curve into a tight frown.

 

“I can’t imagine living with that much fear.”

 

Giulia runs a hand through her hair.

 

“That’s why I never bring any of my own shit up. Compared to his, it’s all just so…stupid.”

 

Verona nearly gasps. “Don’t say that!” she implores because what Giulia is saying—it isn’t true. Luca undoubtedly had his struggles, but don’t they all? Doesn’t Giulia, herself, being a girl in a world built for boys—boys like Luca—and queer in a society that worships the heteronormative?

 

Giulia shakes her head. “Ragazza, he can’t even wear shorts.”

 

What?

 

Giulia continued on: Shorts, t-shirts, polos, and light-fabrics—all banned items. It’s a safety precaution; the less skin available to turn to scale, the better. It’s what needs to be done, despite the fact that his actual preferences don’t account much for scarves, hats, rugby sweaters, and slacks unless the world is deep in the clutches of winter. And, the minute the two of them get home, the true choices are out.

 

In the true teenage fashion, Luca Paguro apparently prounces about Sig.ra Marcovaldo’s apartment in nothing but pajama-shorts, relishing in the freedom of a private abode.

 

What???

 

Verona does not know what to say—that doesn’t seem to be like him at all. Not at all, not from what Verona’s seen. Her eyes stay widened; her tongue is dry on the morning air as she chokes on the sight.

 

“I…I thought that was because of Alberto.”

 

Giulia raises a brow.

 

Verona, face heating up, attempts to explain: “I thought he was showing all of that…skin…because of—in order to—”

 

Giulia winces and dismisses it. 

 

And, Verona realizes she had been wrong. Terribly wrong. She had thought—she had assumed—Luca was putting on a show when he was just, in fact, being a boy in summer. The natural setting she observed him in was nothing short of contaminated; the Hawthorne effect in full play—in every single angle she was too blind to see.

 

And, hadn’t that been one of the core pillars of her argument? But—but, no. No, that isn’t right because Luca enjoyment of the breezier apparel doesn’t negate the fact that Alberto still funds and critiques him. Just because one thing of Luca’s person is something purely for himself—something Verona thought was for Alberto—doesn’t mean he’s out of—was never in—the woods. 

 

But, that isn’t the point! The point of this conversation is to focus on Giulia—Giulia’s issues—Giulia, now holding a lock in her hand and pulling, tugging as she admits:

 

“But, he isn’t even the worst one.”

 

“What do you mean?” Verona tries not to sound horrified.

 

Giulia pulls harder; Verona takes up her hand.

 

It’s a cute moment, but it’s poisoned.

 

Deadly and rotting. Fuming and bubbling because—

 

“Alberto is actually the bad one.” She squeezes Verona’s hand, chipped nail slightly digging into her unmarked, pale hands—hands nothing like the boy at hand. “His shit makes me feel bad for even complaining about a bad hair day.”

 

And, Verona has to know.

 

She must know, because this is the first time Giulia had ever spoken a word about her brother without getting angry—with only a subtle tiredness in her gaze.

 

She must know, because that makes no sense! Had he been telling more lies, or half-truths, or exaggerated tales to gain pity-points? That could make sense; that could explain a lot, actually!

 

But, she knows that she’s on a tightrope above a sea of sharks. Clarity is the gold waiting for her on the other end, and she must tread carefully or else she’ll slip—or else Giulia, standing upon the post, will give way and allow her to fall. Or else Giulia will cut this conversation short, just as she’s been doing, and Verona will be left to clamber about in the darkness yet again.

 

(Had she been clambering about in the darkness? Surely not, she had all of those notes! The notes allowed her light, surely they must have. How else could she have gotten here, otherwise, had she not seen the path ahead?)

 

So, she treads carefully. She expertly poises each question as a suggestion, guiding Giulia along the path she’d already travelled many, many times before. And, she’s clearly hurt.

 

Verona listens to her words. She talks about how tired she is, how her exhaustion weighs upon her like the world. Because, the world is on her shoulders, is it not?

 

She’s resilient, empathetic, smart, and selfless. She’s good at being resilient, empathetic, smart, and selfless because that’s what they need her to be—Luca, her father, and Alberto. But if she isn’t, things begin to break.

 

If she doesn’t pay attention to Franco, he’ll end up going too far and upsetting Luca. Now that Alberto is gone, her shoulders must always be open for Luca to rest upon. But, Alberto isn’t actually gone . He’s only trapped in a dark place, and her father is doing every possible thing he can to pull him out.

 

And, for that, Giulia must not add to his weight. She must be there for him, or, better yet:

 

Absent.

 

And, Verona knows what that sounds like, but she doesn’t want to think it. She cannot entertain the thought, because the implications are too great—too much. Too horrific for such a fine misty morning where she had meant to do nothing but take a stroll.

 

But, Giulia continues on, because that’s what she always does. She persists. She gets along fine on her own, able to cook for herself when her father is too busy calming her brother down from another spiral. She has friends in other places—friends she can rely upon and other places she can go when she doesn’t know what scene she’s going to walk in upon when she gets home.

 

And, Verona knows that that sounds like , but it cannot be that. It cannot be, because then that would mean she was—

 

“Yeah, you’d treat the guy with fifty-something bullet wounds faster than you’d treat the guy with the beesting, but it doesn’t mean the beesting doesn’t hurt you know?”

 

“Giulia—Alberto doesn’t have fifty-something bullet wounds. He’s just—“

 

“But, what does it even matter, you know?” A sniffle—a crack. “My issue is that I’m just exhausted making sure everyone’s okay and still friends when everyone just seems to want to fight. It’s so stupid. So…small.”

 

“Giulia,” Verona gets her attention.

 

She doesn’t know when she had moved closer to her. When she had inched up next to her side, on her side, with knees slightly bent and both hands holding another’s. But, she knows it isn’t like Giulia to be acting this way—to be this affected by something so surely insignificant. Something so surely false.

 

But, she’s in no state-of-mind for such a revelation. Verona must treat the symptoms first, and then get onto the cause.

 

“Just because your fratello is struggling right now doesn’t mean your issues are nothing. Every single person has suffered some sort of hardship; Alberto isn’t special.”

 

Giulia shakes her head. “You don’t understand.”

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

“No, you don’t. Because we haven’t told you—”

 

“Told us what?”

 

“I can’t tell you. We both promised Alberto we wouldn’t—”

 

“I understand keeping a promise, but if not talking about it is hurting you, then it’d probably be best to get it out, wouldn’t it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because he thinks it’ll change the way that you think of him—that he won’t be a normal person anymore—”

 

“Why wouldn’t he be normal?”

 

“You don’t understand. It was really bad—”

 

“Giulia, if there isn’t a single person on Earth who hasn’t suffered some degree of trauma, then—”

 

“But, there isn’t a single other person that would’ve survived his, ragazza!” Giulia finally shouts.

 

Verona falls silent.

 

Giulia quiets.

 

“But he did.”

 

Her voice trickles down to a mere whisper—not in conspiracy. Not like before. It’s small and meek like a dying animal. It’s tired—to tired to even pant. And, it’s small.

 

“I don’t know how. No one does, but he did. And—and I feel nauseous for even just talking about it with you, but he’s just…”

 

She sucks in breath—air that Verona no longer feels. She doesn’t finish her sentence.

 

“I wish there was a way I could help him,” she says, because, apparently, that’s what Alberto means to her.

 

Someone she wants to protect. Someone she cares deeply for—is ignited in the flames of a furious thirdt for justice for. Because, apparently, he’s been nothing but a positive influence on her life.

 

Someone that had already gone through so much tragedy—so much hurt—so much rejection—and yet still managed to persist. Someone that, at the end of it all, wears his scratches and scars with a starkly neutral pride. Someone that, despite everything, is still taking in the sun and casting off all of the darkness.

 

But it clings to him.

 

It supposedly sticks to him like sticky black tar, and eventually those scars bleed as if fresh, again. And if no one immediately steps in, he stops seeking out the sun. He slinks back into isolation. He stops talking. He stops keeping up with his appearance. He stops eating, and everyone around him worries because—

 

“I really shouldn’t be telling you this—I really have to stop. If he ever found out you know—know even a little—he’d be so, so upset, but it would be even worse! Even worse, because he’s too much of a saint to even hold a grudge—”

 

And,

 

“We just don’t want him to get the opportunity to start hurting himself again, you know?”

 

And,

 

“I feel so relieved finally talking about this with you. Santa ricotta, it’s felt awful keeping you and Franco in the dark—it’s part of why I kept on getting so upset about you guys bringing him up, because how do you even go about avoiding something like that without making it totally obvious—“

 

And, 

 

“And, I’m so, so glad that he’s finally hanging out with Luca again. Luca always makes him feel better—like that time on their island. I don’t know how he does i—”

 

“Wait.”

 

Giulia blinks, ramble screeching to a halt. “Huh?”

 

Verona lurches forward.

 

“Wait—Luca and Alberto are hanging out again, today?”

Notes:

sorry this chapter took Literally Forever; I started going to college (Biology w/ specialization in Evolution!! yippee), fishwithaph is not available at the moment (so I’m very tentatively posting this chapter without their explicit permission), and this was generally a verrrrry difficult chapter to write. Honest to god I think this is the seventh or eighth “”version”” of it. I lost count. Anywayyyy, chapters might not be coming out as quickly as they were—or they’ll be coming out Way Faster, who knows. But, don’t worry. This fic is going to be finished whether it likes it or not, especially because we’ve finally reached The Good Part ™️

Chapter 16: ego

Summary:

Reality hits.

Notes:

we have been waiting for this for nearly a year. Actually like a year. Ever since this fic was being planned

Verona sits in one corner of the round kitchen table. It’s white-painted wood. It matches the creamy walls, white curtains, and white cabinets—but it’s all grey, here. The room is only lit by the light from the windows, and it’s not nearly enough.

 

Her painted fingers curl around the fork in her hand daintily as if it were just a feather, silent and peaceful. To her right sit her parents. Her father flicks the newspaper into a more erect position as her mother dabs her mouth with a napkin. To Verona’s left sits Franco.

 

With one hand, he turns over a fresh piece of cornetto. In the other, a book open to a page about damselfish and clownfish, both pomacentridae, weighs heavy in his palm, though his eyes aren’t scanning the page. Rather, they’re flickering to her, his friend, and the room is so quiet, the roll of his eyes is almost audible. They lock onto her hunched back, the hair hanging in front of her face, the unsteady frown, and the arm wrapped around her gut.

 

Her fork twitches in her hand, poised right over a handful of chopped fruits sprinkled in grain. It taps a chunk of strawberry, but her frown deepens as it sinks into the meat of the fruit, bleeding red and clear.

 

For a second, Franco’s eyebrows twitch. Then, he looks back down at her arm—then, with a shrug, he looks back to his reading.

 

Her mother’s eyes glance to her as well, but they do not meet. Her daughter’s eyes are vacant, unmoving. Staring at something—no, not the plaid tablecloth. Not the forks and knives and perfectly white tiled flooring. Not even her father, shaking his head as the radioman blabbers on about dangerously high humidity and what a storm it’ll be, indeed!

 

The clock ticks a few minutes past eight from its place high on the wall. The fork clinks on the ceramic; Franco turns a page.

 

Then, at the door, a BANG!

 

All at once, everyone startles. Her father’s shoulders jump, thwapping the paper down. Her mother clutches her chest; Verona, thrown out of her stupor, flinches terribly as if to dodge an oncoming bullet. Franco glares at the door. And, just as her father’s chair scrapes out from the table, the door—

 

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG!

 

It nearly breaks open.

 

Her mother tries to stand, face wracked in confusion and horror, but her father gestures for her to sit. Franco looks to Verona, but he doesn’t look at her long enough to see her true face. Not long enough, because

 

BANG. BANG. BANG. BA—

 

Her father races to the door, twists the cold, golden handle, and swings it open. And, his eyes immediately soften into only bewilderment at something down—something much smaller than him.

 

And, a voice—bubbly, polite, meek—comes immediately after: “Buongiorno, Signor Basaglia! Can Verona and Franco come out to play?”

 

The color from Verona’s face disappears. Her stomach churns, an unforgiving whirlpool at the core of her being. And, her mother, now holding the napkin above her throat with two hands, squeaks, “Sandro, who is it?”

 

“It’s just—” His eyes flicker back to his wife. “That little mostro marino Verona runs around with.” His gaze returns to its prior position, knuckles softening back into a peachy hue over the doorframe. “Luca, right?” he asks, not smiling but not with any brow furrowed, either.

 

Verona’s mother’s brow does furrow, however. Her daughter watches her mouth curve into a sharp, downward, lipstick-outlined arch as her back straightens to be held away, nose scrunched in what can only be disgust. But, that’s all Verona can watch her for, for the small hand on the clock is hardly even past eight! Eight in the morning, four hours before noon, and so far up the mountain as well.

 

She looks to Franco, and Franco looks to her. Their eyes read the same twiny tune—a scratch across a violin—and Sandro continues, “Sorry, ragazzino. They’re in the middle of breakfast—”

 

Luca, still out of view, still bubbly and polite and meek, cuts him off. “I can wait.”

 

Sandro’s fingers drum the doorframe, awful empty notes. “Well,” he thinks. “Alright.” Then, he nods and, without another word, just closes the door. He just closes the door as if Luca was nothing, as if he wasn’t worth another word or wave or anything at all—entirely and irrevocably dismissed.

 

The strawberries on her plate are sweet, but Verona only tastes a sharp, sour pain. Her stomach curls and twists as if trying to eat itself, as if trying to make a deep, dark black hole just for her to sink into and never return from again. A place just for her and her alone, but her parents are at her side and so is Franco, too.

 

They both finish quickly (Verona doesn’t even truly finish). Then, they’re both at the door, and Franco’s taking the handle and twisting it open.

 

A wave of heat washes in. The morning shadows are still long and cool, but the air is smothering. It feels too humid to breathe, and it’s hard for either of them to even keep their eyes open, blinded by the light beams glinting off of the exposed, scattered puddles and wet brick. It had rained terribly the night before, and Verona’s eyes still lay heavily upon her face with the evidence. But, that is not at all comparable to what Luca’s face offers.

 

He’s smiling. His eyes are open, but they don’t look the same. They are not analogous, and his smile is wide—too wide. Teal and blue scales prickle up from his skin like smooth patchwork, and his teeth are still a cream—not white, not yellow. His teeth aren’t flat; they hadn’t enough time to finish the full transformation, but they’re flashing. His canines, like the puddles and brick, are flashing in full. Incisors, canines, molars and all as he takes up the outer handle (Franco’s still holding the inner) and yanks it open for them, greeting them with an impossibly chipper, “Buongiorno, ragazzi!”

 

Verona and Franco shuffle out.

 

“Buongiorno,” Franco returns, his stark blue eyes looking him over, because of course they are.

 

He isn’t wearing a shirt, nor tie, nor shoes, nor socks. His shorts are made of kelp that still drip with saltwater and clings to his thighs—his legs are almost completely transformed, tail hovering just inches above the pavement in a crooked wave, inspiration for the Carta Marina. It wags slightly—flicks around his ankles—before settling into that stiffness again. And, his arms are fifty-fifty. Hands and fingers not fully fixed; the one not holding the handle bends near his waist, held up as brown curls mix and mingle with thick, blue paddles.

 

He looks like an amalgamation of a person. Two in one body fighting for control, and he smiles. He just smiles with two squinted eyes—one red and one brown—and Verona only nods.

 

She doesn’t say anything else.

 

Franco pushes forward with an arched brow, confused and bewildered, and Verona follows him out.

 

Then, Luca shuts the door. It clicks into place with an awful, metallic sound acknowledged for the first time ever, and he says, “So glad to see you guys. Now, andiamo.”

 

And, he grabs both of their hands. (His grip hurts). And, he begins leading them away without looking back.

 

He leads them through the streets of Portrosso, and it’s clear he knows where he’s going. Verona and Franco watch the houses, shops, people, and street cats flit by as he tugs them from road to lane to path. Soon, they’re on the other side of town, passing by a pair of men playing checkers and a woman hauling a cart of flowers. An old woman gives him a glance, but he doesn’t return it. He keeps walking, and red is beginning to pool in the tips of Verona’s and Franco’s hands.

 

Their fingers are starting to numb, and the bones of their wrists writhe beneath his grip, but it doesn’t falter. It doesn’t loosen; it tightens. His feet—still flippers—hit the ground harder, faster, firmer.

 

Verona’s chest hurts. It hurts, and her feet are nearly tripping over themselves, trying to keep up as she’s dragged along.

 

She attempts, “So, ah—Luca, are you alright?”

 

Luca is quick with a response. “Of course. Why would I be upset?”

 

The three pass underneath an overhang. Then, they’re back in the sunlight.

 

Verona’s eyes fall to the ground; her breath and heart stutter out of sync. “Nothing, it’s just…it’s not even noon. And, you’re not dressed.”

 

“But I am dressed,” Luca nods, voice revealing nothing. “This is how we mostri marini dress.” Then, he looks back, “Right, Franco?” and Verona sees it.

 

The sharp red. The black that’s nearly cutting; the sclera that’s nearly bulging. The upward flick of his fins, the slight flex of his tail trailing in the space between her and Franco. She looks at him, and her eyes alarm with an understanding, yet her wrist is in his hand, and his tail is beside her feet. And, what does it matter?

 

What does it even matter; her heart sinks.

 

“...Right,” Franco agrees. With clouded eyes, he looks to her. She doesn’t look to him. She’s too busy looking past the moss on the ground, the sand between the cracks of terracotta. The grain that touches everything at once, the grain that encompasses everything and reveals nothing. At least—not to the naked eye.

 

Not to those dumb and blind and asking, “Uh, amico, where are we going?”

 

But to those responding, “Just a little bit away from here,” and continuing with a perfectly placed inflection, each happy note thoughtfully constructed and composed, “I need to ask you guys something, but it’s kind of personal. So, I don’t really want anyone else hearing.”

 

And the ones saying nothing at all.

 

The one keeping quiet, looking at the ground with hair falling in front of her face. Bangs and glasses and makeup keeping her eyes dark and shadowed. Just trudging along as her feet kick her long, rouge skirt and saying nothing. 

 

Saying nothing, even when he asks, “You guys do understand this, right?”

 

Saying nothing. Keeping the silence. Letting the wind, birds, waves, and laundry lines fill the air with noise instead. Listening to the flippers hitting the pavement, the blood pooling in her digits, and saying nothing.

 

But, it isn’t good enough—it isn’t good.

 

Luca asks again, “You do understand, right?”

 

Franco and Verona nod at once. And, now Franco is looking over to Verona a second time, and he’s seeing what she is. He sees the grain; he sees the red.

 

And, suddenly, Luca walks them down to a dead-end alley.

 

For a moment, Verona pauses and prepares to walk back. Her hand is still trapped in Luca’s iron grip, as is Franco’s, as Luca begins to walk back out. She picks up her feet to follow, glancing at Franco and praying to God he doesn’t make some quip, but then Luca stops.

 

With his back still turned, he stops walking. He lets go of their wrists, clapping, “Okay! So, here we are.”

 

Franco turns his hand over. Verona brings hers to her chest, holding it tight with a pout. She can’t look him in the eyes—she knows they’re red. Knows the black is sharp and slicing. She can’t look, and Luca is still smiling.

 

Still smiling, even as he asks without a hiss in his throat, “Now—do you think I’m stupid?”

 

Verona startles. Her eyes grow to saucers, “What?”

 

Luca’s smile drops.

 

“Do you think I’m stupid.”

 

Verona splutters. “Of course not.” She shakes her head.

 

“Really?” Luca squints. “Really.”

 

Verona’s shoulders tense to her ears. “Of course!” she repeats herself.

 

And, Franco chimes in, “I mean, you did skip eight grades—”

 

Luca cuts him off, rolling his eyes into the back of his head, “Yeah, I skipped eight grades, yet—” his voice grows as he looks back at the two, stepping one flipper closer—backing them up farther into the darkened alley. “—I’m,” his hand hits his chest, “clearly too much of an idiot,” his hand curls into a fist,” to see that my own friend,” the words turn into a growl,” was being BULLIED,” the growl grows into a snarl, “right in front of my FACE!”

 

Verona and Franco’s faces fall.

 

He almost splutters a laugh—almost. “What?” he asks, grinning gravely, each gleaming tooth knifelike and aimed right towards the jugular. “What, you didn’t think I’d find out, huh?” he interrogates, squinting again. Smiling like something mad.

 

Verona attempts to reconcile: “Luca—”

 

Franco joins in: “Dude, you don’t understand—”

 

He doesn’t allow them to finish. “Of course you’d say that.” The dagger in his eyes swings to Franco; all of his focus is on him. “You think I’m some naive, helpless idiot more than anyone!”

 

Franco puts his arms up in defense, blinking—there’s still sleep in his eyes. “Ragazzo, I don’t think of you like that!”

 

“YES, YOU DO!” Luca yells, and it's almost the first time they’ve ever heard him yell—almost—as he begins to walk closer. “You nitpick what I have to say, you—” Past Verona, only towards Franco. A predator honing in on its prey. “You don’t even think I can read just some book on my own!”

 

“Luca, I—” Franco blanks, thoughts rerouting. “Othello is not just some book—”

 

(Verona looks at him as if he’s crazy.)

 

Luca fumes.

 

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything—the fire in his eyes too engulfing. The breaths out of his mouth too hot—too heavy with ire to do anything but choke on. Then, he pauses.

 

His red eyes close, brow relaxing until it rests a notch higher, snout smoothing to a relaxed arch with only a twitch on his blue, reptilian lips. Even his arms fall to his side; even his tail hits the ground.

 

And, he speaks slowly—softly—as quiet as the sand. “Do you know why I like Alberto?”

 

Franco furrows his brow.

 

Luca opens his eyes, looking up at him as his face is angled down. It doesn’t need to be—Franco’s nearly Alberto’s height. Luca would be looking up at him regardless, but he ensures that he is, and an odd feeling twists in Verona’s gut.

 

“Do you want to give it a guess?” Luca tilts his head, and it’s the first time they’ve had this conversation. Luca’s mentioned (swooned) here and there over Alberto’s looks, Alberto’s athleticism, Alberto’s sentimentality—but they’ve never once gotten down to exactly what started this fire. They’ve never mentioned the beginning flicker—never picked up and looked over the two rocks that clinked together so perfectly and made that first spark.

 

Not because Luca never wanted to—no. Rather, it’s because—

 

Franco cringes. “Luca—”

 

Luca frowns. “What?”

 

Franco shakes his head, disappointed and disapproving. “Look, we weren’t going to do this so soon, but—” He sucks in a breath. (Luca’s eyes grow a little wider). “You shouldn’t like Alberto at all.” Franco looks down upon him sadly. Pitifully. And, he tries to reach out to him— “He isn’t good to you. He hurts you all the time—”

 

Luca backs away.

 

“He hurts me?” he repeats, each word a completely foreign entity to him. Then, the rage returns. “HE actually asks about my interests!”

 

“We ask about your interests!” Franco insists.

 

Luca doesn’t believe him. “Oh, really? Name one time this summer you asked me a question about space—one.”

 

Franco thinks. And thinks. And thinks—and he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there tall, stiff, with his mouth open and ready to retort. But, he hadn’t. They hadn’t.

 

“You can’t,” Luca answers for him.

 

Franco closes his mouth, shame and uncertainty weighing upon his shoulders. For once, he can’t hide his frown—the downward twitching corners of his mouth, his eyes that scan the brick-layed ground wrought with moss and weeds and pebbles beneath a dark, furrowed brow. He looks so much unlike himself—so much unlike the careless, fearless boy he ought to be.

 

And, Luca snarls, “You can’t because it didn’t happen,” so much unlike the boy the two had constructed in their heads. He continues, “You know Alberto asks me about my interests, right? Alberto actually sees me as a person instead of”—his fangs bare—“constantly bombarding me with weird fucking questions about my BODY!”

 

Franco’s face drops.

 

All the guilt washes away to reveal only shock—only wide blue eyes and unmarred, pale skin.

 

“I thought you liked—”

 

“NO!” Luca throws his hands open, webs flexing in the dimpled light. “Why on EARTH would I LIKE IT?!”

 

“I–I would have stopped if you had said—”

 

“Would you? Would you have really?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“That’s really hard to believe, given you don’t even give a crab’s ass about who I care abou—”

 

“Ragazzo, Alberto isn’t GOOD for you!” Franco cuts him off, throwing his arms open.

 

Luca flinches slightly, and he holds himself back, anger and disgust wrought in every crevice in his face as Franco begins to walk closer to him.

 

Feet fall upon the ground, scuffing the pavement as arms reach out like a parent trying to coax a child—like a boy trying to tame a wild dog. But, Franco’s voice isn’t sweet or gentle. It’s harsh; it’s waves crackling upon the boulders. It’s a slew of apologies—“Look, I’m really sorry about asking you that stuff—and I’m sorry about correcting you all the time. And, I know you like him, but, amico, listen to us. We watched you guys, and—” but it isn’t real.

 

Luca knows that. “And, you don’t know a damn thing about us.”

 

Luca stands, still several paces away, the sunlight bouncing off of his frills revealing the pink and purples intermixed with the deep, rich blue. Franco only halfway there—just the bridge of his nose and first few flecks of shiny, blonde hair until Luca jabs a claw his way, and he backs up. 

 

“You don’t even know a damn thing about Alberto!”

 

At least, until Franco whips back, “Well, it doesn’t take a whole lot to figure out he’s a fucking MONSTER!”

 

Now, to know Luca, one must first know he is the quintessential dreamer.

 

As his jaw slackens and his eyes—enormous eyes—grow wide in the all-encompassing silence, one must know that they were not always such a way. They used to look up. They used to watch the waves from below and wonder, and wish, and dream. His hands, falling limply to his side, used to pray for the surface to break—and then it broke. It broke, and he forced himself to walk, to run, to climb. Even as his body ached from the adjustment of a whole other world—even as a force held his body down and tried with all of its might to stop him from climbing higher, he climbed.

 

And in that pursuit of that higher peak, he lied. He hid, and he did not look back. His dreams told him more, and he lived by his dreams. And, his dreams told him that they were important—more important than anything—or anyone—else, and so they were deemed as such. But, soon, he realized the peak was much higher than he expected, but, by then, it was all his dreams demanded. He wanted it. He wanted it, and he always gets what he wants.

 

No matter how much it hurts him. No matter how much his head rolls upon the rock; no matter how much his limbs cry out for mercy—no matter the cost, he is a dreamer.

 

And, he always gets what he wants.

 

He steps forward.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Franco says.

 

And, Franco steps back. 

 

And, the second thing to know is this: damselfish are by no means the largest fish in the sea. Chromis Viridis, the most pertinent example here, only reach a maximum of ten centimeters in length. They live in shallow waters—reefs, mostly—and don’t tend to ever travel too far away from home. That said, they run far, far more territorial than other small, sedentary fishes.

 

When a damselfish feels threatened, it does not cower and hide in its anemone home—its home that no one else may enter. Rather, it gets mean.

 

“Luca—”

 

Rather, his mouth hangs open, lips pulled back to the pink gums, the thick and long and sharp—indistinguishable from that of a piranhas, only for the fact they’re six times larger.

 

Rather, the black in his eyes disappears to only show red, red, red. Red glinting like fresh blood in the day light with no black—no black but an impossibly small, thin line to smother it out. And, a rose of indigo fins that can rise and flare—

 

(“Once you got his blue fins all perked up, that’s how you know you’re in trou-u-ble-e-e—!”) 

 

—Rise and flare like the fins upon his face, drawing forward and out, six flapping spikes as he hunches over, no shirt to tear against the rising fins on his arms and spine. The blue that’s showing in sheets, straightening out in the sunlight.

 

The hot, burning sunlight where a marine creature such as he should not be—would not be, had he not been a dreamer. A dreamer that always gets what he wants, and, simultaneously, a damselfish that wants to do nothing but protect what he has.

 

He marches forward, flipper hitting the ground with a heartless, wet slap.

 

“LUCA, I DIDN’T—”

 

Luca kicks him in the balls.

 

Verona’s hand claps over her face.

 

Franco topples forward—topples right into position.

 

Luca’s knuckles crack against his jaw, and Franco falls.

 

He doesn’t manage to run. He doesn’t manage to get away; Luca slams onto him like a tsunami crashing onto shore. The boy raises his fist, green and teal, and it drops, over and over.

 

Over and over, and Verona can only hear the thuds beyond the writhing, whipping green beyond the blur of her tears. She holds her hand over her mouth—holds her hand over her heart, but her ears take it in, undaunted.

 

Undaunted, as Franco manages to slip for just a second—just long enough for Luca’s hand to smash into the brick, sending pebbles and grime into his knuckles already streaked with blood, with blood!

 

Luca reaches his hand upward, flapping off the sting in the air as a hiss of pain slips through his fangs—his fangs that had always been there, that he always had. And, in this opening, Franco tries to get away. He tries to hit him back, outstretching his arm against the other boy to create some distance, to get some space, but he wasn’t paying attention.

 

He hit Luca on the muzzle, on his open jaw, and Luca took the opportunity.

 

He bites down, and Franco screams.

 

And, Verona looks behind her, wincing away from the gush of red and flailing limbs and falling tears. Franco pulls his hand away—a string of spit and blood breaks into the air—but Verona doesn’t see it. She doesn’t, because she’s looking away, back at the wall behind her. At the walls on her left and right, the movie posters and drink adverts and flyers telling her to sign up for this or that—an old stone sculpture on the wall. A fisherman strangling a monster with a harpoon in his hand.

 

And back, back to the boys fighting. Back to the dreamer and just one of the people that dared to get into his way—that dared to come into his territory, threaten his autonomy, threaten his friend.

 

They’re before her. They’re blocking the exit, and she cannot run.

 

But, they don’t see her. Franco, blinded by the tears and blinded by the alien body of the boy, blinded in his rage, straddling and striking him still. He doesn’t recognize him—not for the tears. Not for the glasses, shattered and barely dangling upon his face, but for his anger. For his violence. For his fins he isn’t afraid to flare; for his teeth that he isn’t afraid to use.

 

Franco tries again to kick him off. In the entanglement of fins and limbs, he manages to hike up his leg to his chest and kick, and Luca falls off.

 

For a short moment, he’s free.

 

For a short moment, he’s crawling away, cutting his arms and palms further open upon the pebbles and scattered glass shards.

 

Then, Luca uses his tail.

 

He whips his tail before him and sweeps it back. Franco doesn’t manage to dodge; he falls again. And, Luca climbs on top once again as he cries,

 

“HELP!”

 

He cries, and it’s a sight Verona doesn’t think she’s seen before.

 

He sobs, and Luca clutches his clothes, claws digging deep into the skin of his shoulder and arms before pushing him down, again. Digging harder with every act of rebellion—searing his body with every twitch and moan.

 

Franco wails, and Verona thinks he’s given up.

 

Luca grabs a clutch of his hair, and then—

 

“LUCA!”

 

He looks away from the boy.

 

He looks up at the newcomer, at the voice irreplaceable and heightened in horror.

 

“Franco—! Ragazzi, stop!”

 

Unlike Verona, she doesn’t hesitate.

 

Her bike clatters to the ground, barren of produce and free to fall. She didn’t bother putting it into park; she just hopped off. She went immediately to her friend, holding her hat by its rim with no pink in her face, just a stark white.

 

“Stop!” she says, hoisting up Luca by the arms, interlocking them with her own.

 

She pulls him off of him, and Franco is left alone to gather himself, a heap on the gravel and glass. He sits up, and blood rushes out from his nose in large, dark globs. Down his neck, down onto his shirt, the streaks of red run. Smaller cuts litter his skin, welts and soon-to-be bruises paint him a painful pink and a sickly green. He cries, eyes squinting closed—one much more than the other—against the heavy tears that he tries to—fails to—rub away with his bloodied hand and wet shirt sleeve—when had his shirt gotten wet? 

 

Oh, right. It had rained the night before; the ground is wet, too.

 

But, it isn’t enough.

 

His blood, his tears—all of the knicks and bruises—aren’t enough, will never be enough.

 

“ARGH!” Luca barks, trying to get away—trying to get back into the fight.

 

“Stop!” Giulia pleads. She doesn’t even look angry—she doesn’t even look hurt. Her brows are knitted and her mouth carves an open frown, but it's only worry. It’s only confusion. “Luca, stop! What happened?!”

 

“Ask THEM!” Luca commands, kicking out his foot, still struggling—still just a fish in a net. “It’s their fault! Alberto’s episode—it’s THEIR fault! THEY caused it!”

 

“What?” Giulia asks, but it isn’t truly a question.

 

“They told him that he was hurting me—” Luca pants, “—that ‘abusers’ like him ought to go dig their own grave and die!”

 

Because Franco cannot, Verona attempts to argue, “We—we never said that—”

 

Luca nearly lunges at her, “WELL, YOU SURE MADE HIM THINK IT, VERONA!” but Giulia calms him back.

 

The girl’s grip on him tightens, her fists nearly at her ears as her elbows lock into his shoulders. “Luca, calm down!”

 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” He yaps, and he could have swept her legs under with his tail. He could have, but he doesn’t. Instead, he snaps, “I’m so sick and tired of LAND MONSTERS telling me what to do!” as his chest rises and falls in a rough, unsteady pattern.

 

Giulia’s frown deepens, gaze unsteadying for just a second.

 

Luca continues, “You—You wanna talk about control, ragazza?” He huffs for air. “How about we start right here, because all of you humans either see us as stupid and needy, or dangerous monsters that’d be better off DEAD!”

 

Giulia flinches—almost.

 

Her mouth opens to say something, but Luca bites first: “You think he’s a MONSTER!”

 

It sounds like a slur coming out his mouth. In a way so undeniable, it is. It must be, because why else would his voice have cracked while slicing out the syllables? Why else would both of his eyes begun glittering gold?

 

What other word would have been worse?

 

None. None at all.

 

But, Giulia doesn’t know that. So, she holds him back, pleading again, “Luca, stop—”

 

But he won’t. “No!” he refuses. “Giulia, they called him a MONSTER!”

 

“I don’t—” she hesitates, reroutes. “Luca, you know none of us see you like that.”

 

“So let me go.”

 

Giulia hesitates.

 

“Giulia,” Luca nearly growls. “Let me go.”

 

Giulia lets go, and Franco flinches.

 

The minute Giulia lets her grip slip—the moment Luca tugs forward, breaking away from her touch like a man breaking through a wall—Franco wheezes and raises his arm over his head. But, Luca doesn’t go to him.

 

Rather, Luca just looks down at him. Silent, hateful, and shaking slightly. A bead of blood slips down his cheek from a nick no one had previously noticed before.

 

He snarls in small anger and—retracting his stare from the other boy—wipes it off with the back of his hand.

 

With it, goes the green and teal. With its absence, reveals the hot, flushed pink, but, it doesn’t last. Green refills in blinks, in streams. And, his shoulders tremble.

 

And, his frown stutters upon a syllable—a letter. Closed, pressing tighter, humming almost but not enough for anyone to hear.

 

But, a recognition fills the audience: Giulia, Verona.

 

The prior steps in. “Luca…” And, her voice is sweet, placating. Her hand reaches out to touch him, but it stops short a few inches away. She looks at it, and she looks at him, still trembling slightly, still staring down at the other boy as if pleading to the heavens above to allow for looks that kill. His fists are clenched, but they’re not moving. His face is a scowl, but there is no more yelling. And, his earfins are starting to slope downward.

 

Her hand drops to her side; her gaze hardens. “I’ll deal with this. You can go home, now.”

 

Luca shakes his head. “No way. I’m not just gonna—”

 

“Go be with Alberto.” 

 

Silence.

 

He looks at her in silence for what could have been hours—hours that past in almost a blink of an eye.

 

Heavily, he agrees, “Fine. But don’t tell them I’m sorry.” A snort. “Don’t speak for me.”

 

And, he glares—not to Giulia, not to Franco, but to the one waiting in the shadows, forgotten and petrified to stone.

 

He looks her dead in the eyes, black meeting red. “No one speaks for me”—he turns—“and I’m not interested in being friends with Machiavellians.”

 

He walks away, and Franco stumbles into Giulia’s shoulder as he sees himself out, as well.

 

But, Giulia doesn’t blame him for it. She cringes smally at the smear of blood against her white top, but his glasses are there, on the ground, broken and shattered. His eyes were full of tears, his hand and face covered in blood, each joint aching and wet with sweat and grime—how could she blame him?

 

But, how could she have known what happened?

 

Her eyes flit from Franco to Verona, deep in the shadows. Dark and unmarked, only toeing the glass and drops.

 

Her eyes beg for mercy, “Giulia—“

 

But, Giulia walks closer. “Verona—“ And, panic rises within her voice: “What happened? What did you do?”

 

What did you do?

 

Verona chokes upon the accusation.

 

She shakes her head. “I—I didn’t mean to—” She can’t look her in the eye, but she can’t look down. Each drop and shard casts another wave of nausea—another loop in the knot around her throat. “This was before I knew, and we were just trying to help, I—”

 

Verona’s eyes well up, and Giulia looks at her with such worry. “What’s wrong?” she asks, gentle, still. “Why are you crying?”

 

More tears—more than there had been for the fight. Her tongue graces the roof of the mouth, her teeth chewing on the air, searching for the words. She croaks, “I—I don’t—” and can barely find the strength to say any more.

 

Giulia leans in—leans down—to try to look at her in her darting, dark eyes. “Luca said something about you and Franco going after Alberto?” But, they don’t meet. They can’t; Verona cannot force herself to. “Is that true?”

 

Verona leans away. Her head is still shaking, but she doesn’t know it. “It was a mistake—”

 

Giulia looks at her, expression only of concern but not for herself. She doesn’t care about the glass on the floor, cutting up the leather of her sandals. She doesn’t care about the smear of blood on her shirt nor the droplets upon the ground, black in this shadowed alley. She only cares for the way Verona’s hands clutch at the fabric over her heart, fists trembling, breathing and stare unstable. She only cares about Verona, and so she takes up her hands with a cautious smile and these careful words: “Hey, hey—I get it.” She shrugs. “Alberto’s sensitive; Luca’s protective, and I’m probably overloading you with questions.”

 

And, it hurts. It hurts Verona to touch her, like holding two burning coals. She’s in the shade, in light fabrics, but the high humidity and her warm gaze make her feel as if she’s leaning over a Volcano’s ledge.

 

It’s burning—scorching. The heat in her hands are causing them to tremble, still, as Giulia thumbs calming circles in her palms—as Giulia looks at her with nothing but sweetness and patience. Because, Giulia doesn’t know.

 

She doesn’t know.

 

And so, she asks: “Just tell me what happened so we can fix whatever it is.”

 

And so, everything goes cold.

 

Verona goes stiff, eyes widening as if having seen a ghost. “No.”

 

Giulia tilts her head; a lock falls over her shoulder. “No?”

 

Verona doesn’t move. Her mouth stills—almost. It almost stills, it almost goes catatonic with the rest of her body. But, she must respond. She must, but each word must be perfect. “You…told me…” Each word must reveal nothing. Each word must wash all of the blame away. “...Before…that you are…exhausted.”

 

Verona twitches suddenly, violently. She retracts in on herself, flicking her head to the side. Her hair falls in front of her face, one hand tries to retreat to hide her lips, as she repeats, “And, it was just a mistake—”

 

But, Giulia won’t let go. “What was it?”

 

“A mistake, Giulia,” Verona pleads, broken out of the still. Her legs bend to make herself shorter, smaller. “It was just a mistake—”

 

“Ragazza, I’m not going anywhere,” Giulia attempts to comfort her. (Verona’s nausea grows.) “Just tell me what happened.”

 

And, she knows she can’t get away. She’s stuck here, hand in hand with her—the girl standing before her, looking at her as if she was the one hurt. And, her gaze isn’t leaving. It isn’t shaking; it isn’t jittering this way and that. It’s stuck on her; she’s looking at her, and her hands are in hers. She’s trapped.

 

She inhales.

 

And, she bites the bullet. “I didn’t know Alberto was…suffering.”

 

“Okay,” Giuilia nods, understandingly.

 

“And—” Verona’s shoulders hunch. “And, I didn’t know how to interpret his symptoms—that they were symptoms—”

 

Giulia blinks. “His…symptoms.”

 

“The talking-to-himself!” Verona blurts out. “And, the bouts of aggression, and how he guarded Luca—how he never seemed real.” Her eyebrows furrow—angrily, pleadingly. “And, he was just so weird, you know? But—but, not the good kind. Like, what was someone like him even doing here—” And, the stiffness dissipates into the jitters, once again. But, the words are coming, now. They’re flowing like water out of a broken dam, they’re pouring in like last night’s rain, they’re: “And, I know, now, that that doesn’t matter, and that he was just masking and hurting and acting out of all of those emotions—that trauma—but.”

 

She shakes her head.

 

“I didn’t know—”

 

Giulia puts a hand up, stopping her words in their tracks. Painful dubiety ridden across her face, she admits, “Verona, amica. I’m sorry, but I’m really confused.” She leans back—leans away—but she doesn’t let go. “You have to slow down and just tell me what happened. You’re not making much sense.”

 

Verona mouth closes into a tight pout. Her eyes squint closed, and her shoulders rise and fall with her breaths. Her hands are still in Giulia’s, but they tighten—tighten into shameful fists. Not to punch, not to threaten, but to protect herself. To squeeze her own aching heart, beating far too fast.

 

And, she admits, in a small, squeaky voice, “Franco and I confronted him.”

 

Giulia searches for something in her eyes—her eyes that refuse to meet hers.

 

“For what?” Giulia asks.

 

“For hurting Luca,” Verona sulks.

 

“He loves Luca.”

 

“I know.” Verona nods, then, stiffens. “But…we didn’t know.” A short breath, and she continues, “We thought he was hurting him—that Luca was trapped in a really toxic whatever with him—”

 

And, Giulia’s eyes go wide.

 

“And, we didn’t think that trying to make Luca realize how awful he was would work—”

 

And, Giulia’s cheeks go hollow as her jaw goes slack.

 

“Or you, because we thought he was hurting you, too—”

 

And, Giulia’s eyes drift down to their hands.

 

“So, we just did it ourselves—”

 

Down to their hands, where they’re palm-in-palm, holding steadily onto each other amidst the stifling humidity and shadows.

 

“What…” Giulia’s voice comes out meek. “What made you come to that conclusion?”

 

“Well, at first, it was just a gut feeling, you know?” Verona bobs her head up and close, looking for affirmation.

 

Giulia gives it to her with a small, understanding “Uh-huh.”

 

With that, Verona continues, “Like, he was really confusing—”

 

“How so?”

 

“I dunno, I guess, just—” Verona sways to look to the side—to look out into the daylight, eyes vacant while she walks through her memory. “Well, he never acted right, like calling your papà by his first name and making weird jokes.”

 

Those were the first few days, the dinner and the tour. But, that was also just Alberto and his idiosyncrasies—unique little quirks everyone has. Not anything to wage a war against someone for.

 

“And, then we noticed that he started kinda-bullying Luca a lot—saying he needed to work on his social skills and that he doesn’t have good fashion sense—”

 

But, friends rag on one another all the time, don’t they? Luca never seemed one for banter, but perhaps that was just because she never felt the desire to go after him—that he was someone that could take that kind of humor. He seemed too nice, too polite, too innocent, and he was clearly already struggling a lot. How could anyone step on his toes for fun? Wasn’t he made of stained glass? 

 

“And, that’s controlling too!” Verona insists. She doesn’t know she’s squeezing Giulia’s hands a tad bit tighter; she isn’t aware. “He controls Luca’s finances, you know? And, he controlled what we all did in the day, and he always made a scene or punished him if he didn’t get his way—”

 

“Punished?”

 

Her voice was shaking. It was trembling like a leaf, but Verona didn’t hear it—not entirely.

 

“Like, kicking the ball into Luca’s face, or—or throwing a fit on the island—”

 

“Ragazza, he was having a panic attack.”

 

“I know!” Verona nearly yells. “I know now, but I didn’t know then—”

 

Giulia cuts her off. “You—” Her face turns to something akin to horror—to recognition. “You called him scary.”

 

“I know—”

 

Giulia starts to retract her hands.

 

A lightning bolt jolts throughout Verona’s body, exciting her until she’s on the tips of her toes, toppling forward and holding on, clutching her fingers with a desperate, dispirited grip.

 

“But, I understand, now!” Verona insists, looking at her now. “It was just a mistake, and, I’m sorry—”

 

Giulia grants a weary look behind her, towards the road, towards the sun.

 

Verona doesn’t want her to do that. She wants her focus on her—on her words, on her face, on her remorse, on her promise: “Giulia, I will fix this if you’ll just—”

 

And, Giulia does look back at her, but not in the way she wants.

 

“What did you say to him?” she asks, and Verona wishes she hadn’t. “Did you—” She struggles to get the words out. “Did you really say all of that stuff? Did you tell him we’d be better off without him?”

 

“No!” Verona yells—this time, she does yell–and she shakes her head. “No, I mean—” But, her volume doesn’t last as her eyes go glassy and distant and desperate, again. “Yes, but—”

 

Giulia wrenches her hands away as if Verona was a burning stove.

 

Out of her grasp and into the air, they fly, but Verona attempts to hang on. She lurches forward, reaching for her still. “Giulia, I didn’t know!”

 

Giulia skids back, sandal scraping loudly against the pavement. “What does it matter?” she asks, and it sounds like a condemnation. “You don’t need to know somebody’s whole history to give them the benefit of the doubt—” And, the sweetness of her voice recoils behind her teeth. “You can’t just—you can’t just run on assumptions!”

 

“But it wasn’t just assumptions!” Verona argues. “Everything was based on what we had observed and scientific knowledge both biological and psychological—”

 

“Biological?” Giulia repeats, eyebrows twitching. “Is this what Luca was saying when you called him a monster?”

 

“No!” Verona protests, but she can see that skepticism still plagues Giulia’s mind. “No—” She’s not looking at her the same—she’s not talking to her the same. “But, it's just—” And, she knows that if she wants her focus back on her—back the way it should be—she knows she must explain. She has no other choice. “Well, one of our ideas was instincts, you know?”

 

Giulia’s nose scrunches. “What?” Because, she doesn’t know at all. She looks at her as if Verona has grown three heads—as if the words coming out of her mouth are nothing but gibberish, nothing but babbled nonsense. “What—what instincts? What the hell are you talking about?”

 

And, Verona can feel the spotlight on her. She can feel the heat and blinding light, but the ground is still cold with rainwater. The light on her head is nothing but a grey refraction. “Well, he isn’t Italian, right? At least—not fully?”

 

Giulia gawks, blinking hard. “I don’t know! Why does that even matter?”

 

Verona tries to step closer to her. “Well, he’s not from here—he’s a migratory seafolk, that’s what Luca’s mom said. And, we didn’t know why he chose to stay here, specifically—”

 

“And, you didn’t just ask?” 

 

“We thought he was hurting you, too—”

 

“Why would he hurt me?” Giulia glares at her, and it must be the first time she’s been on this end of her sword. “Why the hell would he hurt Luca?”

 

“Because!” Verona nearly shouts. “He’s not—”

 

(One of us.)

 

She doesn’t say that. She tries again, to piece it together—to cast that phrase away and work through her thoughts with gestures. “It’s like—” It’s not right. “When you’re at the bottom, you punch up, right?” Her fist raises into the air, and that isn’t what she was going to say, and it’s not something that’s ever crossed her mind, either. “Because, punching up will cause those higher than you to fall,” her hand falls, “letting you rise,” her hands lift up.

 

But, Giulia just stares at her, disgusted.

 

And, Verona thinks that she must not understand. “We thought—because he was down—he wanted to get up.” But, she does. “And, he was using you and Luca, but especially Luca, since Luca isn’t—or—wasn’t—”

 

She does. “You stereotyped him.”

 

“No I didn’t—”

 

“Yes! Yes, you did!” Now, Giulia is the one stepping closer, prodding her finger at her like it's a dagger, moving in closer to cut and slash. “You made him out to be some conniving—some two-faced predatory jerk because he weirded you out a little and just-so-happened to be a foreigner and a seafolk! Was the fact that he clearly isn’t exactly white one of your evidences, too?”

 

Verona’s hands fly up to protect herself. “It wasn’t like that!”

 

Giulia’s hands fly out to her side with ire and exasperation. “How isn’t it like that?”

 

Verona makes an attempt for empathy: “You know I’m not—” But, it falls short.

 

“No!” Giulia shakes her head. “No, I clearly don’t!” And, her voice relaxes, but it doesn’t cut any less, “I don’t—I don’t think I know anything about you anymore,” as a sniffle enters her nose. “I thought you were—you’ve always been a good and smart person and—” And, her voice eludes her, crackling, “I thought you were a good person. I thought you were my friend.”

 

“I am!” Verona pleas, but it doesn’t work.

 

“Friends don’t make their friends’ brothers want to kill themselves!”

 

Giulia’s eyes fill with water; Verona’s mouth closes reluctantly. Giulia wipes her eyes with her wrist, face still otherwise hardened with nothing but anger and a rush of blood.

 

“My papà’s un pescatore,” she says. “Do you have any idea how much dangerous shit there is in that house?”

 

And, Verona sees it again—exactly what she saw the day before. The exhaustion, the restlessness, the desperation for everything to be okay—for him to be okay. 

 

“Giulia, I’m sorry,” she apologizes for what must be the five-hundredth time. “We didn’t mean to, I was just—”

 

But, just like all of the times before, it doesn’t take. And, Giulia won’t look at her.

 

She looks away, fists clenched to her side, eyes and mouth locked tight. She shakes her head, burdens herself more to fight off the tremors—the quiver in her lip and her brow. To Verona, she doesn’t look like herself. To her, Verona might have been a good person. She might have been a selfless, smart friend always ready with a helping hand and words so wise and understanding. She may have been someone that always looked at the fine details and caught things that others either missed or willfully ignored. To her, she might have been an inspiration, and, for that, she may have loved her. But, to Verona, Giulia was strong.

 

Giulia is strong. Giulia isn’t weak-willed or weak-minded. She’s ready for anything—any obstacle that rushes at her from any direction—from anyone’s hand. She’s a hero amongst the commonfolk, and now her iron grip on her resilience is trembling like an earthquake.

 

“Giulia, please don’t let this be the end.”

 

The stone wall against the waves that she once was has grown misshapen and porous with the onslaught of saltwater—with her inspiration’s empty, self-obsessed tears.

 

“Giulia—”

 

“God, stop crying!”

 

Verona hadn’t realized she was.

 

Giulia takes a handful of her shirt and lifts up to dry her own eyes, huffing. “I’m so sick of people crying—that’s all Alberto has done for the past week, you know that, right?”

 

Verona can’t bring herself to nod, but she does.

 

“All he’s done is stayed in the house and hated himself because”—Giulia splutters—“because of YOU!”

 

Verona can barely bring herself to do anything at all. She doesn’t have the words; she doesn’t have the wisdom. She can only meekly repeat, “I was just trying to help.”

 

And, Giulia can’t help but fire back, “And this was your attempt?!” with a wide gesture around. Now she acknowledges the blood and glass. Now she acknowledges the absolute mayhem she walked—has been walking—into. “You made everyone miserable just because of some stupid idea—”

 

And, she stops herself.

 

She stops, and she lets her shoulders sag. Her eyes wander around in tiredness, looking at the moss growing on the walls, looking at the drying, dark-red splotches, blinking against the refracted light from the broken lenses.

 

She sighs. “This is just…it’s all so…arrogant.” She winces. “And cruel. And stupid.”

 

Her eyes dart back towards her, sharp.

 

“How can you be so fucking stupid, Verona.”

 

“I didn’t mean to,” Verona croaks. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m not forgiving you.”

 

She nearly gasps, “But—” But who is she kidding? Giulia was never not one to hold a grudge.

 

“No, I don’t want to hear it.” Giulia turns. “I don’t care.” And, she starts to walk away.

 

She gets a few steps in, the sound of her sandals hitting the ground are so loud in Verona’s ears it's as if it's the only sound in the world—the bright red of her hair the only color in sight.

 

She reaches out for her: “Giulia—”

 

But Giulia evades her, batting her off with more harsh, unforgiving slaps of her heel. “Stop! Just—stop,” she says, and her voice is low and distant. She can’t see her mouth move; she can’t see her frown though she knows it's there. And, she knows it's pointed at her. “I’m going.”

 

And, the words are so definitive, there’s nothing that Verona can do.

 

“I can’t stand to be here any longer,” she says, clutching her stomach—is she nauseous, too?—picking back up her bike and cart, and hopping onboard. “Thanks for ruining summer, Verona.”

 

The tires squeal slightly as they pick up pace and ride away, out of sight, and Verona knows she can’t do anything. She knows, but a desperate echo hangs off the edge of her tongue, still: “I was just trying to help.”

Notes:

“ohhh luca’s a lambbbb” “lucas too naive and innocent and weak to stand up for himself” “luca needs to be saved from the Mean Scary Man” im gonna hold ur hand when i say this…(you want to ask me about this chapter) (oooo you want to ask me about this chapter SO BAD)

Notes:

just clarifying Alberto is NOT straight in this. That being said don’t expect Luca and Alberto to get together in this fic at all either. We got smth else better planned