Chapter Text
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 Grau-du-Roi.”
A curious energy entered Luca’s gaze. “Grau-du-Roi? 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, “Grau-du-Roi 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 Grau-du-Roi'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 Grau-du-Roi is, actually, the aquarium, 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 at that moment 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.