Defending Irene Page 4

  “I am in the fifth class in the elementary school. Or at least I will be next Tuesday.”

  So he was younger.

  “My friends in the United States started school two weeks ago,” I told him.

  “No! In August? The month of vacation?” For a brief moment, Federico pulled his eyes away from the game to look at me. “I cannot imagine it. August is…well, August.”

  I knew what he meant. Half of Italy shut down for vacation in August.

  “Well, we finished on the last day of May,” I explained. “This is the longest summer vacation of my life.”

  “Really? Very interesting. What do you think of—” Federico broke off and shouted, “Dai, Matteo. Dai!”

  Matteo had broken away from the defenders in the penalty area. He shot the ball. It hit the crossbar and bounced out. Matteo got the rebound and tried again. The goalkeeper dove and fell on top of the ball. He wound his arms around it to protect it from Matteo, who stood above him looking for a third chance.

  “Uaou! Matteo is such a good player.” Federico sighed with delight and envy.

  “I know.”

  At a break in the action, the mister put Davide in for a midfielder. Within five minutes, Davide was clutching his side and moving no faster than a trot.

  “Lengthen your legs, Davide! Dai!” the mister shouted.

  Davide ran a few steps and then slowed to his old pace. At the next whistle, the mister pulled Davide and put Federico in the game.

  Davide stumbled off the field. The mister was there to meet him. “What’s wrong today?”

  “Nothing,” Davide said.

  “You are already dead tired. Without breath. Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  There was a short pause before the mister continued, “Tell me, why were you late?”

  Davide mumbled something and studied his dusty cleats.

  “What? Louder please.”

  “I forgot the time.”

  “Really? And where were you?”

  “At the pool.”

  “Ah, I see. There’s a game Saturday, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Is it right that you should go?”

  Davide hung his head.

  I held my breath, waiting. Would a space open up in the van? I had come early. He had come late. I had scored in the drill when we’d faced each other. He had not. Wasn’t that worth something? I bounced on my toes, feeling hopeful.

  The mister pressed his lips together. He glanced away from Davide. And our eyes met. His right eyebrow lifted in surprise. His nostrils flared. Oh, no. My face and ears burned as I turned away. I knew better than to watch a coach chewing out a player on the sidelines.

  The mister’s silence stretched for several seconds. “You can come as a substitute, Davide. Do not expect to start.”

  “Thank you, Mister,”

  The man raised his voice. “Irene!”

  “What?” I turned.

  “Go two times around the field. Not too fast. Jogging only. Then I will put you in.”

  Laps? Davide had gone to the pool. Davide could barely stand on his legs. And I was being punished with laps? Not fair. Not fair at all.

  7

  La gara (la GAH-rah)

  The Game

  It’s not fair. It’s not fair. The chorus repeated itself in my brain. Thunder rumbled in agreement, the echoes bouncing back and forth across the Adige River valley until it sounded exactly like a bowling ball spinning down an alley.

  I was sitting in a white plastic Adirondack-style chair on our covered balcony with my feet propped up on the wrought iron bars. Since our apartment didn’t have air conditioning, the coming storm made it fifteen degrees cooler outside than in my room. I found it a much more comfortable place to sulk after soccer practice.

  The wind danced through the purple leaves of an enormous hundred-year-old tree, whose highest branches were even with my fourth-floor balcony. But not a breath of air touched me. The wind came from the other side of the building, from the mountains. The storm, which had threatened for the entire practice, was finally arriving.

  The leading edge of rain swept past trees and buildings, blurring their edges before hiding them completely. And then, with the sound of a hundred cats racing across a ballroom, it rolled past me, wrapping around my balcony. Privacy.

  For a minute or two. Then the door to the balcony swung open and Dad stepped outside.

  “Ciao, Irene.” He lowered himself into the chair next to mine and sighed. “What a long day.”

  “Davvero,” I agreed, thinking about my second soccer practice. “True.”

  “I know why you’re out here,” Dad continued.

  My head snapped around. Had Dad started reading minds? I hadn’t said anything to Mom, and I certainly hadn’t said anything to Max.

  But Dad was staring at the branches whipping in the wind. “Bello. Truly bello,” he went on. “I have never seen a storm like this one in Missouri. Or such a view.”

  I leaned forward, pretending to peer through the mist, and said in a puzzled voice, “I don’t see anything.”

  “Ma dai! You know that which I meant. To live here is to live in a botanical garden. Don’t you think?”

  “Sure.”

  I must not have been enthusiastic enough because Dad frowned. “Everything all right? How did soccer go today?”

  “Well enough,” I said.

  Two dents appeared between Dad’s eyebrows. “What happened? Tell me.”

  Dad couldn’t read minds, but he could read my face. Lying wasn’t an option. I took a deep breath. “There’s a game Saturday.”

  Dad’s face brightened. “Where? At what time?”

  “Scena. At two o’clock.”

  “Good. I know that town. It isn’t too far from here. I can come. Write it on the calendar.”

  “It’s not necessary. I’m—I’m not going.” My voice quivered.

  The dents deepened. “Why not?”

  “There are only fourteen seats in the van.”

  Dad seemed to know there was more to the story. He said nothing, waiting for me to break the silence.

  I did. I told him about what Signora Martelli had said and about the coach letting Davide go in spite of his poor performance in practice. When I finished, Dad rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “Maybe it is better that you do not play this game, cara.”

  “How?”

  Dad tilted his head. “You don’t believe me? Listen, if Davide hadn’t been allowed to go, he would have blamed you instead of himself. Can’t you imagine it? I think it is already difficult enough for you at soccer.”

  “Davvero. But I still wanted to go to the game. You know, soccer was supposed to be the easy part about living here.”

  “I’m sorry, cara. I did not expect this. Other problems, but not this.” He leaned back in his chair. “But wait. I have an idea. We will go to the game and watch it together.”

  “No! I meant to play. I already watch them enough.”

  Dad nodded, but he wasn’t agreeing with me. “Yes. We will go. We’ll watch them warm up to prepare you for next time. It is a good idea, no?”

  “No,” I said again. I could hardly think of a worse one. Watching from the sidelines was always bad enough, but from the bleachers? How could I stand it?

  So when I met Giulia outside the pool entrance the next day, I expected some sympathy. Instead, she exclaimed: “It is so bella that your papá wants to help you. Like a dream in a box.”

  A daydream? More like a nightmare. But luckily, before I could say that, I remembered how Giulia’s dad was less than enthusiastic about her playing. So I said, “But it is a bit strange, isn’t it?”

  “More than a bit,” Giulia said. “No one has ever done it. Never.”

  I groaned.

  “But you are an Americana. The people do not expect normal things from you.”

  “My papá is Italian.”

  Giulia shrugged. “Sí. But how many years has h
e lived in the United States? This is very good. Matteo and his friends will not find it so easy to push you off the team.”

  “Were you pushed off the team?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “No, not really. I made the decision to quit.”

  Not really? There was a story there. I was sure of it. Giulia was gazing over my shoulder, a look of indecision on her face. Then her expression brightened. “Look! Barbara has arrived. Bar-bah-ra! Ciao! Over here!”

  Barbara waved frantically at us before weaving her bicycle through the crowded racks.

  I smiled and waved back, still nervous despite the girl’s enthusiasm. I could tell from the way that Giulia spoke about her that Barbara was her amica del cuore, her friend of the heart, her best friend. Giulia said that the two of them had been in the same class together since preschool. Their families even went on vacation together.

  “Ciao,” I said to Barbara after Giulia introduced us. “A pleasure.”

  Barbara grinned. “A great pleasure, Irene! Uaou. So tall. Too bad that you don’t wish to play at volleyball. We have need of another spiker. Giulia sets, you know.”

  “But I haven’t played very often.”

  “Sí. But you are the sporting type. For you, it would be very simple to learn. I used to do gymnastics. Now I am too tall to be a serious gymnast.”

  “So Barbara makes somersaults whenever possible at volleyball,” Giulia murmured.

  Barbara rolled her eyes. “Giulia is so jealous. Let’s go.”

  We paid at the window and walked through the brown stucco bathhouse before stepping back into the sunshine. Barbara led the way around the Olympic-sized pool to a set of three empty wooden deck chairs on the other side. As we walked, I looked around. A pair of gigantic water slides emptied into smaller pool. Down the hill and past some trees, there was a big wading pool.

  The atmosphere seemed much more laid-back than an American pool. Lifeguards chatted instead of gazing intently into the water. The shallow end wasn’t roped off. People swam just about anywhere they wanted except in an unmarked, open spot in front of the three diving boards. One lifeguard supervised at the top of the slide; no one watched at the bottom.

  Following Giulia’s example, I kicked off my shoes and spread my towel on the deck chair.

  “First the trampolino?” Barbara asked, waving at the diving boards.

  Giulia squinted. “The lines are not too long. Okay.”

  Barbara headed right for the three-meter springboard. When Giulia and I fell into line behind her, she turned to me.

  “All right, Irene. Giulia tells me that in the United States you have parties at school during the evening. It’s true?”

  “Sí.”

  “With music and dancing and lights? Like a disco?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “A little. Except it’s in the school cafeteria.”

  “But there are lights and dancing and ragazzi all the same. Right?”

  I nodded.

  “Bello. And a DJ?”

  “Sí.”

  “Uaou! You have danced with boys at the party?”

  “A few.” I blushed, remembering the way my friend Lindy used to pressure one of the boys I liked into asking me to dance. It had been very embarrassing.

  “Really? Tell me everything. Oh, wait. It’s my turn.” Barbara bounced up the ladder.

  “I’m sorry, Irene,” Giulia whispered. “Barbara is crazy about boys. But otherwise, she is a good friend. You can count on her.”

  “Sí, sí,” I said.

  Barbara paced down the diving board like a dancer, her shoulders back and head erect. She took one bounce of the end and rose almost straight into the air before bending at the middle for a jackknife. She entered the water in a straight line with pointed toes. An “ooh” of approval went up from the lines at both diving boards. She swam to the ladder in a fast, smooth front crawl-stroke.

  My turn came next. I waited for the board to stop vibrating before stepping cautiously along its rough surface. By the time I had reached the end it had started bouncing again. So I waited again. Once it stopped I made the simplest of dives and splashed over to the side of the pool. Barbara was waiting for me, ready to start in with the questions again.

  I distracted her by asking her about the boys at school. Her analysis was detailed. Luigi was cute, but a clown. Montegna was quiet and intelligent and molto bello. Very good-looking. Matteo was fascinating and molto, molto, molto bello. I finally got her off the track by telling her about malls and multiplexes. (There were only two movie screens in Merano. One was German, the other Italian. But both showed American movies.)

  An unofficial diving competition started between Barbara and a few of the boys. Style meant nothing to them; only height, splash, and number of spins, bounces, or twists mattered. Giulia and I didn’t even try to compete.

  Finally, Barbara walked very slowly to the end of the diving board. Once the gentle bounce had faded away, she put her palms down on the edge of the board and did a handstand. Her body made a straight line from her pointed toes to her wrists. She held the pose for five long seconds. Then she pushed off with power and dropped straight down. Her forehead, nose, and chin skimmed past the end of the diving board. Her shoulders, hips, knees, and toes safely followed.

  “Point!” Giulia whispered.

  Two turns later—after the boys had failed to come up with a new challenge—Barbara observed that the lines were too long. How about some volleyball?

  We used a lightweight plastic ball. Laughing, we bumped, set, and spiked the ball at each either. A chubby three-year-old hovered on the edge of the pool deck, eager to chase any ball that came his way.

  Take some athletic girls. Add water. Bake in the sun for four hours. Instant friendship. Why couldn’t it have been like this on the soccer field? The long list of reasons depressed me.

  On Saturday afternoon, I tried to think of Giulia’s positive attitude as Dad and I walked across the parking lot in Scena and past the enormous, empty, white team van. My neck hunched down between my shoulders. An invisibility cloak—that’s what I needed.

  I don’t think anyone on the field noticed us as we found a place on the bleachers—they were too busy stretching their hamstrings. But it was just a matter of time.

  For the next twenty minutes, Dad and I watched the warm-up. While the mister shouted instructions, encouragement, and praise, Dad dissected everyone’s playing style and likely position. He took pictures with a digital camera and promised that I could send Lindy pictures of all my new teammates.

  “Matteo is marvelous,” he told me. “Playing with him will make everyone better.”

  I shrugged and looked over at the other team. The coach roared at his players in German. To me, the hard consonants and nasal sounds of German against the rhythms and pure vowels of Italian sounded strange. But such a match-up was common here. I knew from all of the tourist brochures Mom had thrown my way that the Adige River valley had belonged to Austria’s South Tyrol until the end of World War I. While the signs, stores, and government forms were all bilingual, the local German-speakers had their own schools and their own soccer teams.

  If I had been down on the field, any rude remarks about a girl playing would have flown right over my head. Of course, I could think of someone who would be more than happy to translate every insult and even make up a few of his own.

  Dad stood up. “I want two words with the mister.”

  “Please, no.” I grabbed his arm.

  Dad grinned. “Ah, Irene, do not have fear. I will not be one of those crazy American parents who ask of the mister: ‘Why isn’t my daughter playing?’”

  Dad clambered down the bleachers. I watched as he attracted the mister’s attention, introduced himself, and waved a hand in my direction.

  The mister smiled. I hadn’t thought that he could. More surprising still, he laughed at something Dad said. Luigi and his father. Alike as two drops of water? For the briefest of moments, yes.

  My back straighten
ed. I leaned forward. But I could only hear their voices and not their words. Before long, they shook hands and my father bounded back up the bleachers.

  “What did he say?” I asked. “Why did he laugh?”

  “Oh, it was nothing. A small joke. The mister pleases me,” Dad announced. “He has organized the team very well. His players respect him.”

  Or else they were all afraid of him. Even Luigi. Or was it especially Luigi?

  “What joke?” I persisted.

  “A small one. So small, I have already forgotten it,” Dad told me.

  Frowning, I turned my attention back to the field. The game was starting. I meant to watch it quietly and not draw attention to myself. But the action was exciting and Dad was so enthusiastic that I found myself cheering for Emi, Luigi, and yes, even Matteo. I was on my feet as he broke away from the defenders and scored his second goal.

  At the end of the first period, my teammates sat on the bench or sprawled at full-length on the ground near it. I avoided looking in their direction. It was easy since Dad was happily reconstructing the best and worst plays of the game and telling me what I should have done if I’d been out there.

  By the end of the second period, everyone had started to slow down. In the third period, when free substitution of players was allowed, my teammates were really dragging. Matteo still had his bursts of speed but otherwise had dropped to a trot or even a walk. Luigi made several great saves: falling on balls, diving catches, and even punching the ball up and over the goal. But a rash of corner kicks and our team’s inability to push the ball past midfield left him vulnerable.

  “I am sure the mister wishes that he had you in the game now,” Dad murmured after Scena scored their second goal. “Everyone is tired. It goes this way very often in the first game of the season. On Monday, you will run.”

  My team managed to hang onto a one-point lead. After another diving save, Luigi had sent the ball sailing down the field as the final whistle blew. I was ready to dash out of the stands and into the car, but Dad was deep in conversation with a local on how we could find the remains of a Roman road somewhere just past Castle Thurnstein.

  My teammates gathered around the mister for what looked and sounded like a lecture. It had been an ugly win. When the huddle broke up, one figure broke away from the group and ran to the foot of the bleachers. Matteo.