Defending Irene Read online

  “Irene! Ciao!” He smiled at me, a heart-melting smile of peace on earth and good will to all. Then he motioned for me to come down.

  I smiled, waved, and shook my head. I didn’t trust him.

  Dad elbowed me. “Dai, Irene.”

  I stood up. It was not the time for explanations, even though I knew it could be a trap. But ‘hope is a thing with feathers’—at least according to a poem I’d read in Communication Arts last year. I could feel the feathers tickling my spine and stomach. Could Matteo have changed his mind? Had my coming to the game made him realize that I was a dedicated teammate who would work just as hard as he did?

  I looked over Matteo’s shoulder as I descended. Over half the team was watching us. Emi raised his chin in a subtle hello. Luigi gave me an ironic, lopsided smile and lifted his eyebrows.

  “Ciao, Matteo,” I said. “Good game.”

  “I am so happy to see you here, Irene,” he said. His tone, bright and warm, sounded almost enthusiastic.

  “Oh?” I smiled at him cautiously.

  “Enjoy yourself?”

  “Sí.”

  “Super.” Matteo said the English word with a German inflection before switching back to Italian. “I think you have found the perfect place to watch our games. Understand?”

  Games. Plural. The thing with feathers flew away. “I understand you very well,” I said. “But we are not in agreement. I prefer to play.”

  Matteo’s mask slipped. “It is no wonder that the Americans have no soccer tradition if they must play with girls. It is ridiculous…enough to make the chickens laugh.”

  I decided against telling Matteo that boys and girls usually played on different teams after third grade. It might give him ideas. “I don’t care about the chickens,” I said, even though I recognized the Italian expression.

  “And our opponents too. They will fall down laughing.”

  “Then it will be so much easier to make goals, no? Ciao, Matteo.”

  “Ciao, Irene. We’ll see each at school on Tuesday,” the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of soccer called cheerfully.

  “Don’t forget soccer on Monday,” I said. Then I turned around before Matteo could try another verbal shot on goal.

  “So nice!” Dad murmured as I sat down beside him. “It is good to have Matteo on your side.”

  I crossed my forearms. “It would be.”

  “What?” Dad asked.

  “Nothing.”

  This time Dad did not say dimmi—tell me. And this time the widening silence did not make me spill my guts.

  “You will show him,” Dad finally said. “It may take time, but he will become accustomed to you.”

  “Mmm,” I said. I had my doubts.

  8

  Ciao (chow)

  Hi or Good-bye

  I eased myself into the desk behind Giulia’s. Air whistled between my clenched teeth as every muscle in my legs, arms, and shoulders complained. The hard wooden seat made me glad this would only be a ninety-minute orientation instead of a full day of school.

  “You seat yourself like my grandmother,” Giulia observed. “How did soccer go yesterday?”

  “Well enough,” I said. “The other team passed, we ran. The other team worked on shooting, we ran. No one even touched a ball until the scrimmage except Federico.”

  “Ah, Federico is the new boy from the elementary school, right? Emi has told me about him. What did he do?”

  “He jumped out of line to kick a few loose balls back to the other team. The mister told him to leave them alone. Twice.”

  “Two times? The boy is crazy. The papá of Luigi terrifies Emi.”

  “The third time the mister made Federico do twenty sit-ups, ten push-ups, and then catch up to us.” I shook my head. “Maybe Federico finds the ball irresistible. He cannot help himself.”

  “Sí. It calls him: ‘Federico. Federico. Come kick me. Please.’”

  We giggled.

  A thin woman with a lined face stepped to the front of the buzzing classroom. Her eyes were made up with all the care of a Vogue magazine model. Her silk blouse and tailored slacks had a casual elegance. I was almost sure the distinctive shade of her short red hair came from a bottle—Italy had millions of unnatural redheads—but on her, it looked right.

  “Good day, class,” she said. “Are you ready to begin the new scholastic year?”

  A few groans answered her.

  “Ohhh,” she said with mock pity. “The vacation was too short? I believe you. Too bad. There is much to do today. But first, I must present myself to Irene Benenati, our new student from the United States. I am Professoressa Trevisani. Welcome, Irene.” She waved a hand in my direction.

  Heads swiveled. Everyone picked me out with ease, even though my walking shorts and T-shirt seemed to blend in with what everyone else was wearing. But it was a very small school with ninety students per grade. I might have been the only unfamiliar face.

  “The principal has told me that Irene speaks Italian very well. Now, for Irene and for those who have forgotten everything they learned during the vacation, I will review some of the rules from last year. First, I am not the mamma maestra of the elementary school; I am the professoressa, the prof. You will address me in that way. “You will not give me the ‘tu.’ You will always say ‘lei.’ You will demonstrate respect to all the teachers in this way.”

  I pressed my lips together. This part had me worried. “Tu” is how Italians say the word “you” to children, friends, and family. “Lei” is for almost everyone else. We always used the familiar “tu” forms at home. Dad had gone over the long list of exceptions and the proper grammar for the polite forms with Mom and me before we came to Italy. There is nothing in English quite like this.

  “With your first mistake, you receive extra homework,” the professoressa continued. “The second time, we send a note home to your parents; on the third, suspension.”

  Harsh. I couldn’t imagine anyone back home being suspended for using the wrong pronoun and verb conjugation to a teacher.

  “Irene, please remain after class. We will speak of how it will go with you.”

  I nodded.

  During the hour that followed, teachers came and went, discussing their plans and expectations. Except for art, gym, music, and science, the teachers would come to us. I wrote down the varying times and days for those subjects as well as Italian, English, German, mathematics, history, and religion in my student diary. We all took religion. Separation of church and state is not an Italian concept.

  I understood almost everything that was said. Some words were unfamiliar, but then Dad and I never talked about the Pythagorean Theorem, the Second Law of Thermodynamics, or the Counter-Reformation at home. I would have to learn a lot of new definitions for old concepts. How hard could it be? English would be a boring breeze, but there was a gleam in the teacher’s eye when she looked at me that suggested I would be helping to teach the class.

  Then the German teacher, Professorin Schneider, walked in. I got lost after “Guten Morgen, Klasse” and “Willkommen, Irene Benenati.” She spoke in clear, almost conversational-speed German. Everyone else laughed at her jokes.

  Toast. I would be complete toast in this class.

  For five minutes I listened intently and picked out some words that were close to their English counterparts: Buch, book; studieren, to study; Minuten, minutes. But eventually, my thoughts drifted as the incomprehensible waterfall of syllables washed over me.

  Glancing at my watch, I wondered what my friends were doing back home. It was nine thirty-four. Second period would have just ended at my old middle school. I could picture Lindy, Kristi, and Deb chatting in the crowded, noisy hallways, slamming their locker doors shut or cramming for a quiz during those five minutes between second and third periods.

  No. Wait. It was only two thirty-four a.m. at home. My friends would all be sleeping. It would be hours before their hands reached out from under their covers to slap the snooze alarm for five more crucial
minutes. With the bright, morning sun shining in through the windows, it was hard to imagine that darkness still hung over my old corner of the world.

  In an attempt to fight back a wave of homesickness, I looked down at my schedule. The basic school day ran from 7:55 a.m. to 13:10 (1:10 p.m.), Monday through Saturday. Yes, Saturday. After an hour and a half for lunch—Italians would consider my old American schedule of getting twenty minutes to scarf down cafeteria food at 10:27 a.m. to be cruel and unusual punishment—students could return at 14:40 (2:40 p.m.) for remedial instruction, special language courses, computers, sports, music, or other non-academic activities.

  Professoressa Trevisani returned at the end of the hour to hand out a list of school supplies we would need. “We begin tomorrow,” she said. “Arrivederci.”

  The room emptied quickly.

  “We’ll see each other at the paper shop after you finish with the professoressa,” Giulia said. “Barbara and I will collect everything you need. You have enough money?”

  “I think so.”

  “I hope so,” Giulia said. “I do not want to go there two times today. It will be chaos. Absolute chaos.”

  From what Giulia had told me earlier, hundreds of parents and their children were ready to descend on the neighborhood paper shops scattered throughout the city to buy everything that they needed for the next day.

  “Thanks for helping me,” I said.

  “It’s nothing. Ciao. I must hurry.”

  As Giulia dashed out the door, the professoressa motioned me to a chair near the front of the room. “So, Irene, the principal tells me that you actually have two mother tongues: Italian and English.”

  I smiled. “Sí. But at home, we say that Italian is my father tongue.”

  “Ah, very good,” she nodded with appreciation at my family’s small joke. “This will still be a difficult year for you. You will have much to learn about the written language. It is different, you know.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it. My grandparents always send me books for Christmas.”

  “Really? Then it could be worse. By the end of the year, you will be able to write Italian in the ‘remote past’ and ‘past anterior’ as well as read it.” She sounded confident. I must have looked less so, because she laughed. “Don’t worry yourself. Your classmates must work hard on the same thing.”

  The professoressa glanced down at her sheet of paper and continued, “Naturally, you give each other the ‘tu’ at home. It seems that there is no way to speak formally in English. True?”

  I nodded.

  “Not even to the President or a senator?”

  “Not even for them.”

  She shook her head. “A strange language, English. Now, let us check your understanding of the polite forms. Talk. Ask me a question.”

  Slowly and carefully, I asked if she could loan me a pencil, if she planned to give us much homework, if she thought I was using the proper pronoun and verb forms.

  “Brava!” Professoressa Trevisan said when I finished. “Perfect.”

  “But I’m not used to it,” I said, panicked. “I must think.”

  “Ah, Irene, to think is a good habit. Hmmmm. You may practice until the first week of October. We will allow you five punishments before sending a note to your parents. Your teachers will have much patience with you. If you always use the formal pronoun, your professori will merely correct any mistakes with your verbs. They will not give you a punishment. Do not have fear of asking for help with this and other things.”

  Professoressa Trevisani looked down at her notes again. “Let’s go on. You will remain in class when the other students study German. Given that everyone else began studying it six years ago, your grade will be based on your effort and ability. Do not expect an ottimo or distinto. Until you are proficient, you will receive buono at the maximum.”

  I nodded. Optimum, Distinctive, and Good were the A, B, and C of the Italian report card.

  “I recommend that you buy a dictionary and a grammar book to help you. Do not worry yourself. Since you already speak two languages, you may learn the third quickly. It would be easier for you down in Italy. Students start with English in elementary school instead of German.”

  “Down in Italy?” I repeated.

  The professoressa smiled. “People say that here. The Alto Adige is in Italy; but it is not Italy. It belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Empire until the end of World War I. You have seen the architecture. It is more like Innsbruck and Salzburg than Verona or Venice. In the city, half the people speak German at home and the other half speak Italian. We have German schools and Italian schools. I could spend an hour telling you why. But your friends are waiting for you, true?”

  “Sí, at the paper shop.”

  The woman closed her eyes and shivered theatrically. “By good luck, I need not go there today. Come to me with any problems or questions, Irene. Until tomorrow.”

  “Ciao,” I said.

  “Arrivederci, professoressa,” she corrected me.

  “Sorry.”

  “This will take time. It will be hard and frustrating. But you will learn.”

  I smiled, nodded, and stood up. My muscles, which felt fine as long as I wasn’t moving, had tightened. My first steps would have made Giulia’s grandma look lively.

  “Irene, have you hurt yourself?” Professoressa Trevisani asked.

  “No. It’s nothing,” I told her. “The mister made us run at soccer yesterday.”

  “You play soccer? With the boys?” For the first time that morning, my teacher showed surprise. Her eyes traveled from my sandals to my ponytail.

  “Sí.”

  “This is normal in the United States?”

  “No. I had my own team there. All female.”

  The left corner of her mouth lifted. “Maybe school will not be so difficult and frustrating for you as I thought. Good luck, Irene.”

  “Thank you. Arrivederci, professoressa.”

  “Brava, Irene.”

  I escaped.

  I walked the two blocks to the nearest paper shop, squeezed through the door and pushed my way past the people already making a line in front of the counter. As I made my way to the back of the store, I met Giulia and Barbara struggling to the front with their arms full of notebooks, pencils, and drawing pads. They had an extra stack of things for me: a pencil case, a pair of scissors, a protractor, a compass, and a box of watercolor paints.

  Giulia grinned at me. “See. We arrived in time. There are not too many people yet.”

  As we stood in line and other kids from the middle school pushed past us, I heard my name and nationality repeated in soft voices. That’s why it didn’t surprise me that, by the end of the first full day of school, everyone knew my name. I was Irene, the Americana Who Played Soccer.

  “Does she really play soccer with you?” I overheard a boy ask Matteo the next day.

  “No.”

  “But I heard—”

  Matteo sniffed. “Oh, she comes to soccer. I do not call what she does playing.”

  After lunch on Thursday, when the fifth person asked me the same question, I finally snapped. “Sí. I do it. Shall I demonstrate it to you?”

  The boy blinked in surprise. Then his lips pulled back in a Matteo-like smile. “That would please me—please us.” He waved his hand at the two boys who stood behind him.

  I turned to Giulia beside me. “Ready, Giulia?”

  Her eyes asked a silent question: Do you really want to do this, Irene?

  I gave a tiny nod.

  She grinned. “Oh, sí. Barbara?”

  “No!” Barbara answered. “I will watch.”

  I scanned the courtyard for another recruit and saw a familiar form bounce down the gray stone steps. “Luigi, come here!” I said. It was not a request.

  A small, calm corner of my brain noted that I should have asked instead of ordered. But instead of calling “Why?” or “No!” Luigi joined us, his eyes bright with curiosity.

  “What is it?”
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  “I need you in the goal. We’re playing soccer.”

  Luigi crossed his arms, thrust out his lower lip and complained, “But mister, I am always in the goal.”

  “Poor Luigi,” Giulia said, playing along with his imitation of a whiny first grader. “You can change with me after five minutes.”

  “Okay,” Luigi said. His expression suddenly looked very much like my brother Max when he managed to get his own way.

  I turned back to my questioner. “Find a ball and meet us at the basketball court.”

  We had finished setting up a pair of goals inside the rusting chain link fence when our opponents arrived.

  “Ciao, ragazze!” one of them shouted.

  An insult. Luigi’s face stayed blank even though the e on the end of ragazze labeled him as one of the girls. With thousands of girls and one boy, it would still be appropriate to use the masculine form and say ragazzi.

  “Giulia, I forget. When did those idiots quit playing soccer?” he asked in a low voice. It was the same voice his father had used to speak to Davide about arriving late to practice.

  “Oh, four or five years ago.”

  “Very good. Very, very good,” Luigi said with an evil smile.

  So what happened? The three of us rocked! We cleaned the court with them. As I raced up and down, I thought about how wonderful it would be to stomp Matteo in the same way. Once. Just once. He would need some kind of handicap, though. A bad cold? A twisted ankle? A mild case of salmonella poisoning from a slice of tiramisu pastry that had been left out on the counter too long?

  A small but growing audience cheered every goal we scored. Or, to be more precise, they taunted our opponents for every ball we put past them. I recognized the difference. Ten minutes into this shellacking, some of the ragazzi who had been hanging on the outside of the chain link fence had either grown tired of our opponents’ performance—or taken pity on them—and asked if they could play too.

  “What do you think, Alessandro?” I asked. That was the name of the boy who had asked me if I really played soccer. I had learned his name while he and the rest of his friends yelled at each other about improving their defense.