Defending Irene Page 7

  “Certainly,” I said. Now it all made sense why Elena was being so nice. Apparently she didn’t want the walking, talking, English/Italian dictionary to get mad and stomp away before doing a few translations.

  Elena sang a few lines. Her pure Italian vowels made it difficult to understand the words, but I recognized the melody.

  “Love?” Luigi picked out the English word with horror. “I must go. Really. I cannot stand this chatter about love anymore. See you later, Irene. I am so glad I could help you explain what happened at the game.”

  “Help me again and your head will really be in danger,” I told him.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. His grin told me that he wasn’t particularly worried.

  I spent the next five minutes singing and explaining lyrics. Elena and her friends were entranced.

  “Uaou, Irene. You sound just like the radio!” Sonia said. Was that her apology for implying that I was a maschiaccio? (Whatever that meant.) If so, I had a feeling it was directed at Elena more than me.

  “What is a maschiaccio?” I asked Giulia after the bell rang.

  She blinked. “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. After school someday, I must teach you the words that you should never repeat at home. Otherwise, your papá will tell your mamma that I am not a good girl to know.”

  “Is maschiaccio that bad?” I asked.

  “No. But it is not very…polite. You have never heard it? Not even as a joke?”

  I shook my head. “What does it mean?”

  “It is a girl who does that which a boy does. Not in a positive way.”

  Yes. I could see it now. Changing maschio, which means male, to maschia and tacking on -cio, an ending signifying that something was awful or brutal, made maschiaccio into a very negative Italian word. Something worse than tomboy, I suspected. In Italy that would be a huge insult.

  “There’s so much I don’t know. What would I do without you, Giulia?”

  “Become a friend of Elena?” Giulia tilted her head and looked up at me.

  “No thanks,” I said. “She reminds me of Matteo. Nicer, maybe but…I don’t know. I prefer you and Barbara.”

  Giulia laughed. “Elena is not so bad. I remember once when we were angry with a boy in elementary school, we sent Elena to punch him for us. For her, it was safe.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Almost all the ragazzi had fallen in love with her. And those who weren’t in love with her were afraid of the others.”

  “Does she still punch guys? I could send her after Matteo.”

  Guilia shook her head. “She would not believe you about Matteo. She never believed me.”

  11

  Brutta strega (BROO-tah STRAY-gah)

  Ugly Witch

  The clock was winding down in our third game. But how much time was left? Three seconds? Thirty seconds? More? I only hoped that the whistle blasts signaling the end of the game would come before the team from Appiano erased our one-point lead. I was tired. Our team was tired. The air, thick with pollution and humidity, was difficult to breathe. Low clouds hid the four old castles that perched a few hundred feet above the river valley.

  The Appiano team attacked again. Giuseppe challenged the forward, who dribbled down his sideline. I backed toward the penalty box. My attention shifted between the ball and the players pounding up the field. When would the crossing pass to the middle come?

  Instead, the ball spun out of bounds. I couldn’t tell whether Giuseppe had touched it or the player from Appiano had lost control.

  With the action stopped, both of the coaches sent in their substitutes.

  Werner, who had been out for a short rest, loped onto the field. I trotted toward him, knowing that I was being replaced.

  “No! Stop yourself, Irene!” the mister called. “Giuseppe, come here.”

  I was still in the game? In the last critical seconds? Me? I felt a rush of unexpected energy.

  Giuseppe, who had been resting the heels of his hands against his lower thighs, straightened. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. A protest? Or a complete lack of air? He walked to the sidelines, his head down, his hands clutching his sides, his cleats kicking up swirls of dirt.

  The mister put a hand on Giuseppe’s shoulder and said a few quiet words. Giuseppe shook his head. The mister spoke again, patted Giuseppe’s back and gently shoved my teammate in the direction of the bench.

  In the meantime, Appiano finished rearranging itself for the throw-in. The referee handed the ball to one of Appiano’s midfielders, Number 10. He held the ball above his head with both hands. His eyes flicked up and down the field, looking for an open player.

  Werner marked Appiano’s best forward, matching the shorter, thinner player almost step for step. He looked almost as fresh as when he started the game. That couldn’t last long, but all we needed was another minute or maybe two. But not three. Please, not three.

  Number 10 threw in the ball to a midfielder who had been hanging back by the centerline. The boy drilled the ball downfield into an empty space on the field ten feet in front of me.

  This was not the time to move the ball slowly up the field. A booming kick with plenty of power—that’s what was needed.

  A midfielder from Appiano was closing rapidly, but I was sure I’d have time to launch it over his head. I planted my right foot. My left foot swung forward, catching the ball with the top and side of my shoe to give it lift and plenty of forward momentum. Whump.

  But I miscalculated. The ball slammed into the midfielder’s face like a cannonball that didn’t make it over the castle wall. He staggered back a step or two as the ball ricocheted off his forehead—no, his nose, I realized as a burst of crimson stained his jersey.

  I kept going and played it off his face the way I would have played it off a cement wall. I could make sure he was all right once the ball was safely on the other side of the centerline. Again came that satisfying whump. A successful takeoff this time. The ball’s flight lacked the height and distance of one of Werner’s better efforts, but as the ball came down, our side of the field emptied.

  Davide positioned himself under the ball. It bounced up and off his head like a flat rock skipping across a glassy pond. This was not just a lucky move. It was a skillful one known as fare il ponte, making the bridge. The ball sailed over a line of defenders and landed at Matteo’s feet.

  Matteo dribbled rapidly down the field. Only one defender stood between him and the goalkeeper. The others streamed behind him, trying to catch up. Emi and Federico were also charging hard down the field to force Appiano to defend against a possible pass. Not that Matteo would give up the ball if he had a chance to score. So why did I find myself shouting “Dai, Matteo, dai!” with the rest of them?

  I don’t know whether Matteo heard the footsteps behind him. But instead of taking the ball all the way in, Matteo kicked it from just over the chalked line of the penalty area. The goalkeeper lunged, but he wasn’t even close. The orange netting stretched taut.

  “Goal!” shouted our team and our fans. They actually used the English word—although the o was rounder and from further back in the throat.

  I was only one touch away from an assist, I realized. The closest I had come all season. The ball would have never made it near Matteo, of course, without Davide’s header.

  “Bravo, Davide!” I shouted. “You have made a beautiful bridge!”

  He had been jumping up and down, pumping his fist, and cheering Matteo. When he heard my voice, he stopped and looked at me. His mouth twisted in a grimace of some sort. Anger? Outrage? No, pretended pain. He rubbed his head, grinned at me, and gave me a thumbs-up. It was the first friendly gesture he’d shown me since I watched the mister lecture him for coming to practice late.

  I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up in return.

  The midfielder from Appiano stood next to me, clutching his nose and looking a bit wobbly.

  “Everything all right?” I asked.
<
br />   “Brutta strega,” he said.

  Ugly witch. Well, I had been called worse. And given that we had just scored, I suppose my question hadn’t been phrased in the most diplomatic way possible. But then he added another word, one that Giulia had taught me after school.

  I searched my new, small collection of words for something appropriate to say back to him. Then Werner appeared from one direction and Luigi from another. The boy from Appiano stalked off, still pinching his nose.

  “Well done, Irene! We have taught you many things, no?” Werner said proudly. “Ah, the things you will show your friends in America.”

  “Dai, Irene,” Luigi murmured. “Must you try to take off the head of someone at every game?”

  “I didn’t mean to do it.”

  “At least this time, it was not my head,” he said. He brushed the back of his hand across his forehead.

  “Oh, it pleases Irene to do that?” Werner asked. “I will stay attentive.”

  I just grinned at him.

  The celebration was ending now on the other end of the field. Luigi backpedaled to the goal before the mister could complain about our chattering. I took my place in one of the straight, evenly spaced lines for the kickoff.

  The team from Appiano looked determined, but all the determination in the world can’t make a dent in a two-goal lead with ten seconds left in the game. The whistle blew three times.

  Our fans—parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, and a few kids from school—cheered. I looked up into the stands for my family. Dad sat near a cluster of other parents, but I didn’t see everyone else. My grandparents were supposed to arrive by train from Milan a few minutes before my game started. Dad didn’t look worried, though, so everything must have been all right. Maybe their train was late. Or they might have missed a connection.

  As usual, the mister focused on the negatives: poor passing, lack of hustle, lack of energy. Oh, yes, he told us, we were happily standing on the sidelines with a final score of three to one, but how close had we come to letting Appiano score? How could we start so strongly and finish so very poorly?

  Something—it might have been a slight change in our faces or our breathing—told him we felt that we had actually finished the game rather well.

  The mister snorted. “Matteo never would have scored if Appiano had not been so aggressive. They were pressing us very hard and keeping nothing in reserve. Thanks to heaven that Giuseppe, Werner, and Irene stopped them. Bravo, Davide, you have done well the bridge. Until Monday.”

  We scattered before he could think of anything else to say. Leaving the circle, I found Matteo on my right and Giuseppe on my left. Someone else was directly behind me, breathing on my neck and stepping on my heels like an eager puppy. Federico? Matteo’s new shadow.

  “Let me give you some good advice, cucciola,” Matteo said. “Maybe in America, you kick the ball into the face of another player. But here in Italy, we think it works better to kick it over his head.”

  “Were you angry with him?” Giuseppe asked. “Did he call you something?”

  “No. Nothing,” I said. Not until afterwards anyway. “It was an accident.”

  “An accident,” Giuseppe echoed. “So you admit that you cannot control the ball?”

  “If you could have done better,” I said, showing all my teeth, “the mister would have left you in the game.”

  Giuseppe’s nostrils flared. A low blow, I guess. But I hadn’t started this. I was tired of it. I had proved myself repeatedly as a hardworking substitute. Polite answers to rude remarks had done nothing. Here they were again, hoping to make the little puppy, the cucciola, yap and snap at them. Well, I wouldn’t bark, but my words might bite.

  “And you, Matteo,” I added. “I have heard you tell Federico that you have scored in every game for the last two years. Right, Federico?” I stopped abruptly and turned around. The boy bounced off my shoulder and backed away.

  “Ehm…sí.”

  “Matteo is marvelous, right, Federico? You think so, I think so, and it is absolutely certain that Matteo thinks so. But without my pass and without the bridge that Davide made, that streak would have ended. Enough.” I dusted off my hands, an Italian gesture meaning “And that’s that.”

  My quiet attack had taken them completely off their script. Good. I’d had the last word, and I meant to keep it, so I strode forward to meet Giulia who was standing at the gate. Matteo the Egotistical could run after me if he wanted to.

  Giulia’s eyes sparkled. “What did you say to Matteo?” she asked.

  I told her.

  “Bella. Molto, molto bella,” she said. “But be careful. He can be tricky.”

  “Ciao, Irene. Giulia,” my dad called. He examined me. The right corner of his mouth lifted. “You are very dirty today, Irene.”

  “I know,” I said, glancing down. The dust of the field coated my arms and legs like an uneven tan.

  “If you wash your face and hands—” he broke off. “No. That won’t work. You have need of a shower.”

  “I know,” I said. “Where are the grandparents?”

  “At home. Your nonna was, uh, too tired after the trip. And as for your nonno, well. His back hurts him. To seat himself on a hard bench after spending the entire morning on the train—it was not a good idea.”

  “Too bad. It was an exciting game, no?” Giulia said. “They would have enjoyed themselves.”

  Dad pressed his lips together, looking uncomfortable. “The mister found it a bit too entertaining at the end, I think. But you did well, Irene. My papá would have cheered.”

  “And Nonna?” I asked.

  “Ópla!” Dad exclaimed. “Oh my! It’s better to tell you the truth, cara. Your nonna loves you well, but she does not think you should play soccer.”

  “What? But I’ve always played soccer. She knows that.”

  Dad shrugged. “But now you’re doing it in Italy with the boys. That makes it…different.”

  Giulia nodded. “That does not surprise me. She and my nonna are in agreement.”

  “She loves you well, Irene,” Dad repeated. “But…” His search for the right thing to say seemed unsuccessful.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Don’t worry yourself.”

  “Are you sure?” He frowned.

  “Of course.”

  “Listen, Irene. It could be best if we do not speak of the game when you arrive home. Then all will go well, I’m sure.”

  I was sure too. If I could handle Matteo, I could certainly handle my nonna.

  12

  Gentile (jen-TEE-lay)

  Polite or Proper

  As I rode my bike home, I replayed the end of the game in my head: my big kick, Davide’s header, Matteo’s breakaway. Yes, my nonno probably would have cheered. In his opinion, soccer was the perfect game, and everyone should spend as much time as possible either playing it or watching it. So “everyone” might even include his granddaughter.

  But my grandfather hadn’t come to my game. My nonna would never make a scene, but I had an idea of what happened when Dad picked them up at the train station:

  Dad: We must go in a hurry. The soccer game starts soon.

  Nonno: Excellent!

  Nonna: But Max, you should be at the field already.

  Max: Not me. Irene is the one who is playing. Her team is all boys. They all hate her.

  Mom: Now that’s not true, Max.

  Max: Okay, most of them hate her.

  Mom: Massimiliano!

  Nonna: I’m sorry, but I cannot go to this game. Who could sit for an hour on a hard bench after passing all those hours on the train?

  Nonno: But—

  Nonna: Your back hurts you, caro. It is better that we go to the apartment and get some rest.

  I reached the gate and pressed our doorbell.

  “Sí?” Mom’s voice came from the intercom.

  “I’m home,” I said.

  Without a word, she buzzed me in. I pushed open the gate and eased my bike throug
h.

  A second well-timed buzz greeted me at the dark, heavy, carved wooden door. I crossed the small ceramic-tiled entryway and wrestled my bike down a half flight of stairs to the cantina, the basement, where we had a small storage room.

  Tack. Tack. Tack. My cleats clacked against the stairs as I trudged up to the fourth floor. Mom had left the door slightly ajar.

  The smell of lemon oil and bleach still lingered in the air from Mom’s heroic cleaning efforts of the past few days. Almost every surface in the house had been mopped, scrubbed, or dusted. Everyone and everything had to be as neat and clean as possible whenever Nonna came to visit.

  Even though I had washed my face and hands in the clubhouse sink, I was well below the usual standards. Maybe I should slip into the shower before anyone saw me.

  But Nonna stood waiting for me in the hallway, a smile of welcome on her face. Petite, wrinkled, and white-haired, she wore a silk blouse, pressed slacks, and matching chunky gold jewelry at her ears, throat and wrist. Something about the

  set of her shoulders made me cringe. “It’s a trap!” a small, panicked voice inside me chanted. “Run away! Run away!”

  “Ah. Here you are, Irene. Ciao,” Nonna said.

  “Ciao,” I echoed.

  She held out her hands and raised her face to mine for the double kiss of welcome, a difficult maneuver if you weren’t sure which way to lean. I had watched Mom bump chins and eyeglasses with people many times. This would be my first attempt ever. As I leaned forward, I caught the scent of lavender. Nonna’s lips touched my left cheek and then my right. I wound up kissing mostly air.

  “I have heard your papá tell your mamma that you won your game. Congratulations.” She stepped back, still holding onto my hands.

  “Thank you. I must take a shower now.” I tried to edge away.

  Nonna did not let go. “No, wait. I have a present for you.”

  “Bait! It’s bait!” shrilled that small voice again. “Don’t take it. Run away!” I needed backup. Lots of backup.

  “Uh, what about Max?” I asked.