“For goodness’ sake. Isn’t there any Alka-Seltzer, baking soda, or, I don’t know, Liquid Plumbr here in the house?”
“Did you eat too much?”
“I had dinner at Regina Cozzi’s,” I explain. “With her entire family.”
“They stuffed you like a turkey, didn’t they?”
“I’ll be fasting for days.”
As we sit facing each other, she with her biscuits, me with a glass of lemon water, I decide to ask Linda a few questions. “Do you know Giada well?”
“Just a little. Not like I grew up under the same roof as her or anything.”
“Would you say she aspires to live the high life? I mean, with a financially well-off man?” I ask, echoing Giliola and Regina’s suspicions.
“Who wouldn’t? At least she can afford herself the option. There’s no one more beautiful than Giada around here.”
“Would you say she’s the faithful type?” I insist. It’s my sense of protection speaking; I feel more like a brother to Charles than I did to George. “Giada, I mean. I know these are questions you don’t normally ask a thirteen-year-old, but you seem like a smart girl.”
Linda shrugs. “She’s always had her flings, but she gets tired of people quickly. To be faithful I guess you have to be with someone for a while, so I’d say she has the potential to be faithful.”
“Are you sure you’re really only thirteen years old?”
“Do you want to check my ID?”
“And all you do is study? Don’t you have any friends? A boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?” I hasten to add. You never know.
“Yeah, I just study. I have friends, but I’m kind of boring, so no one’s really dying to hang out with me; as far as a boyfriend goes, I’m not pretty enough,” she replies with a disillusioned tone that almost makes me sad. “At least not for the guy I like.”
I focus. Something tells me that under this tough scholarly dispenser of maxims hides an insecure little girl who would trade an afternoon in the library for an outing with friends, perhaps with that boy she likes.
And the moment I see her dejected expression, I understand that I not only made a bad impression with Elisa, but that I was truly a giant shit.
Beauty aside—because that’s relative—it’s the “enough” that hurts. And I of all people should know about not being enough.
“Who is this boy you like?” I don’t know why I ask, but I want to know.
“Tommaso Ghirardi, son of Giampaolo Ghirardi, the lawyer.”
“Does he know you like him?”
“Are you kidding? All the girls in school drool over him. I hardly plan to join them.”
“Are you in class together?”
“No, Tommy is a year older. He just finished eighth grade. He’s a striker on the Siena youth soccer team and just got an offer to join the Tottenham Academy as soon as he turns fifteen.”
Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. “He’s going to England in a year, and you want to go to high school in London in a year. That’s not a coincidence, is it?”
“I’d been thinking about it for a while, actually; then when I heard about Tommaso’s offer, I took it as a sign, even if I don’t think he’d care much.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic.”
“I’m a realist. But thanks for the encouragement.”
I’m about to give her some valuable life advice, when the kitchen door swings open and Elisa appears, red in the face. “You!” she exclaims in a tone that is anything but friendly. “You lying, lazy, cowardly traitor.”
“You talking to me?” I ask, pointing to myself.
