She extracts herself from her mom’s hold and inches the tiniest bit closer. I catch a whiff of the fresh apple scent that filled the hallway during our earlier run-in and tell myself I don’t like it.
“I don’t want to hear it from you,” she whispers fiercely. “Not one word.”
I shouldn’t engage, but today has proven that I can only listen to the devil on my shoulder when this girl’s around.
“Does ‘yeehaw’ count?” I ask under my breath. “It’s more sound effect than word.”
She’s practically vibrating with irritation at my side. I’m not proud of this compulsion to keep poking at her, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it.
“No, really, it’s an honor to meet you, Wendy.”
Cammie frowns. “Wendy?”
Her subsequent grimace says the question slipped out before she could think better of it.
“Of the fast-food chain Wendy’s? I’m a huge fan of your work on the Frosty. Best Frosty since the snowman.”
It’s a wonder that she’s not attempting to choke me with her braids.
“It’s like you’ve already forgotten that I know where you sleep,” she grits out between clenched teeth.
The next words that come to mind are something alongthe lines of how I couldn’t possibly forget that she’s just on the other side of my bedroom wall, so it’s fortunate that I don’t get the chance to voice them. The gentleman now standing in the center of the crowd clears his throat and begins speaking.
“Buona sera, everyone, and thank you for joining me this evening. I am Dr. Gianmarco Russo, executive director of the Villa Russo Research Residency Program.” His voice carries a hint of an accent and effortless confidence.
I jump when I suddenly hear my dad’s whisper at my side. “He’s actually John Mark Russo, born in Ohio,” Dad says from behind his glass. “Used to go by ‘Johnny,’ up until he took over the director job.”
I’m nearly as startled by the soft huff of amusement that follows from my opposite side. But when I look Cammie’s way, she’s already schooled her expression back to blankness.
“But Villa Russo is more than just my workplace,” Johnny/Gianmarco continues, a slow smile starting to spread across his face as his eyes sweep over the group gathered on the terrazzo. “It is my ancestral home, passed down in my family for over two hundred years. Since the incredible discovery of Villa di Bronzo on our grounds—two decades ago, as of this summer—it has been the greatest honor and pleasure for the Russo family to open our home to brilliant scholars such as yourselves, to help further the study of the ancient world. Now that you’re here, you are all part of la famiglia.”
He pauses for the applause, whistles, and hoots that ensue. I tap my free hand soundlessly against the hand holding my glass while I take a sip of lemonade and graciously refrain frompointing out that the man just plagiarized the Olive Garden slogan.
“What is this, Olive Garden?” Cammie mutters so quietly I know it wasn’t meant for anyone to hear, but I nearly spit out my drink anyway. I hunch over, trying to get the sip down without any disruptive sounds. When I can breathe non-lemon-soaked air again, I find two sets of furrowed brows directed at me, one dark brown and concerned, the other light auburn and still annoyed that I exist.
I wave off the former and pretend to ignore the latter, refocusing on the man speaking.
“…so if you’ll please join me in finding the seat with your place card and gathering around these beautifully set tables, our staff will invite one row at a time to the buffet line. Then we can settle in for a night of fantastic food and even better company. Buon appetito!”
Dr. Russo raises his glass, and all around him, others share their buon appetitos and salutés. I raise my own glass to my mouth and swallow down the rest of my drink without incident this time. I don’t know what I expect when I turn toward Cammie again, but she’s vanished.
For the best, most likely. Dad leads the way to a long table he must’ve already scoped out as ours, stopping when he gets a few seats from one end.
“Here we are,” he declares, gesturing to our place cards. The paper they’re printed on, our names in metallic gold ink, looks more expensive than my shirt. Just as I pull out my chair, a low groan sounds from across the table. I don’t need to lookup to know who it comes from, but it’s not like I can keep my eyes on my lap the rest of the night.
Actually, can I?
No, I decide. I tip my chin up and meet Cammie’s displeased gaze with cool—if completely fake—indifference.
“You keep making that gross noise from your throat. Are you coming down with a cold?”
Cammie rolls her eyes from where she stands behind her chair, arms crossed, acting awfully superior for someone in a denim onesie. “I feel a little sicker every time I see you.”
Dr. Alex appears beside Cammie, opposite my dad, but she’s immediately swept into the conversation Dad is having with the woman on his other side. I pick up the napkin art on my plate and pretend to be totally preoccupied with studying it while Cammie takes her seat. Then I don’t really have to pretend, because what the hell is this supposed to be? It’s like a bizarre cross between an origami boat and one of those paper fortune tellers every kid gets obsessed with at some point.
“You’re supposed to clean your hands with it,” my personal heckler interrupts my musings. “I know learning new skills is scary, but you’re probably overdue to give this one a shot.”
Before I can counterattack, I feel someone approach the empty seat to my left.
