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“Have you ever thought about going back? You know, to finish your degree?”
Fugo lifts the saucer of tea to his lips, careful to blow on the scalding steam before taking a sip. He raises an eyebrow as he looks to Trish, who sits across from him at the dining table, awaiting his response. Sighing, he speaks: “Maybe. Maybe not. I doubt any reputable university would take me in after what I did.”
Trish murmurs to herself. She chases a sliced cherry tomato with her fork. Il Pranzo has become a shared pastime between her and the strawberry-blonde boy. “I’m sure Giorno could pull some strings,” she insists. “You could probably go anywhere you wanted.”
“It’s not honest that way. Besides, I don’t have a reason to go back. There’s no degree requirement to work for the Don of Passione . . . But, what about you?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
He sets his tea down. “The new schoolyear starts in a month. Haven’t you thought about returning?”
Trish stiffens. “Do you think I should?” she asks.
“That’s not for me to say,” Fugo tells her. “Bruno will encourage you to, and the schools near where you live are good. Well, as good as any school in Napoli can be. Above all else, it might be a decent distraction – a chance to gain back a little normalcy in your life.”
It is a difficult subject, and one that weighs on her like a vice. She has struggled to acclimate to the new normal after everything that transpired in the early spring of this year. Returning to school had simply not been a possibility for her, though not for a lack of trying.
She has found trauma to be a tantalizing friend indeed – and one that never quite seems to leave her side.
The sound of your laced shoes slapping against the waxed floors is lost to the rush of bodies that swarm the corridor. The faces of your peers are unnamed to you, because in your sixteen years of life, you never cared to commit them to memory. Your first session of the day is classe di matematica. It is a grueling subject to most, but you find it easy enough.
An unfamiliar pink-haired girl stands before your teacher at his desk. You cannot help but to notice her rigid posture; she stands as though she has been frozen in place by the scrutiny of his eyes as he takes in her appearance. It is obvious that she is a transfer student, and a nervous one at that. To you, she is nothing more than another face with a name, and you will not care to remember it.
Filing past clusters of your fellow classmates, you make your way to the back of the room and secure your territory. While the table creaks under the weight of your bookbag and leud pencil carvings mar its surface, you find solace in its position beneath the window overlooking the courtyard.
Students continue to file through the door. You look to the clock: class will not begin for another five minutes. Impatient, you sigh and turn your attention to a flock of pigeons gathering on the cobblestone pathway of the courtyard. Watching the scuffle of five birds, all for a discarded heel of bread, is far more enticing than pretending not to eavesdrop on any of the conversations filling the space of the room.
The clocktower chimes and the pigeons scatter, no doubt startled by the deep vibrato of the prerecorded bell-sound echoing throughout campus. You open your notebook and click your used pen. Your classmates take their seats, all the while avoiding the second chair at your table. You do not mind it, for you know it is not repulsion that keeps your peers at bay. The truth is much simpler: every student has at least one friend within the class whom they would much rather sit with than yourself.
Head hung low, you wait for the selection process to end whilst avoiding wandering gazes. When you hear the tapping of a pencil against the table, you are shocked to see the pink-haired girl standing before you.
“Can I sit here?”
Your mouth turns dry, as if you have swallowed the very same stale bread the pigeons quarreled for. You do not mean to, but your eyes trace the delicate lines of her face, from her piercing green eyes framed by thick lashes to the soft pout of her pink, glossy lips. You wring your hands together. She’s pretty, you think to yourself. She’s unfairly pretty.
“Hello?”
You clear your throat. “O-Oh, uh . . .” You stumble over your words, suddenly conscious of the light red hue dusting across her cheekbones. “Yeah, go ahead.”
You wait for her to laugh, to wallow in your self-inflicted humiliation. Instead, she smiles, revealing two rows of straight, white teeth, and sits beside you. She smells of roses and lemongrass – of a home you have not yet found. The scent of her perfume penetrates your mind; at once, you have been found in a flower field during the Giugno blooms.
“I like your hair, by the way.” Unconsciously, you bring a finger to your hair and touch it, as if in disbelief that she would compliment your appearance, let alone your hair. “Sorry, that probably came across as creepy, didn’t it?”
“N-No, it’s okay,” you insist. Heat rushes to your face. Her flattery burns you, and yet, you gladly kneel before its flames. “Uh . . . Thank you.”
She hums and turns to face your chattering teacher. You clutch your pen. It hovers over the blank page of your notebook. The hour flies by; class draws to an end, and you have retained nothing. How could you, when the smell of her perfume alone has bequeathed to you the insatiable desire to be wherever it is that roses and lemongrass might coexist – perhaps in the garden of a cottage overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea.
You notice how she has begun backing her bag. It is your cue to gather your own belongings. The bell rings. You hurry to stand, eager to be away from the girl who garners your attention.
“I’m Trish, by the way,” she tells you. You are still. “Thanks for letting me sit here. It was nice meeting you.”
Trish. Just like the model from America; it suits her, plenty. The corners of your mouth turn upwards into a grin. Her kindness is infectious, and it leaves you longing, gasping for more. As you watch her leave, her form engulfed by the sea of taller students, you are left with nothing more than a contemplation: perhaps there is one name you will remember.
“I don’t understand – what does any of this have to do with math?” Trish sighs, dropping her pencil in frustration. A manicured finger hooks into a pink curl and twirls it with such vigor; you fear she will tear out her own hair. “None of this makes sense.”
“Well, it has more to do with logic than math,” you try to explain. You offer your workbook to her. “It’s actually quite fun, once you get the hang of it.”
She rolls her brilliant green eyes. “Maybe for someone like you. Not everyone can be as smart as you, you know.”
“I-I’m really not that smart,” you deflect. You tap the unfished equation scribbled in her notes. “Let’s just go back to the beginning . . . Un cavaliere always tells the truth, so they can never lie. But un fante always lies, so they can never tell the truth. You meet Persona A and Persona B . . .”
You guide her through the problem. The sound of shuffling papers signifies that everyone else in the class has finished their work; your teacher waits for Trish, and Trish alone, who grips her pencil tightly. You know she feels it – the unspoken ridicule from your peers. To them, she is the incompetent new student from Calabria who cannot comprehend un cavalieri e furfanti puzzle.
“Dannazione, sono un idiota,” she hisses. “Nothing makes sense.”
You frown. “You’re not an idiot just because a silly math problem stumped you.” The insistence falls from your lips. Her silence sends a frigid chill down your spine. “Please, don’t say that about yourself. Let me help you work through it. We assume Persona A is un fante.”
Your teacher clears his throat. He peers over the rim of his half-moon glasses, observing the way you coax Trish to complete the problem. He sets aside the book that had been clasped in his hand, and he stands to approach her, to offer his aid at the behest of a struggling student with such unique circumstances. At the sight of the pencil falling from her fingers and the smile upon her face, he stops.
“I’ve got it. Persona B is un cavaliere, which means both Persona A and Persona B are.” She pauses for a moment to contemplate her words. “That’s a contradiction! Our assumption was wrong, so if Persona A is un cavaliere, he’s telling the truth, so Persona B must be un fante.”
Your confirmation is something sacred to her, not unlike the Rosary given to her on the day of her mother’s funeral. Even when shakily spoken Hail Marys fall from her lips and her fingers tremble over the amber counting beads, there is little room in Trish’s mind for meditation when her thoughts, as of late, are always of you.
She blushes as you meet her gaze. “I meant what I said,” she begins. “You are smart.”
You bite your lip and look away, though her eyes follow. “That’s not true,” you say. “You don’t have to butter me up so much.”
She clasps your hand gently beneath the table. Her palm is soft, and you want to turn your wrist to enlace your fingers with hers. You stop yourself. “If I’m not allowed to call myself an idiot, then you’re not allowed to say you’re not intelligent.” You open your mouth to rebuke her words, but she cuts you off. “Despite what I said, I know I’m smart; just not at all things, like math.”
Her thumb brushes against the back of your knuckles as she pulls away. An incidental touch, you ponder. She turns her attention to your teacher, who stands before the chalkboard writing out the correct steps of the puzzle. You feel hot – unbearably so. A sudden bulge in your throat makes it hard to breathe. You ask to be excused to the bathroom. You did not need to hear the rest of the lesson, anyways.
It has been nearly two months since that day in classe di matematica. Indeed, the air outside has turned crisp and rain showers frequent the weather patterns: the season nears wintertime. Trish’s acclimation to life in Napoli has been far easier than her guardian Bruno had anticipated – dinnertime conversations about daydreams and schooldays have made him grateful for your involvement in the pink-haired girl’s life. Weekends spent with you, consisting of coffees, shopping trips, and stops at gelato parlors, remind her that she is safe.
Because of you, she can be a teenager again.
As you enter the classroom, you find her seat empty. Class carries on, but you cannot focus, for you are reminded of the loneliness that came before meeting Trish. You decide a sip of cool water might help to clear the haze unsettling you so.
You bring the uncapped water bottle to your lips, only to cry out in shock as the metal flask contorts in your grip like puddy. Its contents billow over the mouth of the bottle and saturate your skirt. The bottle does not make a sound as it fumbles to the vinyl floor; you are too bothered by the sloshing of your clothes to notice the way in which the metal frame slowly bends back into its shape – or the laughter of your fellow classmates.
Your teacher ushers you to the bathroom. Your wet loafers squeal as you hurry down the hallway. Prayer cards and posters promoting abstinence adorn the walls. The door latches behind you. Hiccups and choked sobs echo throughout the tight chamber of the communal space. It smells of roses and lemongrass – it smells of her.
You reach for the paper towel dispenser and blot at your skirt. It does little good to salvage the pleated fabric and it leaves an incriminating stain. Though you hesitate, you rapt your hand against the closed stall door and call out to her: “Trish? Are you okay?”
Her wails diminish. Her shadow peaks out from the crack between the floor and the bottom edge of the door. She sniffles before revealing herself. The hue upon her cheeks is unlike the bashful blush of infatuation that frequents her skin. Her distress pains you.
"I missed you in class,” you say, unsure of what to do for the girl you have come to endear. You chide yourself immediately, wanting nothing more than to cast yourself out of her presence for your insensitive comment. Spoken words are never quite simple.
Her bottom lip quivers and her eyes well with tears again. You fear you have upset her. And yet, her arms extend towards your body. Suddenly, you are embracing; she holds you in a grip akin to a vice. Your fingers trace shapes against her clothed back. It is something you might have done to soothe a weeping infant. In the privacy of the bathroom, you pretend she is your lover – that every sojourn for velveteen dresses and freshly churned gelato on Sabato pomeriggio meant something more to her.
But she is not your lover – and you are not hers.
Reluctantly, you pull away. Her breath fans your face, and it is only now that you notice the dainty freckles of her cheeks for the first time. You step backwards until your thighs hit the sink. For a moment, you think she had frowned upon your separation. It is another of many illusions that your mind has weaved as of late, no doubt.
“Thank you,” Trish says, rubbing the back of her hand against her eyes. Smudges of black mascara coat her skin.
You fiddle with the hem of your damp skirt. You realize, as you glance over the girl’s uniform, that her skirt is wet as well – from her own tears or the second-hand spillage from your water bottle, you know not. “I didn’t really do anything,” you insist.
"You’re here. That means everything to me.”
Paying no heed to the nagging sensation within you that wants to pry into the cause of her anguish, you offer her a clean paper towel. She accepts it with a faint smile. You settle for ignorance, because you know she will confess to you someday – beyond her passing comments of a deceased mother and a toxic, absent father.
Prepared to return to class, she laces her arm with yours and takes a deep breath. You decide that you will wait as long as she needs.
The brown paper-bag filled with paint bottles feels heavy in your grasp. It weighs on your shoulder, slipping down with every step taken towards the direction of your home. The figurines of your mother’s nativity set have begun to peel and crack, and you have promised to aid her in restoring the heirlooms. It is only right; religious preferences aside, the ivory statuettes will one day be your inheritance. And it will make a fond memory for you of your mother.
Shielded by the umbrella of a patio table, Trish sits before that which you recognize as a café you have frequented several times together: Caffè Anami. You long to be one of the glossed pages of the magazine she thumbs through – to feel her touch and to be adored the same way you adore her. Outside of her usual school uniform, she wears a floral-patterned dress. You do not question its monetary value; she comes from strange wealth, and her choice in civilian attire is only one of many indicators.
You begin to approach her, a practiced greeting wrought of cordiality ready on your tongue. But kindness turns to bitterness as the front door to the café opens and a boy with messily-styled black hair and wild violet eyes pushes past new customers and struggles to balance two to-go cups of coffee and a bag of pastries.
"They didn’t even offer me a cupholder,” you hear him grumble aloud. You stop. “How am I supposed to carry all this? Does it look like a have a third arm?”
Trish rises and reaches for the bag of pastries. “There,” she tells the boy. “Crisis averted.”
Free of burden, they both take their seats at the table. As Trish divides the baked goods amongst two napkins, the boy watches her careful movements with what you describe as pure reverence, for she is the personification of grace and beauty, and he knows this. They converse with each other, and you cannot help but to observe how Trish has made a habit of touching the boy’s arm nearly every time she speaks to him.
Your stomach churns at the unpleasantry before you. In all your time pining after the pink-haired girl, you had never considered that she may have had a partner of her own. But you see it now: how could you have been so blind? She had not mentioned the scraggily haired boy before. Talks of saccharine kisses, gentle touches, and of course a boyfriend never came from her rosy-colored lips. She hid this from you. Perhaps, this whole time, she truly knew of your affections. At the risk of losing a friend (for you assume you were nothing more to her), she forbade herself to speak of the boy, lest she drive you away – there could be no other explanation.
It hurts, so much in fact that a knife to your heart would be preferable to the pain swallowing you whole. Gauging his appearance, you decide he does not deserve someone as elegant as she . . . Though, considering your tattered jeans and hand-me-down blouse, neither do you. You swipe at the tears threatening to spill and you choke down the lump in your throat. Readjusting the shopping bag over the perch of your shoulder, you leave, broken and unwell.
Behind you, Trish’s melodious laughter – a wicked song indeed – resonates. You could not block out her sweet chorus even if, deep down, you truly wanted to.
Your knees sink into the plush mass of the faux-fur rug beneath you. Your saucer of hot tea rests atop the coffee table, untouched; the steam rises and coils into the air. Trish’s guardian – Bruno, she called him – sets a tray filled with biscotti before you. You might have found him intimidating if not for the warmth laced within his sapphire-blue eyes. He closes the double-doors to the study, leaving you and the pink-haired girl alone.
The silence in the room is cut by the scratching of pencils to paper and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, tucked between a lounger and a houseplant. You scan over your completed portion of the study guide. Earlier that day, your insegnante di matematica had formally announced an exam slotted to be proctored at the end of the week. After he distributed the studyguides, Trish turned to you with an unassuming smile and asked if you would like to come to her house and study together. If not for the existence of her boyfriend, you would have looked for a deeper implication. Instead, you agreed with a curt nod, and accompanied her home at the end of the day.
“[Y/N]?” You look up from your work to meet Trish’s gaze. “Are you upset at me about something? You’ve been acting like you want nothing to do with me lately.”
You hesitate to respond. It would be better to lie, to hide your feelings and come up with an excuse: it’s not you, I’m just stressed about school, that’s all. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?” you ask instead, blunter than you probably should have been. Her brows furrow, as if she misunderstood you. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Doesn’t that mean we should be honest with each other?”
“Boyfriend? Who told you I had a boyfriend?”
“No one. I saw you two together. I-I wasn’t stalking you, honest – I was walking home from the store the other day and I saw you at Caffè Anami with him . . . I can’t understand why you’d hide something like that from me. You know you can trust me, don’t you?”
The corners of her lips turn into a grin and she shakes her head. “His name’s Narancia,” she tells you. “And he’s not my boyfriend. He’s practically a brother to me.”
You are not sure whether to feel relief or mortification – relief, for your chances with the girl have not been thwarted; mortification, for your accusation has backfired, leaving you utterly and completely embarrassed. “I-I’m sorry,” you spit out. “I just – I didn’t think – I –”
She places her hand over yours, just like the day when you had helped her through the cavalieri e furfanti puzzle. “It’s all good. Besides, he’s not exactly my type.”
She takes her hand away and scribbles something down in her study guide. Her top row of teeth juts out to graze her bottom lip, and it is only then you notice something different about her appearance: she is wearing a darker shade of lipstick. Trish catches you staring.
“What’re you looking at?” She is luring you, and you have already fallen into her snare.
“Uh, I like your lipstick,” you confess. “That’s all.”
“Oh, thank you.”
You set your pencil aside. You feel as though you might burst, that it might kill you if you do not tell her how you feel. But words do not come to mind – nothing more than silly quips or dull compliments; and so, you settle for the former.
“Can I try it?”
Trish pauses. You fear you have overstepped unspoken boundaries. After all, only moments ago, you had accused her of keeping secrets. Yet, you too have kept one secret to yourself: that you love her, as much as one sixteen-year-old girl might love another. To your delight, she nods and smiles, casting her schoolwork aside to meet you halfway over the coffee table separating your bodies.
She tastes of the biscotti – almond, you think – and earl grey tea. She blossoms at your touch, as if you are the sun and she a posy in a garden somewhere. You forget the ticking of the grandfather clock, for the shared beating of your hearts is deafening. You think to pull away, but she chases your lips and captures them again. She cups your face, caging you in place – not that you mind.
You separate only when you have both grown desperate for air. The sight of her flushed face leaves you in awe. Your belly flutters. She raises a finger to her smudged lips and beams. You long to ask her if she too dreams of roses and lemongrass, of a cottage overlooking the sea in the countryside far away from the bustle of Napoli. But you know better than to overwhelm yourselves with adolescent thoughts of the future – her, especially.
As for Trish, she reminds herself to thank Fugo for convincing her to return to school. Though her past haunts her still, she is indebted to her new life. For, without suffering first, she never would have the girl from classe di matematica who stole her heart on the very first day.
She turns to her schoolwork. “We should get back to it,” she insists. You cock your eyebrow and giggle, bashful and appeased.
“You’re right: we should.”