Page 15 of Livia in Rome
Kenzi makes a so-so gesture with her hand. ‘We speak it at home, but Italian’s my first language.’
I sigh. ‘I bet your Moroccan accent isn’t as bad as my Italian one.’
‘Ha! Just ask my—’
But before Kenzi finishes her reply, one of the menplaying cards leans back in his chair and asks, ‘Did you say you speak Arabic?’ His question makes Kenzi stiffen, but then he adds, ‘Do you write it, too?’
Kenzi nods but doesn’t say anything as the man hands her a crumpled note from his wallet.
‘Could you write “one tablet, three times a day after meals” here, and “once a day on an empty stomach” here?’
Kenzi pulls a pen from her bag and chews thoughtfully on the cap as she writes. ‘I think that’s it,’ she says, handing back the paper.
‘Grazie.You’ve been very helpful.’ The man taps her hand gently with the folded note before going back to his card game.
‘What was that about?’ I whisper, leaning in.
Kenzi sighs. ‘Looks like he’s trying to help someone. Lots of immigrants rely on other people to translate prescriptions and stuff, especially us second-generation kids. It’s a whole thing.’
I nod. Before Isla became one of the family, she found it strange that Ma and Pa would call me from my room to make phone calls for them, or that I’m the one who speaks to the waiters when we eat out. The day before we came to Rome, I helped Pa fill out a form to renew his driver’s licence. Stuff like that is second nature to me. And I realize there’s more tostraddling two cultures than getting an accent right or drinking cappuccinos at the right time of day – teenagers like Kenzi and me are like bridges between two places, with a foot on either side.
The arrival of a voice note from Isla wakes me at 6.47 a.m. I sit up, heart pounding, instantly wide awake – Edinburgh’s an hour behind. Why is she messaging me so early?
‘Any dirt on Giuli-hot?’
I sigh with relief as her teasing tone floats out of the speaker. Right. Not an emergency then.
I’m still shaking my head when I pass Nina’s room on my way to the kitchen. Ma’s sprawled out in the middle of the bed in her vest and knickers, half-hugging the ever-present box file that’s spilling paperwork on to the mattress beside her. The horror of it propels me straight to the fridge where I stashed a leftoverbombolone alla cremabefore I went to bed last night. I can’t think of a better breakfast than a custard doughnut with an Italian upgrade. There’s also a slice ofpizza biancastuffed with wafer-thin slices of mortadella that I’ve earmarked for my morning snack.
Grabbing a small carton of apricot juice, I head up to the roof terrace and the promise of a breathtakingview. I’m not disappointed. The sky is streaked with wisps of pink and orange, brightening even as I look at it. It must be seven on the dot because bells start tolling all around me, and I remember Ma telling me there are over nine hundred churches around this city. I seek out a few domes and bell towers, finding them easily.
Not trusting my ability to get into the hammock with my breakfast in one hand and phone in the other, I perch on the stone balustrade; the red-tiled roof sticking out directly below it giving me the illusion of safety. I FaceTime Isla to discuss messaging etiquette and how NOT to give me a heart attack first thing in the morning.
I almost think I’ve called the wrong person when her make-up-free face appears on the screen. ‘Ommioddio, you’re spending so much time at the cattery – you’re turning into Ma. What are you doing up so early?’
She sticks her tongue out at me before stretching her mouth into a gigantic yawn. ‘Emergency cat drop-off in half an hour. Your dad had to leave super early for a wedding up north, so your mum said she’d pay me extra if I came in for six.’ She rubs her fingers together in the universal gesture for money. ‘I’m going to have my helix pierced by the time we goback to school.’ She yawns again, then squints at the screen. ‘Are you...outside already?’
Instead of answering, I pan the phone camera around the rooftop. I can’t see her face, but her gasp of awe is even louder than the hum of scooters and the clatter of bins being emptied down below.
‘You’d better bring me with you next time, or else,’ she threatens, as I show her the view from the other side before flipping the phone back to me.
‘So . . . how’s it going with Giulio?’
‘A-ma-zing,’ I blurt, my words overlapping with her question as I take my first bite of the soft, doughybombolone.
‘Really? You’ve changed your tune.’
I stick my own tongue out. ‘Ha ha. Very funny. I meant this.’ I hold my breakfast up to the camera. ‘Way tastier, trust me.’
‘Aw, shame. I’ve got a bet on with your mum that your first French kiss is going to be Italian...she thinks the same though, so we can’t work out how to decide the winner.’
‘Right, that’s it!’ I splutter. ‘No more unsupervised calls between you and Ma.’
A door creaks open behind me and I snap my head around. Giulio’s on his roof terrace just a few paces away...definitely within hearing range of thissuper-embarrassing conversation.
Isla’s hazel eyes fill the screen. ‘Hey! What’s up? You’ve gone bright red!’
‘Call you later!’ I close her down before she says anything else and study Giulio’s face. How much did he hear? I squirm inside at the thought of him knowing I’ve never properly kissed a boy before. Not unless you count the school Christmas dance when a boy in the year above me leant in and half-mashed his lips against mine before running off to the boys’ toilets. It’s...too private. Something I’ll have to remind Ma about. Honestly, the sooner that woman’s back with her cats, the better.
