Page 11 of Better Than Gelato
“Easy mistake to make,” Jake says with an easy smile. “Tell me about the girl you nanny.”
“She’s six,” I say. “She’s smart. And she has thirty-seven Barbie dolls. I know because I helped dig each of them out of the bushes after she threw them off the balcony.”
“Yikes. Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”
“Agreed. Tell me about your internship,” I say, ready for a new topic.
“I work at the European Institute of Oncology.”
“If you’re trying to impress me, you’ll have to do better than that,” I say. “Last year, I worked at Jamba Juice.”
It takes Jake a minute to realize I’m joking, and then a smile breaks across his face, transforming it. “Well, I tried to get a sweet Jamba Juice gig, but it was too competitive. I couldn’t cut it.”
I nod knowingly. “Not everyone is born to blend. Tell me about your second-choice job.”
His face lights up as he describes a new way of treating brain tumors, focusing on the genetics of the individual. Cutting edge stuff, led by a brilliant boss.
“That was probably way more than you wanted to know,” he says after a few minutes. “I tend to go on and on when it’s something I’m excited about. Are you going to school? Tell me about your studies.”
“Business,” I say.
He waits for me to say more but I don’t.
“Sooo...What do you plan to do with that?”
“Run a dry cleaner,” I respond.
“Is, um, dry cleaning a passion of yours?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Not particularly. But it’s the family business.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it and nods. It feels like a judgy nod.
“Not everyone has to feel passionate about their work,” I say. “Sometimes you just need a good job that pays the bills.”
“Sure,” he says. But the furrow in his brow makes it clear he doesn’t get it. Sure enough, after a second, he says, “But what about?—”
“If you tell me to follow my dreams, I will poke you in the eye.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” he says. It’s not convincing.
“Dreams don’t pay the rent, Jake. Jobs do. I’ve already got a job lined up after graduation, and that’s more than a lot of people can say.”
I’m spared having to explain more by the arrival of Paolo, Carmen and Valentina. We catch a bus and walk a few blocks, then Carmen says, “Welcome to the Saturday market at Sant’Ambrogio.”
White tents stretch as far as the eye can see, and under them sit rows of tables piled with shoes, purses, coats, pants, and more. The market is brimming with people and the chatter of vendors hawking their goods.
Carmen spreads her arms wide. “When I die, I imagine heaven will look like this.”
At the first table, I pick up a pair of black ankle boots with a pointed toe and a skinny heel. I immediately feel more Italian just holding them. A hand-lettered sign says “Scarpe, 15 Euro.”Can that be right?
“How much are the shoes?” I ask the man sitting behind the table.
“Americana!” he answers in a loud voice. “For you, only 15 euro!”
Relief and excitement rush through me. I turn and look at Carmen with big eyes.
“It’s so cheap!”
