Page 113 of Better Than Gelato
It’s like I never left
He texts me a picture of him in front of a brand-new pickup truck.
I love you in Florence! Look what my dad got me as a welcome home gift!
I can’t help but laugh. I give him a call and for a moment, it’s so good to hear his voice that all of yesterday’s sadness comes rushing back. But it gets easier the next day. And the day after that.
The summer goes by quickly. For as long as I’ve known them, my parents have worked incredibly long hours. It’s fun to see them with free time on their hands. We paint the kitchen cabinets like my mom’s been wanting to do for a decade. We play Scrabble together in the evenings. My dad cheats when he thinks we’re not looking.
I take photos around my small town. The shops on Main Street. The crowds at the park on Friday night where local bands play. The sunrise on the lake, smooth and shiny and silver. I text the best ones to Paolo and Carmen and Valentina.
I spend hours with Maggie filling in the gaps from the last year. I show her all my photos.
“Your description of Paolo did not prepare me for how hot he is.”
And she tries on all my new clothes.
“I want to go shopping in Milan!”
She listens as I talk about Diego and hugs me while I cry some. She laughs as I tell her about Isa and asks if she can come with me to Vegas to meet her.
I talk to Jake for hours every day and send him some of the photos I’m taking around town.
“I’d like to visit this Lakeport town,” he says. “It sounds made up.”
“I know, it kind of does. But it’s real, I promise. And I would love to show you. We’d finish the tour in about ten minutes. And then we’d go skinny dipping in the lake. ”
“Count me in.”
He tells me about Arizona. He makes up funny songs about stuff we did in Italy. He sends me flowers for no reason.
Before I know it, Maggie and I are loading up her tiny car for the drive down to San Diego. My parents stand in the driveway and wave as we pull out. Then Maggie cranks up her road trip playlist, and I’m headed back to college.
ChapterThirty
The first day of classes is rough. I’d forgotten how boring the minutiae of school is. We go over syllabi and office hours and exam schedules. I do my best not to let my mind wander to nights dancing at Calypso and kissing Jake in tree-filled parks.
My Italian class is wonderful and awful. Wonderful because it’s taught by a young TA named Giovanni that reminds me so much of Paolo I want to hug him. Awful because it fills me with homesickness for a place that is not my home.
Then it’s time for my photography class. My hands start sweating. I wore my black pants and a gold-splattered blouse Carmen found for me at the market. It makes me feel like a cool artist type. I find my classroom and take a seat in the middle row, center seat. I lay out my notebook and pencil and give the girl next to me a shy smile.
I’ve built this class up so much, I’m nervous it will fall short. Instead, it exceeds every one of my ridiculous expectations. Professor Melvin is brilliant and knowledgeable and talented. But also funny and down-to-earth and relatable. If I were a cartoon character, my eyes would turn into hearts right now. He gives us our first assignment, a photograph that is autobiographical, but is not a photo of ourselves. As I walk to my next class, my head is swirling with ideas, and my heart is pinging with happiness.
After English class and a chemistry lab, I head over to the Jamba Juice on campus. I don’t know any of the people behind the counter, but the manager Mike is still there and remembers me as a hard worker. I ask for a job, and he gives it to me, just like that. Which is awesome, because student jobs on campus are crazy hard to get, and I did not have a Plan B.
I call Jake on the way home and tell him my great news. He tells me about his visit to the cadaver lab, which sounds disgusting but was clearly the highlight of his week. I’m just about to tell him about my photography class, but someone comes to his apartment, and he has to go.
I tell Maggie instead. She’s sitting on our faded, lumpy couch eating canned peaches straight from the jar.
“Where are Petey and the Pirate?” I ask. Our two other roommates are both named Jessica. Petey’s last name is Peterson and Pirate’s last name is Roberts, like the Dread Pirate Roberts fromThe Princess Bride.
“Library,” she says. “Pirate’s studying, and Petey’s trying to get a kid who works there to ask her out.”
I grab one of her peach slices and head to our room to work on my photography assignment. I take a dozen photos of various things in various settings, but nothing feels right. An hour later, I’m muttering Italian swear words and questioning what autobiographical even means.
I take a break and finish unpacking. I hang up a photo of me and Isa from my first week in Milan. Then I hang up one of me and the gang at our last dinner together. Side by side, the difference is remarkable. In the second one, my shoulders are relaxed, my face is fuller, and my smile is huge. I think of all the ways this last year has changed me. I fell in love. I lost a friend. I learned a language. I gained twenty pounds. I escaped my fate and got to live my dream instead.
I pull out a pair of jeans and a UC San Diego T-shirt and my Nikes. I lay them down on the floor of my room. There’s not a lot of space between our twin beds, but it’s enough. Then I get out my black pants and one of my runway blouses and lay them out above my pointy-toed stiletto boots.
