Page 48 of Better Than Gelato
“Yeah, it was Britney Spears,” Carmen says.
“It was ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time,’” Diego says.
The table loses it. Diego starts singing the chorus and throwing air punches, Paolo is snorting and wiping away tears and Carmen and Valentina are shaking with laughter. My hand’s still throbbing, but apart from that I feel pretty dang good.
ChapterEleven
I’m wearing a sweater, my special thermal pants and my long coat, but I’m still cold. There is ascioperofor the fourth straight day and all the public transportation in the city is shut down.
I haven’t seen Jake in five days. Which may not seem like a long time, but we’ve seen each other every day for the last month, so five days apart seems like a lot. Plus he’s sick. So I’ve got my comfy sneakers and an audiobook to get me the 5.3 kilometers to his apartment. Isa helped me make a tasty soup this afternoon and it sloshes in its Tupperware in my backpack.
I’m nearly halfway through my book, right when the fairies are plotting a revolution, when I make it to Jake’s. I knock on his door and one of his roommates answers it. I should know his name by now, but I don’t, and I’m too afraid to guess.
“Ciao, I’m here to see Jake.”
“Sorry, he’s sick.” He doesn’t look particularly sorry.
I smile as nicely as I can. “I know. That’s why I came.”
He shrugs his shoulders and moves out of the way, which I take as an invitation to zip to Jake’s room.
“Juliet!” Jake says. His voice is low and croaky, and his face is pale. He does not look good.
“I brought you soup!” I say in my most cheerful voice. I place my backpack on his desk and carefully take out the Tupperware.
“Soup?” he asks. He struggles to sit up in bed, and I help him prop an extra pillow behind his back.
“Yes, soup. And a pomegranate from that fruit vendor I told you about.”
“Is the strike over?” Jake asks, grabbing a box of tissues and blowing his nose. He sounds like my Uncle Melvin.
I shake my head. “I walked.”
“From your apartment?” His croaky voice rises in surprise.
“I’m a fast walker. And you’re sick.”
“You’re the greatest girlfriend in the world,” he says.
I flinch a little at the word girlfriend, then jump up to grab a bowl and a spoon from the kitchen. When I get back, Jake has scooted to one side to make room for me on the bed.
“I must look terrible,” he says, as I snuggle in next to him. He’s probably contagious, but I don’t care.
“I’ve missed your face,” I say.
He takes a bite of his soup. “This tastes amazing.”
“Thanks, Isa helped me make it.”
“How is she doing?” he asks, taking another bite.
“Not great. Sofia put her hair in pigtails and then Isa cut one off because she only likes ponytails. Then she yelled at Sofia, like an angry asymmetrical pixie, because clearly this was Sofia’s fault.” I shake my head and smile. “Now they’re trying to find a salon that’s open during the strike.”
“Oh man.” He’s nearly finished his soup, and I swear he looks a little bit healthier. “What have you photographed lately?” he asks.
I tell him about the pictures I took this week around the Rossis’ neighborhood. All the ordinary things I don’t want to forget. The cobblestone path to the park with a big crack through the third stone. The front door of the Rossis’ apartment. The bus stop where Isa and I catch the bus every morning.
“Do you remember when you threatened to poke me in the eye if I encouraged you to follow your dreams?” Jake asks.
