Page 8 of Better Than Gelato
As more people yell “Ancora!” she actually comes back to the front and gives us an encore, singing the whole song again.Hmm...if each person sings his or her song twice, this is going to be a long night.
It’s a long night. I don’t know any other songs that are performed.Curse you, accurate American stereotypes! After two hours, I’m doubting how well I’m going to fit in with these new opera-going friends.I know I was willing to give up a kidney, but this feels more excruciating.
As though reading my mind, Paolo gives me a nudge and whispers, “We’re getting out of here.”
We quietly exit the church, and Paolo lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief, like we’ve escaped a prison camp instead of an evening of music.
“Well, I think we got what we paid for,” he says as we head down the steps.
“It was free,” Carmen says.
“Exactly.”
“I liked it,” Valentina says. “The last tenor was very talented.”
“But so long!” Paolo says. “A little goes a long way when it comes to opera.”
“The same could be said about Paolo,” Carmen chimes in from behind and I laugh.
“Wait. Where’s Jake?” Valentina says.
“He was sitting right next to me,” Carmen says.
I was so distracted plotting my escape I’d forgotten about the American meeting us at the church. He must have been sitting on the other side of Carmen.
“Oh no! He didn’t make it out!” Diego says. He turns back to the church like he’s rescuing a friend from a burning building. Just as he starts to climb the stairs, the doors open. A young man with shaggy brown hair and medium build slips out. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s humming.
“There you are! I was just coming back to rescue you,” Diego tells him.
“Yeah, sorry,” he replies. “I was following Carmen and then they started this piece fromLa Boehmethat I love, and I stayed to hear the rest.” His Italian is good. Better than mine in fact. He’s wearing a dress shirt and dark pants.
He sees me and stops. “Oh, you must be Juliet. Carmen said she invited you. Glad you made it tonight.” His face is unremarkable until he smiles. Then his eyes sparkle and dimples pop out in each cheek and it’s harder to pretend he isn’t attractive.
“I’m Jake Fields,” he says. He leans in and kisses me on my cheeks. It should be weird since we’re both American, but it isn’t. I get a whiff of his aftershave, something fresh that makes me think of a lake surrounded by pine trees.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jake,” I say. “I’m Juliet Evans.” I suddenly feel self-conscious. Of my Italian, of my clothes, of everything.
Before I can stop myself I blurt out, “There was a misunderstanding. I thought we were going to a rock concert. I would have dressed up if I’d known it was opera. In a church.”
“Oh, that explains it,” Paolo whispers loudly to Diego. “I just assumed dressing up was against the American religion.”
My cheeks heat up, and I open my mouth to respond but Paolo takes my hand, places it on his arm and gives it a squeeze. “No, no, don’t respond. I’m just being awful. You get used to it after a while. You look lovely this evening, Julieta. You needn’t change a thing. You will be myJulieta Dolcetta.”
My heart flutters.Handsome Italian men calling me their little sweet? Yes please!
“And if you wish to acquire some Italian fashion staples,” Paolo says, “Carmen and I are going shopping tomorrow. We’d be honored to have the pleasure of your company.”
“I’d love to come,” I say immediately. Turns out Isa was right, I am the only one at school drop-off and pickup wearing jeans.
“Can I invite myself along as well?” Jake asks. “Milan’s colder than Arizona, and I could use a few things.”
“Well, there you have it, Carmen,” Paolo says. “You and I will show these Americans all the secrets of the Milan fashion world.”
Jake shoots me a raised eyebrow look that says, ‘What have we gotten ourselves into?’ and I reply with a smile and a shrug of ‘I’m not sure, but it could be fun.’
We head to a pizzeria near the church and my mind is blown at how something so simple can taste so amazing. The crust is thin and chewy. The sauce tastes like fresh tomatoes from someone’s garden. There are large circles of fresh mozzarella. It makes me want to go back in time to the Juliet who ate Dominos and grab her by the shoulders and shake her. ‘That stuff is garbage,’ I would tell her. ‘No one should call that pizza!’
“I have never had pizza this good in my life,” I say to the group when I pause eating to breathe.
