Page 84 of Better Than Gelato
“Yeah.”
Her lip quivers like she’s trying not to cry and barely making it.
“Can you bring it tomorrow?” I ask.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, let’s ask.”
We go inside, and I talk to Signora Zonta. She’s sweet as can be and says it’s no problem if we bring it in tomorrow. We might have given her the impression we already had it done and had simply forgotten to bring it.
“Well, it looks like we’ve got some work to do,” I tell Isa as we walk out.
Isa throws her hands up in despair. “It’s no use! All the other kids worked on their projects for weeks. They arereallygood. We’ll never get ours done in one day.”
I question how really good a first-grade project can be, but I don’t argue. Instead, we sit on a bench and come up with a plan and a list of supplies. We make it back to the Rossis’ with a large poster board, colored tissue paper, and approximately thirteen kilos of glitter. Isa said it was essential.
We finish just before bedtime. We would have finished sooner, but halfway through our first attempt, Isa declared the whole thing garbage and tried to throw it off the balcony. It took half an hour to talk her down, then we flipped the poster board over and started on the other side. Our second attempt went better.
Marco and Sofia ooh and ahh and Isa flushes with pleasure. The caterpillar eggs are bedazzled, and the butterfly wings are so weighed down with glitter, there’s no chance this guy could fly. But it’s done.
The kitchen table is a disaster. Dripping glue runs down sand dunes of glitter, but I’ll worry about that tomorrow. Tonight I’ve got work to do.
The deadline for my application said 5 p.m. But that’s California time. Since Italy is nine hours ahead, I actually have until 2 a.m., and I’m going to need every minute.
My computer takes an extra-long time to turn on, and the mean part of my brain tells me not to bother, that my photos are horrible.They are not,I tell the mean part of my brain. But then even the nice part of my brain starts having doubts.They may not be garbage, but let’s be realistic. You’ve never taken a single photography class. How good can they be?
I put on some music to tune out all the voices in my head and get to work. I sort, edit, and re-edit until I’m satisfied I have the very best version of the very best photograph for each category. I double check all my answers to the application questions and answer the ones I didn’t get to last night. I read through my essay again and make a couple small tweaks. Both of the professors I contacted came through with glowing letters and reading them builds my confidence.
By 1:30 a.m., my application looks good. And at this point, my brain has turned to mush, and I can’t make any improvements anyway. I take a breath, say a prayer, and hit submit.
ChapterTwenty-One
The world is my oyster!
Although when I actually tried fresh oysters with Jake a few weeks ago, I was appalled that people would deliberately eat something that looks, tastes, and feels like your waiter just coughed up a pile of phlegm onto your plate.
Nonetheless, for the last week, I’ve had the blissful feeling that the world is full of opportunities, and that doors that have always been closed to me have suddenly opened.
It’s early Saturday morning, and Piazza Duomo is full of people.
I find Jake sitting on the steps looking especially attractive.
“Buon giorno!” he says. “You look wonderful this morning.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I feel wonderful this morning.”
Jake and I spend the whole day together, walking nowhere in particular, eating a delicious lunch, finding charming park benches to snuggle and kiss on.
Jake listens patiently as I ramble nonstop about the photography program, my application, and each of the photos I submitted.
“The career placement percentage for UC San Diego’s photography program is really high,” I say. “There’s a huge range of jobs—weddings, journalism, advertising, sports. And the pay is actually way more than I thought.”
The sun is nearly setting as we walk from Castello Sforzesco back to il Duomo. Jake’s hand in mine makes me feel happy to be alive. And it appears Jake sees my good mood as an opportunity to have another one of those horrible conversations I try my best to avoid.
“Maybe we should discuss how we’re going to do long distance when we go home next month,” he says.
I groan dramatically. “How many ways are there not to see someone?”
