Flirting in Italian Read Online Free PDF Page A

pillows wedged under their arms, something I’ve never seen before. They look older than me, with smooth hair pulled back elegantly from their faces, which are equally smooth and so well made up that if they were in uniform, rather than jeans and hoodies, I’d think they might be air hostesses. One’s white, curvy, with lots of blond hair, and one’s black and very slim; they make a striking pair, and from the way they carry themselves, it’s clear they know it.
    The black girl meets my eyes for a moment, and smirks; she turns to say something to her blond friend, who laughs in response.
    Cow
, I think angrily. Maybe it’s the fact that Mum and I are being openly sneered at that makes me take Mum’s shoulders, lift her off me, and say:
    “Mum—I really have to go now. There might be lines at Security, it takes ages to go through.”
    “Violet, darling, my precious little girl … why did I
ever
think this was a good idea?” Mum grabs a tissue from her bag. One thing mothers always seem to have, I notice, are tissues. She wipes her eyes, wincing at the amount of mascara that comes off in the process. “You can always come back, darling. Just one phone call—one text—and I’ll be on the next plane to come and get you. I promise. I know it’s a long way away—”
    Not even a two-hour flight
, I think.
    “—but I’ll be there straightaway!” She grabs my handand stares intently into my eyes, her own blurry and red. “And I’ll email you every day, darling! Every day! Honestly! Just in case you’re homesick! Oh, God—why did I ever let you talk me into this? It’s not too late to change your mind, you know!”
    Oh, Mum
.
    “I love you, Mum. I’ll text as soon as the plane lands, okay? Try to keep busy! Get Aunt Lissie to come over for a visit—you could have some sister time together!” I suggest in a flash of inspiration. “I’ll be back before you know it!”
    I give her a last quick hug, grab the handle of my bag, and shoot between the security guards before she can follow me, or break down again; mercifully, there aren’t that many people at Passport Control, and I’m at the desk in a minute or so. Handing my passport and boarding pass to the man behind it, I glance quickly back at Mum. It’s worse than I thought. She’s sobbing again, holding on to the top bar of the security rail that separates departing travelers from the rest of the people in the airport, her blue eyes as mournful and tear-filled as if I were moving to Australia, not just going to another part of Europe for eight weeks.
    If I didn’t know her, I would definitely think that she was doing it for effect, enjoying being a drama queen. And I can tell that’s what the two girls I spotted before think: that Mum’s relishing the drama of our parting. They’re in the queue behind me, staring openly at Mum and commenting to each other, flashing perfect, even white teeth.
    How mean. I don’t see how two girls carrying ginormous bed pillows have the nerve to laugh at me!
I think furiously, grabbing back my documents from the passport official and dashingthrough the sliding doors without even looking back at Mum, my shoulders slumping in guilt that I’m abandoning her in such a state.
    If things keep going this way, my trip to Italy’s going to be a total disaster.

Like Waking Up in THE PRINCESS DIARIES
     
    As soon as I step out of the plane, onto the wheeled staircase down to the tarmac, Italy hits me in the face. Bright sun blinds me: it’s like stepping onstage, a bank of white light forcing you to blink, raise a hand to shield your eyes. I fumble in my bag for my sunglasses, holding up the people behind me. Warm, humid air wraps itself around me insistently, demanding that I unzip my jacket, pull off my cotton sweater, bare my arms and neck to the blazing mid-afternoon sunshine. By the time I’m down the wobbly metal stairs, by the time my feet first touch Italian soil, I’ve wrestled off the outer layers I was