Page 32

Etta looks up and assesses me and Alex, and then returns her gaze to the book on Sicilian theater that she picked up in the gift shop. “I’m fine.”

Alex stands up and shrugs. “Shall we?”

The option doesn’t sound great, but neither does staying here and watching my parents get loose. I stand up too. “I guess.”

We start walking down the street, and we’re both quiet. I mean, I hated this guy this morning, and now I might think he’s okay, but that doesn’t make us suddenly great conversation partners. It’s so awkward, and I’m considering turning around because seeing my mom dance in her seat and attempt Italian may actually be more enjoyable than this, when Alex finally breaks the silence.

“Did we just get ditched by our parents?”

“Yes. Yes, I think we did.”

“Does that make us losers?”

“I mean, I’m not a loser, but I won’t get in the way of your self-assessment.”

He stops suddenly. Oh no, did I hurt his feelings again? But also, he needs to stop being so sensitive. I see his face, though, and he’s still smiling.

“Let me go in here real quick,” he says, gesturing toward a corner store with his thumb.

“Uh, okay.”

He runs inside, and I hold up my camera again, surveying what’s around me through the viewfinder. There’s a tall cream building with green-shuttered windows across the street. Vines drape out of window boxes, and laundry hangs from each iron balcony, the myriad of prints and fabrics making a rainbow of colors. I walk closer to get a better look, trying out differentangles until I get the perfect one so I don’t waste this film.

“There you are. I thought you ditched me,” Alex says, appearing at my side.

“Maybe I should have.” I click the buttons, and the mechanical sound signals my picture is coming out. “What were you doing, anyway?”

“Just a quick errand,” he says, patting his backpack. “The guy told me there’s a big market around the corner. That would be a good place for photos.”

“You speak Italian?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, and it probably is to him. Just one of many classes and extracurriculars. “I speak enough.”

I follow him down the street and around the corner, and I soon realize that “big” was an understatement. This market is another world. Red, orange, and green awnings cover stalls selling everything you need for a feast—bright citrus, juicy tomatoes, and a rainbow of produce. Swordfish and tuna sparkling in ice. Giant barrels of spices. Sausages and other cuts of meat swing from hooks. It seems to go on forever.

“Whoa,” I say, wide-eyed.

“Right?”

“Okay, I know what we need right now.” I make my way down the crowded aisle, eyeing each stall as the owners hold up samples of their cheese and olives, until I finally find what I’m looking for.

“Two,” I say, holding up my fingers. “Per favore,” I add. I might not speak Italian, but I can get by. The tan man behindthe counter has a full head of dark hair, despite the fact that he must be at least seventy. He nods, takes my euros, and then gets to work. He takes two pastry shells, fills them with custard, sprinkles them with powdered sugar, and then wraps them in paper before handing them over the counter to me.

“Grazie,” I say, and he says something back to me with a huge smile, but I just smile and nod because I’ve already used up the extent of my Italian.

“Here,” I say, handing one of them to Alex. “I may not know shit about Sicilian geography, but even I know that we need to get a cannoli while we’re here.”

I take a big bite, and my eyes roll into the back of my head. It’s flaky and creamy and perfect. It’s everything.

When I look at Alex, though, he’s not eating his. He’s staring at me.

“You can really eat,” he says, and he’s smiling, but I feel suddenly self-conscious.

“Yeah? So?”

“It’s just last night, at dinner. You barely ate anything. I think I saw you take maybe two bites before you left.”

“Okay. Again, creeper,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And that was last night when the whole boat was rocking and my stomach was threatening to vacate everything in it. I have to make up for the lost time now.”