Page 2 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

“Why did she quit?” I ask Isa in a super casual, not-a-big-deal sort of way.

Isa looks at me with wide innocent eyes, and I know before she even opens her mouth that the next words she speaks will be a lie.

“I have no idea,” she says. She maintains strong eye contact, daring me to ask a follow-up question. Are all six-year-olds this intimidating?

“Sofia and I will be home by 6:00 p.m.,” Marco continues in a rush. “You’re welcome to eat dinner with us, but when you meet your friends, I’m sure you’ll want to go out in the evening, and that’s fine too.” He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a black cell phone and hands it to me.

“The phone is on us, you can just pay to put more minutes on the card as it runs out. It’s already full of numbers. There’s a nice group of friends our previous nannies have spent time with, and I’m sure they’ll be calling soon.”

Marco pulls into a tiny parking lot full of tiny cars just like his.

There are four tall apartment buildings surrounded by trees.

With Marco’s help, I lug my suitcases to apartment building C.

The elevator is too small for all of us to go up at once, so Marco brings me up first and Sofia and Isabella follow.

As soon as Isabella walks in the door she gives me a tour, pointing out doors and windows, as if being American, I might not recognize such things.

The Rossis’ apartment is small, but bright.

The couch is the dark red of sundried tomatoes, and the curtains are a sheer, sunny yellow.

I catch a balcony to the right and a kitchen to the left before Isa drags me down the hall to my room.

It’s perfect. Small and cozy, with a wardrobe tucked in one corner and bed and nightstand tucked in the other.

The bed has a turquoise comforter and two giant pillows with striped pillowcases.

Isa settles onto the bed and offers commentary on each item in my suitcase as I unpack.

Marco is a fashion designer, and Isabella has strong opinions on clothes.

“That’s a lot of jeans,” she says. “Why do you have so many?”

“I wear them everywhere,” I say, and Isabella furrows her brow.

“Do you work in construction?” she asks.

I laugh and shake my head. “No.”

“Then you’re wearing the wrong clothes,” she says straight-faced. “You’ll be the only one at school pick-up wearing jeans. But don’t worry. I will tell you all the clothes you should be wearing instead. You’re lucky to have me.”

I laugh. “I think you’re right.”

I like this girl. She’s funny and smart. This nanny gig is going to be a breeze.

* * *

“I would rather light myself on fire!”

Isa punctuates this proclamation by throwing a fistful of colored pencils all over the kitchen. Her eyes are wild, and her fine hair sticks out from her head like the halo of an angry god.

The homework page she’s supposed to color lies on the dark mahogany table next to her overturned backpack.

My first full day as a nanny has been…challenging. Isa was scowly and grumbling in the morning, but who isn’t? She threw a plate against the wall when Sofia put the wrong snack in her bag, but who hasn’t?

Sofia edges along the counter toward Isa’s position by the fridge. She moves slowly, so as not to enrage Isa further. Marco left for Portugal this morning for a fashion summit of some sort, so Sofia’s on her own.

“ Mi piccolo topino ,” she says, calling Isa her little mouse. “It’s just one page. You can do one page. One tiny little page, amore ?”

“I would not color those triangles if you gave me a million gazillion euros!”

Yikes. Good luck with that one, Sofia . This is when I’m glad I’m the nanny and not the mom. I tiptoe down the plush gray carpet to my room but stop at the door. Wait. Is helping with homework supposed to be part of my job?

I creep back down the hall and peek around the corner to make sure Sofia has it all under control. She does not have it under control. She has the eyes of a sickly wildebeest facing a hungry lion.

If my mom were here, she would whip Isa into shape in no time. She raised five kids and not a single one of us would dare raise our voice at her. But I’m not my mom, and I don’t know how to whip people into shape.

I think for a minute, then zip to my room and grab the adult coloring book I brought for the plane ride. It has underwater scenes that are supposed to be relaxing to color. By the time I return to the kitchen, Isa’s standing on her chair shrieking.

“ Scusi , Isa, could I borrow a few of your pencils? I can’t find mine.”

Isa and Sofia look at me startled. Isa blinks.

“Maybe just three?” I ask and bend over to pick up three colored pencils from the tile floor. I make sure Isa gets a good look at the cover of my coloring book. “ Ti va bene ?” Is that okay?

Isa nods her head and goes back to screaming, but it’s not quite as loud.

I walk to the living room, leaving the kitchen door open behind me so Isa can see me settle into a navy armchair, select a page and begin coloring.

“No, I won’t!” She’s still yelling in the kitchen, but it’s clear she’s distracted. “Leave me alone!” she yells at Sofia, and I hear Sofia murmur something as she leaves the kitchen and heads to her bedroom.

It takes thirty seconds for Isa to stomp over to my chair.

“ Che ci fai ?” she demands. What are you doing?

“I’m coloring,” I tell her. “Thanks for lending me your pencils. They’re really nice.”

“That doesn’t look like any of my coloring books,” she says.

“It’s not. It’s a coloring book for grownups. My mom got it in a special store.”

Her brow furrows as she works up the courage to ask for a page, but I don’t make it easy for her. I keep coloring as though I don’t notice her opening and closing her mouth.

Finally she asks, “Could I have a page from your book to color? Per favore ?”

“Of course,” I reply immediately. “Choose any page you’d like.”

She takes her time and finally settles on an ocean scene with a tortoise and some jellyfish.

She carefully pulls the page out and sets it on the black and chrome coffee table.

I go back to coloring my dolphins, and she heads to the kitchen and picks up all the pencils she threw.

She comes back and lays them out on the table next to her page.

We color in companionable silence for twenty minutes. In my head, I make a list of positive things about Isa.

1. She didn’t cry at school drop off this morning, when most of the other kids did.

2. She’s funny. Calling our bus driver a monkey face was mean, but also hilarious.

3. She’s got a pretty good arm. Those pencils went everywhere.

“Do you like coloring?” Isa asks me.

“I do,” I say. “It helps me calm down.”

“Me too,” she says.

She finishes the tortoise and shows it to me proudly.

“I think you have real talent,” I say, meaning it. “I bet you could color anything and make it look awesome.”

I can’t tell if I’m being too obvious, so I keep my head down and color my seaweed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her go to the kitchen and come back with her homework page.

It takes her two minutes to complete it.

“Nice pattern,” I say.

“I think you should have made the dolphins bluer,” she says of my picture. “All the dolphins I’ve seen look bluer.”

“That’s a good tip for next time,” I say as Sofia comes into the living room.

“ Tesoro ! You finished your homework!”

Isa scowls. “Yes, I finished. It took two seconds.”

Neither one of them mentions the fifteen minutes of hysterics that preceded it.

“Well, I’m headed to bed,” I say. I lean over and give Isa a kiss on the head. “ Buonanotte. ” Good night.

I brush my teeth, change into my pajamas and snuggle under my turquoise comforter and check my email. I have a sweet message from my mom and dad, and an email from Sharon, my college adviser.

Sharon is a large woman, who swears a lot and hugs a lot and gets things done.

I know she had to do some fast talking to get the scholarship office to sign off on this year in Milan.

When the school is paying your tuition, they don’t love it when you take off to Europe.

Sharon pointed out that it would be a good educational experience.

And I’m pretty sure she bribed them with front row tickets to all the home basketball games.

Her son is the starting forward, and the team is on fire this year.

She reminds me to pick out my classes for next year and get them to her by the end of the month so they can get approved by the scholarship office.

I look at the list and my eyes glaze over.

I would rather swim naked with piranhas than sit through a class called Statistical Analysis of Supply Chain Economics.

I’ll choose my classes tomorrow, when I’ve had another day to settle in.

I’m about to turn off the lamp on the nightstand when there’s a soft knock on my door.

“Come on in,” I call.

Sofia opens the door and takes a tiny step inside.

“I just wanted to say thank you for helping with Isa tonight,” she says. “She can be pretty stubborn...”

“No problem,” I say. I give her my most confident smile.

When she leaves, I admit the truth to myself: that creature hurling colored pencils and shrieking is more velociraptor than child. I turn out the light and pull the blanket all the way up to my chin. What in the world have I gotten into ?