Page 32 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter Twenty

I go into the living room, scoop Isa up and turn on “Best Day of My Life” by American Authors.

We dance, and I belt out the lyrics at the top of my lungs.

I feel like I’m at Disneyland on Christmas, and I’ve just downed a case of Red Bull.

When the song’s over, we lay in a heap on the couch, and I plan my next steps.

I turn my phone over to Isa to take command of the playlist. Then I go onto the UC San Diego Visual Arts College website and pull up the application for the photography program.

It’s intense. I don’t have any of the prerequisite classes the other applicants will probably have.

But the application says those are encouraged but not required.

There’s an essay, letters of recommendation, and a long list of photography samples they need.

My brain is fizzing with excitement and then I see the deadline and my stomach drops like a broken elevator.

The deadline to apply is tomorrow.

My heart starts pounding, and within seconds, my whole body is covered in sweat. I can’t pull this off. I need more time. Isa notices me hyperventilating on the couch and comes over.

“ Cosa c’e che no va ?” Isa asks. What’s wrong?

“I’ve got a big project due, and I’m not sure I’ll get it all done in time.”

Isa says, “You can do anything.”

That’s all she says, but the look in her eyes is so sincere and confident, I take a deep breath and channel my thoughts into an action plan.

I reach out to my two favorite professors from last year and ask for a letter of recommendation adding that I need it by tomorrow and promising all kinds of Italian treats in return.

Then I jump into the photo section. The application asks for six different photo samples: portrait, landscape, action, still life, architectural, and photojournalism. I don’t even know what the last one means.

I pull up the folder of all the photos I’ve taken since I’ve been here.

I feel frantic, but Isa’s surprisingly calm presence next to me grounds me.

I quiet my mind and take my time sorting through.

I find my action shot right away. It’s the snowball fight in Switzerland.

Paolo is running from Diego, and Carmen is sneaking up behind Jake.

“Just looking at that makes me feel cold,” Isa says, and I take it as a good sign.

I move on to landscapes and pull up three I took in Florence. With Isa’s help, I choose the best one and then go looking for a portrait.

I stumble onto a photo I don’t even remember taking. It’s Isa at the park. She’s holding a frog, and her eyes are wide, and her mouth is a little ‘O’ of surprise. Her delight and wonder jump off the page.

“That’s me!” Isa says pleased.

“It is,” I say. “Do you mind if I use it?”

“I think you’d better. It’s the best one.”

For the still life, I choose a photo of a caprese salad I ordered at a restaurant near Parco Sempione with Jake.

Bright red slices of tomato topped with creamy white chunks of mozzarella and dark green basil leaves.

The whole thing is drizzled with a violet vinaigrette glaze. It makes my mouth water.

I’m feeling good. Four down, two to go. I check the time. We’ve got another hour and a half until Marco and Sofia come home. They’re laid back people, but I know they feel like they don’t get enough time with Isa, and I want to be there when they get home from work.

“Okay, Isa, we’ve got two more photos we need. Should we head downtown and find them?”

“Yes!” she says and leaps off the couch.

Her enthusiasm pumps me up, and by the time we walk out the front door, we’re skipping and leaping and bounding to the bus stop.

I’m doing the math in my head. Thirty minutes to get downtown, thirty minutes to take two amazing photos and then thirty minutes home. It’ll be tight, but we can do it.

Until we can’t. The bus makes it less than three blocks before dying in the middle of traffic.

We wait thirty minutes for a mechanic to come and twenty more while he tries to fix it.

At this point, Isa and I are the only ones still on the bus.

Everyone else figured out a long time ago that this bus isn’t making it downtown today.

My shoulders slump with frustration and anxiety.

Maybe there are some amazing photos I missed when Isa and I looked through them?

But deep down, I know we would’ve spotted them if they were that good. And I can’t submit photos that aren’t good. I’ve got one shot at this.

“It will be okay,” Isa says.

“Of course it will,” I say. But I’m lying to make her feel good. Inside, I’m filled with doubt.

After dinner I call Jake. I’m euphoric at being so close to my dream and panicked I won’t get my application in on time. My words come out fast and crazy like a squirrel who’s had an espresso and is trying to explain quantum physics.

“Hold on, I want to make sure I have this right,” Jake says. “Your parents are selling the dry-cleaning business?”

“Yes!”

“And you get to be a photographer?”

“Yes!”

“But the deadline for your application is tomorrow?”

“Yes!”

“Was there something in there about coffee? Have you had some coffee tonight?”

“The guy who’s buying the place is turning it into a coffee shop. I haven’t had any coffee tonight.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“I think it’s adrenaline. My heart has been pounding for the last five hours. That’s normal, right?”

“Maybe take some deep breaths.”

“Ooh, that’s a good idea.”

We breathe together on the phone, and it sounds silly, but just hearing Jake’s deep breaths calms some of the panic rising in me.

“You can do this,” Jake says. “You deserve this. You deserve every good thing.”

* * *

By the next day, my nerves are shot. My application is due in less than twelve hours, and I’m missing two photos. I stayed up crazy late writing an essay on What Photography Means to Me and filling out all the questions on the application.

I drag myself out of bed and bring Isa to school, then call Maggie and fill her in on everything.

She’s known about my secret dream of being a photographer for years, but we never talked about it openly.

She knew, like I did, that it wasn’t really an option for me.

When I give her the news, she whoops and hollers like she’s just won the lottery.

Then she listens while I read her my essay and go over every application question.

By the time I get off the phone, Maggie’s hyped me up so much I feel like I could conquer a small island nation.

Or at the very least take two photographs.

I hold onto that feeling as I take the tram downtown, fighting valiantly to keep the doubt from crashing in.

When we reach the piazza and I step off the tram onto the worn cobblestones, Il Duomo is waiting for me like a gothic fantasy.

I can’t imagine a better subject for an architectural photo. The tension in my neck starts to ease.

I can do this.

It takes a while to capture il Duomo in all its colossal glory.

I remember the frustration I felt the first time I tried to photograph it.

Eventually, I find an angle that allows me to get the whole thing from the steps filled with people to the spires filled with gargoyles.

It involves lying on my belly in the middle of the piazza, but it turns out so well it's worth it.

One down, one to go.

From what I learned, photojournalism is about telling a story. All the examples of photojournalism I could find online were about war or natural disasters. I sit on the steps and wait for an earthquake to hit. Nothing.

I watch the people in the piazza go about their mornings to the soundtrack of downtown traffic.

There’s some honking and commotion at the corner of the piazza .

I watch an old Italian man climb out of his car and wave his arms at a young man on a Vespa who cut him off.

It’s the kind of scene you see at least twice a week.

I remember telling my mom the story of an especially funny incident my first week here.

I thought it was going to come to blows, but in the end, the two men drove off.

The thought of storytelling triggers my brain.

I grab my camera as fast as I can. I’m not sure if I’m close enough.

I focus the shot as close as it will go and then zoom out a little to capture a wide view of the scene.

I take shot after shot of the old man yelling and the young man looking away.

I snap until both men drive off. I’m not sure if it’s what the photography department has in mind, but I think it tells a pretty good story of Italian road rage.

I ride a wave of triumph all the way to Isa’s school.

I got my shots. I can feel it. I’ll need a few hours to make my final decision on the photos I took today, plus edit all the photos I chose yesterday and review the rest of my application and essay.

But I should be able to get it all done in time.

I’m feeling so good it takes me a minute to register Isa’s sour face.

“Failed your calculus exam?” I guess.

She shoots me a dark look. “I forgot my caterpillar project.”

“Tell me about your caterpillar project.”

“It’s a big project that shows the life cycle of a caterpillar, from tiny egg to big butterfly. They were due today, and I didn’t have mine.”

“Because you forgot it at home?” I don’t remember seeing this thing.

“Because I forgot to do it.”

“Oh.”

“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 are really good. 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.