Page 10

Inner Isla rears her devious head. Smile, Liv. Flies prefer honey, remember?

I force my lips to curve upwards. But pretending to find Giulio funny is like swallowing an entire barrel of vinegar.

My heart sinks when he gets up and leans over the counter, eyeing me as I pour two small bottles of lemony cedrata into glasses filled with ice. ‘Hope you’re paying for that, Scotland.You’re supposed to be helping Nina, not guzzling her profits, remember?’

‘Don’t worry, Ma’s on it with the takings.’ My eyes slide to where she’s tucked into a corner with a calculator, rifling through a box file like she’s lost something. She’s so focused, she hasn’t even noticed I’m back from Italian class.

Giulio goes still, his cow eyes holding mine for a beat longer than they should.

Is he worried Ma knows something? Or I do?

I plaster on another syrupy smile and grab our drinks as he rushes back to his table.

He’s stuffing his textbook into his backpack when I pass and, for a second, I think I spot the edge of a bank statement, similar to the ones in Ma’s file, sticking out from between the pages.

He follows me outside and starts talking to Kenzi the way some people speak to Ma and Pa in Scotland – the way some customers speak to me. Loud and slow, like she’s stupid.

‘How. Was. Your. Lesson?’

Kenzi raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, and I grin as she points to Giulio’s table and fires back in perfect Italian, ‘Hey, I recognize that textbook you were looking at. What liceo do you go to?’

His head jerks back in surprise. ‘Ehm...I go to Liceo Visconti. It’s just off—’

‘I know where it is,’ Kenzi interrupts. ‘I’ve heard they have an excellent Latin programme.’

I smirk as Giulio’s face cycles through a host of emotions – confusion, suspicion, embarrassment and finally, a grudging admiration.

He runs a hand through his hair, which, annoyingly, falls back into its perfect mussed-up style.

‘So you met Livia at Italian class? Isn’t that. ..too easy for you?’

I flap my hands at Kenzi behind Giulio’s back, silently begging her not to spill the beans about our mind-numbingly basic Italian class. I can just see Giulio’s smug grin if he finds out I’ve spent three hours saying ‘ Ciao, come ti chiami?’ while he’s been conjugating verbs in Latin.

Kenzi gives me the slightest of nods. ‘Oh, it’s a new experimental programme. We’ll be looking at various dialects across Italy.’ She leans back in her chair; her feet, encased in chunky fisherman sandals that would look frumpy on me, are planted wide apart, giving her a confident air.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing as Giulio’s eyelid twitches. ‘I signed Livia up myself and it was definitely language lessons.’

Kenzi waves her hand. ‘It’s a free upgrade for those of us who aced the placement test they gave us at the beginning of the lesson.’

I swallow a smile. Even I’m half convinced by Kenzi’s quickly concocted lies.

‘Right, well...’ He rocks back on his heels. ‘I’d better get back. Some of us have work to do.’

I hold it together until he’s out of earshot, stifling my laughter behind my hand. ‘Where did that come from?’

Kenzi shrugs. ‘Trust me, when you’ve got an older brother who’s always trying to ruin your fun, you get good at lying. What’s the deal with you two anyway?’

I give her the lowdown on Giulio, surprised at how easily the words come. I’m not even self-conscious about my accent, like I am when I speak to Nina and Giulio, though I know I’m making a few mistakes.

‘So...why are you taking classes?’ I ask when I finish. I’ve been dying to know all afternoon, but we ran out of time during our little group chat.

Kenzi swirls the ice cubes in her drink with her straw. ‘It’s a blood thing.’

NOT the answer I was expecting. She must see this because she leans forward, like Isla does when she’s sharing a secret.

‘You’ve got Italian parents, right?’

I nod.

‘And Sofia’s got an Italian nonno, sì ?’

I nod again.

‘Well, I don’t have any Italian relatives, so I’m not entitled to Italian citizenship, even though I was born here and have never been to Morocco in my life...or any other country for that matter.’

My mouth falls open. ‘What?’

‘I can apply to be Italian when I’m eighteen. My brother’s going through the process now.’ She pauses to sip her drink. ‘He’s the one who convinced my parents that having a language certificate will boost my application. Even if it’s just from a summer intensive.’

My knee bounces under the table, irritated on her behalf – and my own.

Technically, I’m entitled to an Italian passport, but Ma and Pa have never bothered applying for one.

Maybe they don’t see me as truly Italian, not in the way they are.

But would it even matter? My British passport doesn’t make me feel British, and Kenzi’s is from a country she’s never even set foot in.

‘Does it bother you?’ I ask. ‘Having to come to class?’

‘It did...until Mama told my brother he’d have to babysit our little sister while I’m there.’ She flashes a toothy grin. ‘That’ll teach him to interfere.’

I sip my own drink, savouring the sugary citrus tang. Then another question pops up in my head. ‘So...do you speak Arabic, then?’

Kenzi makes a so-so gesture with her hand. ‘We speak it at home, but Italian’s my first language.’

I sigh. ‘I bet your Moroccan accent isn’t as bad as my Italian one.’

‘Ha! Just ask my—’

But before Kenzi finishes her reply, one of the men playing cards leans back in his chair and asks, ‘Did you say you speak Arabic?’ His question makes Kenzi stiffen, but then he adds, ‘Do you write it, too?’

Kenzi nods but doesn’t say anything as the man hands her a crumpled note from his wallet.

‘Could you write “one tablet, three times a day after meals” here, and “once a day on an empty stomach” here?’

Kenzi pulls a pen from her bag and chews thoughtfully on the cap as she writes. ‘I think that’s it,’ she says, handing back the paper.

‘Grazie. You’ve been very helpful.’ The man taps her hand gently with the folded note before going back to his card game.

‘What was that about?’ I whisper, leaning in.

Kenzi sighs. ‘Looks like he’s trying to help someone. Lots of immigrants rely on other people to translate prescriptions and stuff, especially us second-generation kids. It’s a whole thing.’

I nod. Before Isla became one of the family, she found it strange that Ma and Pa would call me from my room to make phone calls for them, or that I’m the one who speaks to the waiters when we eat out.

The day before we came to Rome, I helped Pa fill out a form to renew his driver’s licence.

Stuff like that is second nature to me. And I realize there’s more to straddling two cultures than getting an accent right or drinking cappuccinos at the right time of day – teenagers like Kenzi and me are like bridges between two places, with a foot on either side.