I looked down. Leggings and a yellow T-shirt. It’s not like I was dressed as the Statue of Liberty or something. “What’s so American about my outfit?”
“Bright colors. Running shoes . . .” He waved his hand dismissively. “Give it a month or two; you’ll totally get it. A lot of people here won’t go anywhere unless they’re wearing something Gucci.”
“But you’re not wearing Gucci or whatever, right? You’re in soccer clothes.”
He shook his head. “Soccer clothes are exempt. They’re about as Italian as they get. Plus, I am Italian. So everything naturally looks stylish on me.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
“Weren’t you supposed to transfer to AISF in February?” he asked.
“I decided to finish out the school year in Seattle.”
He took his phone out of his back pocket. “Can I take a picture of you?”
“Why?”
“Proof that you exist.”
I said “no” at the exact moment he took the picture.
“Sorry about that, Carolina,” he said, sounding very unsorry. “You should really speak up.”
“You’re saying my name wrong. It looks like ‘Carolina,’ but it sounds like ‘Caroleena.’ And I go by ‘Lina.’?”
“Carolina Caroleena. I like it. Very Italian-sounding.”
He put his headphones back on, then tossed his ball in the air and started playing again. Ren definitely needed some etiquette classes or something. I turned to walk away, but he stopped me again.
“Hey, do you want to come meet my mom? She’s basically starving for American company.”
“No thanks. I have to get back soon to meet up with Howard. He’s taking me into Florence for dinner.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Most restaurants don’t even open until seven. I promise we won’t be gone that long.”
I turned back toward the cemetery, but the thought of facing Howard or the journal again made me shudder. “Is it far?”
“No, just right over there.” He pointed vaguely at a grouping of trees. “It will be fine. And I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything.”
I grimaced. “I didn’t think you were. Until now.”
“I’m way too scrawny to be a serial killer. Also, I hate blood.”
“Ew.” I looked back at the cemetery again, mentally weighing my options. Emotionally challenging journal? Or visit with a socially inept potential serial killer’s mother? Either option was pretty grim.
“Okay, I’ll come with you,” I relented.
“Nice.” He tucked his soccer ball under his arm and we headed for the other side of the hill. He was only about a head taller than me and we both walked quickly.
“So when did you get here again?”
“Last night.”
“So you’re pretty much jet-lagged within an inch of your life right now, right?”
“I actually slept okay last night. But yeah. I kind of feel like I’m underwater. And I have maybe the worst headache of my life.”
“Wait until tonight. The second night is always the worst. Around three a.m. you’re going to be wide-awake and you’ll have to think of weird stuff to keep yourself occupied. Once I climbed a tree.”
“Why?”
“My laptop was out of commission and the only other thing I could come up with was playing Solitaire and I suck at that.”
“I’m really good at Solitaire.”
“And I’m really good at climbing trees. But I don’t believe you. No one is good at Solitaire unless they cheat.”
“No, I really am. People stopped playing games with me when I was in like second grade, so I taught myself how to play Solitaire. On a good day I can finish a game in like six minutes.”
“Why did people stop playing games with you when you were in second grade?”
“Because I always win.”
He stopped walking, a big grin on his face. “You mean because you’re really competitive?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said I always win.”
“Uh-huh. So you haven’t played a game since you were like seven?”
“Just Solitaire.”
“No Go Fish? Uno? Poker?”
“Nothing.”
“Interesting. Look, that’s my house. Race you to the gate.” He broke into a run.
“Hey!” I took off after him, lengthening my stride until I caught up and then passed him, and I didn’t slow down until I hit the gate. I whirled around triumphantly. “Beat you!”
He was standing a few yards back, that stupid grin still on his face. “You’re right. You’re totally not competitive.”
I scowled. “Shut up.”
“We should play Go Fish later.”
“No.”
“Mah-jongg? Bridge?”
“What are you, an old lady?”
He laughed. “Whatever you say, Carolina. And by the way, that isn’t really my house. It’s that one over there.” He pointed to a driveway in the distance. “But I’m not racing you there. Because you’re right—you’d win.”
“Told you.”
We kept walking. Only now I just felt stupid.