Defending Irene Read Online Free

”
    â€œCiao,” I echoed.
    â€œSee? Wasn’t that easy?” Mom beamed at me. It was the same expression she’d worn when I stepped off the bus on the first day of kindergarten. “And you were so worried about making new friends. What will you and Giulia do together?”
    â€œOh, she’s planning on jumping off a bridge, so I probably will too.”
    â€œNo, really,” Mom said.
    â€œWe’re just going to hang out at the middle school after lunch the day after tomorrow. That’s all.” I walked back to the table and started piling silverware onto a serving platter. The sooner I could clear the table, the sooner I could get away.
    Instead of continuing the interrogation, Mom told Max to help me. My brother and I dodged around each other in the narrow space between the table and polished granite countertops, murmuring insults in Italian. The kitchen was half the size of the one back home, and so was the fridge. Fortunately, the dishwasher was full size. I managed to load most of the pots and pans instead of having to scrub them by hand.
    While we worked, Dad talked to Mom about his first few days in the plant as the new manager from corporate headquarters. Mom told Dad about our trip to the grocery store and how the cereal took up a scant six feet of shelf space while pasta had almost an entire aisle. Eventually, their conversation drifted back to soccer: the fields, the lights, the clubhouse, the coaches, and the low price. By the time Mom reached the absence of concession-stand duty and fund-raisers, she sounded much more positive.
    â€œIrene can even ride to practice on her bike. I won’t have to drive her to the field and watch her being run over by the other players. And there’s even a team van that takes them to away games.”
    â€œI want to go to all the games,” Dad said.
    And so on.
    I left quickly, sliding my stocking feet along the polished wooden hallway all the way to my tiny room. At least I had a room of my own. A lot of Italian kids didn’t. We were very lucky that my dad’s company had been able to find us this three-bedroom, furnished apartment. It took up the entire fourth floor of a late–nineteenth century house. The stone walls were two feet thick, covered with a smooth yellow stucco on the outside and plaster on the inside. It was a big change from my two-year-old house in Missouri with plastic siding on the outside and plasterboard on the inside.
    I dodged my cleats, which were lying in the middle of the floor, and tumbled onto my bed. The wrought iron bedstead rattled, but held. The only other pieces of furniture in my room were an old, slightly scratched desk of inlaid wood and a wardrobe for my clothes. It must have been assembled where it stood because it would have been too large to fit through the door. Faded prints of local landmarks and people wearing old-fashioned dirndls and woolen jackets hung on the walls. My bulletin board, with its bright color photos of Lindy, Dorothy, Jeanie, and my other friends and teammates, filled what had been a bare spot over the desk. It looked so out of place. Like me on the soccer field this afternoon? Maybe. Probably. Definitely.
    I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands. Why did we have to come here? I blamed Mom as much as Dad. At least Dad had been worried about pulling Max and me out of school for a year. But Mom had swept aside every objection. Wouldn’t it be good for us to immerse ourselves in our Italian heritage? Wouldn’t it be wonderful for Max and me to see the nonni, our Italian grandparents, once every few months instead of once every few years? And just how would Dad explain turning down the job to his mother? The last question had put an end to the discussion. Now I had to live with the consequences.
    At least my chance to meet Giulia was a bright spot. Would she be a friend? Or maybe even a teammate?

5
Impossibile (im-poh-SEE-bee-lay)