Cindy and the Prom King Page 9

  He walked her back to the salon where she worked, then he went to Manderley for soccer practice. While he was changing into his soccer shoes he wondered what it would be like to have an American girlfriend. It probably wasn’t a good idea even though it wouldn’t be bad for his English. It would only be short-term. He had no idea where he’d be next year. Probably back in Italy, unless his grades, his soccer skill and his English were good enough to get him into an American university. A girlfriend, even one as intriguing as Cindy, would just be a distraction now. But he was tempted. And Marco wasn’t used to resisting temptation.

  twenty-three

  A kiss that’s never tasted, is forever and ever wasted.

  —Billie Holiday

  On Monday morning Cindy was in the twins’ car and she was once again a captive audience, listening to them rant about their college application essays.

  “Cindy, you’re a good writer. You can write them for us.” “That would be cheating,” Cindy said primly from her usual seat behind them in the jeep.

  “Flash!” Lauren said to Brie. “That’s cheating. Did you hear that, Brie?”

  “Look, smart-ass, you owe us something,” Lauren said. “For what?” Cindy asked. For letting her sleep in a closet under the stairs? For not kicking her out of the house and sending her to a foster home? For working at the spa all summer while they were at Cheer Camp?

  “For everything we’ve done for you. Driving you to school, for one thing. Giving you the clothes off our backs, for another. For letting you go to our school. You’re probably wondering why anyone’s nice to you at all, being such a geek. Here’s why. Because they think you’ll put in a good word for them with us. As if.”

  “I’m not writing the essays for you,” Cindy said with a newfound determination. “But I’ll look at them and make suggestions if you want.”

  “Look at them?” Brie asked. “There’s nothing to look at. Just blank pages. How’re we supposed to know what to write?”

  “Write about what’s important to you.” Boys, booze, clothes, yourselves. “What makes you special, different from everyone else.”

  “Like cheerleading,” Lauren said.

  “That’s good,” Cindy said. “Write about how dangerous it is, how challenging. Explain why you do it instead of something else.” Something worthwhile like helping refugees in Darfur or taking care of sick children in Romania.

  “But we both can’t write the same essay,” Lauren said, her pouty lips turned down.

  “That’s a problem,” Cindy said trying to hide a smile.

  “Please?” Brie said. “You’re so good at it. Just write two little essays about cheerleading for us?”

  Cindy sighed. When was the last time either one of them had said the word please? She was too tired to argue anymore. And what good would it do?

  “Okay,” she said. But she was mad at herself for giving in. This was it. The last time she’d let them push her around.

  At least she gave them each an assignment to write a rough draft of their essay. They grumbled, and she realized even that was asking too much of them and they probably wouldn’t bother.

  The person she really wanted to help had sent her a note canceling his session with her. Since their lunch Saturday she had been looking forward to seeing him with breathless anticipation. Ciao, bella, he’d written in a note he handed her on Monday. Being called beautiful in Italian gave her a funny little feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Scusi, he went on, but I am how to say purtroppo.? Not able to see you for the tutoring next Friday became of the soccer game which requires me. Coach tells me he likes the way I play. “Ruthless, aggressive and without mercy,” he says. I looked up these words in my Italian dictionary and I guess he’s right. That’s how we win in soccer or poker too. Do you agree? You know if l am a rebel, but am I really like this? Tu amico fedele, Marco.

  Never having seen Marco play soccer or poker, Cindy had no idea if he was ruthless or without mercy when playing. Trying to hide her disappointment, she then changed her schedule to work in the dean’s office Friday after school, though her friends at Castle wanted her to do something with them. Her stepmother also demanded that she work for her, but Cindy put her off. And there was that soccer game. Victoria wanted Cindy to go with her. But Marco hadn’t even suggested that she go to it. Was that because he didn’t think the game was important or thought that she wasn’t important?

  Yes, he’d bought her lunch, but that wasn’t a date. It was just because he felt guilty for leaving her out after the dance. She told herself a sandwich was just a sandwich, as much as she wished it was more than that.

  twenty-four

  Always tell the truth. That way, you don’t have to remember what you said.

  —Mark Twain

  On Friday afternoon Cindy was putting in her work-study hours. The school offices were empty since the staff members had either gone home or were at the soccer game. There was a warm breeze wafting through the quiet office on the first floor of the mansion. Cindy tried to imagine what life was like when Gertrude Manderley had lived there, entertaining her feminist bluestocking friends, smoking cigars and discussing the latest literary or political figures. Her cell phone rang.

  “Cindy,” Lizzie said. “We’re going to the beach today. I’ll come by your rich snob school to pick you up.”

  “I can’t. I have to work in the office.”

  “Work? Nobody works after school on a Friday.”

  “I know, but I owe them certain hours and since my tutoring session got canceled…”

  “Is it that cute Toby you’re tutoring?”

  “He’s not that cute and I’m not tutoring him. No, it’s someone else.” It wasn’t that long ago that Cindy used to tell her BFF everything. Now she was keeping Marco a secret. Why? Because she was afraid they’d tell her she was a hopeless dreamer? She already knew that. “And then there’s a soccer game I might go to. It’s the first home game of the season.”

  “Soccer? You’ve never been interested in organized sports before.”

  If she wanted to keep Marco a secret, Toby might make a good decoy. It was about time he was good for something.

  “Well, Toby might be there.” It wasn’t a lie. He probably would be there. As long as he was somewhere across the field, she could point to him. That’s Toby, she’d say. And Lizzie would understand. As long as he didn’t come up close and she could see what he was really like.

  “I get it,” Lizzie said. “Come with us for once. You never have time for us anymore. New school, new friends, new boyfriend. What about us?”

  “I’m sorry, but… I wish I could go but I can’t,” Cindy said. Why go on about the increased workload at this school, the new point system, her stepmother’s spa and work-study. It wouldn’t do any good. Lizzie just didn’t understand.

  “You can if you want to. I’m going home to get Buzz. He loves to run on the beach.”

  “See, you’ve got a dog. And friends. You don’t need me.”

  “Yeah, but you need us. See you in a while.”

  “No, wait, Liz, I can’t go with you.” But she’d hung up. Cindy gave a frustrated sigh. Her friends just didn’t understand how quickly her free time was sucked up.

  First, none of them was an orphan. Second, not one of them was here at Manderley where there were high expectations and a heavy homework load and new rules every day. And third, they didn’t tutor or have a demanding stepmother who owned a spa. Also, she didn’t want her old friends to come to the soccer game. They might guess she had a hopeless crush on Marco. Which was why she was going to use Toby if she had to.

  Also, Lizzie and the BFF would instantly see how different life was on the other side of town and they’d wonder out loud how she could stand it. They’d either be envious or they’d feel sorry for her.

  How was she going to reconcile her two worlds? Wasn’t it better not to even try? She was at Manderley now and there was no going back to her old life.

  She tr
ied to call Lizzie back but she didn’t answer. Cindy left her a message.

  “Liz, I really can’t go anywhere today. After I work here I have to go to the spa and fold towels or Irina will hit the roof. Thanks for asking me. You know how I love the beach, but maybe some other day?”

  Cindy didn’t know what day that would be. She felt terrible lying to her best friend, but wasn’t lying better than hurting someone’s feelings?

  twenty-five

  My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. She’s ninety-seven now, and we don’t know where the hell she is.

  —Ellen DeGeneres

  Cindy went back to her filing until she heard the sharp sound of a woman’s voice in the hall speaking a foreign language. After having listened in secret to several Italian language tapes, Cindy knew enough to almost understand a few words. Especially when those words were “Marco Valenti.”

  The next thing she knew a tiny old woman dressed in a long black dress and black shoes with her hair pulled back from her small, wrinkled face entered the office and pounded her cane on the polished floorboards. “Marco Valenti,” she said loudly. “Desidero vedere il mio nipote!”

  Cindy dropped a folder and the papers inside it scattered.

  She was so stunned she just stood and stared at her. The woman stared back and repeated the sentence more loudly this time. Her dark eyes glittered. Then she waved her cane in the air. She was obviously frustrated, but who was she and what did she want? She wanted Marco, of course.

  There was only one person who knew for sure. One person who could understand her. And he was playing in a crucial soccer match today. At least that’s what the student newspaper said.

  Cindy smiled encouragingly and pointed to a chair. The old woman shook her head. Cindy reached for her pocket Italian dictionary in her backpack and quickly thumbed through it.

  Then she spoke clearly and slowly with what must have been a horrible accent, “Ciao. State cercando il vostro nipote?” Hello. Are you looking for your grandson?

  “Si,” the woman said, then burst into a long tirade as if Cindy could understand her.

  Cindy nodded. Then she grabbed her backpack and her clarinet, took the old lady’s arm and led her down the steps and across the grass toward the field. All the while Marco’s grandmother never stopped talking. Now where had she come from out of the blue? Sometimes she appeared to ask Cindy a question, which Cindy didn’t understand, of course. Cindy could only continue to smile until her face hurt. She hoped the grandmother didn’t think she was being rude by not talking. Had that one sentence convinced her that Cindy actually spoke and understood Italian?

  The soccer field was on the other side of campus but the cheers and shouts from the students carried across the green lawns. Cindy felt her heart rate speed up. Soccer must be exciting after all. Or was it Marco who made it exciting? She had a feeling he could make checkers exciting.

  She was surprised at how fast the old lady walked, with her cane in one hand, a handbag over one arm and her other hand on Cindy’s arm. As if she knew where they were going and why. It was as if she didn’t want to miss a minute of her grandson’s performance. Cindy understood that.

  The field was clear of players, but Cindy saw her sisters performing their gymnastics in front of the stands with their team. As they jumped and twisted to the music, high-kicking and showing off their curvy streamlined bodies, she had to admit it took some talent and a lot of energy. But Marco’s grandmother’s eyes widened. She pointed at them and shook her head, her forehead creased in a frown.

  “Prostitute! Difettosi delle ragazzi,” she said. Good thing she didn’t know those girls were semi-related to her.

  Cindy found a space in the front row of the bleachers for Marco’s grandmother and herself and they sat down quickly without her scanning the stands to see if she recognized anyone she knew. If his grandmother attracted curious glances for even a moment, Cindy didn’t want to know about it. Anyway, when the game resumed, everyone’s attention went back to the players who were racing up and down the field.

  Even Cindy, who’d never seen a soccer game before, caught the fever. She saw instantly that Marco was the star. He kicked the ball down the field, making his way steadily through a crowd of players who were trying with no success to stop him and take his ball away. He looked as if he’d hardly broken a sweat. Aggressive? Definitely. Ruthless? Not that she could tell.

  The home crowd roared their approval as he kicked a goal. They copied the Europeans and shouted “goooooal.” There was scarcely a break before the action began once again. And once again it was Marco who got the ball and began another trip to the goal posts. He made it look so effortless. Maybe it was.

  His grandmother saw him before he saw her. The old lady dropped her cane, stood without help and shouted, “Marco, mi caro nipote piccolo!”

  How Marco ever heard his grandmother’s voice with all the shouting going on, Cindy never knew. It was clear, however, that he did hear her. He’d just bounced the ball off his head to a team member when he glanced over at the stand where they were sitting, saw them, and looked as startled as if he’d been struck by lightning. Cindy wasn’t sure if it was just surprise or dismay. Whatever it was, he lost his concentration and his sense of direction. Not only that, he almost lost the ball to the other team who, sensing his distraction, rushed him.

  Marco’s grandmother got to her feet and started walking toward the field. Cindy jumped to her feet and went after her. For a woman her age, she had surprising speed. Maybe that’s where Marco got it.

  Cindy wondered if she’d ever seen a game before. Didn’t she know she couldn’t get any closer? Apparently not, because the old woman was one step from walking right onto the field when Cindy caught her and put one restraining hand on her frail shoulder.

  Cindy never saw the ball come at her. She did hear the roar of the crowd. And she felt the vibrations in the air. The next thing she knew she’d been hit on the side of the head with a loud smack that sent her sprawling onto the soft ground, and everything went black.

  twenty-six

  There are no accidents. God’s just trying to remain anonymous.

  Brett Butler

  When Cindy came to, she was lying on her back under a tree. Her head was pounding and when she opened her eyes in little slits, everything was bright and blurry. She thought she saw a whole group of slightly familiar faces. If they hadn’t looked so concerned and spoken in such hushed voices, she would have thought she’d died and gone to heaven. If so, they spoke Italian in heaven. Why not?

  “Cio e tutto il mio difetto. Nonna, che cosa state facendo qui?”

  “Marco, sono venuto vederti. Non avete risposto mai alia mia lettera.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” someone asked in English.

  “Who is she?”

  “Did anyone call nine-one-one?”

  Cindy’s eyes widened. 911? They couldn’t do that. An ambulance would come. She’d be taken off on a stretcher. Sirens would sound. It would be so embarrassing. This was bad enough. Cindy forced herself to sit up.

  “I’m fine,” she said weakly. “I just got bumped on the head.”

  “It was my fault,” Marco said.

  So it really was him, his sweaty face looking solemn and concerned as he leaned forward and looked deep into her eyes. She felt a tremor hit her whole body. Good thing she was already on the ground, or she would have fallen.

  “She’s in shock. Somebody get a jacket.”

  Before anyone could offer a jacket, Marco’s grandmother had produced a warm black shawl from her handbag and wrapped it around Cindy’s shoulders.

  “Really, I’m okay,” Cindy said.

  “She’s okay,” Marco said. “Everybody go back to the game. Give her some air. I’m taking her home.”

  Voices rose in protest.

  “But, Marco, we need you.”

  “Marco, we’ll lose without you.”

  He looked at his watch. “Only two minut
es left. You can play without me.” His voice was firm. The star had spoken.

  While Cindy was waiting for Marco to bring his car to the field, she knew she really wasn’t okay. She was delirious. Also she must be hallucinating. The aggressive, play-without-mercy Marco Valenti was taking her home before the game was over? She could hear the cheers echoing in the crisp fall air. Was the two minutes up? Had they won? She hoped so.

  She could imagine her sisters leaping in the air, their hair standing on end, or doing cartwheels, walkovers and back tucks while they celebrated another victory. Maybe she’d shortchanged them. Maybe they had more skill than she’d given them credit for. She sat there, wrapped in a black shawl, her back against an old tree with Marco’s grandmother standing next to her, waving people away like some ancient chaperone from another era and muttering in Italian.

  “Cindy.” Cindy turned her head slowly to see Lizzie with her dog on a leash. “I’m glad I found you. I thought you had to work. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I got hit with a ball, that’s all.”

  “Are you ready? Let’s go.”

  “Uh, no. I don’t think so. I feel a little funny.”

  Lizzie sat down next to Cindy and hugged her knees to her chest. “You look funny. What are you gonna do? Do you want me to take you home?”

  “Somebody already volunteered. You go on to the beach. I’ll be fine.”

  Lizzie glanced up at the strange little figure standing there dressed in black. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

  “She’s someone’s grandmother,” Cindy said.

  “Yeah, I guessed that. But whose? And what’s she doing here?”

  “I… uh … I’ll explain later. And you don’t have to whisper. She doesn’t speak English.”

  “I thought you had to work.”

  “I did.” Cindy sighed. “It’s a long story and my head hurts.”

  Just then Marco pulled up in his Alfa Romeo and Cindy got Liz to help her stand.