'Little bold one'

Complicated beginning

It's not how I wanted it to be. Suddenly, my mother interrupting my adolescence, picking up my whole Italian life and sending me to a place where they think Italian food is pure pasta. England.
We were on the flight, waving goodbye to the sun-kissed, glowing trees, gently swaying in the golden sun. Waving goodbye to the bustling, colour filled markets where they sold stone-baked bread, fresh pastas and cheeses and my all time favourite tangy lemonade that cooled my searing body. Not anymore.
Our move was in conjunction with my mother meeting an English professor in The University of Trieste where she was doing a Masters in Italian poetry. She was head over hills for him or as w Italians say "a testa in giù"! He was near the same age as my mum but the only problem was he lived in England and persuaded her, us to join him and his son Clarke.
Life was alright at the beginning. Clarke was alright. In fact he was more than alright, he listened. Even though he was my new found step brother, it didn't feel like it. With his golden-brown, messy hair and his glistening hazel eyes, he listened to me. Finally someone who listened to my thoughts that were desperate to spill out of my silent mouth. To express themselves in something only certain people would understand and Clarke was one of the first.