The Arthouse

Stefano

Now, if I've learned anything from American television, it's that the only way to survive American high school is to be nice to the school's queen bees. Thankfully, I have the advantage of being a mysterious foreigner with an accent.

The queen bee of the school is one of the many platinum blonde populating this high school. Megan, I think her name is. She's a junior like me, but even the seniors obey her whims. Not to mention, she's single. It's the perfect sitcom scenario for me. If I want even a chance at success, I need to ask her after school. I spent the whole day practicing the sentences I would need to stay.

Trying my luck, I walk up to Megan and say, "Piacere di conoscerla, Megan."

She looks startled for a second, then confused. "Who are you?"

"Oh, uh, I'm the, uh, transfer student, uh-"

"Oh, ew."

"What?" My plan is crashing and burning like a plane. Death seems a more pleasurable option now.

"You're like, nobody. Byeeeee."

I'm glad I'm wearing all black. I can further blend into the shadows. Maybe if I stay in the shadows long enough, I can teleport away from all of this. Maybe I could even teleport back to Venezia.

A familiar voice pierces through my brooding. "She's a bitch. You know that, right?"

It's Yukiko. Her hair today is adorned with a halo of colorful plastic clips that look like butterflies. She brushes her sleeve against my face. I must have been crying.

"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" I mumble to myself. She'll probably leave, like everyone else that says they care.

She squeezes my hands a few times, grounding me.

"There's a new Bond movie out. Wanna come watch it with me?"

"Bond? Movie?" my confusion stifles my sadness temporarily.

"Okay, I have to take you then. The report's are saying that this is gonna be Pierce Brosnan's last movie as Bond, but I'm personally hoping those are just rumors."

"What's Bond?"

"Wow," her eyes widen. "Do they not have James Bond movies in Italy? I'm taking you to the movies."

"Okay," I beam. I've always wanted to go to the movies with a friend.

I hear my mother honk the horn of the car.

"That's my mom. I'll see you... later tonight?"

"Does six work? I can drive us," she informs me.

"I will have to ask my mom, but six works for me."

"Great," she gets up with me. "I'll see you at six."

She takes my bag again and walks me to my mom's car. My mom beams a bright smile when she sees me walking with someone, and a girl no less.

She gets out of the car to introduce herself to Yukiko. I don't think I've ever introduced her to a friend I've made. For so long, it really was just the two of us against the world.

"I'm taking your son to the movies at six," Yukiko says.

"Wonderful!" my mom smiles brighter. "I'll pay for tickets."

"You don't have to, Ms. Valentini, really-"

"Nope, how much are they?"

I chuckle. That's my mom, stubborn and generous to a fault. I wanna be so rich someday that she has all the money in the world to give away.

Eventually, Yukiko bids us goodbye for now, since she has homework to get done before the movie. Once in the car, mom peppers me with questions about her.

"I met her at the beginning of the week. She's been helping me find my classes and carry my books while I'm still on crutches."

"Well, she seems very nice," she replies, still beaming.

"Yeah, she is."

When I get home, I have nothing better to do than sit in my room and flip through my photo album. I study each picture, trying my hardest to remember my city; the feel of the wooden gondola bench beneath my hands, the smell of the water, droplets occasionally dotting my face.

I notice a droplet on the plastic sleeve and soon more follow suit.

I'm crying, my sobs racking my body and I drown in my own tears and desperately gasp for air. I love Venezia. I love my city. I wish we never left. Why did we ever have to leave? Venezia was my whole world, and now it's miles and miles away. I close the album but continue to flood the cover with an ocean's worth of salt water.

Adoro Venezia. Adoro la mia città.

I hear a knock on my door and immediately start drying my face with my sleeve.

"Stefano? Are you okay?" my mother's voice wafts through the door.

"I'm fine," I reply, not wanting to worry her, but it's too late. She opens the door and envelops me in the warmest hug I've ever felt, so warm my tears evaporate, so warm it feels like I'm back in Venezia.

At the thought of Venezia, the tears start to pour once more.

As I sob into my mom's shoulder, I weep through tears, "Mi manca Venezia. Mi manca Venezia, mamma!"

She strokes my hair and comforts me with, "Lo so, mio piccolo artista. Lo so."

"Mamma!" I weep, "Mamma! Perché siamo dovuti partire?"

She squeezes me tighter, muttering, "Lo so. Mi dispiace. Lo so. Mi dispiace," all the while not giving me an answer.

I'll probably never get an answer out of her. I think of this and cry harder. My shoulder's wet. She's crying too.

She sniffs once and stops her tears. Letting go, she wipes away my tears.

She smiles sadly. "My little artist," the phrase heavy with her accent, "get ready to go. Your friend will be here in an hour."