Alice Stays Home

Ch. TWO About a girl

I'm unable to speak while I'm still. So I head home and he follows me pushing his scooter.

"You know that Americans have a phrase for this kind of thing?"

"What thing?"

"They call it the 'Dear John letter.' You've never heard of it?"

"No."

"I figured. This country is so fucked up because of people like you who watch dubbed TV shows. But anyway, if you want I can explain."

"I can't wait."

"Hold your horses. A 'Dear John letter' is what Americans use to tell their boyfriends to get lost."

"I don't get it."

"Let's pretend you're called John, OK?"

"OK."

"And I write this letter to you. Are you ready?"

"I'm not sure."

"The letter says: 'Dear John, fuck off. Thank you.' Is it clearer now?"

"Still not sure."

He must have gotten it because he slows down. Maybe it's partly because of the sun beating down or because the scooter is heavy and he's not used to pushing it, but his whole body is dripping with sweat. It's quite disgusting.

"I'll try and explain it better. Forget about being called John, OK?"

"OK."

"So I send you this letter. 'Dear Franc, fuck off. Thank you.'"

He slows down even more. I almost feel sorry for him.

"You sent me a letter, Alice? When? A real letter? Why didn't I get it?"

I no longer feel sorry. This mug awakens a serial-killer instinct in me. I don't say anything for a while, as he starts wheezing because the stupid road to my house is now uphill. I tell him calmly that I haven't written and never meant to send anyone a damn letter. I just wanted to break the news that I'm no longer his girlfriend.

End of story. End of letter. I wish I had also said that I was afraid the world is going to hell, that I was sad my parents were coming home more and more tired and worried, that I can't strangle my sister even if I wanted to because she's in a messed-up area in ​​Italy on lockdown or at least that's what they say on the news.

I wanted to tell him that it's not fair to be fifteen today, that I want to live a thousand lives and not only one where the climate has gone mad, the viruses have gone mad, people have gone mad and, to make matters worse, we'll have to wait for at least a year before the new season of Peaky Blinders comes out.

But these are not the kind of things you'd normally say to the first person you happen to meet, even less so to someone who's sweaty, gross and out of breath. No, these are not the kind of things I'd ever say to Franc, my ex-boyfriend.

My conscience asks me a simple and brutal question: "Why did you go out with him? What special brownies did you have to let those skinny lips kiss you?"

There's no single answer to that question, but maybe the best and most truthful one is that I got together with that mug (I like the word mug so much!) because I'm fifteen, and at fifteen you do a lot of silly things: partly because you haven't learned the right thing yet, partly because doing the wrong thing is super cool.

So I did the wrong thing, I saw what it was like, and that's it.

For the record, it feels horrible.

Mark it in big letters in your diary: you can make so many mistakes but you can't get your boyfriends wrong because then you have to write them a "Dear John letter" and they won't even get it.

Suddenly, he stops. He puts the scooter on the stand and, without my realizing it, hugs me. Got it? He gives me one of those tight hugs you only see at the end of movies, and I feel trapped.

He simply says:

"No."

And doesn't let go of me.

"Yes." That's the only word I can think of. Fricking marvelous, isn't it? And I add: "Get off!"

Again, he repeats:

"No."

And he goes on to give me a kiss which, if I were to put it in the World History of Kisses, I'd enter it in the same chapter as the kiss of Judas. His hands block me, his mouth blocks me, his sweat blocks me. I should have expected it. But that's the way I am: when I hit the bottom I never stop thinking and so now I think.

I think I'm weak and he's strong. I think nobody is going to pass by any time soon in that street, let alone the cavalry. I think of those hands slipping under my shirt and that's definitely a no go, also because it's hurting me. But, above all, I think that though he might be strong he's out of shape and was already out of breath earlier, so it's just a matter of time before he needs to take a breath, I have to be ready.

I wait.

And there it is. He takes a breath.

"You were and still are my girlfriend, honey."

I stare at him. I hold his face gently, pull my head back as if I had to take a breath too.

I smile.

And then in no time I slam my head forward as if I had a spring in my neck.

I bash him straight in the nose that starts to bleed immediately.

Also, I tell him plainly:

"I am not! And I warned you not to call me 'honey.'"

I leave him there, on the roadside, with his shiny scooter and his nose bleeding.

I admit it: my legs are shaking, but I pretend like nothing's happened.