“Oh, I see,” he said quietly. “I am sorry.” He paused, thinking, and then his face brightened. “But … what if there was a way we could help each other?”
“I don’t see how.”
“My mother is the new director at the conservatory.”
“I heard.” There was no disguising the terseness in my voice. “She must be a great dancer.”
He nodded. “When she married my dad, she was a principal dancer at the Teatro alla Scala in Milan. She danced with the company for ten years before she had me.”
Wow. That was impressive. I hated to admit it, but it made sense that the conservatory was doubling the tuition, with an instructor of that caliber coming on board.
“My mother searches for new talents,” Lanz continued. “If she sees you dance, perhaps she may take you as a private student.”
I shook my head. “I already told you. The tuition—”
Lanz waved his hand. “This is where my idea comes for helping each other. You can let me help you at Once upon a Scoop, because ice cream is what I love. And in return, my mother teaches you.”
“But … we couldn’t pay you. And I can’t pay her.”
“I only want to make ice cream. And my mother, she wants me to have a tutor. To help me with my English. So …” He snapped his fingers. “I will practice English with you and work at this parlor, for free. You will practice dance with my mom, for free. Capisce?”
It seemed too much to take in at first, too impossibly lucky that this chance should fall into my lap. My heart thrilled. The world, which had seemed darker this morning, brightened again. I could keep dancing, and maybe even talk to Lanz’s mom about Cinderella, to see if I could still audition. Possibilities pirouetted before my eyes.
Then just as quickly, my hopes fizzled. I couldn’t work with Lanz. If I did, well … I’d have to be near that charming smile, and those curls, for hours at a time. Suddenly, a vision of Ethan appeared before me, his eyes full of purpose and scientific calculations.
No, I told myself. Working with Lanz was not a good idea. It was a very bad one. But … if it gave me a chance to dance again? How could I possibly say no?
“I … I don’t know. I’d have to think about it, and check with my mom. But … not today. Things here are too hectic.” I’d put it off as long as possible, I decided.
Lanz opened his mouth, probably to argue, but he never got the words out, because a demanding “Malie!” boomed from the parlor.
Uh-oh. Mom. She was standing in the doorway.
“Inside now,” she said.
“I have to go,” I mumbled to Lanz. But instead of walking away, Lanz followed me to the door.
“Signora Analu?” Lanz smiled at Mom. “I’m so sorry I kept Malie from her work. Please. It’s my fault. Not hers.”
“Well.” Mom huffed, wiping her brow. “She should’ve kept an eye on the time. And the line. We’re swamped. And you’re out here chatting away with … with—”
“Lanz Benucci.” He shook her hand. “A friend of Malie’s from school.”
I could only answer Mom’s questioning look with a shrug.
“Since it’s my fault Malie is late,” Lanz went on, “I’d be happy to help in the parlor. I think …” He nodded toward the line. “… you need it?”
Mom shook her head, and I felt a wave of relief. She wasn’t going to let him stay. “Mr. Sneeves won’t like anyone who’s not an official employee working with the ice cream. It probably violates health codes, or liability, or—”
“Excuse me,” a red-faced customer interrupted, “we’ve been waiting for over fifteen minutes …”
A chorus of rumbling agreements rose from the line.
“We’ll be right with you!” Mom called, looking increasingly desperate. Then she added to us, “I don’t have the time to deal with this.” She headed for the sales counter and called over her shoulder, “Just … come in and let’s see how it goes. Please don’t break anything.”
Lanz grinned triumphantly. “Looks like you are stuck on me,” he said.
“It’s stuck with you,” I corrected him. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”
“Don’t touch that!” I said as Lanz reached for the buttons on the silver ice cream machine. “It’s, um, fragile.”
“Really?” Lanz’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “It doesn’t seem so very different from the ones we use in Italy.”
“The buttons are moody,” I explained.
“Ah.” He nodded.
We’d been in the kitchen for about five minutes, which was already five minutes too long. Usually, I felt chilly in the kitchen, because the AC was blasting while I handled cold ingredients. Today, though, my skin was flushed, and my heart hadn’t stopped hammering. As Lanz moved around the kitchen, studying our machinery and supplies, I noticed everything about him, from the way he grazed his fingers along the countertops to the way his curls sloped across his right eyebrow. I would put a stop to the dizzying effect he had on me.
“And … this is your deep freeze unit?” He moved toward the freezer.
“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “You won’t be using it.”
He turned to the ingredients lined up in the containers on the counter, and his eyes narrowed.
“You use these … caramelle gommose in your ice cream?” he asked doubtfully.
“Gummy bears.” I nodded.
“And … this gomma da masticare, too?”
“Bubble gum. Sure. Little kids gobble it up. It’s the neon colors, I guess.”
His eyes widened, and if I hadn’t been so intent on staying annoyed with him, I might’ve laughed at his expression. It wasn’t an expression of distaste, or haughtiness. It was an expression of legit horror.
“But where are the fresh ingredients?” he asked. “Fruit from the market?”
“We use canned fruit.”
“What about pastries?”
I shook my head. “We use store-bought cookies and candy.”
He clutched his chest, falling back against
