“I know. Me too. But with Marco and school.”
“Did he go back today?”
“He did, actually. Like nothing ever happened. It’s a good school. They are just worried about him. I am too, but Filamena—I’m more worried about her. Who takes care of the mother, except her own mother?”
Chiara laughed and then watched her footing over the spot where the stones were loose. “That’s true. I miss my mother every day.”
“So do I, Chiara. So do I.”
They paused in front of the statue of St. Francis.
Chiara sent up a prayer that the saint of small creatures would ease Marco’s way.
A large drop of rain plopped onto Chiara’s nose, and her eyes flew open. She and Patrizia stared at each other, as the large drops began falling faster. The dusty path quickly polka-dotted with splatters of rain. Chiara and Patrizia held hands and tipped their heads back to feel the drops of water explode against their cheeks. And in their sudden joy, the years fell away from them, lightening their faces as they laughed like girls and raced back to Santa Lucia.
From her seat, Elisa watched the sky clot with clouds, tremble with a steely grayness, and then begin pelting rain down like a recrimination. She loved rain. Everyone slowed down in the rain, and she was less likely to attract attention. She felt enveloped in a protective shroud, distant from trouble.
The class, however, groaned in unison as the fat raindrops flung themselves faster at the windows. Elisa heard someone mutter, “There goes recess. Again!”
“Silence!” commanded Maestra, smiling. She knew how restless the children were, how hard it was to focus on geography when the sudden downpour threatened their short burst of free time. She pretended to finish the lesson early to give the students a bit of extra time to grouse before they shoved their desks together.
At the release, Elisa avoided Fatima’s eye contact and slipped out to the bathroom. Once outside the classroom, she quickly crept her hands into jacket pockets, closing her fingers around each found coin. She hesitated at Fatima’s puffy purple jacket, but the promise of those coins she’d seen when Fatima bought gelato pushed her to dip her fingers into the lip of the pocket. An image of her mother standing over her shouting about her poor school performance hastened her hand, and she closed her fist around the cool and welcoming metal. Withdrawing her hand at the sound of voices approaching the hallway, Elisa dashed to the bathroom. She whipped around to lock the door. Holding her breath as much to avoid the vapors from the open hole in the floor as to slow her heartbeat, she opened her hand. She’d stolen a total of six coins, though only five looked to be euros. One didn’t look familiar, and bending to look more closely at it, Elisa noticed the back had a star made out of double lines. Could this be Fatima’s? A Moroccan coin, maybe? She couldn’t use that, and even if she could, she was still far short of what she needed. If she didn’t get twenty euros together soon—she shuddered at the thought of what might happen.
Shoving the coins deep into her jeans pocket, she unlatched the door to admit two giggling girls.
Elisa chewed her lip as she walked back to the classroom. How much did she have at home? Almost five euros she was sure. Today’s catch would bring her to six. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
If only she could do better in school. She had been so sure this year she’d focus for real. But if anything, this year was proving to be harder than last. It seemed like the more she tried, the more her thoughts slid away like wet ribbons down a stream.
She fought back aggravation. And what was she supposed to do with a Moroccan coin? It was useless, and Fatima was sure to notice it was missing. Her new friend missed nothing. Elisa had to figure out a way to get it back into Fatima’s pocket, but the hallway was now filled with students pulling snacks from their backpacks.
There was nothing in her backpack, save papers that induced panic. She walked into the classroom, trying to swallow her irritation, when she saw Fatima waving at her and pointing at an empty seat beside her. She liked Fatima, she really did. She supposed that if she asked Fatima for money, Fatima might willingly hand it over. For some reason, this annoyed Elisa.
She waved back at Fatima and the grin that spread across her friend’s face soothed some of Elisa’s jangled nerves. She snaked through the classroom, through the hodgepodge arrangement of desks and around the boys surreptitiously playing soccer with a water bottle. As she picked her way around girls perched around the ancient boombox, arguing over radio stations, one of the boys, Mario, trapped the water bottle with his feet. He peeked over to see if Fatima was watching. She was. He thwacked the makeshift ball with decided strength. Mario cast a shy smile at Fatima. Who suddenly found the floor impossibly interesting. Can anyone quite forget the exquisite pain of young love?
Elisa plopped into her seat. “Boys,” she sighed. “My brothers are just the same.”
Fatima stammered. “Mine too.” She cleared her throat. “In Morocco it was handball, but now they kick anything not stuck down.”
The girls giggled.
Fatima unfolded the wax paper wrapped around her focaccia. She gestured at Elisa’s shirt. “I like that.”
Elisa looked down, surprised. “What? This shirt?”
“Yes, it’s a pretty color.” Fatima took a bite of her bread spangled with rosemary and chewed thoughtfully.
Elisa looked down again, sure they must be talking about different things. “Oh. I don’t remember where I got it.”
Fatima swallowed and hesitated before saying, “I wish I could wear short sleeves.”
Elisa furrowed her brows. “Why can’t you?”
Fatima tucked her hair behind her ears and said, “Girls don’t wear short sleeves in Morocco.”
Elisa said, “Oh! So you don’t have any.”
Fatima answered, “Right.”
Elisa drummed her fingers
