She rounded the corner to the park. Suddenly, her heart stopped. Fatima was already there. And she was talking to Stefano. Or at least, Stefano was talking to her. Would he tell her friend about their arrangement?
Elisa ran up to Fatima and tried to avoid making eye contact with Stefano. “Ciao! Did you just get here? Are you hungry? Getting pizza maybe? Today I’ll buy.”
Elisa noticed that Fatima had to drag her eyes away from Stefano.
Stefano whooped, “It’s little Elisa! Is this muliana your friend?”
Elisa glared, “Don’t call her that!”
“Why not?” Stefano grinned easily. “She’s as dark as an eggplant, aren’t you, marocchina?”
Elisa put herself between Fatima and Stefano. She lowered her voice, “You stay away from her, Stefano, I mean it.”
“Or you’ll do what? Tell me, I’m dying to know.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll . . . bite you!”
“Oh, Elisa, don’t tease me, I’m likely to take you up on that offer . . .”
Fatima pulled Elisa’s hand. “C’mon, Elisa, let’s go.”
“No! I won’t let him talk to you like that.”
Stefano leaned toward the girls. “Are you worried I’ll like her better than you, Elisa? You don’t have to worry. I don’t mind skinny girls like you, but I would never touch a muddy one.”
Elisa gasped. “How . . . how dare you!”
“It’s pretty easy actually. But, I don’t have all day. Where’s the money?”
Fatima turned toward her friend, her face wrinkled in confusion.
Stefano leered, “Elisa didn’t tell you she owes me money? You see I perform certain ‘favors’ for her. For which she pays me. Not enough, but I’m a charitable guy. So where is it?”
Elisa glared and to Fatima’s still face she whispered, “It’s okay, I’ll explain later.”
Her heart beating madly, she plunged her hands into the pockets of her coat, still draped over her arm. She pulled out the fistful of coins. “Here, I counted, that’s the rest.”
“Like I’d trust you to count correctly, even if you didn’t plan to lie to me.” Stefano counted out the coins and nodded. “Okay then. Bring me the report card when it comes, and I’ll have it back to you the next day. In the meantime, a bit of advice? I wouldn’t play with foreigners, Elisa. Their kind hates Catholics. I’ve heard her family is plotting to blow up the town.” Stefano’s laugh followed him as he moved up the street.
Elisa collapsed onto the ground, her head in her hands.
Fatima leaned down, “What is it?”
Elisa sobbed into her knees and shook her head.
“Elisa, what did you give him money for?”
Elisa struggled to get the words out between crying breaths, “For . . . failing . . . report . . . cards. He . . . fixes them so my parents don’t punish me.”
Fatima frowned, “Report cards? But those came today.”
Elisa’s hands grew icy. “Today, what do you mean today?”
“I mean today. You didn’t get yours?”
“I haven’t been home, I went to show Maestro my quiz. Today? Are you sure? I thought it would be Friday!”
“It is Friday.”
“Oh, noooooooo,” Elisa keened.
Suddenly she bolted up and whipped her arms through the sleeves of her coat, “I have to get home. Maybe she won’t have gotten it yet. Maybe she didn’t check the mail or maybe she’s at the store, yes! I think she said she was going to the store! I’ll explain later, Fatima.”
“Slow down, Elisa! I don’t understand, and anyway, you’re dropping things, look here’s a coin—”
Fatima held out the coin and then pulled it back and looked more closely at it. Her face grew still. “This is my coin.”
Elisa breath was shallow as she closed her eyes and prayed for divine intervention. Where was Santa Maria when she needed her? She opened her eyes, but all the angles were unchanged. And there was no time. If her mother didn’t get the report card yet, she was sure to be finding it soon, she had to get there first.
Fatima looked up slowly from the coin clutched in her fingers. Her face was ashen. “I see.” She turned and began walking away.
Elisa grabbed Fatima’s hand and kissed it. Her face wet with tears, she cried, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Fatima.”
Fatima shook her head. “You lied to me. You stole from me.”
“Yes . . . no! I didn’t know, I didn’t mean to, please, I’ll explain at the sagra tonight.” She ran off to the edge of town, her colorless hair flying behind her, her treadless sneakers slipping on the cobblestones.
It was strange not to have Margherita swinging on her hand. Though Isotta missed the prattle of nonsense, she did have to admit she was enjoying the quiet. Her daughter—when would she be able to form her mouth around this word as easily as Massimo did?—would be back later this afternoon for the sagra, but in the meantime, Isotta strolled alone through Santa Lucia, watching the town prepare.
She paused at the darkened window of the macelleria and the forno, closed today in preparation for the celebration. Isotta lingered in front of a poster advertising the sagra. Her family back home would no doubt find such goings on unbearably provincial, but she felt proud of Santa Lucia. She knew she hadn’t been here that long, and it was only recently that townspeople had stopped staring and instead chatting to her about ordinary things, like the chance of rain and the upcoming U.S. election, but she felt like Santa Lucia belonged to her somehow. She valued the strength she got from those casual exchanges.
Detouring a touch to walk through the piazza, Isotta ran her hands against the stone walls, worn smooth by time. She paused to touch the Madonna in the sky-blue niche across from Bar Birbo. Turning, she
