The story traveled through the middle school of how I had tried to put the ball into my own goal. I smiled a patient smile and told everyone how I was feeding it to the goalie. Hadn’t they ever seen a defensive player do that on television? Yes? Well then, they understood.
Luigi overheard me repeating my explanation to a group of popular girls. I had picked them out quickly in the first few days by their hair, nails, clothes, and tendency to travel in packs. He promptly stepped between Giulia and me and into the conversation. His voice took on the rhythm of an announcer doing a play-by-play:
“Both Mendichela and Irene Benenati race for the ball. My heart beats in my chest. I know the signs. The crazy Americana plans to shoot the ball into her own goal—my goal.”
“It was a pass,” I said.
Luigi ignored me. “Irene’s eyes drop. She brings her foot back. Puuut! The spectators gasp. Mendichela gasps. The ball comes directly to me—to my chest. It is a pass. I know it. But I am still afraid. Will it knock me backward into the goal?” Luigi paused. His eyes slid sideways to look at me, offering me a chance to protest. I did not take it.
“But no!” Luigi continued, gesturing widely. “I pull the ball into my arms. For now, it is safe from Mendichela and his team.”
“Uaou!” said one of the girls. “How bello! Brava, Irene!”
Luigi grinned at me.
“But Luigi, isn’t it dangerous for Irene to play with the boys?” a girl named Elena asked. As far as I could tell, she tended to do most of the talking for her group.
“Weren’t you listening to me?” he asked. “It is my head that is in danger.”
“If only,” I said.
“Monte Catino at Merano 2000 is more dangerous, Elena,” Giulia pointed out. “And you ski down that like a crazy woman.”
“Monte Cattivo,” someone else said, which could be translated as “Bad Mountain.”
Elena smoothed down the front of her shirt, looking pleased. “Sí. But the trees and course markers don’t move themselves on the mountain. Matteo told us how the ball hit you in the stomach and the mister called you off the field. Matteo was so worried.”
Oh, yes. Worried that I might get up again. Worried that I would keep getting up no matter what.
“It was so cute,” another girl cooed. “Maybe Matteo has fallen in love with you.”
“Ha!” I said. The syllable jumped out of my mouth before I could stop it. Giulia snorted. Luigi covered his ears with his hands.
“Madonna!” he said. “Has Matteo asked for your phone number too?
“Too?” echoed an appreciative crowd.
“No.” I said, trying to sound calm. “Emi asked for my phone number so I could meet Giulia. Matteo promised me that if I wanted a boy to fall in love with me, I was in the wrong place.”
“Too bad,” someone murmured. “Or I would start to play soccer.”
“And be a maschiaccio?” a girl named Sonia asked. “Not I. It’s not worth the trouble.”
Ma-ski-AH-choh? I didn’t recognize the word, but the “choh” sound at the end almost guaranteed it was not a compliment.
Elena frowned at Sonia. “Don’t worry, Irene. Maybe it is like an American film. A man and a woman—they do not like each other when first they meet. Then everything changes. Love!”
Denials crowded through my brain so thick and fast they paralyzed my vocal cords.
Giulia stepped in before the silence ran too long. “In this case I think not,” she said.
“But this morning, I heard him say to Irene, ‘How are you, cucciola?’” another girl said.
This brought on another round of giggles. And horror of horrors, I blushed.
“Oooh!”
“Enough!” ordered Elena. “I have a favor to ask of Irene. There is an American song that really pleases me, and I want to know what it means. Will you help me?”
“Certainly,” I said. Now it all made sense why Elena was being so nice. Apparently she didn’t want the walking, talking, English/Italian dictionary to get mad and stomp away before doing a few translations.
Elena sang a few lines. Her pure Italian vowels made it difficult to understand the words, but I recognized the melody.
“Love?” Luigi picked out the English word with horror. “I must go. Really. I cannot stand this chatter about love anymore. See you later, Irene. I am so glad I could help you explain what happened at the game.”
“Help me again and your head will really be in danger,” I told him.
“You’re welcome,” he said. His grin told me that he wasn’t particularly worried.
I spent the next five minutes singing and explaining lyrics. Elena and her friends were entranced.
“Uaou, Irene. You sound just like the radio!” Sonia said. Was that her apology for implying that I was a maschiaccio? (Whatever that meant.) If so, I had a feeling it was directed at Elena more than me.
“What is a maschiaccio?” I asked Giulia after the bell rang.
She blinked. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Hmm. After school someday, I must teach you the words that you should never repeat at home. Otherwise, your papá will tell your mamma that I am not a good girl to know.”
“Is maschiaccio that bad?” I asked.
“No. But it is not very…polite. You have never heard it? Not even as a joke?”
I shook my head. “What does it mean?”
“It is a girl who does that which a boy does. Not in a positive way.”
Yes. I could see it now. Changing maschio, which means male, to maschia and tacking on -cio, an ending signifying that something was awful or brutal, made maschiaccio into a very negative Italian word. Something worse than tomboy, I suspected. In Italy that would be a huge insult.
“There’s so much I don’t know. What would I do without you, Giulia?”
“Become a friend of Elena?” Giulia tilted her head and looked up at me.
“No thanks,” I said. “She reminds me of Matteo. Nicer, maybe but…I don’t know. I prefer you and Barbara.”
Giulia laughed. “Elena is not so bad. I remember once when we were angry with a boy in elementary school, we sent Elena to punch him for us. For her, it was safe.”
“Really? Why?”
“Almost all the ragazzi had fallen in love with her. And those who weren’t in love with her were afraid of the others.”
“Does she still punch guys? I could send her after Matteo.”
Guilia shook her head. “She would not believe you about Matteo. She never believed me.”