Thursday 10/5

Before class started today, Giulio stopped me at the door and said, “Delia, I want to give you something to see.” Which made me quite excited, as you might imagine, and got me thinking that maybe my new, uh, Wonder-Woman-ish bra came with some super powers in addition to its super-other-ness. Especially since Giulio’s “something” turned out to be jewelry.

“I made this with glass beads I bought in Venice,” he said. “And this bead here,” he said, lifting with his index finger a very dark blue star with shimmering speckles, “I bought on the island of Murano.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said, feeling very cosmic all of a sudden and taking the bracelet out of Giulio’s soft, artistic hand. It was made with elastic thread, and I slipped it onto my wrist, easily. “I love it,” I said. (Squeaked, actually.)

It was amazing there, sparkling in the classroom’s fluorescent light. The perfect way to celebrate a triumphant DAY 42, since this was OBVIOUSLY shaping up as the BIG BREAK-UP DAY. Forty-two, I decided that moment, would be my FAVORITE number FOREVER, and I started having dreamish thoughts about the number . . . it could be the number of people at our wedding, and the number of the house we buy in Italy, and maybe Giulio’s soccer shirt number as he strolls up to the door, with me inside with 42 children—AAAAH! (Sorry, freaked myself out for a sec.)

“Brady says blue is her favorite color,” Giulio said. “Do you think she will like to wear it?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I said. “I can share with my best friend.”

He gave me a curious expression at that moment. One that you might give a cat that you find lounging on your sofa, smoking a cigar. “Maybe I am not using my English well. This is for Brady.”

So I handed it back to him and sort of laughed in a very unattractive, snortish way, and I said I knew that, and I was just KIDDING, and yes, yes, of course Brady would love it, and etc. But what I was thinking was: I HATE 42, I will NEVER say that number AGAIN, I will SKIP it when I’m counting. I will never BE 42 . . .

“I am hoping it will be a good luck charm for her hitting at baseball games,” he said.

“That’s very thoughtful, Giulio,” I said. (But I was still thinking: I HATE 42, that is the WORST number in the, uh, number thing—it’s UGLY, it SMELLS . . .)

Shakita appeared at that moment and interrupted my 42-bashing by saying, ”Homecoming float planning today. Slide by before you go for your daily dose of sado-masochism.”

“Translated, that means?” I said, but not to her, since she had swept by and was already at her desk.

“She means that her club is making a large display for the homecoming parade, and she wants you to help plan it before you go to football practice,” Giulio said.

“How do you know all that?” I asked him. “You’re from a whole different country.”

“Homecoming has been on the morning announcements,” he said. “It is a week from Saturday, and it involves the first home football game and a parade and a semi-formal dance in the night.”

“Giulio, I know what!” I said. “You should help with this float thing. You’re an artist.”

“But you know I cannot join this ‘Gender Neutral’ club that you and Shakita are doing together,” he said.

Wincing at how weird that sounded, I replied, “Well, Giulio, uh, I’ve, been, um, wanting to explain some things to you about that club. It’s, uh . . .”

And I didn’t know how to finish that, seeing as I haven’t yet been to a meeting, and I don’t really KNOW what it is.

“I understand those things, Delia,” Giulio said. “You don’t need to feel uncomfortable. We are very open-minded in Italy, and I am not judging. It is just a matter of my personal orientation toward life.”

My mouth started making sounds like, “Bah, wuh, ah, na,” while the words inside my brain were much clearer, but more along these lines: “This is ALL YOUR FAULT, 42. You call yourself a NUMBER? YOU’RE not a number, YOU’RE a MOUSE!”

Luckily, the bell saved me from further ridiculousness going on inside and outside my head, and I went to my desk and sat down.

Today’s poetry theme was “The American Women’s Movement.” The Colonel was very excited about the poems from the period, and he and Shakita were getting along very well, for once. They both agreed that these writers had a great influence on history and that the peaceful nature of the change proved that “the pen is mightier than the sword.” Apparently, the movement started in the 1960s with a desire to change the “desperate position of housewives” and ended in the 1970s with some “bra burning.” Which I think might not be a bad idea for today. At least for purposes of this particular bra I’m wearing. Besides being highly uncomfortable, I’m blaming it for some extra, unwanted attention I’ve been getting suddenly.

All during class today, notes were appearing on my desk, relayed up the row of desks behind me. They were from the tight ends, or defensive ends, or whatever other ends populate the back end of this classroom. And whenever the Colonel turned to write on the white board, some of them held up little signs in my direction, too. It seems they were trying to out-note each other, in pursuit of one thing:

They want to take me to the homecoming dance.

Sure, it might not be the bra that is attracting them. It might be a charming personality. Or it could be my job as the team manager that has caught their attention. They may think I can help with their football careers, what with my IN with Coach and everything.

Okay, it’s the bra. Perhaps the best thing to do is destroy the thing before it develops its own personality.

In the olden days of my life, I would have been pretty excited about all this attention, and I would have made myself a neat little list of all the guy’s names, and I would have thought through the pros and cons of each of these possible date choices, and I would have—maybe at the very last minute, just to mix things up a little—picked the PERFECT one.

But today I am just finding this very annoying. I mean, the whole class (translation: Giulio) is seeing this go on, and what if this whole class (translation: Giulio) actually thinks I might go out with a guy like, say, the one who held up the note that read: U + ME = HOMCOMIG.

Actually, not all the notes and signs were from the, eh, gray-matter-challenged sorts. Some footballers have brains, of course. My X-Men costume buddies, for instance, are also vying for my attention, and they were even getting a bit clever with their notes. Example: DELIA—MANAGING TO STEAL MY HEART. And here’s one that incorporated some poetry: AT HOMECOMING, TO BE IN VOGUE, I WANT TO DANCE WITH FASHIONISTA ROGUE.

Maybe I should just go to the dance with someone. I mean, thanks to the truth about AVERAGES, it’s really unlikely Giulio will be available before homecoming. And you know? Some of these guys ARE kind of cute.

Okay, then! I’ve talked myself into it!

Another note is on my desk. This one, though, is from Shakita. I wonder if she’s asking me to the dance . . .

No, she’s just bugging me about the float thing. So I wrote back: WHY DO YOU CARE ABOUT THE HOMECOMING PARADE IF IT’S ALL ABOUT FOOTBALL?

Zher answer: WE CAN SPREAD GNA AWARENESS AT THE PARADE.

Took me a sec, but it has sunk in that the Gender Neutral Alliance now has initials. So I wrote back: I’LL THINK ABOUT IT. BUT WHO DO YOU THINK I SHOULD GO TO THE DANCE WITH?

Zhe wrote: I VOTE FOR NATE. HE’S COOL. JOINED GNA, ACTUALLY.

Me: YOU’RE KIDDING.

Shakita: NO, I’M NOT. HE SAYS HE’S GOING TO ASK SOME FRIENDS TO JOIN, TOO. SOMETHING ABOUT WEARING COSTUMES ON THE FLOAT.

Mental note: Avoid all contact with the X-Men between now and homecoming.

That means, of course, that my list of potential date choices has shrunk somewhat. Along with the average IQ. Which may be hovering at about 42.