Filed to story: Brace Face Betty Drama Story
I close my eyes, thumping the back of my head against the headrest behind me a total of three times before I realize that it actually hurts, and I should stop. Fuck…this…shit. I could go to the library. I could hit up Giacomo’s for a slice and do my homework in a booth, but Mom sometimes picks up a pie for Dan’s kids after they finish school. If she saw me there, well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I know I can’t keep this up forever. There will come a time over the next one hundred and sixty-nine days when Mom or Dad finds out that I’ve been shirking the after-school activities that helped bolster my college applications, and I already know how they’re going to react. They’re going to freak the fuck out. Part of me thinks I should just tell them everything and get it over with. But then I imagine the look on mom’s face when I delve into the finer details of my outcast status, and I just can’t do it. It’ll fucking kill her. She won’t be able to take it.
I crack my eyes, checking Mickey, and I see that it’s only ten to three. Still almost another hour to go until I can leave. Man, time really does seem to slow inside the Nova when I’m-
“Fuck!” A loud rap on the window, right next to my head, startles the living shit out of me. I slam my knee into the console, scraping the bare skin that’s showing through the rip in my jeans. Damn, that hurts like a bitch. I can see blood, for fuck’s sake. I’m boiling mad as I quickly wind down the window and glare at the person standing beside the car, ready to rip them a new one, when…
Marcusandro Moretti slowly bends down and rests his forearms against the side of the Nova, curving a dark eyebrow at me. His bottom lip is sucked into his mouth. His leather jacket is nowhere to be seen, even though it’s fucking freezing out, and it looks like it’s starting to rain. Quick, intelligent, demanding brown eyes meet mine, and I react by stuttering out a jumble of syllables that don’t make any sense.
“Ju-ne-wha-do-waiiiiiiit. Youuuuu…”
I shake my head, throwing my hands up in defeat when I run out of potential sentence starters.
A deep frown forms between his charcoal eyebrows. “Non sembrava Italiano. Doveva essere Italiano?”
I just blink at him. “Excuse me?”
His lips purse, his mouth lifting up at one side. Am I imagining it, or does he look weirdly disappointed? His eyes aren’t just brown; they’re full of cinnamon, gold, honey, and caramel-all warm tones. So how the fuck do they somehow manage to look frosty as his gaze flits around the inside of the Nova, settling on the guitar case that’s sitting on the back seat. He huffs down his nose, then pulls away from the window. “Never mind,” he says in English.
He spins around and walks away, the back of his grey t-shirt spattered with rain, clinging to his back, and I’m left staring after him with my mouth hanging open.
Never mind?
What does that mean, never mind?
Did I just fail some sort of test? He was asking me if I spoke Italian or something; I heard the word ‘Italiano’ twice in pretty quick succession. But to just bail when I don’t understand? That seems like a bit of a dick move. In my mind, I lean out of the window, and I yell after him in the rain. I call him an asshole. I ask him what the hell he wanted. But I don’t do that, because I’m a coward. I’m fucking scar-
Oh, shit.
He’s turned around. He’s coming back.
I sink back into my seat, sliding down the leather, but then I force myself to sit up straight as he arrives back at the window. “Why don’t you speak Italian?” he demands.
“I’m sorry? I didn’t realize it was mandatory now.”
“Your last name’s Branson, right? That’s what Cline called you.”
“Yes?” I’m not sure what his point is, but his impossibly deep voice is rough with anger. Why the hell is he so agitated?
“Who? Who in your family is Italian?”
“Can I ask what this is about, please?”
“I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that you have an Italian family member who didn’t teach a lick of the language.”
“Look, I’m not really interested in this…cultural shaming, or…whatever. I’m just… gonna… go…” I start to wind up the window. The Nova was manufactured in 1969, which means I have to do it by hand. I’m sure I’d look way cooler if I were just able to hit a button and block him out electronically, but I’m stuck with what I’ve got.
It’s raining much heavier now. Large, fat droplets of water explode on the windshield, blocking out the looming grey shape of the single-story school building crouched on the other side of the lot. I can see the shape of Marcusandro perfectly well as he walks around the front of the car, around the passenger side, opens the door, and…
…and gets in!
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I don’t ride in the rain,” he rumbles, as though that’s answer enough.
“I can appreciate that. Motorcycles are dangerous at the best of times. What I meant to say was, what do you think you’re doing getting into my car?”
He points at the school. “Better than waiting out the weather inside the cell block.”
“Look, I know you’re new and all, but-“