Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,10

Figlio della miseria!"

"You're doing a good job, Emily," Jackie exhorted. "Keep talking. Maybe you can piss him off a little more."

"Figlio di puttana!"

Jackie stiffened. "Unh-oh. That's not good. Puttana is not a word you want thrown at you."

I narrowed my gaze at her. "How do you know that?"

"Well, since you asked. I've been dying to tell you, but I wanted to wait until the right moment to surprise you." She curled her hand around my forearm with giddy enthusiasm. "I took a crash course in Italian right before the trip, and you'll never guess! I discovered I have a real flair for languages! My instructor said I had the best ear ever for picking up conversational Italian. When I was a guy, I couldn't even conjugate verbs. Now, I'm speaking Italian! Does that rock, or what?"

"You speak Italian?" I asked jealously.

"Like a native." She whipped her sunglasses off and studied the marquee above the hotel's front door. "Do you suppose you got the name wrong?"

"I know this is the right name. I memorized the names of all our hotels!"

"Okay. Let me see what I can find out. Scusi," she said to the driver, followed by a string of Italian that wowed me. I beat back my envy as I listened to her. How could she have learned a foreign language in such a short time? But I refused to let her skill make me feel inadequate. I mean, I knew a little French and a little Norwegian. A knowledge of two foreign languages was pretty decent. Three, if you counted Minnesotan.

When she finished speaking, she shook her head. "He says this is the right hotel."

I heard a digital tone from the front seat followed by a gruff, "Pronto," as Vlad answered his cell phone. Jackie threw open her shoulder bag and pulled out a book that mirrored the colors of the Italian flag.

"Maybe you reversed the order of some of the words," she suggested as she paged quickly through her phrase book. "It happens."

I regarded her bag, pricked by an unlikely thought. "You don't happen to have a copy of our itinerary in there someplace, do you?"

"Of course I don't have a copy of our itinerary. I'm on a tour. I'm not supposed to know where I'm staying. That's why you're here."

"Si," said the driver into his phone. "Ciao." He replaced the phone in a little holster attached to the dash, then pivoted around in his seat, rapid-firing a steady stream of loud, plosive words at us. He slapped his meter again and made a "gimme" gesture with his hand.

"What's he saying?" I asked out of the corner of my mouth.

"I heard the word lire, but I'm not sure about anything else."

I snapped my head around to stare at her. "How can you not be sure? I thought you spoke Italian like a native?"

"It's like this. I'm pretty sure what I'm saying; I don't always know what they're saying."

UNH! I buried my face in my hands and bent forward, banging my head against my knees.

"Emily? Stop that!" She grabbed my shoulders. "What are you trying to do?"

"Kill myself. Slitting my wrists would be quicker, but Mom has all my sharp objects with her."

"I have a fingernail file." She rummaged in the side pocket of her bag. "Whoops. Make that an emery board. That won't do you much good."

I looked up distractedly, noting the long row of digits on the driver's meter, then higher, where the holster for his cell phone hung on the dash. Phone? EH! I grabbed Jackie's arm. "Ask him if we can borrow his cell phone."

"Hel-loooo? You don't have any numbers. You can't even call yourself!"

Maybe not, but I knew one number that was bound to get some results. "Would you just ask!"

"All right already. Jeez." She turned to a page in her phrase book and smiled sweetly at the driver. "Scusi, signor..." She pointed at the cell phone and proceeded to unleash a flood of halting Italian that caused the driver's eyes to light up beneath his sagging lids. I'd heard Italians were extremely generous, but this guy seemed so excited to have someone else use his phone that he looked as if he was about to spring into handstands. He plucked the phone out of its holster and thrust it at Jackie, a broad smile creasing his unshaven face.

"Che corpo," he rasped, his eyes roving her body, his tongue roving his lips. "Vorrei leccare il sudore della tua pelle."

"What's he saying?" I asked, as she