made them even more charming to her. The grocery and cheese shop were opening for the day, their metal shutters rolling up with a clatter. A newsboy dropped papers outside the tobacconist’s with a thump. Elisabetta didn’t buy a newspaper and she hadn’t written anything since the debacle with Gualeschi, who had never returned to the restaurant. Nonna had let the matter drop, and Paolo regarded her with pitying eyes, which made her feel worse.
In time, she reached the liceo, a nondescript box of gray stucco surrounded by a low stone wall, set off on a cobblestone largo, a small piazza. Students filled the largo, chattering away before the first bell.
“Elisabetta,” Marco called from behind her, and she turned to see him riding up on his bicycle. He jumped off grinning, as handsome as ever in his black uniform, though he seemed to have grown stronger. His hair glistened darkly with brilliantine, and his tan had deepened, which made his smile even more dazzling.
“Ciao!”
Marco kissed her on both cheeks, smelling of pomade, and Elisabetta felt her senses come alive. Marco grinned over her shoulder. “And look, here’s our Sandro! Ciao, brother!”
“Ciao, amici!” Sandro dismounted from his bicycle and turned to Elisabetta, kissing her on both cheeks.
Unlike Marco, Sandro smelled of hard soap, and she couldn’t decide which scent appealed to her more. Sandro’s face had grown longer and leaner, emphasizing his intelligent blue eyes, and his shoulders had broadened, filling out his uniform.
“Hey,” said Sandro, “let’s get together after school, by the river.”
Marco nodded. “Great idea. Elisabetta, do you have to work?”
“Not until later,” Elisabetta answered happily. “I’ll be there.”
Sandro touched her shoulder. “I’ll bring you supplì, like last time. Do you remember that day?”
“Yes,” Elisabetta answered, surprised.
“What day?” Marco asked, but Sandro didn’t reply, and just then the bell rang for the start of school. The question lingered unanswered as the three friends were swept into the building.
* * *
—
After school, Elisabetta settled into the soft grass of the riverbank, at the spot where her classmates always gathered. Nothing had changed about the place, and the Ponte Rotto stood where it had for centuries, with the Tiber flowing jade green around the surviving arch of the bridge. Her Latin textbook lay open in front of her, but she wasn’t getting her homework done, and the page was too bright to read in the sun. She wished for a paper hat, but she had no newspaper and Sandro wasn’t here yet, anyway. Meanwhile Marco was showing off on his bicycle for Angela, and Elisabetta sensed he was trying to make her jealous. If so, it was working, and she felt lost without her female advice column. The other boys played ball, and the girls gossiped in their group, still not including her. But they didn’t tease her, so that was progress.
Elisabetta spotted Sandro hurrying toward her, with a brown paper bag. It looked as if it contained supplì, but she didn’t want to get her hopes up. She was coming to understand that she placed too much significance on matters that boys didn’t think twice about, which was leading to a generalized restlessness about romance. She tried to put it from her mind.
“Ciao!” she called to him, as he got closer.
“I brought supplì,” Sandro said, sitting down beside her. He opened the bag, took out supplì wrapped in wax paper, and handed her one with a napkin.
“Thank you.” Elisabetta accepted the supplì, its breading warm in her fingertips. She felt happy, but tried not to feel too happy. She took a bite of suppli, which tasted cheesy and filling.
Meanwhile Sandro chewed his supplì, which left olive oil shining on his lips, and she found herself noticing his mouth anew. She wondered if he would kiss her again, as he was sitting undeniably close, his hip touching hers, which sent a thrill through her body, though she tried to make normal conversation.
“So, are you enjoying La Sapienza?”
Sandro shrugged. “I do my assignments and hand them in, but no one gets back to me to tell me if I’m doing well or badly.”
“I know what you mean. The restaurant is the same way.”
Sandro chewed his supplì. “These are so delicious. Is it possible that food can make you feel good?”
“Of course.”
“That is, food and excellent company.” Sandro grinned down at her.
“That’s just how I feel.” Still she tried not to get excited.
“Where’s your paper?” Sandro cocked his head. “I miss your views on the news of the day.”