Radiant
Page 6
She seemed pleased by my answer. “Were there boys there?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer—she’s the type of parent to call ahead and grill Ava’s parents about their plans for their daughter’s festivities.
“Boys are lame,” I said, and made a face. Then I went up to my room and plunked down on my bed and took out my journal.
First kiss today, I wrote. I didn’t feel anything spectacular. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.
I put the pen down. I’d kissed the hottest boy in my school, and I’d felt nothing.
I picked the pen up again.
Or maybe I could never be content with a normal boy, I wrote. Maybe I’ll have to wait for someone remarkable.
And that’s exactly what I did. I waited. I knew the moment I saw him that he was the one I was waiting for. The one whose kiss would make me see stars.
Someone remarkable.
CLARA
It takes a few minutes to extricate myself from Angela’s grandmother. Angela’s already in bed when I arrive upstairs, covers pulled up to her chin, eyes closed. I get in my pj’s and slip into the creaky metal-framed bed next to her, then turn out the light and wait for her to say something. Anything. But she turns her back to me. We both lie there in the dark and listen to the sounds of Rome, the mopeds on cobblestones, car horns, people shouting, the snatches of laughter and fragments of Italian from down the street.
This is not a city that goes to bed early.
After a while we hear Rosa shuffle into her room for the night. Angela sits up. She slides out of bed and moves toward the door, not stopping to get dressed, which means that she never got into her pajamas in the first place. She’s like a cat burglar as she pads her way silently down the hall and sneaks down the stairs. I hear the creak of the front door. And then she’s gone.
Suddenly I’m wide awake.
I wonder if there was something I missed on the train, a secret conversation that said, Meet me later, at that place, or if she simply knows where to find him; or maybe she’s randomly gone to look for him in this city of a little less than three million people. Or I guess it’s possible that she’s not with him at all but wanted to be alone so I wouldn’t see how upset she is, so she wouldn’t have to talk to me about it. I’d understand that. I know that love can hurt.
All I know is, she could hardly wait to get out of here.
It’s not fair, I think. Angela always pushes me to tell her everything that happens to me, and if I hold anything back and she finds out about it later, she gets all miffed and hurt and stuff. But when it comes to her own life, oh no, that’s personal. No secrets in Angel Club, she always used to say. Whatever. So yeah, as her official best friend, I’m offended.
But then there’s the part where I don’t tell her things, either.
Two hours pass. Three. It’s now two in the morning, and still no Angela. I get up, pour myself a glass of water, drink about two sips and dump it, stand and stare out the window onto the empty street below. The city’s quieter now. A cold draft moves across my bare feet and I shiver. I tell myself that Angela’s tough. She knows how to take care of herself. She’s been coming here every summer for her entire life, without incident. She’s probably fine. I force myself to lie down again, but sleep’s not happening. I keep coming back to that memory of hers I caught earlier, a moment away from being kissed. The anticipation of his lips on hers. The charged space between them. The sharing of breath. The look in his eyes as he decided to throw caution to the wind, and kiss her.
Which she wanted more than anything.
Someone looked at me that way once.
Tucker.
I close my eyes. It’s so easy to call up the way his hands felt cupping my face. He kissed me so many times, more than I could count, but each time it was like this wonderful surprise. He always got this I-want-to-kiss-you expression in his eyes, right before he’d draw me in. My throat aches as I remember the agonizing joy of those few seconds before his lips touched mine. The rioting drum of my heart. His smell, a mixture of grass and sweat, a hint of fish and river water from our afternoons on the lake, maybe lemon that he’d sliced to put on some trout for dinner, and that smell all his own, man-and-sun-and-cologne. The sheer warmth of him, his skin, his hazy blue eyes, the dimple in his cheek.
I open my eyes.
This is not healthy, I think. This is not good. It’s over. I need to get over it.
Over him.
Why is that so freaking hard?
I miss Mom. All of a sudden missing her hits me like a never-ending wave. I try not to dwell on it, but her absence is always here, like I’m walking around with a big open hole in my chest where my mother used to be. I wish I could call her. She’d know what to do, what to say to make everything all right again. She always did. She’d say something witty and true, make me a cup of tea, hug me, smooth my hair down, and tell me something to get me laughing.
She’s never going to do that, ever again.
Cue the big old lonely lump in my throat.
When I open my eyes again it’s morning, and Angela’s still not here. I get dressed and spend a few minutes pacing around the room trying to come up with some kind of plan. Maybe I can slip out and look for her—not that I have any clue where to look—before anybody else knows she’s gone.
But I have no such luck with the sneaking. Rosa’s already at the stove, and to make matters infinitely worse, Angela’s snotty cousin Bella is sitting at the kitchen table. They both turn to stare at me when I come down the stairs.
“Too much wine last night?” Bella looks me up and down. “These American girls never know how to drink wine,” she says in Italian.
Rosa eyes me with a mournful expression that totally reminds me of Angela’s mom. I don’t know if she’s sad about the way I look or the idea that I can’t hold my wine.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say as an explanation. “I thought I might take a walk this morning, clear my head.”
Smooth, Clara. Yeah, get some of that superfresh Roman air.
“Where is Angela?” Rosa asks as I reach the door.
I’m a terrible liar. I’m going to come up with something brilliant like She’s sleeping in, and what this sharp old lady is going to see all over my face is She didn’t come home last night, and then all hell is going to break loose.
My mouth is suddenly dry. I let go of the doorknob, start to turn around. “Um,” I say, about to blow it, but I’m saved, because right then Angela comes in the door.
“Boys are lame,” I said, and made a face. Then I went up to my room and plunked down on my bed and took out my journal.
First kiss today, I wrote. I didn’t feel anything spectacular. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.
I put the pen down. I’d kissed the hottest boy in my school, and I’d felt nothing.
I picked the pen up again.
Or maybe I could never be content with a normal boy, I wrote. Maybe I’ll have to wait for someone remarkable.
And that’s exactly what I did. I waited. I knew the moment I saw him that he was the one I was waiting for. The one whose kiss would make me see stars.
Someone remarkable.
CLARA
It takes a few minutes to extricate myself from Angela’s grandmother. Angela’s already in bed when I arrive upstairs, covers pulled up to her chin, eyes closed. I get in my pj’s and slip into the creaky metal-framed bed next to her, then turn out the light and wait for her to say something. Anything. But she turns her back to me. We both lie there in the dark and listen to the sounds of Rome, the mopeds on cobblestones, car horns, people shouting, the snatches of laughter and fragments of Italian from down the street.
This is not a city that goes to bed early.
After a while we hear Rosa shuffle into her room for the night. Angela sits up. She slides out of bed and moves toward the door, not stopping to get dressed, which means that she never got into her pajamas in the first place. She’s like a cat burglar as she pads her way silently down the hall and sneaks down the stairs. I hear the creak of the front door. And then she’s gone.
Suddenly I’m wide awake.
I wonder if there was something I missed on the train, a secret conversation that said, Meet me later, at that place, or if she simply knows where to find him; or maybe she’s randomly gone to look for him in this city of a little less than three million people. Or I guess it’s possible that she’s not with him at all but wanted to be alone so I wouldn’t see how upset she is, so she wouldn’t have to talk to me about it. I’d understand that. I know that love can hurt.
All I know is, she could hardly wait to get out of here.
It’s not fair, I think. Angela always pushes me to tell her everything that happens to me, and if I hold anything back and she finds out about it later, she gets all miffed and hurt and stuff. But when it comes to her own life, oh no, that’s personal. No secrets in Angel Club, she always used to say. Whatever. So yeah, as her official best friend, I’m offended.
But then there’s the part where I don’t tell her things, either.
Two hours pass. Three. It’s now two in the morning, and still no Angela. I get up, pour myself a glass of water, drink about two sips and dump it, stand and stare out the window onto the empty street below. The city’s quieter now. A cold draft moves across my bare feet and I shiver. I tell myself that Angela’s tough. She knows how to take care of herself. She’s been coming here every summer for her entire life, without incident. She’s probably fine. I force myself to lie down again, but sleep’s not happening. I keep coming back to that memory of hers I caught earlier, a moment away from being kissed. The anticipation of his lips on hers. The charged space between them. The sharing of breath. The look in his eyes as he decided to throw caution to the wind, and kiss her.
Which she wanted more than anything.
Someone looked at me that way once.
Tucker.
I close my eyes. It’s so easy to call up the way his hands felt cupping my face. He kissed me so many times, more than I could count, but each time it was like this wonderful surprise. He always got this I-want-to-kiss-you expression in his eyes, right before he’d draw me in. My throat aches as I remember the agonizing joy of those few seconds before his lips touched mine. The rioting drum of my heart. His smell, a mixture of grass and sweat, a hint of fish and river water from our afternoons on the lake, maybe lemon that he’d sliced to put on some trout for dinner, and that smell all his own, man-and-sun-and-cologne. The sheer warmth of him, his skin, his hazy blue eyes, the dimple in his cheek.
I open my eyes.
This is not healthy, I think. This is not good. It’s over. I need to get over it.
Over him.
Why is that so freaking hard?
I miss Mom. All of a sudden missing her hits me like a never-ending wave. I try not to dwell on it, but her absence is always here, like I’m walking around with a big open hole in my chest where my mother used to be. I wish I could call her. She’d know what to do, what to say to make everything all right again. She always did. She’d say something witty and true, make me a cup of tea, hug me, smooth my hair down, and tell me something to get me laughing.
She’s never going to do that, ever again.
Cue the big old lonely lump in my throat.
When I open my eyes again it’s morning, and Angela’s still not here. I get dressed and spend a few minutes pacing around the room trying to come up with some kind of plan. Maybe I can slip out and look for her—not that I have any clue where to look—before anybody else knows she’s gone.
But I have no such luck with the sneaking. Rosa’s already at the stove, and to make matters infinitely worse, Angela’s snotty cousin Bella is sitting at the kitchen table. They both turn to stare at me when I come down the stairs.
“Too much wine last night?” Bella looks me up and down. “These American girls never know how to drink wine,” she says in Italian.
Rosa eyes me with a mournful expression that totally reminds me of Angela’s mom. I don’t know if she’s sad about the way I look or the idea that I can’t hold my wine.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say as an explanation. “I thought I might take a walk this morning, clear my head.”
Smooth, Clara. Yeah, get some of that superfresh Roman air.
“Where is Angela?” Rosa asks as I reach the door.
I’m a terrible liar. I’m going to come up with something brilliant like She’s sleeping in, and what this sharp old lady is going to see all over my face is She didn’t come home last night, and then all hell is going to break loose.
My mouth is suddenly dry. I let go of the doorknob, start to turn around. “Um,” I say, about to blow it, but I’m saved, because right then Angela comes in the door.
