Chapter 9
My phone is next to my hand when I wake up. I grab it to check the time, and find a notification waiting on the lock screen:
@RenaissanceRebel:
Instantly more awake, I swipe it open. There’s a second message.
@RenaissanceRebel: Am I too late?
@TotallySketchy: Never.
A tiny green dot appears next to his profile picture and my heart skips. He’s online.
@RenaissanceRebel: I must have fallen asleep before you. That never happens.
@TotallySketchy: Are you calling me a lightweight?
@RenaissanceRebel: Blank
@TotallySketchy: Go back to sleep.
@RenaissanceRebel: I wish! I’m already up. I have a after homework thing.
@TotallySketchy: Sigh.
@RenaissanceRebel: Double sigh. Have to go. Blank you!
@TotallySketchy: Blank you, too.
I drop the phone on to the mattress, annoyed that the app that brought us together is also keeping us apart.
The screen hasn’t even dimmed when Leo starts bellowing through the bathroom door – ‘Pope oeeee. It’s parade time,’ – like a demented alarm clock. He only stops when I croak back, ‘Oeeee vien vanti,’ laughing at how ridiculous it sounds in my Scottish accent.
Outside, the city’s even more amped up than yesterday.
And there are already a few hundred people wedged on to the Rialto Bridge when we get there.
Leo and I squeeze in, but I’m convinced we’re about to topple over the stone balustrade.
Yesterday’s fall into the water was bad enough, but the Grand Canal is easily as wide as a motorway and just as busy.
Parade boats, festooned with streamers and painted panels, float in the water below, clustered behind a comically huge papier-maché rat with goofy buck teeth.
‘Erm … what is that?’ I ask, pointing to it.
‘The Pantegana. A sewer rat. It symbolizes our city.’
‘Bit of a downgrade from a winged lion, no offence.’
He smirks. ‘Got something better, Nessie?’
OK, so the nickname is happening. I lift my chin. ‘Scotland’s national animal is a unicorn, actually.’
His snort of laughter tickles the back of my neck, and it hits me how different he is out here.
Away from his mum, maybe. He couldn’t get out of the palazzo fast enough this morning when Veronica started going on about his dad, and how they’ll do the Carnevale project in a way that ‘won’t turn the school into a tourist spectacle’.
Now he’s here. Smiling. Easy. Like someone I don’t quite know yet – but might actually want to.
A voice crackles through a loudspeaker and a countdown rings out over the water.
Leo moves closer. ‘Listen … It’s starting.’
Even with his warning, I jump about a mile when the Pantegana bursts open, releasing a cloud of colourful smoke, balloons and confetti into the air.
The crowd surges and Leo tugs me in front of him, his arms forming a loose, protective circle around me.
His hands aren’t even touching me, just keeping a bit of space clear, but I’m suddenly very aware of them as I breathe in the sharp smell of burnt fireworks.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I jolt away from Leo, convinced it’s Rebel somehow knowing what I’m thinking.
It’s a message from an unknown number starting with +39, the code for Italy.
Ciao Evie, I’m a friend of Grace from Florence!
Welcome to my city. I would like to show you some great places. Let me know when you are free.
Baci, Paola.
Oh no. Already?
Leo must feel me tense because he dips his head closer. ‘Are you OK?’
I force a laugh as I pocket my phone. ‘Yeah. Totally. Have you, um … have you spotted Jacopo yet?’
I scan the water, past pirates, mermaids and Italian characters I can’t name. Except maybe one.
‘That’s … him, isn’t it?’
I gesture at a rower in a winged lion costume who’s leaning out to drag a flimsy plastic rain poncho from the water, while the rest of the crew yell at him to sit down.
‘Yeah,’ Leo says quietly. ‘That’s him.’
After the corteo, Leo and I find Jacopo on the fondamenta with his dad. Jacopo’s lion head is tipped back, hair sticking up in sweaty spikes. His dad smiles at me, then gives Leo’s shoulder a brief pat.
Leo touches the spot almost absently.
‘Come to eat with me?’ Jacopo says. ‘I will just help Papà return the boat first—’
His dad interrupts in Venetian, a short burst of words and a gentle push that sends Jacopo grinning our way.
Jacopo pats his stomach. ‘He says I am no good when I am hungry.’
He doesn’t bother taking his costume off, so he’s easy to follow even with the streets packed tight.
We stop at a place that’s barely more than a window cut into the wall, steam puffing out as fast as food passes through. Above the opening, a metal sign juts out into the street – a bright red octopus curling its tentacles around the letters FRIGGITORIA.
I think it’s a kind of Venetian chippy – squid instead of haddock, skinny fries instead of chunky chips. The smell of frying batter is the same.
Leo and I claim a high table by the water, and I watch, bemused, as someone behind the window spots Jacopo approaching and slides a tray across, piled high with food.
Ignoring the glares and grumbles from the queue, he carries it over and sets it down with a flourish.
‘Buon appetito.’
I pick up a crispy calamari ring. ‘Is this … free?’
Jacopo lifts a shoulder. ‘I helped the owner decorate. Remember, Leo?’
Leo nudges the tray away like he’s lost his appetite, but Jacopo just laughs.
‘They forgot drinks. Wait here.’
I pick at the edge of the paper cone. ‘I don’t know if something’s getting lost in translation,’ I say, ‘but it’s like you two are always having a secret argument or something. What’s going on?’
‘Just … be careful around Jacopo. He doesn’t always realize the trouble he causes.’
Trouble? Is this about Jacopo’s digs at Leo – the not-disappointing-his-dad thing, the secret-keeping? Or am I seeing hidden meanings everywhere because I’m drowning in my own lies?