Chapter 23
My phone nearly slips from my hand. I blink at the screen, willing the words to rearrange themselves into something else. A glitch. A prank. Anything but this.
@RenaissanceRebel: Still believe I didn’t do the street art?
I snap the screen face-down on the table, my hands shaking.
‘Evie!’ Alessandra interrupts her conversation with Nadia to give me a concerned look. ‘You’ve gone white. You need sugar.’ She grabs my empty glass. ‘Hang on. I’ll get more orange.’
I don’t answer. I can’t. How is this even possible? Leo Ballarin with a spray can? Please.
Except … the truth is there on my phone … in black and white.
RenaissanceRebel, the boy I’ve been talking to night and day for the past year, is sitting shoulder to shoulder with me.
Only … Rebel listens. Rebel gets me. Leo shuts me out, makes me feel small. He rejected my kiss … Or did he? He knew who I was. He tried to tell me.
Leo holds out his hand. ‘Pleased to finally meet you. Should we … shake on it?’
The floor drops away. The handshake … our code.
It’s really him. Leo is Rebel.
He pulls his hand back. ‘Sorry. Too much? Seems I’m always—’
He breaks off as a glass appears at my elbow, passed down from Alessandra to Nadia like a relay baton. ‘For the record,’ I say, deflecting their scrutiny, ‘this is just my face. I look pale next to anyone with a tan.’
I take a sip anyway.
Over the rim, I see Leo’s phone light up on the table. ‘Mamma’ flashes briefly on the screen.
‘Your mum wants you,’ I say, hoping he’ll leave and let me get my head together.
He scans the text. ‘She wants both of us. Silvia’s coming to dinner.’
‘Now?’
Fulvio, who’s clearly been eavesdropping, leans in. ‘Can I come? I have some ideas I’d like to run past your mum and Silvia.’
‘Not this time,’ Leo says, holding my coat open for me.
Fulvio drops into Leo’s empty seat. ‘People like her always get special treatment. First it’s free tuition, now it’ll be extra help.’
Nadia and Alessandra release a flood of Italian in his direction. I only catch ‘idiota’ as we step outside and the din of the bacaro fades behind us.
It’s freezing now, the kind of cold you only get near water. We walk fast, shop windows blurring past in flashes of gilded, sequinned and painted masks. And Leo’s been wearing the most convincing one of all.
‘You knew,’ I whisper. ‘You knew and you didn’t tell me.’
‘Evie …’ His voice is pleading. ‘I tried.’
‘Not hard enough! You let me—’ I break off, cheeks burning. ‘You just let me …’
No. I can’t say it out loud. I can’t remind him of the kiss.
I don’t have to. It’s written all over his face – a pained look that sears my chest.
The palazzo is hushed and warm after the street.
I gaze longingly at the staircase, aching to be alone to unpick my thoughts, but Veronica’s voice pulls us towards the dining room, where she and Silvia are waiting, table laid and food set out.
Everything’s a level fancier than usual, like Jacopo’s mum has pulled out all the stops for tonight’s guest.
I reach for the bread roll on my side plate. I’m not hungry. Not even a little, but I need something to do with my hands, something to distract me from the boy sitting next to me.
Silvia piles a generous helping of a thick pasta in some kind of anchovy sauce on to her plate. ‘We were discussing the mask-making workshop. Veronica wasn’t sure how useful it was. I’d love to hear what you thought, Evie, given that you’re on the programme.’
My stomach sinks. Worst timing ever. Talking about art in front of Leo feels impossible. He knows the truth about me, all the messages where I told him I was struggling, all the lies I’ve told to even be here. I might as well be naked.
‘Um … it was interesting,’ I manage. ‘Kind of incredible how we all started with the same base and ended up with totally different masks.’
Leo nods. ‘That something so … blank … can become so meaningful. It’s rare. And special.’
I grip the edge of the table. Blank. Another one of our codes.
Veronica shrugs. ‘I can see why this sort of activity appeals to tourists.’
‘Which is why it shouldn’t be only for them,’ Silvia says lightly, eyeing the roll I’ve shredded to crumbs and sliding the breadbasket towards me. ‘Yours was intriguing, Evie. I admired the fierce edge. People often aim for pretty.’
Leo sets his cutlery down and twists to face me. ‘I only saw it for a second, but it really struck me.’
‘Did it strike you straight away?’ I snap.
‘Not straight away. No.’ His gaze holds mine.
‘When, then?’
‘Not as quickly as you think,’ he says, matching my tone.
Silvia glances between us, clearly lost. ‘Yes, well … you’ll be pleased to know the masks are dry and ready for collection. I’ll drop them at the Institute before the masquerade ball on Wednesday evening.’ She turns to Veronica. ‘Some of the sponsors will be attending too.’
‘Wednesday? But that’s the day after tomorrow. I don’t know if Martino will be back in time.’ Veronica gestures towards her husband’s self-portrait with her glass, and we all follow it, as if the man himself might weigh in.
‘The funding was awarded to the school,’ Silvia says calmly. ‘It’s as much yours as it is his.’
I barely register the rest. Now that I know Leo is Rebel, other things start clicking into place.
Martino’s painting looked familiar because I’d seen a version of it before, on the hoarding outside the Institute on my very first day.
Leo had painted a mural of his own dad. Same pose, same man, just reimagined.
But it also reminds me whose son he is, whose name he bears. Leonardo Ballarin. The golden boy with a palazzo and a family name that could probably get him exhibited in any gallery he chooses.
That’s the thing that hurts most. I thought Rebel was someone like me. Someone who knew what it was like to want something and not have it handed over on a silver platter. Not like Leo.