Chapter 33
Jacopo’s been moaning about feeling left out since Leo and I got together at the masquerade ball a whole two nights ago, so he jumps at the invitation.
He picks us up in Catrìn after dinner, then we swing by a mooring near San Polo to collect Nadia, Alessandra and a quiet boy called Pietro I’ve barely spoken to.
The engine judders beneath us as we cruise up the Grand Canal, sending a constant buzz up through the bench and into my legs. Being on the water doesn’t make things calmer. It’s still traffic – just louder and closer, with nowhere to pull over.
Most of our classmates are already there when Jacopo eases into a quieter stretch near Rialto.
I assume we’re getting out, but after grabbing snacks and drinks from the bacaro we drift back to where we were, and settle into a loose circle between the boats, the wall and some steps.
I start to hope Fulvio won’t show. After our clash this afternoon, I know he’ll be out for blood.
Just when I stop looking over my shoulder, a huge motorboat tears past, sending a wall of wake crashing into us. Spray hits my legs. Jacopo mutters something that’s definitely not school Italian.
Fulvio’s at the helm, one hand on the wheel as his boat idles.
‘Seems like I’m late,’ he calls. ‘Still, I bet Leo and Evie haven’t let you in on their little secret yet.’
Nadia groans. ‘They’re in love. Big deal.’
I almost choke on my anchovy skewer.
‘I don’t care about that,’ Fulvio says. ‘It’s their plan for their floats I’m worried about.’
Alessandra rolls her eyes. ‘What are you talking about, Fulvio?’
Jacopo, who’s been quiet since we picked Nadia up, stretches his legs, his confidence flickering back. ‘I knew you were an idiot the moment I saw you.’
Fulvio’s head rears back. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Big boat, big engine, big wake,’ Jacopo says casually. ‘Venice isn’t built for that.’
‘Exactly.’ Nadia squeezes Jacopo’s arm and he sits up a little straighter.
‘You’re just jealous,’ Fulvio snaps.
Jacopo laughs. ‘No. I like my city in one piece. A small boat’s smarter. I don’t even need a licence plate. Harder to catch me when I park somewhere I shouldn’t.’
‘Because you can’t afford the fines.’ Fulvio looks around like he expects everyone to laugh. Nobody does.
‘It’s because I respect Venice,’ Jacopo says calmly. ‘But not the vigili urbani.’
‘That’s the traffic police,’ Leo translates when, this time, people do laugh.
I take a breath. ‘Actually … Fulvio’s not wrong.’
Everyone turns to me.
‘Leo and I are changing our project,’ I admit, squeezing his hand as he searches my face.
‘See?’ Fulvio spreads his arms.
‘It’s just not what he thinks,’ I finish, wiping the smirk off his face. ‘The showcase is a chance to show everyone who we are. I don’t want to waste my shot pretending to be someone else, even if it means not getting a certificate.’
The pride in Leo’s eyes is unmistakable as he threads his fingers through mine.
‘And I don’t want the committee seeing some polished version my dad would approve of,’ he says. ‘I want them to see the real me.’
‘The real us,’ I add quietly.
Nadia’s eyes go wide. ‘But it’s only two days away.’
‘We’re not starting over,’ I say. ‘Just adding to what we already have, like that day we worked with Silvia – doing what she asked and showing our personal style.’
Leo surprises me by pulling a folded sheet from the pocket of his jeans – our sketch from earlier. He smooths it out on his knee and passes it around, explaining how we’d layer something new over our existing portraits.
Fulvio taps the wheel of his boat. ‘I want to know what Martino Ballarin thinks of all this.’
The name hits like cold water.
‘My dad will never approve,’ Leo says. ‘That’s why it has to be a last-minute switch. A secret.’
Fulvio scowls. ‘You’re going to ruin it for everyone. I’m out.’
He shoves the throttle forward, the motor coughing once before catching, then pulls away fast, dark water churning behind him.
Pietro leans in. ‘What are you going to do?’
I take a breath and open the Art Exchange. My thumb hovers for a second before I turn the screen around. ‘This is me.’
I hand my phone over before I can change my mind. Selkies, kelpies, green-clad vampire girls – layered, messy, mine. For once, I don’t hide it, even from people who draw like the artists you see in museums.
‘And this is me,’ Leo says, showing his feed: Renaissance figures stencilled in spray paint, brought into the twenty-first century.
Voices overlap.
‘Definitely not like your dad.’
‘Didn’t I see that near the Arsenale?’
‘What’s brought this on?’
‘A couple of things, really. Silvia’s comments. But this too.’ He passes around the image of Veronica’s watercolour. ‘My mum’s been holding out on us.’
Nadia puts a hand to her forehead. ‘OK, this calls for more snacks.’
We eat, laugh, and by the end of the evening, it’s decided. We’re going for it. All of us.
‘One thing,’ I say. ‘I’ll need some tech to pull off my idea.’
Jacopo leans back with a grin. ‘I know a guy.’
By the time we break apart, there’s a plan: meet at the studio early tomorrow morning, each of us ready to make our artwork truly our own.