11 #2
She tells me to watch my mouth. I hand her the Italian novel we’ve been set.
She hasn’t read it and sneers at the title.
Why do I put myself through this? Well, as Mum says, if I can win an argument with Nonna about the novel then I’ll completely smash any assessments.
Still, I’m not looking forward to spending the next eight months arguing with Nonna over whatever I write about that book.
If I see it as an ode to war, she’ll see it as a crisis of faith.
If I see it as a metaphor for the universality of religion, she’ll see it as a love story.
If I see it as a love story, she’ll see it as pornographic trash that I should not be reading.
I’m not just doing Italian because I’ll get extra credits for my entrance score, although that’s a definite advantage, or because it’s an easy A for me.
I could argue that I’m doing Italian because it’s the language of my direct ancestors.
But the unsexy truth is I really, really love sending Nonna into blind fury by intentionally mispronouncing words with strong Aussie yobbo strine in my accent, and by Italianising words by adding a vowel to their ending, like calling my brothers le dicki .
Italian is one of those subjects that, for the past eleven years, I could coast through without an ounce of effort, and I need something this year that won’t feel like it’s trying to kill me slowly.
Em is like that with maths and science. She just turns up to an assessment and can wing her way through it, busting out anything above a ninety with time to doodle with boredom while she waits for everyone else to finish.
I’m putting myself through science and maths not because I love them but because I know I need them to have more options, but ugh.
Mum and Dad just can’t understand why I have to work so hard to get half decent marks in maths.
It was a hideous feeling, being the only one in my group of friends who fought for As when everyone else was piling them one on top of the other without a care in the world.
It used to get me really down, which I was brainless enough to tell one of my teachers who then mobilised the wellbeing program around me.
Hello, endless cups of tea with the school counsellor and her furrowed brow.
At least she was generous with her chocolate stash.
School is all about self-esteem. Well, performance and then self-esteem.
At the Year Ten subject selection meeting the coordinator told me, ‘A brain like yours, Caterina Kelty? Work hard and you could do medicine.’ I remember Mum and Dad exchanging glances, probably thinking about how weak my stomach is, how I vomit in sympathy with my brothers.
‘The important thing is you don’t waste your potential.
’ Potential, potential, potential. From the time we walk through the doors we’re told relentlessly that not only are we expected to succeed, but we’re entitled to success, and that every possible resource is there to support us to fulfil our potential.
The teachers are there to nurture and massage every high grade.
This year? I need the highest possible marks.
I don’t have a choice in the matter. My school has such an amazing name, and something like an almost perfect university acceptance rate.
Imagine being the only one in my year level that misses out on a place somewhere amazing?
I have no plan b; I don’t even want to consider a plan b.
It’s university for me or nothing. So, hello Italian and the boost to my entrance score.
‘Coffee, Nonna?’
She murmurs in assent. She’s settled herself in the living room, fidgeting in her oversized handbag for her glasses, my Italian novel beside her.
I watch her from above. I know this routine so well it’s immortalised into my brain.
First, she puts her hand in and uses her sense of feeling.
Then she mutters in Italian and peers in, nose crinkled into a frown, while her hand continues to rummage.
Then she’ll curse God above and upend her bag onto the carpet.
She’ll extract her glasses, put them on, and return everything to her bag with a
self-satisfied hum.
I make three coffees: one for Nonna, one for Mum, and another for me. Mum eyes me off.
‘How many coffees have you had today?’
‘Dunno, maybe three?’
‘I don’t know, not “dunno” and I’m pretty sure that’s your fourth. Put a sugar in it and take it down to your dad. You’ve had enough. Make one for Paul too.’
‘I don’t know how he likes it.’
‘I know how he likes it,’ says Matty. ‘On the beach with a blonde, fake or real, doesn’t matter.’
‘Matty...’ Mum purses her lips.
‘Who has coffee on the beach?’ says Nonna. ‘Why would you?’
‘Good one,’ I high five my brother as he passes me in the kitchen. ‘I’ll make it, but Matty can take it downstairs. I’m not their slave.’
‘Don’t worry,’ says Mum. ‘I’m getting lunch ready anyway. Matteo, go and see what time Dad and Paul want to eat.’
‘Matty, wait,’ I say. Mum, stop! Don’t even think about it, he’s just here to work, why would he want to have lunch? That’s too big a deal, even for you.’
‘It’s lunch, Cat, not a royal wedding. I can’t feed my husband and let his assistant starve, can I?’ says Mum. ‘Matty, off you go.’
Matty takes the four steps down to Mum and Dad’s room and goes into their ensuite. I’m about to tell him to close the door to give himself, and more importantly us, some privacy when his voice booms through the house. ‘DAD! LUNCH! WHEN?’
Mum, Nonna and I simultaneously screech at him and it’s a wonder that between his yell and our shrieks we’re left with a pane of glass anywhere in the house.
‘I could have yelled,’ says Mum. ‘Go outside, walk down the stairs and speak like a human.’
‘What kind of animal will Catarina’s ragazzo think you are?’ shouts Nonna. ‘Show some class, Matteo. You’re not a barbarian. Stop acting like one.’
‘Nonna! He is not my boyfriend! He’s just some proprio un bischero that’s helping Dad.’
Mum’s mouth is open. Nonna stares past me.
‘He’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?’ I say, in Italian. They nod and Matty cracks up.
‘I’m guessing she didn’t call me anything particularly flattering?’ Paul asks Matty.
‘She called you baby daddy,’ says Matty.
‘You’re such a turdburger!’ He shoots across the room out of reach to avoid my lunge.
‘I was just coming up to say hello.’ Paul kicks off his work boots and stands in the door, pausing until Mum waves him in.
He says hello to her and asks how she is.
It’s like he’s read a book about how to get parents on side.
He looks at my grandmother then looks at me expectedly.
I sigh. Best get this over with. Nonna will make him sorry he ever crossed this threshold.
‘Nonna, this is Paul, he’s working with Dad,’ I say. ‘This is my grandmother, Mrs Marea.’
‘ Ciao, signora .’ He shakes her hand. My head nearly snaps off my neck.
‘ Ciao, Paulo !’ Nonna fires off in Italian, asking after his health.
His mouth drops, and then he smiles. His smile is next level.
I mean, after two years of orthodontic treatment mine is good, but he could be in a toothpaste ad.
Nine out of ten dentists agree, hottest of the hot.
He holds his hands up in mock surrender.
‘Uh, mi dispiace , is that right? I only know a couple of words.’
‘It’s wonderful that you have the respect to make an effort,’ says Nonna. ‘Not many people do. Do you learn Italian at school like my principessa ?’
‘Wow, Nonna, so now I’m a princess when ten minutes ago I was a smart mouth.’
She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.
He sits beside Nonna on the sofa. He tells her he left school three years ago, that he’s about to finish his carpentry apprenticeship.
Any minute now Nonna will start shooting her death glares, won’t she?
She’ll do the maths and protect me from the evil intentions of an older man hellbent on destroying my future.
Instead, she sits there, nodding and asking questions that give the appearance of her being interested in everything he says, and the scary thing is I honestly believe that she’s genuine.
She’s making a real effort not to drop Italian words in her sentences.
And damn him to hell, he’s being very respectful and has impeccable manners.
There’s the banging of Dad’s work boots on the stairs.
‘So, you’ve met Paul, Mum?’ asks Dad. ‘He’s giving us a hand with the cellar; the Dirty Three aren’t much chop in the building game.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You don’t think it’s time you stop calling us that, Dad?’
‘ Piacere ?’ Paul turns to my grandmother. He’s completely stuffed up with the pronunciation, but Nonna takes his outstretched hand.
‘I am very happy to meet you too.’
Paul walks across my living room and bends to pull on his boots. ‘Marry him,’ Nonna says to me in Italian. I have a family full of comedians.
‘I’m sorry?’ Paul lifts his head from where he’s crouched.
‘She said “what time would you like to have lunch?”’ says Mum.
‘In around forty-five,’ Dad follows Paul down the stairs, Tommy behind them, swinging on the railings. No wonder that kid’s constantly crying at the bottom of the stairs.
‘He’s a good person,’ says Nonna. ‘He has respect. Never give your heart to anyone with no respect.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ I throw my arms out in exasperation. ‘Not even a week ago you gave me a headache, expressly forbidding me to even consider having a boyfriend. Now you’re telling me to give my heart to some shithead that’s here to work with Dad? That you’ve known for less than two minutes?’
‘Not a shithead. You’re the shithead if you think he’s a shithead.’ She points her finger at me as I snigger. Shithead sounds hilarious coming out of her mouth. ‘You could do a lot worse, principessa .’
‘That’s the other thing, Nonna. Stop with the principessa crap. I’m not a child. Anyway, this is a ridiculous conversation.’
‘Who are you calling ridiculous?’ Nonna positively bristles. If she were a cat, her tail would have bushed, and she’d be clawing my eyes out. As it is, the vein in her temple is throbbing.
‘Nobody is calling anyone anything,’ says Mum. ‘Enough, Cat!’
‘Me? What about your mother?’
‘I cannot believe the mouth on this one,’ Nonna says to Mum. ‘If she were my daughter, I’d be ashamed. If I ever spoke to my grandmother like this, I would have been hit with a belt and locked in the cellar.’
‘Well, her father is building a cellar right now. I’ll make sure he puts a decent lock on it.’
‘No need for threats, people,’ I say. ‘Nonna, all these years of you nagging me to tears has finally paid off. I’ve decided you’re right. I intend to embrace a lifetime of celibacy. Thank you.’ I curtsey and go upstairs to the kitchen.
‘Celibacy is for the old,’ Nonna calls after me. She’s certainly changed her tune. It only took a couple of garbled, mispronounced words in Italian.
‘How’s that for ironic,’ I say to Mum from the kitchen. ‘She’s on my back about studying hard so I can be independent and now she’s marrying me off.’
‘That’s the patriarchy, Bella,’ says Mum. ‘And you thought it was bad when she wouldn’t let you in the street when the boys were out riding their bikes.’