Chapter Four West #2
“Of the fast-food chain Wendy’s? I’m a huge fan of your work on the Frosty. Best Frosty since the snowman.”
It’s a wonder that she’s not attempting to choke me with her braids.
“It’s like you’ve already forgotten that I know where you sleep,” she grits out between clenched teeth.
The next words that come to mind are something along the lines of how I couldn’t possibly forget that she’s just on the other side of my bedroom wall, so it’s fortunate that I don’t get the chance to voice them.
The gentleman now standing in the center of the crowd clears his throat and begins speaking.
“Buona sera, everyone, and thank you for joining me this evening. I am Dr. Gianmarco Russo, executive director of the Villa Russo Research Residency Program.” His voice carries a hint of an accent and effortless confidence.
I jump when I suddenly hear my dad’s whisper at my side. “He’s actually John Mark Russo, born in Ohio,” Dad says from behind his glass. “Used to go by ‘Johnny,’ up until he took over the director job.”
I’m nearly as startled by the soft huff of amusement that follows from my opposite side. But when I look Cammie’s way, she’s already schooled her expression back to blankness.
“But Villa Russo is more than just my workplace,” Johnny/Gianmarco continues, a slow smile starting to spread across his face as his eyes sweep over the group gathered on the terrazzo.
“It is my ancestral home, passed down in my family for over two hundred years. Since the incredible discovery of Villa di Bronzo on our grounds—two decades ago, as of this summer—it has been the greatest honor and pleasure for the Russo family to open our home to brilliant scholars such as yourselves, to help further the study of the ancient world. Now that you’re here, you are all part of la famiglia. ”
He pauses for the applause, whistles, and hoots that ensue. I tap my free hand soundlessly against the hand holding my glass while I take a sip of lemonade and graciously refrain from pointing out that the man just plagiarized the Olive Garden slogan.
“What is this, Olive Garden?” Cammie mutters so quietly I know it wasn’t meant for anyone to hear, but I nearly spit out my drink anyway.
I hunch over, trying to get the sip down without any disruptive sounds.
When I can breathe non-lemon-soaked air again, I find two sets of furrowed brows directed at me, one dark brown and concerned, the other light auburn and still annoyed that I exist.
I wave off the former and pretend to ignore the latter, refocusing on the man speaking.
“…so if you’ll please join me in finding the seat with your place card and gathering around these beautifully set tables, our staff will invite one row at a time to the buffet line. Then we can settle in for a night of fantastic food and even better company. Buon appetito!”
Dr. Russo raises his glass, and all around him, others share their buon appetitos and salutés. I raise my own glass to my mouth and swallow down the rest of my drink without incident this time. I don’t know what I expect when I turn toward Cammie again, but she’s vanished.
For the best, most likely. Dad leads the way to a long table he must’ve already scoped out as ours, stopping when he gets a few seats from one end.
“Here we are,” he declares, gesturing to our place cards.
The paper they’re printed on, our names in metallic gold ink, looks more expensive than my shirt.
Just as I pull out my chair, a low groan sounds from across the table.
I don’t need to look up to know who it comes from, but it’s not like I can keep my eyes on my lap the rest of the night.
Actually, can I?
No, I decide. I tip my chin up and meet Cammie’s displeased gaze with cool—if completely fake—indifference.
“You keep making that gross noise from your throat. Are you coming down with a cold?”
Cammie rolls her eyes from where she stands behind her chair, arms crossed, acting awfully superior for someone in a denim onesie. “I feel a little sicker every time I see you.”
Dr. Alex appears beside Cammie, opposite my dad, but she’s immediately swept into the conversation Dad is having with the woman on his other side.
I pick up the napkin art on my plate and pretend to be totally preoccupied with studying it while Cammie takes her seat.
Then I don’t really have to pretend, because what the hell is this supposed to be?
It’s like a bizarre cross between an origami boat and one of those paper fortune tellers every kid gets obsessed with at some point.
“You’re supposed to clean your hands with it,” my personal heckler interrupts my musings. “I know learning new skills is scary, but you’re probably overdue to give this one a shot.”
Before I can counterattack, I feel someone approach the empty seat to my left.
“Ah, here I am,” says a refreshingly cheerful voice. I turn my face toward the newcomer, taken aback by the pretty girl with a pristine white smile aimed my way. A halo of light frames her face, like she’s an actual angel who’s come to save me from feeling highly unwelcome at this Welcome Dinner.
Then she pulls out her chair and sits, revealing that the halo was in fact the combined efforts of a well-placed string light behind her and my astigmatism.
Hey, Girl, Did It Hurt When You Fell from Heaven, or Did I Leave My Glasses at Home Again? The West Jacobs Story.
“Hi, I’m Lila,” she says, offering her hand for me to shake.
I take it and give her a smile. “West. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she replies, angling toward Cammie and giving her a wave over the candle-and-flower centerpiece.
“I’m Cammie,” says the redhead who looks like Camilla Lovett, but this version can produce a pleasant smile. It stays in place—maybe even grows wider—when a server appears and informs us that it’s our turn to visit the buffet.
We get separated on the journey there, ending up in different buffet lines, and I’m grateful for the reprieve.
The strangeness of being around Cammie again is already taking its toll.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive this tense non-friendship while also catching glimpses of the girl I used to know.
The smile I thought was pretty on her sixteen-year-old face is absolutely devastating at nineteen.
My defenses will only get weaker, I can feel it, and it’s hard to imagine hers ever doing the same.
The only way to protect myself is by keeping my distance. A tall order when at the end of each day, the only thing separating us is one thin bedroom wall.
I can also eat my feelings in pasta and pizza and pastries.
So I prepare to do just that, piling my plate high with something from every serving bowl and chafing dish I can reach.
Half of the stuff I can’t even identify, but it’s all making my mouth water with anticipation.
I have to walk slowly back to the table to keep my feast secure, and by the time I make it there, I’m ready to stuff my face until it’s time to say “buona notte.”
But as soon as my ass hits the chair, my dad’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Well, there’s my son—I was starting to think you’d gotten turned around, wound up down in Villa di Bronzo or something.”
I laugh and shake my head, then bite off a giant hunk of bread to tide me over for as long as it takes him to make an introduction, or whatever else he needs from me.
“Ilaria, allow me to introduce the bambino of that first summer at Villa di Bronzo, though he’s grown a bit since then—my son, West. West, this is Ilaria de Matteo, the executive producer of HistoReality’s documentary on Villa di Bronzo.”
Dad gestures toward the woman he and Dr. Alex have been chatting with since we took our seats, but it’s the first time I’ve really looked at her.
I’d guess she’s a few years younger than my parents, her light tan skin creased only around her smiling mouth and eyes, rosy spots on her cheeks and the tip of her nose.
Inky black curls are piled atop her head in some sort of twist. The long sleeves and layered skirt of her dress look loose and breezy, in contrast to the dozens of metal bracelets and necklaces layered around her wrists and neck.
They all clink together when she lifts her wineglass toward me in greeting.
“West, a pleasure,” Ilaria says in a slightly raspy voice and the thick accent of an Italian who’s not from Ohio.
My mouth is still full of bread, so all I can offer is a nod and muffled “Mm-hmm!”
She’s unfazed, her gleeful attention bouncing between Dad, Dr. Alex, Cammie, and me.
“Wow, due ‘bambini di Bronzo,’ ” she says with wonder, pointing two fingers toward Cammie and me before throwing her hands up, like she can’t believe two unrelated colleagues had babies in the same year.
“I cannot believe I did not know about the boy. Why did the world not hear about West?”
Dad and Dr. Alex share a look and laugh as Dad clarifies, “Well, this guy was born the previous winter, for starters—came into the world in a blessedly boring way at a hospital in the States. He was a couple months old by the time his pops and I brought him over here, nearly eight months by the time Ms. Camilla made her dramatic entrance.”
“Wooow,” Ilaria repeats, drawing the word out with amazement I’m not sure my origin story deserves. “How special for these two, to be in each other’s lives from the very beginning.”
She clearly has no idea of the minefield she’s tiptoeing toward, and I’m not planning to tell her, lest our screwed-up relationship become some subplot of this film I want no part in. But Cammie was always too comfortable playing with fire.
“Those first few months of his life were dreadfully dull,” she taunts, not even sparing me a glance. Our parents’ quiet laughter is forced and nervous, though I doubt Ilaria hears it over her own real chuckle. Then it’s like Cam can’t help herself—she has to see if she’s earned a reaction from me.