Chapter 19
I’m up with the pigeons on Saturday morning, sitting on a kitchen stool in my last clean tee and my favourite jeans, psyching myself up before Jacopo gets here. This is it – the day Rebel and I go on an actual date.
Because once we confess our identities face to face, the feelings will come rushing in. They have to. I need them to.
‘Buongiorno, Evie.’ Jacopo’s mum pats my cheek on the way past, before parking her carrello in its usual spot.
Jacopo saunters in behind her and I hold my breath. Any second now, our eyes will meet, and I’ll see it. That spark of recognition. A look that says it’s you. But all I get is his usual grin as he opens the fridge.
‘So.’ I shuffle closer, leaning against the wall like it’s no big deal. ‘You came.’
He tips his head. ‘Missed me?’
I frown. Is this an act?
‘Umm. You got my message last night, right?’
‘Sì.’ He sets the milk on the table, then glances back at me. ‘It was a nice surprise.’
Nice? I wait for more. Was he surprised I’m Sketchy? That I know he’s Rebel? This is so not how I imagined Sketchy and Rebel meeting in real life. I expected more … soulmate stuff.
Before I can press him, Leo drifts in wearing his version of pyjamas – a boxy T-shirt and baggy joggers that would be scruffy on anyone else. On him, though, they look unfairly good. Poster good.
I shut the image down fast as the boys clap each other on the shoulder, easy as anything.
‘Bon, you have seen what Evie did?’ Jacopo pulls out his phone and turns the screen towards Leo. ‘It’s me!’
What? Noooo!
I yank Jacopo’s arm away, but it’s too late. Leo’s eyes are bugging out.
‘OK, let’s go!’ I shove Jacopo towards the door, faking urgency.
He digs his heels in. ‘Aspetta – wait! I haven’t had breakfast yet.’
‘No time! Come on, we’ll be late!’ I practically frogmarch him out of the palazzo into the morning crowds. Oh God. Why would he show Leo, of all people? He’ll think I’m so weird, taking photos of the school graffiti and drawing my own version in my spare time.
Unless … unless Jacopo isn’t really Rebel at all.
‘What’s the hurry?’ Jacopo protests. ‘I want to see all the beautiful girls too, but—’
‘Can you be serious for one minute?’ I interrupt.
We nearly collide with a woman in a feathered headpiece so enormous it’s wedged between the walls of the calle. Jacopo frees her, with a gentle reprimand about respecting the measure of the city.
‘See? I can be serious.’
I sigh and stare at the confetti swirling around my feet. ‘You’re not a street artist, are you?’ My voice is flat, less question and more statement.
‘Me?’ Jacopo starts to laugh, then stops. ‘Wait … you thought I did the mural? This is why you sent me the picture … why you drew me?’
I squirm, embarrassed now. I need to hear him say it. ‘Well, are you?’
He searches my face. ‘No. Sorry. I’m not.’
And just like that, the whole stupid fantasy I’ve built – the big reveal, the spark, the meant-to-be moment – pops like a bubble. How did I get it so wrong?
He starts walking again, but I tug his sleeve.
‘So when you said you helped decorate the friggitoria, you didn’t mean the artwork on the shutter?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head again. ‘I brought some furniture by boat. Got a discount on a crane.’
‘Oh. What about the hoarding outside the school? You said it was a perfect blank canvas, and the very next day a new mural appeared. Coincidence?’
He shrugs. ‘Esatto.’ But there’s a flicker in his eyes, a shadow that keeps me guessing.
‘Is it also a coincidence that the mural’s of Saint Mark – and you dressed up as a winged lion at the parade?’
‘Eh? That was San Marco?’
I nudge a scrap of gold confetti into the gutter with my toe. ‘OK. I believe you.’
‘Bon … can we eat now?’
The closer we get to Piazza San Marco, the harder it is to walk. Locals grumble at everyone to ‘keep right’ on bridges and narrow calli, and the queues at bars and bacari are ridiculously long. We end up buying roasted chestnuts from a street vendor.
I could really do with a mask to hide my miserable face. Everyone else is having a great time. It’s the Festa delle Marie, and the whole thing shimmers with excitement.
Twelve girls in heavy velvet dresses are being carried through the crowds on raised wooden platforms, balanced high by teams of boys moving in time with the drums.
The cracked skins of the chestnuts burn my fingers as I peel them, but it barely registers.
I’ve wasted so much time. Rebel is actually here – in this city, maybe in this very piazza.
He might even be one of the boys in the parade.
And I wouldn’t know. Just like he has no idea I’ve been suspended from the app.
From his side, it looks like I’ve gone silent.
I make my excuses to Jacopo after lunch and wander aimlessly around the city, longing for the solitude of a heathery hill or an ancient forest. Venice is flat and treeless. It’s not until I spot a teenage girl in a full-blown argument with her mum that I give in to the urge to call my own.
‘Hey,’ I say, forcing cheer into my voice.
‘Oh, hi, love. It’s great to hear your voice. How’s Florence?’
‘It’s fine. Just … tiring.’
‘You sound a bit down,’ she says gently. ‘You’ve been so quiet this week. And Grace says you keep making excuses not to meet her friend. It’s not like you.’
‘I’m fine. Honestly. Just busy.’
There’s a pause. ‘Listen … your dad and I were talking. If you need more spending money, we can figure something out. I know even sandwiches cost a fortune. And—’
‘Mum—’
‘Just let me say this. We couldn’t give you the trips your friends have had, or the clothes, or fancy phones.’
My throat tightens.
‘But look at you now,’ she goes on, her voice catching. ‘You’re somewhere amazing, and I just … I hope you know how proud we are. You deserve something good.’
I press my palm hard against my eyes. ‘Mum,’ I croak. ‘Don’t.’
‘What? I’m allowed to get a bit teary.’
I try to laugh but it comes out wrong. ‘Thanks,’ I whisper.
Every lie I’ve told to get here – to Mum and Dad, to school – is a trap I have to tiptoe around, even in Venice, where no one really knows me. I can’t let my guard down. I can’t tell the truth.
And there’s no one I can talk to.
Except maybe Rebel. If only I still had a way to reach him.