Chapter 4
Mina
The runners come around the final bend, and I’m screaming so loud my throat burns.
“Come on!” I shout, both hands cupped around my mouth. “Come on, Cristiano!”
There are three of them in front of the pack, neck and neck. Cristiano in the middle lane, long legs pounding, his face a mask of fierce determination. There’s a stocky blond boy on his left and a tall, lanky runner on his right. Fifty meters to go, and they’re so close I can’t tell who’s ahead.
The crowd roars around me. Parents are calling out, students are stomping the bleachers until the whole structure shakes.
The St. Peter’s section is a sea of burgundy and gold, everyone on their feet, and I’m right there at the railing near the finish line, leaning so far forward that I might topple onto the track.
Forty meters.
The blond boy surges. Cristiano matches him stride for stride, his jaw clenched, arms pumping.
Thirty meters.
The lanky runner makes a move on the outside. All three of them are flying now, their legs eating up the track, and my heart is in my throat because I can’t tell who’s in the lead.
“Come on, Cristiano!”
Twenty meters.
He pulls ahead. Just barely. Just a breath.
Ten meters.
Five.
Cristiano lunges forward and crosses the finish line first.
The stadium explodes in cheers. I’m jumping up and down, screaming and laughing for no reason except that he did it, he won, he actually won. The whole St. Peter’s section is chanting “MON-TO-NI! MON-TO-NI!” and it’s pure, beautiful chaos.
Cristiano staggers past the finish line and bends over, hands on his knees, chest heaving like he can’t get enough air. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Then he straightens up, still breathing hard, and scans the crowd.
I’m jumping up and down, applauding and calling his name.
He looks at me with something bright and grateful in his eyes, like I gave him a gift just by showing up.
And then he’s moving. Not walking, but running straight through the chaos of celebrating runners and coaches. He vaults the railing—actually vaults it, one hand on the metal bar—and lands right in front of me.
He snatches me up in a hug, lifting me clear off my feet, and suddenly I’m in the air, his arms tight around my waist, spinning once before he sets me down.
I grab his shoulders for balance, laughing and breathless. I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. “Cristiano! You won! You were amazing!”
His face is flushed from the race, and his eyes are so bright, so alive. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and his modesty and serenity in the face of my jumping about and screaming makes me want to impress on him how wonderful this moment is.
“Your parents are going to be so proud of you,” I tell him, gripping his shoulders.
All the joy, all that brightness in his eyes, suddenly dims. “Sure. Yeah.”
Anxiety plummets through me as I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. If his parents cared about his track achievements, they’d be here.
“Well, I’m proud of you,” I say fiercely, my hands still on his shoulders. “You worked so hard for this. You deserve to celebrate.”
A smile crooks the corner of his mouth, and he looks at me like I just handed him the world.
A whistle blows. Someone’s calling his name. Cristiano glances over his shoulder, but he seems reluctant to leave my side.
“Go! Go!” I push at his chest, laughing. “They’re waiting for you!”
“Will you wait so we can go home together?”
“I’ll wait.”
He nods once, squeezes my waist one more time, and then he’s jogging back toward the track, glancing over his shoulder twice to make sure I’m still there.
I wave.
He smiles, heat glowing in his amber eyes, his tan so warm and golden it’s like he swallowed the sun.
My stomach flutters as I watch him duck his head to receive his medal, the gold in his hair catching the sunlight. I’m triply proud of Cristiano to make up for the fact that his family isn’t here to see this.
An hour later, we take the bus back to our neighborhood, and I’m still buzzing with excitement, replaying the race in my head. Cristiano is quieter, his gym bag between his feet, but there’s a softness to his expression I don’t see very often.
“You were so fast,” I say for probably the tenth time. “Like, I knew you were fast, but that final sprint—”
“You said that already.”
“Because it’s true!” I bump his shoulder with mine. “You’re going to be impossible to live with now. All cocky and insufferable.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m never cocky.”
“You’re always cocky. You just hide it under all that brooding.”
He shakes his head, but he’s almost smiling. Actually almost smiling. It makes warmth bloom in my chest.
The bus drops us two blocks from the Montoni mansion, and we walk the rest of the way. The late afternoon sun turns everything golden. The trees, the sidewalk, Cristiano’s profile when he tilts his head back to look at the sky.
We reach the gates of the mansion, and the warmth I’ve been feeling all afternoon starts to fade. This house always makes me feel small. Like I’m trespassing just by being here.
Cristiano heads straight for the front door and goes inside, holding it open for me. Mom is probably in the kitchen by now, finishing up dinner prep. I should find her, help her with something, and prove I’m not “wandering around the mansion like I own the place,” like she sometimes scolds me.
“I should go find my mom,” I say reluctantly.
“Stay for a bit,” Cristiano says. “We could go to the garden. Or—”
“Cristiano.”
Mr. Montoni is standing in the doorway, perfectly still, his hands in his pockets. He’s a big man, though not as tall as Cristiano, and there’s something about him that makes the air feel harder to breathe.
“Dad.” Cristiano’s voice goes flat. Empty. He was reaching for my hand, but it drops back to his side.
“I need a word with you.” Mr. Montoni’s eyes slide to me, and the look is so cold, so contemptuous, that I feel myself shrinking. “Shouldn’t you be helping your mother with the laundry?” he says to me.
Heat floods my face, and I realize how I must look to Mr. Montoni. I came through the front door of his mansion with his son, and I’m standing by his side as though I belong here the same way Cristiano belongs here. My flesh prickles with embarrassment and my heart pounds.
“I— Yes. I’m sorry.” The words tumble out, tripping over each other. I can’t look at Cristiano. I can’t look at either of them.
I hurry away before anyone can say anything else, my chest so tight I can barely breathe.
Behind me, I hear Cristiano say, “Dad, don’t talk to Mina like that.”
Mr. Montoni’s voice is cold and flat. “I see you won.”
It’s not a congratulation. It’s an observation. A sneer.
Instead of continuing to the kitchen, I press my back against the wall, out of sight, and hold my breath. I shouldn’t listen, but a desperate part of me hopes that Mr. Montoni will say something kind and acknowledge what Cristiano did today.
There’s a long silence.
“Yes, sir.” Cristiano’s voice is empty, a tone that makes him sound like he’s talking to a stranger.
“Track.” Mr. Montoni makes it sound like a disease. “How much time did you waste training for this?”
“I trained before school. It didn’t interfere with—”
“It interfered with your focus. Your grades this semester are acceptable, but not exceptional. You’re barely maintaining your position in the top five percent of your class.”
Barely maintaining top five percent? But that’s incredible.
“Yes, sir.”
“And this.” There’s a sound like metal clinking. The medal, maybe, being touched dismissively. “Running in circles doesn’t command respect. It doesn’t prepare you for your future responsibilities.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You waste time on frivolous pursuits.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Montoni’s voice sharpens. “Tell me, what were you doing walking through my front door with the housekeeper’s daughter?”
Oh God.
I cover my face with both hands, terrified that I’ve gotten Cristiano into trouble.
“She came to watch the meet,” Cristiano says, and his voice is still flat, still emotionless.
“Why?”
“Because I invited her.”
“Why would you invite her?” Mr. Montoni’s tone is incredulous. Contemptuous. “What possible reason could you have for wanting her there?”
“She’s my friend,” Cristiano says, and there’s an edge to his voice now. The flatness is cracking.
“No son of mine is friends with the help’s daughter. An uneducated, mousy little fool. You will not speak to her again.”
“No.”
There’s a ringing silence.
“What did you say to me?”
“I said no.” Cristiano’s voice is harder now. Angry.
“You’ll do as you’re told—”
“She’s smart.” The words come out sharp and defiant. “And she’s kind. She’s never done anything to deserve being spoken about that way. She’s worked hard her whole life. She’s—” He stops. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “You have no right to talk about her like that.”
My hands slowly draw away from my face. My heart is swelling. Aching. Beating too fast.
The sound of a slap echoes down the hallway.
I clap my hand over my mouth to stop the gasp.
Mr. Montoni’s roar is like a dragon breathing fire. “You will not speak to me that way. You will not question my authority. Do I make myself clear?”
I picture Mr. Montoni brandishing a forefinger in Cristiano’s face while he holds his hand to his stinging cheek.
He hit him.
Tears fill my eyes. To hit his own son merely for saying something kind is monstrous.
In that flat, dead voice, Cristiano says, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get out of my sight.”
Footsteps. Heavy ones as Mr. Montoni goes deeper into the house, and faster ones, moving toward the stairs.
I stay frozen against the wall, my hand still pressed to my mouth, my heart pounding so hard I think I might be sick.
He stood up to his father for me, and his father hit him.
Because of me.
I’m causing problems just by existing near Cristiano.
I press my back harder against the wall and try to breathe. The warmth is still there, glowing softly in the center of my chest. Something precious and fragile that I want to protect.
He thinks I’m smart.
He thinks I’m kind.