“Wait, you know who that guy is?” Her sister’s head suddenly popped forward between the two front seats. “They call him A-Plus.”
“As far as I’m concerned, he’s nothing but a moron.”
Then she opened her Latin textbook and started reviewing the construction of the ablative absolute. Suddenly, though, she stopped reading and gazed out the window. Was this really her only problem? Certainly not the one that guy had said. And anyway, she’d never see him again. She went back to her textbook with renewed determination. The car turned left, on its way to Falconieri High School.
“That’s right, I have no problems, and I’m never going to see him again.”
Little did she realize how wrong she really was. About both things.
Chapter 2
Their motorcycles were powerful and so were their muscles. Step, Pollo, Lucone, Hook, the Sicilian, Bunny, Schello, and lots of others. All with unlikely names, and challenging histories. Statuesque and smiling, quick with a wisecrack, their rough hands bore a few extra marks, reminders of past brawls. Okay, so maybe some of them didn’t have much money in their pockets, but they knew how to have fun and they were friends. That was enough.
They were stopped there, in Piazza Jacini, most sitting on their Harleys, old 350 four-strokes with the original array of four exhaust pipes or with the classic four-in-one, which made a lot more noise. Motorcycles dreamed of, yearned after, and finally obtained from their parents after endless, relentless begging. Or else by making sacrifices out of their own pockets.
Step smiled. “I hear that there’s a party on the Via Cassia.”
“Where?” the Silician asked.
“Number 1130. It’s an apartment complex. Wanna go?”
“But will they let us in?”
Schello reassured them. “I know a girl who’ll be there.”
“Who’s that?”
“Francesca.”
“In that case, they won’t let us in,” the Silician said.
Everyone broke out laughing.
“Oh yeah? Wait and see. We’ll get in, and we’ll liven up the place!”
“Come on! That’s the spirit,” Schello shouted like a lunatic. “Let’s go!”
Everyone in the piazza exploded in tune with that shout, starting up their motorcycle and Vespa engines, honking horns, shouting.
The windows of the buildings all around the piazza started creaking open. A distant burglar alarm began to blare. Old women in their nightgowns shuffled out onto balconies, shouting in worried voices, “What’s going on?” A voice yelled for everyone to shut up. A woman who believed in law and order threatened to call the police.
As if by magic, all the motorcycles moved at once. Pollo, Lucone, and the others took running starts, leaping onto their seats as the mufflers spewed out white smoke. A few beer cans rattled and crashed as they rolled along, and the girls all went home.
The other motorcycles joined formation, occupying the whole street, indifferent to the occasional car that ran up fast next to them, overtaking and honking loudly. Schello stood up on his beat-up oversized Vespa. Laughing, they all downshifted, practically in unison. Slamming on brakes, fishtailing across the asphalt, they all turned a sharp left. One or two popping wheelies as they went, all of them ignoring the red light. Then they roared up the Via Cassia at top speed.
* * *
At the sound of the buzzer downstairs, Roberta, euphoric for her eighteenth birthday and for the party that was going perfectly, ran to the intercom.
“You’re here to see Francesca who?” Roberta asked the male voice over the speaker.
“Giacomini, that blonde. I’m her brother, and I have to give her some keys.”
Roberta pushed the button inside the intercom once and then, to make sure she’d opened the door, pushed it again. She went into the kitchen and pulled two big Coca-Colas from the freezer. They were cold enough, so she shut the freezer door with her right foot and turned to go back to the living room. There she crossed paths with a blond girl who was talking to a boy with his hair slicked back with gel.
“Francesca, your brother is coming upstairs. He’s bringing you your keys.”
“Ah…” was all that Francesca managed to reply. “Thanks.” The boy with the slicked-back hair lost a little bit of his stiffness and allowed himself a faint sound of amusement.
“France, is something wrong?” Roberta asked.
“No, nothing’s wrong, aside from the fact that I’m an only child.”
The Sicilian and Hook were the first to read the nameplate on the fifth-floor doorbell. “Here it is. This is the place. Micchi, right?”
Schello reached the doorbell and pressed the button. The door swung open almost immediately.
Roberta stood in the doorway and looked out at the group of young men, muscular and unkempt. They’re certainly dressed rather casually struck her as a good thing to think. “Can I help you?”
Schello stepped forward. “I was looking for Francesca. I’m her brother.”
As if by magic, Francesca appeared in the doorway, accompanied by the boy with the slicked-back hair.
“Ah, there you are. It’s your brother.” Roberta turned and walked away.
Francesca gave the group a worried look. “Which of you is supposed to be my brother?”
“Me!” Lucone put his hand up.
Pollo raised his hand too. “So am I. We’re twins, just like in that Schwarzenegger movie. He’s the dumb one.” They all laughed.
Francesca took Schello aside. “What on earth were you thinking when you invited all these people, huh?”
“This party strikes me as a morgue. At least we can liven it up a little bit. Come on, France, don’t get pissed off.”
“Who’s pissed off? I just want you all to leave.”
“Excuse me, coming through, pardon me…” Inexorably, one after the other, they all went through, Hook, Lucone, Pollo, Bunny, Step, and the others.
Francesca tried to stop them. “No, Schello, come on. You can’t go in.”
“Come on, France, don’t be like that. You’ll see, nothing bad will happen.” Schello locked arms with her. “In any case, you’re not at fault here. It’s all your brother’s fault, for letting all these people tag along.” Then, as if he were worried about letting in another group of party crashers, he shut the door politely behind him.
Almost immediately, Lucone and the others mingled with the real guests, or at least tried to. They spread out in the living room.
There are certainly some strange folks at this party. That was the most common thought but also the most secretly kept one. In fact, it passed through many heads but passed not a single pair of lips.
* * *
Expensive electric appliances had been arranged at the corners of a modern kitchen. The refrigerator door hung open.
“Remember to close the door after getting something out of the fridge…” That’s what Signora Micchi would always say, scolding her children when they loitered too long in front of the open refrigerator at snack time. If, however, Signora Micchi were to come face-to-face with the owner of these Adidas and his friends, sitting there with their feet up on the table and her daughter’s eighteenth-birthday cake before them, she probably wouldn’t have the nerve to say a word to either of them.