Daughter of Venice by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

her quickly. Then Paolina laughs, and we’re all laughing.
    I pull on the black hose and slip into the blousy, thin shirt common to noble boys in summertime, and, finally, the light sleeveless jacket. I stole these clothes two days ago from a pile of my brothers’ castoffs that Cara had gathered for the poor bin at the church of San Marcuola. It was actually that pile of clothes that started everything. It sat there, like an opportunity.
    I snatched this outfit before my head could even think what I would do with it.
    But, really, the thought was always there. After all, it was wearing boys’ clothing that gave me my one chance to go crabbing years ago.
    If my adventure is successful, if I am not caught, life will be very good. At least until Father dispatches us to the futures he chooses for us. I am going out into the world today. Me, Donata. Out into the world, on foot.
    “Your patch is less than artful,” says Laura. She’s plucking at me again, nervously trying to arrange my sleeve so the patch doesn’t show so much.
    I put the patch on last night, working under the oil lamp late into the dark. What a pity that the one shirt I grabbed from the charity pile had a rip in the sleeve. But by the time I had the chance to spread the outfit out in my room and examine it, it was too late to pick another shirt; Uncle Umberto had already bagged up the rest of the pile and lugged it off over the one little bridge to San Marcuola yesterday, before Sunday Mass. When I asked him what had happened to the pile, he didn’t even question why I should want an old shirt. He just offered me one of his own. I didn’t take it—Uncle Umberto is three times my size—but I kissed him and thanked the Lord for the ripped shirt I already had.
    “Who cares?” I say now, though I am promising myself silently that I will be extra careful not to get new rips in this outfit. It must last me, if I am to go on lots of adventures. “The boys who walk the streets don’t all look refined, you know.”
    Laura’s eyes grow large. She didn’t know that, really. None of us know it with our own eyes. All of us understand that anything I say at this point comes indirectly via a brother, probably Francesco. Yet the very fact that I am about to go out in my disguise has somehow already lent me an air of authority. I warm to my subject. “Most of the boys outside aren’t at all like our brothers. They aren’t the sons of nobles, but of citizens. And not always well-to-do citizens. They’re rough characters.”
    Andriana presses both hands to her brow now. “You need to look like one of the refined boys, Donata. Absolutely respectable. You don’t want someone picking a fight with you.”
    “Or worse,” says Laura.
    “What’s worse?” I ask.
    “I don’t know,” Laura whispers. “I don’t want to know.”
    Paolina claps her hands suddenly. “Ha!” she says, and climbs onto our high bed. She carefully spreads her skirt out around her in a circle. “You don’t have to worry about that patched shirt. I’ve taken care of it.”
    “What?”
    Paolina’s fat little cheeks almost burst with pride. “A boy is coming here. A guild member.”
    Andriana steps close to the bed. “What do you mean?”
    Paolina clasps her hands together and bounces on her bottom in glee. “I arranged a trade. Donata will give him her clothes—her boy clothes—and he’ll give her his.”
    “My clothes are patched and worn threadbare. Did you tell him that?”
    “Yes.”
    “If he’s willing to take them, then, his must be just as bad,” I say.
    “Not at all,” Paolina says. “His are good. I made sure of that.”
    “Why on earth would he trade good clothes for bad?” Laura asks.
    “Because . . .” Paolina sits up tall. “I also promised one of my outgrown dresses for his little sister.”
    “But what about your own little sister?” Andriana’s voice is a scold.
    “Maria won’t fit into it for years. And by that time, Mother won’t remember