Defending Irene by Kristin Wolden; Nitz

game made him realize that I was a dedicated teammate who would work just as hard as he did?
    I looked over Matteo’s shoulder as I descended. Over half the team was watching us. Emi raised his chin in a subtle hello. Luigi gave me an ironic, lopsided smile and lifted his eyebrows.
    â€œ Ciao , Matteo,” I said. “Good game.”
    â€œI am so happy to see you here, Irene,” he said. His tone, bright and warm, sounded almost enthusiastic.
    â€œOh?” I smiled at him cautiously.
    â€œEnjoy yourself?”
    â€œSí.”
    â€œSuper.” Matteo said the English word with a German inflection before switching back to Italian. “I think you have found the perfect place to watch our games. Understand?”
    Games. Plural. The thing with feathers flew away. “I understand you very well,” I said. “But we are not in agreement. I prefer to play.”
    Matteo’s mask slipped. “It is no wonder that the Americans have no soccer tradition if they must play with girls. It is ridiculous…enough to make the chickens laugh.”
    I decided against telling Matteo that boys and girls usually played on different teams after third grade. It might give him ideas. “I don’t care about the chickens,” I said, even though I recognized the Italian expression.
    â€œAnd our opponents too. They will fall down laughing.”
    â€œThen it will be so much easier to make goals, no? Ciao , Matteo.”
    â€œ Ciao , Irene. We’ll see each at school on Tuesday,” the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of soccer called cheerfully.
    â€œDon’t forget soccer on Monday,” I said. Then I turned around before Matteo could try another verbal shot on goal.
    â€œSo nice!” Dad murmured as I sat down beside him. “It is good to have Matteo on your side.”
    I crossed my forearms. “It would be.”
    â€œWhat?” Dad asked.
    â€œNothing.”
    This time Dad did not say dimmi —tell me. And this time the widening silence did not make me spill my guts.
    â€œYou will show him,” Dad finally said. “It may take time, but he will become accustomed to you.”
    â€œMmm,” I said. I had my doubts.

8
Ciao (chow)
Hi or Good-bye
    I eased myself into the desk behind Giulia’s. Air whistled between my clenched teeth as every muscle in my legs, arms, and shoulders complained. The hard wooden seat made me glad this would only be a ninety-minute orientation instead of a full day of school.
    â€œYou seat yourself like my grandmother,” Giulia observed. “How did soccer go yesterday?”
    â€œWell enough,” I said. “The other team passed, we ran. The other team worked on shooting, we ran. No one even touched a ball until the scrimmage except Federico.”
    â€œAh, Federico is the new boy from the elementary school, right? Emi has told me about him. What did he do?”
    â€œHe jumped out of line to kick a few loose balls back to the other team. The mister told him to leave them alone. Twice.”
    â€œTwo times? The boy is crazy. The papá of Luigi terrifies Emi.”
    â€œThe third time the mister made Federico do twenty sit-ups, ten push-ups, and then catch up to us.” I shook my head. “Maybe Federico finds the ball irresistible. He cannot help himself.”
    â€œ Sí. It calls him: ‘Federico. Federico. Come kick me. Please.’”
    We giggled.
    A thin woman with a lined face stepped to the front of the buzzing classroom. Her eyes were made up with all the care of a
Vogue
magazine model. Her silk blouse and tailored slacks had a casual elegance. I was almost sure the distinctive shade of her short red hair came from a bottle—Italy had millions of unnatural redheads—but on her, it looked right.
    â€œGood day, class,” she said. “Are you ready to begin the new scholastic year?”
    A few groans answered her.
    â€œOhhh,” she said with mock pity.