The Smile by Donna Jo Napoli

necessarily mean nobility. Maybe she even thinks Mamma puts on airs to ban cucumbers and melons.
    She’s old. And she takes good care in what she does. And, well, I like her too much to say anything now that might cause her distress. I go back upstairs and stand outside Mamma and Papà’s door. I listen. Rustling sounds come. I put my hand on the door latch, then hesitate. Piero de’ Medici’s words come back to me; some herbs enhance amorous prowess. He listed parsley, rucola, mint, and anise. Papà’s favorite dish has parsley and rucola. Mamma’s favorite drink in the morning is mint brew.
    A strange sensation runs from my belly up my chest. Like fast fingers touching with only the barest tips. I’ve never thought of my parents’ activities in bed. And I don’t want to, ever. I calm myself and knock primly.
    â€œBetta?” comes Papà’s voice. “Is that you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, what’s stopping you? Come on in, my little almond.”
    With relief, I rush in and climb onto the bed between them, like I used to do when I was small. We’re squished, of course; I’m not small anymore. And both Mamma and Papà have widened in the past few years. But I like it. So I stay there.
    â€œIs something on your mind?” asks Mamma.
    â€œMy party. I turn thirteen in a month.”
    â€œWe’ve been talking about that,” says Mamma. “Just now.”
    I swallow.
    â€œFlorence is behaving like mourning is over.” Papà beams at me. “So why shouldn’t we? Let’s have that party, right on schedule.”
    â€œOh, yes.” I hug Papà. “Thank you so much.”
    â€œWhich means we have to act quickly, Elisabetta.” Mamma gets up and fetches a dress from her closet. “We must get the invitations out immediately, so everyone can save the day. We have to engage the musicians. Then there’s the menu to settle. And getting the dress made. And, oh no, I haven’t done anything about getting your cassone painted—that wedding chest must be vibrant. And the flowers. And . . .”
    â€œI’ll take care of the flowers, Mamma.”
    â€œBy yourself?”
    â€œWhy not? I don’t care about the rest—except for the dress, and I already did my part by designing it. But I do know flowers. The Greve flower show starts today, in fact.” I jump off the bed, excited by the coincidence. “Isn’t that perfect? Why, I can go and buy pots and pots of things to scatter all around the house and on both sides of the walk to the front door and, well, everywhere.”
    â€œBut will they last till then?”
    â€œI’ll get plants with lots of buds. And kinds that bloom over and over.”
    Mamma smiles broadly. “That’ll be lovely.”
    Papà claps and shakes his hands together. “I’ll get Giacomo’s son, that Cristiano, to drive you to the market in the big wagon.”
    I haven’t seen Cristiano since that day in the woods, more than a month ago. I wonder if he ever entered his wildflowers in the fair at Foiano della Chiana. Maybe he’s already planning on bringing some to Greve today, despite the fact that there’s no purse to win. I could tell he really cared about the flowers for their own sake, no matter what he said.
    So it’s fine for Cristiano to drive me. It might even suit us both. But I don’t want to be alone with him. “I’ll bring Silvia, too,” I say brightly. “She has a good eye.”
    â€œBut a poor mouth,” says Mamma. “I don’t like you listening to her rough peasant talk.”
    â€œCristiano talks the same way, and you didn’t object when Papà proposed him.”
    â€œCristiano is a boy. You won’t be conversing with him. You’ll just tell him which plants to pick up and put in the wagon. But with Silvia, I know how it is; the two of you chatter