Defending Irene by Kristin Wolden; Nitz

the present?” Nonna’s voice rose in frustration. “Has my son taught you nothing of the bella figura ?”
    â€œAppearances are everything” was Mom’s rather cynical definition of that Italian concept.
    â€œDoes the bella figura mean to stop something you have already started?” I asked.
    â€œIf you should not have started it at all, sí .” Nonna pounded her fist on the arm of the chair. “Truly.”
    â€œWe do not agree, Nonna. If I stopped now, I would seem stupid and weak. Everyone would say—”
    â€œThat you are gracious, gentile , well educated, not afraid to admit a fault,” Nonna cut in. “You are such a charming girl, Irene, until you step onto the field.” She wrinkled her nose and held out the mirror. “Look at yourself now. Dirty. Smelly. Hair like Medusa.”
    I stood up. My calves knocked the chair backwards. Impolite words and gestures, both English and Italian, were dancing through my head. I had to leave before one of them escaped, before I pitched the necklace and the box and its beautiful bow off the balcony.
    â€œ Grazie , Nonna. You’re right.” I waited just long enough for hope to blossom on her face before adding, “I certainly must take a shower. But no, I will not quit soccer. I’m sorry.”
    She shook her head. “ Povera. It is all the fault of my son. He is mad for the game. If Max had been born five years earlier, we would not be having this discussion.”
    I pressed my hand to the bottom of my ribcage and whispered, “That’s not true.”
    Or was it? No. I would not—could not—believe that Dad had just been making do with me. He would have coached my teams and kicked the ball around with me in the backyard just the same. I was sure of it.
    I stumbled across the balcony and back into the suddenly blurry study.
    â€œMaria Pia!” Nonna called, her tone halfway between a plea and an order. “I’m sorry. Come here, cara .”
    Maria Pia was the name of my youngest and most independent-minded aunt, not mine. I would not answer to it. I passed the living room. Dad was describing our view, telling Nonno what he would be able to see if the air was clear. Tall and angular with the same lift to their shoulders, they were as alike as two drops of water.
    I snatched a pair of shorts and a flowered shirt off my bed. Nonna had given them to me as a welcoming gift when we arrived in Milan a few weeks ago. Since my grandmother always liked seeing me wear the things she had bought for me, I had laid them out before the game. Now I wanted to grind them under my dirty cleats, crumple them into a ball and shove them into a drawer. After a week or so, the stains would set and never come out.
    Instead, I carried them and the golden chain to the bathroom. I would show her. I would be gracious, gentile , well educated, and not afraid to admit a fault. If playing soccer was a fault, well then, I was guilty.
    I could have stayed under the stream of hot water all day. There was no tank to empty. Every drop was heated as it flowed rapidly through the riscaldamento . But natural gas was expensive, much more expensive than in the U.S. When most of my anger had swirled down the drain with the water, I reached for a towel.
    I wondered what might have happened if Nonna and I had had that conversation about soccer in Milan when we arrived. I might not have been able to stand up to her without the prospect of having to explain to my team why I quit—without having the vision of a wildly celebrating Matteo to stiffen my backbone. I might have wound up with a closet full of tennis outfits, a coach to help me with my backhand, and a determined rationalization that tennis would be a wonderful opportunity for cross-training. I wouldn’t be struggling in a game that I used to dominate. No one would be trying to force me off the tennis court just because I was a girl.
    And there was also the