Defending Irene by Kristin Wolden; Nitz Page A

real possibility that I might have become an enthusiastic member of the I-Love-Matteo club. I wouldn’t have known any better. And I might have been desperately trying to fit in with Elena’s group instead of being myself with Giulia. No soccer. No Emi. No Giulia.
    Over the high-pitched whir of the hair dryer, a knock sounded. I pretended not to hear. A second knock followed, this one more insistent.
    â€œWho’s there?” I asked in Italian.
    â€œMe,” Mom said in English. “Let me in.”
    I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
    Mom scanned me. “So you decided to get cleaned up before saying hello to your grandma. A good idea.”
    â€œUm, not exactly,” I said, fingering the gold chain that was hanging around my clean neck.
    â€œOh no.” Mom came in and shut the door. I saw that she was wearing makeup, jewelry, and a silk blouse that Nonna had given her. “I had hoped to catch you before she did. We had a little, uh, discussion before you came home. Your dad told her to leave you alone—that you were his bella, brava calciatrice . That you’d made your decision and stuck with it.”
    â€œNonna thought I’d be more reasonable.”
    â€œAnd?”
    I sighed. “I wasn’t.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Mom demanded. Something in her eyes told me that mentioning Nonna’s theory—how Max could have saved me from becoming a maschiaccio if only he had been born a few years earlier—would be a really bad idea. I shook my head.
    Mom crossed her arms. “Your father needs to have another talk with your nonna . Or maybe I will. You’re making a real difference here in Merano. You should see the way the little girls on Max’s team watch your every move. You’re their role model.”
    â€œNo. It’s okay. Really. I guess I understand how Nonna feels.” Mom looked unconvinced, so I decided to pull out the big guns. “I mean, how would you feel if I told you I wanted to be a cheerleader?”
    Mom’s eyes widened. She cleared her throat. “Um, they don’t have those in Italy, do they?”
    â€œNo. I mean when we go back to the U.S.”
    â€œYou’re just saying this to make a point, right?”
    I smiled.
    â€œAll right. I won’t say a word about soccer, and neither will your father.”
    It was a good plan. Too bad Max and my nonno weren’t in on it.

13
Calcio al’angolo (CAL-cho all AHN-go-low)
Corner Kick
    â€œI know you were too tired to come to the Irene’s game, Nonno,” Max said at dinner that same Saturday night. “But will you come to watch me play soccer on Monday?”
    I stiffened. Mom grimaced. Dad hissed through his teeth. Nonna’s fingers tightened around her knife and fork.
    â€œGladly,” Nonno said, completely oblivious to the whole only-boys-play-soccer thing. “It interests me to see your team.”
    â€œNonna?” Max turned his enormous brown eyes on my grandmother and blinked twice.
    â€œAh, if only I had such eyelashes,” Nonna said. She laid down her knife and reached out to pat Max’s cheek.
    â€œPlease?” Max begged.
    How much did Max know? How much had he heard? My rat of a little brother always had a better understanding of what was going on than anyone ever gave him credit for.
    â€œCertainly. It would please me to go,” Nonna said, smiling.
    Max’s face was at its most innocent as he continued, “Irene’s team follows mine on the field, you know.”
    Nonna’s smile froze. “Really. One after the other?”
    â€œThere is a short break between them. But Irene always plays with Luigi then,” Max said, batting his beautiful eyelashes at me. From the way he said my teammate’s name, anyone would think that I had plastered “Luigi plus Irene” all over my notebooks and bulletin board.
    I smiled calmly. Max the Manipulator wouldn’t get a reaction