Defending Irene by Kristin Wolden; Nitz Read Free Book Online Page A

Giulia whispered. “Barbara is crazy about boys. But otherwise, she is a good friend. You can count on her.”
    â€œSí, sí,” I said.
    Barbara paced down the diving board like a dancer, her shoulders back and head erect. She took one bounce of the end and rose almost straight into the air before bending at the middle for a jackknife. She entered the water in a straight line with pointed toes. An “ooh” of approval went up from the lines at both diving boards. She swam to the ladder in a fast, smooth front crawl-stroke.
    My turn came next. I waited for the board to stop vibrating before stepping cautiously along its rough surface. By the time I had reached the end it had started bouncing again. So I waited again. Once it stopped I made the simplest of dives and splashed over to the side of the pool. Barbara was waiting for me, ready to start in with the questions again.
    I distracted her by asking her about the boys at school. Her analysis was detailed. Luigi was cute, but a clown. Montegna was quiet and intelligent and molto bello . Very good-looking. Matteo was fascinating and molto, molto, molto bello . I finally got her off the track by telling her about malls and multiplexes. (There were only two movie screens in Merano. One was German, the other Italian. But both showed American movies.)
    An unofficial diving competition started between Barbara and a few of the boys. Style meant nothing to them; only height, splash, and number of spins, bounces, or twists mattered. Giulia and I didn’t even try to compete.
    Finally, Barbara walked very slowly to the end of the diving board. Once the gentle bounce had faded away, she put her palms down on the edge of the board and did a handstand. Her body made a straight line from her pointed toes to her wrists. She held the pose for five long seconds. Then she pushed off with power and dropped straight down. Her forehead, nose, and chin skimmed past the end of the diving board. Her shoulders, hips, knees, and toes safely followed.
    â€œPoint!” Giulia whispered.
    Two turns later—after the boys had failed to come up with a new challenge—Barbara observed that the lines were too long. How about some volleyball?
    We used a lightweight plastic ball. Laughing, we bumped, set, and spiked the ball at each either. A chubby three-year-old hovered on the edge of the pool deck, eager to chase any ball that came his way.
    Take some athletic girls. Add water. Bake in the sun for four hours. Instant friendship. Why couldn’t it have been like this on the soccer field? The long list of reasons depressed me.

    On Saturday afternoon, I tried to think of Giulia’s positive attitude as Dad and I walked across the parking lot in Scena and past the enormous, empty, white team van. My neck hunched down between my shoulders. An invisibility cloak—that’s what I needed.
    I don’t think anyone on the field noticed us as we found a place on the bleachers—they were too busy stretching their hamstrings. But it was just a matter of time.
    For the next twenty minutes, Dad and I watched the warm-up. While the mister shouted instructions, encouragement, and praise, Dad dissected everyone’s playing style and likely position. He took pictures with a digital camera and promised that I could send Lindy pictures of all my new teammates.
    â€œMatteo is marvelous,” he told me. “Playing with him will make everyone better.”
    I shrugged and looked over at the other team. The coach roared at his players in German. To me, the hard consonants and nasal sounds of German against the rhythms and pure vowels of Italian sounded strange. But such a match-up was common here. I knew from all of the tourist brochures Mom had thrown my way that the Adige River valley had belonged to Austria’s South Tyrol until the end of World War I. While the signs, stores, and government forms were all bilingual, the local German-speakers had their own