Listening for Lucca by Suzanne LaFleur Read Free Book Online

late. I just moved here. I’d like a library card.”
    “Oh, of course. You’re old enough to get it on your own, but I’ll need some kind of proof of your family’s address, something with a last name matching yours on it.”
    “Dad gave me a copy of the paperwork for the water bill and a copy of my school registration.”
    “Those will do just fine.”
    She took the papers and entered my information into her own computer, which was a far newer one than the ones for public use.
    “If you want to wait a few minutes, I can make the card for you. You can pick out some books and take them home today.”
    “Thanks.”
    She disappeared into the room behind her desk.
    I started looking on the children’s shelves and found some books with stickers that said YA . I picked something out and then I got something for Lucca: a picture book about a lion. Maybe he’d roar along with the story when I read to him.
    The woman had the plastic card ready for me, complete with bar code and my name typed on it.
    “Your name is beautiful,” she said. “So interesting.”
    “Thank you,” I said. Not that I’d picked it out, but it was mine to carry around, after all.
    “Just sign here.”
    I signed the card and she checked out my books and told me they were due back in three weeks. It was hard to believe that would be almost half the summer.
    The store next door sold paintings, mostly of rocky shores, boats on the water, and lighthouses, and the shop after that, pottery. Stuff for tourists. I spotted the restaurants Mrs. Lang had mentioned. Nielly’s was a shop in an unpainted wooden building. Through the wide, open doorway, I could see produce and shelves of cans and boxes. But there were also tables. It was almost lunchtime.
    I walked past the flowers for sale on the porch and went inside. A few people were buying groceries, chatting happily with the checkout people. Only two of the five registers were open. There was a counter and a sign that said, “Hot lunches canceled for summer. See you in the fall!” Near the tables were a salad bar, a deli counter, and magazine racks. A girl my age was sitting at one of the tables reading a magazine.
    I hoped she wouldn’t notice me looking around like a newcomer, but she hopped up and came over.
    “Hey,” she said. Was she being friendly or just curious? She wasn’t smiling.
    I stopped staring at her and remembered she was expecting an answer. “Hi.”
    “How long are you here for, a week?”
    “No.”
    Now she looked extra interested.
    “How long, then?”
    “We’re staying …” I stopped myself from saying “forever.” Too dramatic. “We moved in.”
    “What grade are you in?”
    “Eighth.”
    “Me too. So’s Sam.” She nodded in the direction of a boy who was bagging up some groceries. “It’s his family’s store. I’m Morgan.”
    “I’m Siena.”
    “That’s unusual. Does it mean something?”
    “It’s a place in Italy.”
    “What, were you conceived there?”
    This problem is a recent development in my life. When kids my age hear I have a place-name, they all want to talk about my conception. I would never ask about
their
conceptions. What, was it everyone’s business now? Wasn’t everyone conceived somewhere? What’s the big deal?
    I rank it as part of the immaturity of middle schoolers. Everyone just wants to mention sex all the time, to make themselves seem to know something about it. I don’t really care about sex. Though I would prefer it if we didn’t have to talk about my
parents
having sex.
    Note to self: don’t name your kid after a place. It’s no fun for them.
    When we were younger, people just used to say, “Cool, Italy. Is your family from there?”
    The answer to both questions is no.
    “My mom researched art there,” I said. “She just liked the sound of it for a name. Thought it sounded certain and strong and brave.”
    “So, are you? Certain and strong and brave?”
    Strong or brave? I was even nervous having this