One Thing Stolen by Beth Kephart Read Free Book Online

flies, flies, flies, and I want wings, I want to crush the fear, the millions of things that make me afraid, the millions of things I can think but not say.
    What do they mean: mesmerized?
    What do
you
mean, when you say it?
    What is the worst thing you’ve ever lost, and how in the world did you find it?

20

    A shout from the east.
    A bright, raw streak of pink.
    In the piazza, on the fringe of the skateboard crowd, I see him. In the shadows of the outdoor cafes, in the margin places, the secret places—too fast, too quick, a zip of speed. It’s him, hitting the piazza’s south edge and running free. It’s him with a clutch of sunflowers in one hand—too fast for the men on the chase, too fast for anyone; he is blooms and fire.
    Hey, I say.
    And he turns.
    Wait, I say.
    And he stops.
    Drops a flower, bright and singed. Raises an eyebrow and winks. Runs.
    Nothing will stop me. This is him, this is what I see: the thief, the giver of flowers. I cut through the crowds, go where he went.Follow him toward the Arno. Through the shadows of the cathedral, into the narrow parts of the street. Past the gates and gelato shops, past the round stones of the
biblioteca
, past the coffee shops, toward the Lungarno. There is the whacking tail of a dog and the wheels of a wagon and a man in plaid, and the boy could be anywhere, but he’s gone.
    On the bridge the tourists are posing in the sun. At the top of the hill, San Miniato shines. Up and down the Lungarno the artists are putting up their stalls, putting out their tins, brooming the gypsies from the stone walk, and now in the other direction, between boots and sandals and flip-flops, I see a second flower, dropped to the ground. Its face pointing toward the backstreets of Santa Croce.
    In the streets behind the cathedral, I am lost in a place I’ve never been. Some of the doors are as thin as chimneys. Some of the windows are bricked in. Some of the edges of some of the streets are lined with smooth old stones and my thin shoes slip, like I am running on a bed of feathers.
    In the gutter of a roof a silver cat sleeps. In a window box a garden grows, the heads of the flowers catching the rain from the sheets that hang from a rope. Above the shoulders of some houses I see the gold domes of Florence and the fake
David
, and the cutout face of San Miniato, a toy city. Through the iron rails of a park gate children play, and it is late in the afternoon and now, in one of the windows, I see a girl with her two-flower bouquet. Me.
    I hear someone laughing.
    I turn.
    His eyes are like river water. His hair is light. He wears one gold ring in his nose and a dark blue chip in his ear, and the sunflowers in his pink duffel bag have huge and curious heads.
    It’s you, I say.
    I hold the flowers out to him—bruised and bent and breathless. I say, These are yours, or You dropped these, or maybe I say nothing, maybe I don’t have the words, but he does.
    An American girl, he says. His words right and his accent heavy. He crosses his arms, leans back. He studies me and I wonder what he sees. Dark hair. Pale hands. Two flowers. A girl who says nothing or maybe said something. A girl so far from home. He reaches across me, toward the flowers in my arms. He dials their faces toward the sky and leans back and smiles.
    You should take care, he says.
Città di ladri
.
    City of thieves.
    Two lines in the wink of each eye. The start of a beard on his chin. He is taller than me, taller than Jack, a blond Italian.
    You’re always where I am, I say.
    I’ve been watching, he says.
    You—dropped these, I say. Lifting the flowers.
    Left them, he says.
Per te
.
    He smiles. Unzips the bag strapped across his chest. Sorts through the flowers he has stolen, one by one by one, choosing thefattest and dealing it to me, like this is a game of cards, or Hansel and Gretel, like this is what I followed him for—to take what he has taken.
    Yours now,
si?
    A touch on my shoulder. A hand on my hand.
Real
. The