Saving Francesca by Melina Marchetta Read Free Book Online

says, stating the obvious.
    I can sense Luca smiling politely next to me. He wants everyone to be happy and hates any kind of conflict. I pull him away and we walk down the stairs that lead to the quadrangle.
    “You’re not to talk to that guy,” I tell him.
    “He looks after Year Five, Katarina .”
    “What does that make him? God?”
    He rolls his eyes. I pinch him and he pinches me back. That’s how we do the affection thing in public.
    For the rest of the day, I feel out of it. Not that I’ve ever felt into it around here. It’s like I lose track of time. One minute I’m in English and when I next open my eyes I’m in legal studies, but I don’t remember how I got there. On the page in front of me I’ve written stuff down, but I can’t remember holding the pen. I want to rest my head on the desk and just sleep, and for most of the day I kind of do. I can tell the teachers don’t like me. I remember the way they used to look at the apathetic girls at St. Stella’s. I think teachers can even handle the troublemakers, but they hate the slackers and that’s how they see me.
    “Just ask me how I’m feeling,” I want to say. “Just ask and I may tell you.”
    But no one does.
    At lunchtime, I feel Justine Kalinsky watching me and when I look at her, she smiles, and I walk away and hide out in the toilets. Not the greatest place to spend forty minutes, but I just can’t deal with Tara Finke and Justine Kalinsky today. I just want to have a rest from all of that. I just want to lie down and not get up.
    After ten minutes, I’ve had enough and I walk out of the toilets and across the courtyard and am beckoned over by the group who sit against the wall. These guys are European, and I know it’s time to do the cultural-bond thing. Sometimes they nod at me. A you-and-me-are-the-same nod. I wonder if they ever nod at William Trombal.
    “You Italian?” they ask.
    I nod.
    They pat the space next to them and I make myself comfortable.
    “Portuguese,” I’m told by the guy who called me over. His name is Javier, pronounced “Havier,” and every time one of the teachers pronounces his name with a J in class, there’s a booing sound.
    “She’s Italian,” Javier tells one of the guys who joins them from the canteen.
    “Third in the World Cup ranking,” the guy says.
    “Behind Brazil,” another pipes up
    “What’s your team?” Javier asks.
    It’s a soccer thing. I think of Luca’s bedroom. “Inter Milan.”
    Approval. Good choice.
    The others are Diego, Tiago, and Travis, who they call a wannabe wog.
    “You shy, Francesca?” Javier asks me later on.
    I shake my head. “Not really.” I’m just sad, I want to say. And I’m lonely.
    When Javier speaks, he uses his middle fingers to point down, as if he’s singing some hip-hop song. It’s like the spirit of some rap singer has taken over his body.
    “I like you, Francesca. I like the way you treat your brother. Like he’s your friend, and that’s why I’m telling you this. Guys don’t like chicks who are down all the time.”
    I thank him for the advice. I’ll make a point of telling my mum that tonight. I’ll say, “Mum, guys don’t go for sad chicks and you’re making me incredibly sad and because of that you’re curtailing my social life, so could you please get out of bed.”
    And then she’ll get out of bed and we’ll live happily ever after.
    They call out to a guy on the basketball courts. I recognize him from my biology class. He’s got a massive smile with big white teeth.
    “Shaheen, what’s happening?” Javier asks him.
    “Did you see that shot? Did ya? Huh?” Shaheen asks.
    “You’re a legend, Shaheen.”
    “Lebs rule!”
    Shaheen says that about five times a day.
    “Where, mate? Where do the Lebs rule? How are they doing in soccer? Did they rule in the Olympics? How about tennis? Where’s the Davis Cup team from Lebanon, Shaheen? Lobbing a few balls in Beirut?”
    The bantering is good-natured.
    “What do you