**For the Love of An Italian Gypsy**
*** Many of you never knew I was in the process of writing my own book. It wasn’t writer’s block that would get to me. It was reliving the painful memories of the experience. My life is very different now. It’s normal and extremely happy. When I was a young girl, I met many individuals in Italy that changed my views on the world. Every now and again, those feelings reappear and I remember the rush and adventures that we would embark on together. You never know where life will lead you! Cherish each and every moment. Remember to love and live to the fullest. I hope this book and my continuous entries spark an interest and awakens your souls. I dedicate this unfinished novel to my childhood and my teenage summers abroad. This is love!**
For my family and friends all over the world. "La Mia Anima, Le Mie Parole (My Soul, My Words)" I have had many struggles writing this book. I pick up the pen and freeze, chills take over my body. I break out in cold sweats. Sometimes, it is for a few days, others, a few weeks that have evolved into months, which quickly transformed into years. I continue to go through processes of self talk in hopes that my motivation will surpass expectations. I know that I can do this and I don't doubt myself. It may be a decade before this story is published, but it can never be too late to express my journey. It has been a fight with destiny and my grammar may not be perfect, but I vow to myself and God that it will be worth it. I have learned that "love" can be messy and hurtful. Maybe I have learned in all of the wrong ways, but is there ever a "right" one? Every one experiences life differently. It will never be easy. Fairytales only exist if you want them to. My motivation is my survival. I survived "falling in love" with an Italian gypsy. I also learned to let go. It was not free will, but forcefulness. My life was more valuable than my love for him. His words stabbed me in the epitome of my soul when he bid me adieu. Years later, I discovered that he was trying to save me. He rescued me from his life. He gave me the greatest gift of all, he let me go. He may say he never loved me, but in his own way, I believe he did. If he did not value my life, he would have held on with both hands. Instead, he set me free. I have replayed the outcome of our lives in my head over a million times. There are many unanswered questions. I would have given up my world for him. Actually, I did give it all up, but it went unnoticed. My father once said that if he let me go, he would be doing me the biggest favor in the world. That one favor could sit on your chest for a century. It has and always will. That is why I chose to pour my heart out. The feeling I have will linger in my soul until the day of my last breath. ### It's going through memory boxes in the middle of moving that has left a lump too stiff to swallow in the back of my throat. I find a picture of you and me and the tears weld to my cheeks. I am wearing a green jogging suit, the same one you met me in. The material is some cheap, green terry cloth from target, but it's comfortable. We were so young and so full of opportunities. The summer of 2005 rests in the back of my mind, in the epitome of my soul. It was a summer with plenty of history for some and unforgettable for many. It's astonishing how much one can age in 7 years. My beautiful Emilio was wrinkle free. The skin on his face was just getting rough. His eyes were happy and liberated. What happened to that sweet, innocent, young man that I once admired? He was given responsibilities that should have never been bestowed upon him. I will always love you, Emilio! I hold you deep inside where your eyes burn. Oddly enough, we have the same almond, cut eyes. You once said that it drove you crazy because you couldn't read me. Humurously enough, every one else could. My eyebrows always arch up with my expressions. Our eyes both are so easy to read. Each time that we cross paths and speak, we find ourselves in our own little worlds. The truth, so easy to see. The pain lingering in my face. My teeth clench together and my cheeks stick in between. They say when you truly love someone, it's impossible to detect inconsistencies. You see the person the way you want to. I'm not sure if you just didn't want to see me. I often wish that I was invisible, but in many ways, I was to you. I won you over so many times with my words. Somehow, I managed to captivate your inner being. I'd hope it wasn't pity. I'd hope it was a true sense of honesty. Each time we spoke of Flavia, your eyes would widen. The creases on the sides would disappear. It was as if you instantly rejuvenated your self. She brought a shining light in the center of your eye, which was the center of your universe. My sweet Emilio, you are in my thoughts and prayers. You were once my only reasoning in the center of this corrupt world. My one and only soulmate does exist. In another life, my love, my one and only, we will dance on the moon, hand in hand. You, in a white button down shirt and loose, matching silky pants. You will my wrist and pull me close. My skinny, long, fingers will fit into your pudgy, small, squared hand. The callouses will not scratch me. They're proof of a working man. We will dance until the stars disappear into the dark sky and the moon swallows the sun. We will find ourselves in a sweet, slow, dance and I will bend my knees to your height. You will grab my dark, long, curly hair and rest my face on your chest. For now Emilio, I say goodbye. Whenever you think of me, that's where we will be; on top of the moon, floating in the air. For now, my tears will corrupt my cheeks. For now, the dark circles form. For now, I begin to mourn. I mourn our sweet youth. I mourn the complete loss of you. I am only as strong as I am because I was able to let your hand slip away. I was able to let you live the life that God had intended. I wish you nothing, but the sincerest smiles and all of the joys you believe you don't deserve. You do deserve it all! Believe in your self, my sweet olive skinned, Angel. I gave you the purest laughter your heart will ever recognize. My only wish is that when you close your eyes and ponder about me, you reminisce with the smiling times. When you discover that I have written a book about us, about you, I hope that you will let go of any resentment and read it. I once said that the only way that I can truly express my self is through my words. I know that they have forever entranced you. Please do not be offended as some of this is dramatized and most of it is true. Cammat misto (I truly care about you)! Aminat (I love you)! O'ciau romirro (Oh, my poor baby)!You have taught me well! I can pretend to forget. I can destroy all of the pages, but my heart can never do the same. Our past will never disappear. My name is Alessandra Toreggiani and I fell in love with an Italian gypsy. These pages will fill you all in on the truth. I can't help, but thank the Lord above, our God, and our savior, Jesus Christ for the magic you introduced into my soul, a lesson learned!
###It must have been the way he grasped my body and turned my skin a light shade of blue that left me gasping for air. I had other boyfriends before him and while I was seeing him, but none of them impacted my life as deeply as he did. I give every individual that I meet all of the passion that exists in my heart, which is more than you can ask from a teenage girl. I may have been immature and easy going, but that was the only way I knew how to give. Every man in my life before him left me fearless and emotionally drained. I was terrified that he would do the same. In the depth of my anima, I knew he would, but I never evaluated how extensive the damage could be. The love I had for him trapped me in a world of oblivion. Many have described the feeling as a mere infatuation, but does that dwell for 7 years? True love is said to persist for an eternity. People warned me of what he was, but that didn't define him in my eyes. Prior to our first engagement, I heard the word that classified his "kind" in The Hunchback of NotredameEsmeralda, the main character was one of "them." I yearned for her wavy, dark, black, smooth, straight long hair, blue eyes, and caring personality. As I think of the reference that distinguishes between "them" and all of the other beings, I want to hurl. I find it extremely tedious to roll the word off of my tongue. I assumed that if this categorization existed, "they" would be like Esmeralda, but I was severely mistaken in more ways than one.
### The way he affected me was life threatening. My body tremored when he approached. To save him, I would die if necessary. To this day, I don't think he really understood my inner affection or admiration of him. He might as well have been blind. I was a naive teenager who fell in love with a gypsy. The word burns in my chest like a bushel of fire incinerating my heart to dust. With time, my life progressed and I have avoided all regressions that plunge me into his arms. I stand firm, shackled with a brick of cement to the ground. I will not allow this being to annihilate my dignity any longer. Don't let me confuse any one. There were good moments and bad as in every relationship. Unfortunately, the awful times became more memorable. It was those few blissful memories that are the most cherished. My expectation for this story is that people will find compassion in their hearts for a culture that is so critically judged, frowned upon, and automatically ridiculed in every country. It is essential to remember that the word, "gypsy" doesn't define a person. I know that I contradict my self on occasion, but it's because of the wounds that I was left with. The characters in this novel and all gypsies on the planet are human, worthy of a chance for acceptance. Many of my loved ones will be offended or saddened as an outcome of this publication, but they must remember that it wasn't my intention, I have done this to help them all move on from the dark hole we found ourselves in. We all deserve to taste the light. I love you all! Please, never, forget that!
### The sound of his name sent me straight to the nearest trash can, a feeling of unsettling nausea occupied the pit of my intestines. It never failed. Every time I heard it, a cold sensation traveled through my veins, causing the hair on my arms and legs to fling straight up. It honestly felt like I was dead. No matter how diligently I tried to avoid it by pacing back and forth, by humming blank tunes that only my brain could register, I could never escape the cruel downfall. I was constricted to a world consumed by him. He was what I breathed in and out, what I ate and what I pictured when I opened and closed my eyes. He was my poison. There was no escape.
### My body begins to shake as the laser penetrates the sensitive skin on my left hand; distasteful memories of my haunting past leave my palate dry and sour. They flash through my mind like a slideshow. I feel my stomach growl in disgust. A mark from my quirky adolescence is beginning to disappear. It resembles a rooky jailhouse tattoo. I can't help, but laugh at the recollection of the day it was branded on my hand. I was 15, carefree, a true "dare devil," fearless of incoming pain, and on an unforgettable vacation. The idea of rebellion spiked my adrenaline as Enrica, my Italian best friend dipped the steralized hospital syringe in black Indian ink. She pricked at my hand until a little trickle of warm, red blood made its way to the crease. She went deeper as she pricked. It was never continuous. She just went by her own notions. She continued until she thought it would stick. Boy, did it ever stick. It resembled a variety of birthmarks conjoined together. If anyone really wanted, they could play connect the dots. Over the years, the color faded to a dark shade of blue. It's location faced me. A perfect, "E" in between my thumb and index finger, where a pen would lean if I was a lefty. It actually connects to a brown beauty mark already present on my hand and the grooves a palm reader may glance at when she's doing an evaluation. It was never a perfect tattoo. It was a sloppy mess of uneven love. I wasn't the sole owner of a tattoo that day. Enrica had gotten one as well. Hers was darker and more crooked than mine. A "T" for a best friend she no longer speaks to.
### When I arrived at my first laser consultation, the technician glanced at the small mark and gave me a stupid smirk. "What does it even stand for?" Her words stabbed at me like a sharp knife swirling around my heart. How dare she question something I want erased from my hand and memory? I want to strangle her, but I manage to contain my self. I give the woman a wicked and intense glare that made her fragile, thin, pale lips turn to a frown. Her ocean blue eyes curiously search for a reaction. I sigh. "Emilio." I manage to whisper as if the name was a sin. Tears instantly fill my eyes, but I stretch them wide open to avoid the unwanted trickes of wet, salty water. It's a difficult task, which burns the sockets. The technician can surely sense the tension. Her bright eyes turn to a cooler shade of blue as I examine her with a grimace. She starts to stutter and quickly changes the subject. I am so pissed that my ears turn red and my jaw hurts from forcefully locking it to prevent unwanted words from spilling out. I hate remembering him. It would have been easier if he was never nice to me. If he always ignored me, I never would have become so attached. I have heard that tattoo removal is more painful that the actual tattoo. I admit it slightly burns, but nothing can compare to the sharp sensation of the needle tracing and retracing the 7 other tattoos that rest on different areas of my body. I am numb and resilient to it all. I am surprised I didn't actually die from the tattoos. My skin is so delicate that I break out in a rash with the smallest bit of irritation. I have shocked every tattoo artist that has ever concocted a piece of art that fits my body. I can sit in a chair for an hour and a half without a break, which is torture for normal people, but not me. I enjoy the brutality of it all. I must be abnormal.
### My stomach jiggles and sends thick vibrations to the edges of my fingertips as I remember the first time I laid eyes on Emilio. He was incredibly charming and a year older than me. His smile revealed two perfect dimples in the edges of both his cheeks. We had many things in common, which included our attitude and the shape of our eyes; the color of licorice, our pupils barely visible. Oh, his eyes, my eyes! I find my self in a bitter sweet trance, frowning at the reflection.
### I get through the fourth treatment without any adverse reaction from the blonde, bimbo bitch that ensured me it would only take two treatments to remove the "E" because it was the size of a dime. Needless to say, I have spent $400.00 enduring four treatments and it's slowly fading. I know that I am insane and I have wanted to cover the tattoo on numerous occasions, but no artist will assume that responsibility. I can't bare the thought of peering at that initial for the rest of my life. I already know he will be on my mind at every relevant occasion of my future. I will remember him when I get engaged, walk down the aisle, and when I give birth to my first child. Yes, Emilio has that affect on me. Memories are all I have and it has been 7 years too long. It's difficult to let go of someone that has made a lasting impression on my life. Sometimes, we have no choice. It's not goodbye, but I will cross your path somewhere. If not, I will cherish the imprints that have been left behind. I'm sharing them with you, world. You can laugh, cry, scream, and die inside when I have.
### It was the summer of 2005 when my family decided to take their yearly trip to Italy. We have an apartment in Falconara Marittima, the province of Ancona, along the Adriatic Sea in the Marche region of Italy. Many have called it the city a "hidden treasure." My father spent the first 23 years of his life there. The apartment was built in the 1950's by my grandfather, Pasquale for Jus wife, Annamaria and There four children. It lied on Via Salita and is directly across from the beach. When my grandparents passed away, my father, the oldest inherited it in 2004. It was immediately remodeled because of earthquakes and monumental damage sustained through the years. It was an extremely difficult process to reconstruct because of the hefty reparations necessary and slow construction rate. After a long agonizing year of shipping condiments, such as furniture and kitchen supplies from a storage unit in South Florida, where we primarily reside, that apartment was finally complete.
### It was the third year in a row that I would spend my summer in Falconara. I was eager to take a break from the "sunshine state," or as I would like to think of it, "home of the palm trees." I live in Fort Lauderdale, Florida in a similar setup compared to Falconara, directly across from the beach. The difference between the two is that Fort Lauderdale beach is vaster and further spread out. Falconara's tightens up and is often polluted by the main gas line in the city, Api. If Api catches fire, the whole city is bound to explode and will become non-existent. The most amazing aspect of Fort Lauderdale, is the seventh floor of my building where our condo rests. I enjoy meditating on my balcony, closing my eyes and feeling the ocean breeze spread and penetrate my inner soul.
### I had already made a friend in Falconara with my sister as we walked along the coast in the summer of 2003. I was 13 and Gemma was 10. Erica was a year younger than me. She had long thick legs, a robust behind, light brown, wavy hair, and brown eyes that matched the color of her hair. It flowed down her back in the creases with the sway of the ocean wind. Coincidentally, her family owned an apartment directly beneath ours in the brick building my grandfather built. She lived there year round and was an only child, happy to have girls her age under the same roof. Throughout the years, as you can imagine, she has become more than a friend. She is our "sister."
### My sister, Gemma, is an innocent 12 year-old girl in the summer of 05.' She enjoys the sounds of pop music from Vanessa Carlton and Kelly Clarkson. She has the voice of an angel. When she lets out a tune, it silences a room with sweet melodies. Her hair is straight, full, and shoulder lengthed brown with kisses of blonde from the sun.
### We quarrel for the aisle seat on the plane. I feel the need to stretch my legs because they're long. Many have compared them to skinny, chicken legs; thicker on top and slim from the knees to the ankles. I lose the fight and give into my sisters demands. I am the most easy going person that I know and I don't want to cause a scene. Gemma sticks her tongue out at me as she takes her seat. I frown and take a deep breath. Continental Airlines provides us with inflight movies and a chicken or steak dinner that tastes like cardboard. We are flying direct; from New Jersey (EWR) to Roma (Fiumicino). All of our family lives in Jersey and we are visiting. I have mixed feelings about this flight. Unwelcomed tears trickle down my face as I think of leaving my boyfriend behind. He is two years older than me, 17, and my best friend. I have been there through the roughest patches of his life. I know I will only be away for 2 1/2 months, but I feel that tingling rush of nausea spread across my stomach and thrust it's way up to my throat. Somehow, I feel as if my blonde haired, light honey eyed, boyfriend won't be there to greet me when I return. My tears flow uncontrollably down my cheeks. Steven comes from a disrupt home. He has an alcoholic mothers and an irresponsible father. He is third from last of 8 children. His mother had the audacity to get evicted from her home and leave her 17-year-old son and 16-year-old daughter on the streets. I think I love him. He makes me smile and a sweet sensation rises in my stomach twisting to my heart. I have never had sex with him or anyone before. It came close, but I could never go through with it. I am secretly a virgin, but like the rest of the people my age, I have lied and said I wasn't. Of course, Steven knows, but we haven't done anything, but swap spit. He respects me and appreciates everything I have done for him; totally opposite of the boys I usually fall for. I like tall, dark, and handsome; the usual stereotype. Steven is broadly shaped and wears his hair, spiky, but short. A smile always runs across my face when I think about his passion to strive, despite all of the obstacles in his way.
My mother gives me an awkward glare and I know she's going to ask if I am okay. I glance in the opposite direction and ignore her. I turn the volume up on my iPod. "Have You Ever," by Brandy is blasting through the rectangular device; a Christmas present from my parents. It's silver and easy to carry around. I dose off in my seat and awaken to drool sliding down the side of my cheek and a bright red imprint of the chair on the left side of my face. I feel a sudden burning sensation, which tingles my bladder. "Oh shit!" I have to pee and I'm trapped against the window. My mother was in the middle seat sprawled out and my sister was on the aisle. She didn't get up once and I would have loved to have been on that end, considering my weak bladder. My father has upgraded to first class because he's terrified of flying and we make him paranoid. I roll my eyes at the thought. I gently tap my mother on the shoulder. She sighs and moves her legs to the side, so I can get through. It's easy to step over my sister and not startle her. Her lips are full and her mouth is slightly open, so that she can breathe. Her nose is flat to her face and small, but wide. Her eyelashes are oval shaped. The only thing we have in common is the dark color of our eyes. Her legs are shorter than mine, she has a round, firm rear end and broad shoulders. She has an athletic build without trying, much like my fathers.
### I struggle to slide the bathroom door open. It's dark on the plane and it's the only sign that's lit up. I am extremely claustrophobic and I feel like I am in a closet. I can barely pull down my lime-green terry cloth caprees. I thank God that I am wearing sneakers. It reeks of urine and Clorox bleach. I bend my knees and stand, careful to avoid the seat, which would be devastating. I extend my right leg to the button that flushes the toilet and tap it with my red and white adidas sneakers. I am surely a fashion disaster, but who cares? The toilet swallows my pee and toilet paper like a famished grizzly bear. The sound is similar to a blow drier in action. It makes my ears pop. I decide that I must wash my hands. The sink is filthy; water, soap, and toothpaste occupy the silver metal spaces. I find myself grabbing the edges of the sink as the plane begins to shake with turbulence. Of course, it happens while I am in the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is the shortest it's been in awhile; barely touching my shoulders and highlighted; all golden blonde. My eyes are red, flustered all around the edges and my long eyelashes are crusty from dried tears. My curls twist perfectly around my cheeks. My nose protrudes from my face; the only confirmation of my Italian heritage. My cheek bones rest high and two lines crease perfectly from beneath the edges of my nose to the top of my upper lip. Lines are the same as my mothers. I hate my nose. I always have. "It gives me personality," I joke to myself. I am impatient because my feet want to touch solid ground.
### It's 10:30 am CET when we board the second flight. We have to take a shuttle bus to Alitalia'ssmall cargo plane. There are two seats in each aisle. They check our second carry-on automatically to the bottom of the plane because there is no room for it to fit above our seats. Our flight to Rome was extra vacant compared to this one. I remind myself it's only for an hour and take a deep breath. The air is hot and dry. My body is sticky and I smell foul from the last 8 hour flight. I am determined to resist sleep, so that I can explore Falconara with Gemma and Erica. After all, it's been a year from the last time we were all together.
My father gathers all 6 of the oversized luggages that my mother insisted we needed for the trip. Ancona's airport is a clutter. There's only a few entrance doors and one baggage claim machine. Apparently, we were the only arriving flight. Falconara is surrounded by green mountain tops, an extremely old castle rests on top of one of the hills, visible from the flat airport. All of the windows are broken in and no one has vacated it for centuries. I tap my father on his shoulder and ask it's name. Monte Domini, he says in a thick Italian accent. Although he's lived in America for over 30 years, it has never left him and never will.
### Customs consists of two men standing at the middle door and the only entrance into Falconara. They are in blue uniforms and armed with two large rifles. Erica, her cousin, Dario, his parents, and a few of my fathers friends eagerly wave at us through the thick, green, translucent glass. The officers ask my father how long we will be in Falconara and why. He lies and says a few weeks. "We are only visiting."He says in perfect Italian, which is also a lie. My father never reveals too much. They will make us pay them if we tell the truth. One officer takes our passports, glances at them one by one, and let's us all through. It's a relief! Everyone runs to embrace us all and they pop open a bottle of "Spumante," an Italian champagne. In Italy, the drinking age is 18, but no one ever checks. We make a toast to our safe travel, take group photographs, and reminisce from our past.
### When we arrive at our apartment, it looks the same. The black glass tinted door stands there on a tiny, marble, brown step, waiting to be opened. The key to the house is extremely old fashioned with two loops at the end and long teeth that enter the key hole. As we swing the door open, the marble, peach tinted stairs sparkled in the touch of sunlight. It's as if they've been cleaned in our preparation of our arrival. There are three apartments in the building, one in the middle half of the building on the second floor, across from Erica's belongs to Indians from Bangladesh. I can smell the garlic and curry mix as I climb up the stairs to the top floor. It makes me want to vomit because it reminds me of someone marinating in body odor. It stuns me that people don't notice they smell of what they eat. I quickly turn to my parents halfway up the stairs to leave the door (il portone) open. I notice a Winnie the Pooh sign that reads, "Welcome home," which was designed by Erica hanging on the white walls, crooked from many difficult torrential years.
### Erica is eager to show Gemma and me off to her friends. We barely have time to leave the luggages in the house. I feel nasty from the last 24 hours, but we have no other choice, but to give in to Erica's wishes. Gemma is wearing a jogging suit identical to mine in hot pink. We instantly grab sunglasses and our purses and bounce out the door. Gemma's shoes match, like Barbie, appropriate for a 12-year-old. Erica hasn't changed much from the year before. Her hair is blonder and layered; shoulder-length. Her grin sparkles in the sun. I would compare her skin to a fresh baby's bottom. Unfortunately, Erica wasn't blessed with a nice chest. It's padded three cups, but that doesn't seem to irritate her much. Her behind makes up for it. I give her a quick slap with my right hand. It's firm and hard as usual. The irony for someone the doesn't work out. She lets out a shriek and nudges me with an elbow to the chest as we move out of, "il portone."
"We are going to il parco, Kassedy. (Kassedy Park)," she exclaims.
It's a fifteen minute walk before we arrive at the gate. The sun begins to hide behind the clouds. There are so many diverse individuals outside and inside the rusted, black, iron gate and brown cracked bricks that surround Kassedy park. I take a moment to close my eyes and breathe in the crisp ocean air. It's only a few streets away from the beach. I take of my sweatshirt and gently loop it around my waist. The terry cloth material absorbs the sweat of my palms and and rests in front of me. An innocent Disney Character from Peter Pan is on my green t-shirt. Tinkerbell's magic is sprouting from the palm of her hand. I didn't know it then. but my day was about to explode with magic.
I looked around and noticed three trails that lead in and out of the park. There's green grass all around us; a basketball court rests on the top hill with two benches, a rusted copper play set for children, another basketball court on the second layer, bathrooms, and a spacious soccer field. My jaw instantaneously drops. I have never seen a park this large. Gemma is vey outgoing and quickly introduces herself to people with Erica's direction. All three of us have different personalities. My sister is bubbly and I am shy, which irritates Erica. Gemma's italian is broken, while mine is fluent without an accent. I frown in a daze as Erica nudges me to present myself to her friends. I first meet Aamir, an attractive Tunisian boy, which Erica mentions, with extremely tight curls, tied and tucked away in a pony tail; covered by a folded up white bandana. His skin is shiny and tanned and I see that Gemma intrigues him. She's turned a shade of hot pink that matched her outfit. As I continue to examine Aamir, I notice that his features are chiseled. His stomach is tight and all six of his ribs blend into a "six pack." He's wearing umbrella pants that match his bandana. His style is "hip-hop" as Italians refer to the baggy appearance. He breaks down into a dance and spins on his head with another Tunisian boy, who is his younger brother, Muneeb. He's a little darker than Aamir and his skin doesn't sparkle as much. His hair is darker and short, much different than his older brother.
Erica proceeds to pull Gemma's arm and introduces us to a boy that has a chilling resemblance to the late, Tupac. His name is Mike. My mouth begins to feel heavy and I feel my jaw drop once again. His smile is breathtaking. He has a monroe piercing, which I notice Erica peering at. She looks at him the way a baby looks at a new toy. I am intrigued by their relationship.
### As I am concentrating on their body language, a soccer ball flies in the air and hits my dazed ass square in the face. I heard the pleas and warnings, but it was too late. I close my eyes and squint in agony. All of my reactions are late as per usual. Although I am the one that suffered the blow and felt the red dirt mark forming on my left cheek, Erica is the one that turns pink. She's pissed and embarrassed.
"Alessandra, alzate!! Get up this instant! You're making a fool out of us!" She whispers with through painfully gritted teeth. There's a definite lump on my face and it stings. I sigh at Erica. I have fallen to the ground and am too embarrassed to get up. I notice the black paved street beneath me that leads to the entrance of the park. Erica steps away when I refuse to get up. I see a shadow approaching through my parallel vision. From the heavy feet, I can tell it's a boy. His black Ray Ban's and jet black hair more than catch my complete, but hazy attention as he towers over me. He's a literal, "upside down triangle" from the way I am lying. I feel cold sweat dripping from the crevices of my forehead. I am definitely turning a shade of eggplant purple. I find myself swallowing and gulping air. i could die at this moment. He puts out his small, pudgy, but rectangular hand to help me up from the ground. There are no words. There is complete silence. I could sense his scrutiny and observations through his thick lenses. He was detailing every inch of my body. Those five quiet minutes on the ground felt like an eternity. He roughly tugs my hand and my arm sputters up. I am instantly at my feet, dizzy as hell. I must have some strange concussion. Erica is staring at us with her skinny, but pudgy arms crossed tightly against her flat chest. Her eyes are clenched tightly together. She's giving the boy who rescued me from the depth of embarrassment a hard stare. He's perfect. His shiny black hair flops over the top of his forehead and is short, spiky, and gelled in a mess. His sideburns are short and neatly shaped above his ears. My mouth begins to water and drool falls from the creases of my lips. i quickly wipe it away. A gold, heavy, chain rests in the center of his chest. It's a cross. I immediately think that he's spiritual (A wonderful bonus)! Two tiny, gold hooped earrings with small crosses hang from his ears and match his necklace. His olive brown skin is super sexy. I wonder if he's Indian. His style shoots a trouble signal to my brain.
My skin changes to a vanilla shade of white and my palms are sweaty. His navy blue adidas outfit flows a little past his black Nike cleats. A plain, whit v-neck t-shirt protrudes from the top of his zippered sweater.
"Emilio, she didn't need your help! Go away! Vai via! Stay away from her!" Erica spits out.
She's in a fit of rage, but Emilio ignores it and doesn't budge. Instead, he moves closer to me. He holds out his hand again. The most senseless expression is lying on his face. His lips crinkle together and are thin, but flawless as he examines me. I wish I could see his eyes, but his sunglasses are pitch black and he doesn't brush them off his face. I remember to grab his hand.
"Piacere, Emilio. Nice to meet you, Emilio." He says, his voice is like a sweet lullaby as he pronounces each word. I unconsciously lick my lips. I am stuck and mute. Erica punches me hard in the middle of my shoulder blades.
"Alessandra," I squeal in pain.
Emilio begins to twirl the soccer ball on his left index finger as I peer down at him. He is slightly shorter than me. His forehead reaches the top of my nosy nose.
"Short, but sexy." I think to myself. I nod my head in agreement. He responds to my attraction with a puckered smile. Erica manages to tug me away by the arm.
"Apresto, bella. See you soon, beautiful." He shouts sternly as I stare back at him not noticing my steps and tripping as usual.
### "Alessandra, I want you to listen to me very clearly. Emilio may appear nice, but he isn't. He's a gypsy, zingaro, rom, gitano, zigeuner, mustalainen, etc. He's no good for you!" Erica is screaming at the top of her lungs behind a tree. She's confident that no one can hear her. I have no idea what the hell she's talking about. I have never really looked up the complete definition of a gypsy. I know my grandfather uses the word to describe me once in a while, but my eyes are expressionless and I blink at her in bewilderment.
My white "Jackie-O" sunglasses rest on my head, tucking my hair behind my ears. My eyebrows arch high with my expressions. Erica looks like a child begging her mother for a toy that she cannot have. It should be vice-versa. I should be stern with her. After all, I am one year older. Her sincerity shocks me. She's never banned me from communicating with someone before.
"Don't look at me like that, Alessandra! He gets so many girls, dates them, and then drops them! Your parents would kill me if I let you associate with his kind. His culture is simply fucked up!"
She begins to whine and has tied her choppy, layered hair into a tight bun. The sun is strong and sweat is pouring off her face and damping her hair.
"I don't care, Erica! What the hell is a zingaro? I have never heard that word describe something evil. My nonno (grandfather) calls me zingarella or gypsy girl sometimes. What exactly does that mean? What are you talking about when you say "his kind?" What is "his kind?" My eyes curiously squint together. My expressions are so obvious that I do not have to utter any words.
"You know.. How do I put this? Esmeralda, from "The Hunchback of Notre Dame?" She's extremely agitated and frustrated with my stupidity. She's spitting her words through her teeth. Her face is beat read and she hasn't uncrossed her arms at all.
"I love Esmeralda!" I manage to spray cheerfully. I am now annoying her on purpose.
"You mean he's a real life gypsy? I never met a gypsy before. That's so cool!" I gasp repeating each word, which pisses Erica off even more.
"Noooo! Alessandra! You don't understand! In Italy and all over the world, gypsies are thieves! They are classified by their last names. Emilio's is the worst kind!" I have obviously pushed Erica over the edge. She's impatient and walks away from me.
"Do what you want, Alessandra!" She mumbles.
"Don't say that I did not warn you!" She walks away from me towards Gemma, who's visibly smitten by Aamir. I can't believe my eyes. She's sitting on his lap.
"What the fuck is she doing? She is 12. How old is he any way?" I think to myself.
### Emilio is playing soccer with his friends. I find myself alone and distracted by him. He's fascinating to me. Maybe it is the fact that he is a gypsy and that I have never associated with one in my life. I am mesmerized by his style and ability to glide the ball quickly across the field. I wonder how I could make him understand my interest. Maybe I should follow Erica's guidance. I frown at the idea. I have to make my own decisions in life. I ignore the thought completely and snap back into reality. I have a boyfriend in America and I should be faithful to him, but at this age we are just beginning to learn what that means. I decide to spy on Erica and Gemma. I am the typical loner staring into space. I have always been this way. I observe every detail. People never seem to understand me. They think I am awkward for always being alone.
"Enjoying the view, Ale? He's pretty cute. Isn't he? Remember, you have Steven back at home who is probably worried sick about you. You should really inform him that you have landed." Gemma snaps at me like some smart ass grown adult. I knew she was right, but I couldn't help to thank the Lord that she said it in English.
### I turn on the silver oversized Dell laptop that I brought from Florida and sign on to my Myspace account. I decide to send Steven a brief message. My fingers begin to tremble with every thrust of the buttons.
"Stevie,
I have arrived safely. I love you and miss you. Hope everything is well and you're enjoying your new job. I haven't gotten any minutes for a prepaid cellphone yet. As soon as I do, I will give you a call.
Xoxo,
Alessandra"
I suddenly feel nauseated. I wish Stevie was here. He would probably love it! He's Irish and Jewish, a very interesting combination. He was baptized Christian, but denies the faith.
### Somehow, I find Emilio in my thoughts again. I stretch out my lips and grind my teeth to prevent a forbidden smile. I vow to explore his culture whether or not we end up "friends." I wonder why people assume that they are bad people. Somehow, I hope to find the answer. It makes me frown. I have never judged anyone for who they are or what they believe in. People deserve to be treated as human beings.
### Erica has gone down to her home to take a shower and prepare for the night. I am already dressed and am excited by the upcoming events. Erica, Gemma, and I will return to the parco at 8:00 P.M. or 20:00 P.M. to hang with Michael. I decide to go to Erica's because she is always fashionably late. I never understand why it takes people so long to get ready. I do my makeup and everything and it still only takes me 30 minutes. I am wearing a pale blue v-neck dress and my hair twirls into a curly wet affect. I also have black eyeliner on top and bottom of my lids. That really makes my almond eyes widen. People often mistake me for an oriental girl. Many assume that I lie when I say that I am not. I am 1st and 2nd generation Italian. Before I can knock on the shiny, wooden, steel door, Erica opens it. My whole body jolts backwards. Her hair is still dripping water on the ends from a fresh shower. She smiles widely revealing her two missing incisors. She was born without them. She is still a beautiful soul. I frown because the old wooden clock in her home reveals it's 19:45.
"Erica! It's almost 20:00 P.M. Why aren't you ready? It's going to get dark fast and we will have to walk alone on the stradale (main road)."
I tap my white, sky blue flip flops against her freshly cleaned floor. She leads me into her bedroom. It's quaint and faces the beach. The salty air tingles in my nose. Her wooden windows are tightly closed. Everything in her home is made of wood. Sweat slowly begins to form on my forehead. Italians don't have air conditioning units like the U.S.A and if they do, it's usually a central air system. As Erica turns her blow drier, I don't know how she can bare the heat against her skin. She uses a bunch of L'oreal products to scrunch her hair, so the layers radiate, but she still isn't happy. She is still naked and frantically searching for an outfit to wear. She owns a variety of clothing, but still manages to be picky. According to Erica, all of her clothing is old because she has worn them at least once before. After ten minutes, she decides on oversized, "hip-hop" jeans that would be shunned upon if a girl decided to wear them in America. Her t-shirt reveals Bob Marley's face. Her black and white Converse shoes neutralize all of the colors she wears. I suddenly feel over dressed, but I am a girly-girl or at least at that stage. Erica assures me that I look beautiful and shouldn't change.
Suddenly, there is a bang on the door and the call of the intercom doorbell becomes static. Erica sends me to see who it is, of course. I push the door open a bit and Gemma pops at me. She's wearing low rise jeans and a studded, black belt. Flower patterns wrap around her halter top and black eyeliner with a dab of mascara seal her eyelids. She never seems to overdue makeup, but why should she? She is stunning. I on the contrary, am wearing beige cover-up to hide the extra dark circles around my eyes, some bronzer, blush, blue eye shadow on my bottom lids, black liquid eyeliner taped above my eyelashes. It's definitely a cat eye effect. I have to wear mascara to extend my small lashes outward. Gemma doesn't need it, but still wears it anyway.
### It's 20:30 when we arrive at "il parco." Mike greets us with a girl I haven't met at his side. They kiss and I jump ten feet in the air. I never assumed he had a girlfriend. His skin sparkles in the dark night and a fresh smell of cocoa butter extends from his direction. "How delicious!" I think to myself.
###It must have been the way he grasped my body and turned my skin a light shade of blue that left me gasping for air. I had other boyfriends before him and while I was seeing him, but none of them impacted my life as deeply as he did. I give every individual that I meet all of the passion that exists in my heart, which is more than you can ask from a teenage girl. I may have been immature and easy going, but that was the only way I knew how to give. Every man in my life before him left me fearless and emotionally drained. I was terrified that he would do the same. In the depth of my anima, I knew he would, but I never evaluated how extensive the damage could be. The love I had for him trapped me in a world of oblivion. Many have described the feeling as a mere infatuation, but does that dwell for 7 years? True love is said to persist for an eternity. People warned me of what he was, but that didn't define him in my eyes. Prior to our first engagement, I heard the word that classified his "kind" in The Hunchback of NotredameEsmeralda, the main character was one of "them." I yearned for her wavy, dark, black, smooth, straight long hair, blue eyes, and caring personality. As I think of the reference that distinguishes between "them" and all of the other beings, I want to hurl. I find it extremely tedious to roll the word off of my tongue. I assumed that if this categorization existed, "they" would be like Esmeralda, but I was severely mistaken in more ways than one.
### The way he affected me was life threatening. My body tremored when he approached. To save him, I would die if necessary. To this day, I don't think he really understood my inner affection or admiration of him. He might as well have been blind. I was a naive teenager who fell in love with a gypsy. The word burns in my chest like a bushel of fire incinerating my heart to dust. With time, my life progressed and I have avoided all regressions that plunge me into his arms. I stand firm, shackled with a brick of cement to the ground. I will not allow this being to annihilate my dignity any longer. Don't let me confuse any one. There were good moments and bad as in every relationship. Unfortunately, the awful times became more memorable. It was those few blissful memories that are the most cherished. My expectation for this story is that people will find compassion in their hearts for a culture that is so critically judged, frowned upon, and automatically ridiculed in every country. It is essential to remember that the word, "gypsy" doesn't define a person. I know that I contradict my self on occasion, but it's because of the wounds that I was left with. The characters in this novel and all gypsies on the planet are human, worthy of a chance for acceptance. Many of my loved ones will be offended or saddened as an outcome of this publication, but they must remember that it wasn't my intention, I have done this to help them all move on from the dark hole we found ourselves in. We all deserve to taste the light. I love you all! Please, never, forget that!
### The sound of his name sent me straight to the nearest trash can, a feeling of unsettling nausea occupied the pit of my intestines. It never failed. Every time I heard it, a cold sensation traveled through my veins, causing the hair on my arms and legs to fling straight up. It honestly felt like I was dead. No matter how diligently I tried to avoid it by pacing back and forth, by humming blank tunes that only my brain could register, I could never escape the cruel downfall. I was constricted to a world consumed by him. He was what I breathed in and out, what I ate and what I pictured when I opened and closed my eyes. He was my poison. There was no escape.
### My body begins to shake as the laser penetrates the sensitive skin on my left hand; distasteful memories of my haunting past leave my palate dry and sour. They flash through my mind like a slideshow. I feel my stomach growl in disgust. A mark from my quirky adolescence is beginning to disappear. It resembles a rooky jailhouse tattoo. I can't help, but laugh at the recollection of the day it was branded on my hand. I was 15, carefree, a true "dare devil," fearless of incoming pain, and on an unforgettable vacation. The idea of rebellion spiked my adrenaline as Enrica, my Italian best friend dipped the steralized hospital syringe in black Indian ink. She pricked at my hand until a little trickle of warm, red blood made its way to the crease. She went deeper as she pricked. It was never continuous. She just went by her own notions. She continued until she thought it would stick. Boy, did it ever stick. It resembled a variety of birthmarks conjoined together. If anyone really wanted, they could play connect the dots. Over the years, the color faded to a dark shade of blue. It's location faced me. A perfect, "E" in between my thumb and index finger, where a pen would lean if I was a lefty. It actually connects to a brown beauty mark already present on my hand and the grooves a palm reader may glance at when she's doing an evaluation. It was never a perfect tattoo. It was a sloppy mess of uneven love. I wasn't the sole owner of a tattoo that day. Enrica had gotten one as well. Hers was darker and more crooked than mine. A "T" for a best friend she no longer speaks to.
### When I arrived at my first laser consultation, the technician glanced at the small mark and gave me a stupid smirk. "What does it even stand for?" Her words stabbed at me like a sharp knife swirling around my heart. How dare she question something I want erased from my hand and memory? I want to strangle her, but I manage to contain my self. I give the woman a wicked and intense glare that made her fragile, thin, pale lips turn to a frown. Her ocean blue eyes curiously search for a reaction. I sigh. "Emilio." I manage to whisper as if the name was a sin. Tears instantly fill my eyes, but I stretch them wide open to avoid the unwanted trickes of wet, salty water. It's a difficult task, which burns the sockets. The technician can surely sense the tension. Her bright eyes turn to a cooler shade of blue as I examine her with a grimace. She starts to stutter and quickly changes the subject. I am so pissed that my ears turn red and my jaw hurts from forcefully locking it to prevent unwanted words from spilling out. I hate remembering him. It would have been easier if he was never nice to me. If he always ignored me, I never would have become so attached. I have heard that tattoo removal is more painful that the actual tattoo. I admit it slightly burns, but nothing can compare to the sharp sensation of the needle tracing and retracing the 7 other tattoos that rest on different areas of my body. I am numb and resilient to it all. I am surprised I didn't actually die from the tattoos. My skin is so delicate that I break out in a rash with the smallest bit of irritation. I have shocked every tattoo artist that has ever concocted a piece of art that fits my body. I can sit in a chair for an hour and a half without a break, which is torture for normal people, but not me. I enjoy the brutality of it all. I must be abnormal.
### My stomach jiggles and sends thick vibrations to the edges of my fingertips as I remember the first time I laid eyes on Emilio. He was incredibly charming and a year older than me. His smile revealed two perfect dimples in the edges of both his cheeks. We had many things in common, which included our attitude and the shape of our eyes; the color of licorice, our pupils barely visible. Oh, his eyes, my eyes! I find my self in a bitter sweet trance, frowning at the reflection.
### I get through the fourth treatment without any adverse reaction from the blonde, bimbo bitch that ensured me it would only take two treatments to remove the "E" because it was the size of a dime. Needless to say, I have spent $400.00 enduring four treatments and it's slowly fading. I know that I am insane and I have wanted to cover the tattoo on numerous occasions, but no artist will assume that responsibility. I can't bare the thought of peering at that initial for the rest of my life. I already know he will be on my mind at every relevant occasion of my future. I will remember him when I get engaged, walk down the aisle, and when I give birth to my first child. Yes, Emilio has that affect on me. Memories are all I have and it has been 7 years too long. It's difficult to let go of someone that has made a lasting impression on my life. Sometimes, we have no choice. It's not goodbye, but I will cross your path somewhere. If not, I will cherish the imprints that have been left behind. I'm sharing them with you, world. You can laugh, cry, scream, and die inside when I have.
### It was the summer of 2005 when my family decided to take their yearly trip to Italy. We have an apartment in Falconara Marittima, the province of Ancona, along the Adriatic Sea in the Marche region of Italy. Many have called it the city a "hidden treasure." My father spent the first 23 years of his life there. The apartment was built in the 1950's by my grandfather, Pasquale for Jus wife, Annamaria and There four children. It lied on Via Salita and is directly across from the beach. When my grandparents passed away, my father, the oldest inherited it in 2004. It was immediately remodeled because of earthquakes and monumental damage sustained through the years. It was an extremely difficult process to reconstruct because of the hefty reparations necessary and slow construction rate. After a long agonizing year of shipping condiments, such as furniture and kitchen supplies from a storage unit in South Florida, where we primarily reside, that apartment was finally complete.
### It was the third year in a row that I would spend my summer in Falconara. I was eager to take a break from the "sunshine state," or as I would like to think of it, "home of the palm trees." I live in Fort Lauderdale, Florida in a similar setup compared to Falconara, directly across from the beach. The difference between the two is that Fort Lauderdale beach is vaster and further spread out. Falconara's tightens up and is often polluted by the main gas line in the city, Api. If Api catches fire, the whole city is bound to explode and will become non-existent. The most amazing aspect of Fort Lauderdale, is the seventh floor of my building where our condo rests. I enjoy meditating on my balcony, closing my eyes and feeling the ocean breeze spread and penetrate my inner soul.
### I had already made a friend in Falconara with my sister as we walked along the coast in the summer of 2003. I was 13 and Gemma was 10. Erica was a year younger than me. She had long thick legs, a robust behind, light brown, wavy hair, and brown eyes that matched the color of her hair. It flowed down her back in the creases with the sway of the ocean wind. Coincidentally, her family owned an apartment directly beneath ours in the brick building my grandfather built. She lived there year round and was an only child, happy to have girls her age under the same roof. Throughout the years, as you can imagine, she has become more than a friend. She is our "sister."
### My sister, Gemma, is an innocent 12 year-old girl in the summer of 05.' She enjoys the sounds of pop music from Vanessa Carlton and Kelly Clarkson. She has the voice of an angel. When she lets out a tune, it silences a room with sweet melodies. Her hair is straight, full, and shoulder lengthed brown with kisses of blonde from the sun.
### We quarrel for the aisle seat on the plane. I feel the need to stretch my legs because they're long. Many have compared them to skinny, chicken legs; thicker on top and slim from the knees to the ankles. I lose the fight and give into my sisters demands. I am the most easy going person that I know and I don't want to cause a scene. Gemma sticks her tongue out at me as she takes her seat. I frown and take a deep breath. Continental Airlines provides us with inflight movies and a chicken or steak dinner that tastes like cardboard. We are flying direct; from New Jersey (EWR) to Roma (Fiumicino). All of our family lives in Jersey and we are visiting. I have mixed feelings about this flight. Unwelcomed tears trickle down my face as I think of leaving my boyfriend behind. He is two years older than me, 17, and my best friend. I have been there through the roughest patches of his life. I know I will only be away for 2 1/2 months, but I feel that tingling rush of nausea spread across my stomach and thrust it's way up to my throat. Somehow, I feel as if my blonde haired, light honey eyed, boyfriend won't be there to greet me when I return. My tears flow uncontrollably down my cheeks. Steven comes from a disrupt home. He has an alcoholic mothers and an irresponsible father. He is third from last of 8 children. His mother had the audacity to get evicted from her home and leave her 17-year-old son and 16-year-old daughter on the streets. I think I love him. He makes me smile and a sweet sensation rises in my stomach twisting to my heart. I have never had sex with him or anyone before. It came close, but I could never go through with it. I am secretly a virgin, but like the rest of the people my age, I have lied and said I wasn't. Of course, Steven knows, but we haven't done anything, but swap spit. He respects me and appreciates everything I have done for him; totally opposite of the boys I usually fall for. I like tall, dark, and handsome; the usual stereotype. Steven is broadly shaped and wears his hair, spiky, but short. A smile always runs across my face when I think about his passion to strive, despite all of the obstacles in his way.
My mother gives me an awkward glare and I know she's going to ask if I am okay. I glance in the opposite direction and ignore her. I turn the volume up on my iPod. "Have You Ever," by Brandy is blasting through the rectangular device; a Christmas present from my parents. It's silver and easy to carry around. I dose off in my seat and awaken to drool sliding down the side of my cheek and a bright red imprint of the chair on the left side of my face. I feel a sudden burning sensation, which tingles my bladder. "Oh shit!" I have to pee and I'm trapped against the window. My mother was in the middle seat sprawled out and my sister was on the aisle. She didn't get up once and I would have loved to have been on that end, considering my weak bladder. My father has upgraded to first class because he's terrified of flying and we make him paranoid. I roll my eyes at the thought. I gently tap my mother on the shoulder. She sighs and moves her legs to the side, so I can get through. It's easy to step over my sister and not startle her. Her lips are full and her mouth is slightly open, so that she can breathe. Her nose is flat to her face and small, but wide. Her eyelashes are oval shaped. The only thing we have in common is the dark color of our eyes. Her legs are shorter than mine, she has a round, firm rear end and broad shoulders. She has an athletic build without trying, much like my fathers.
### I struggle to slide the bathroom door open. It's dark on the plane and it's the only sign that's lit up. I am extremely claustrophobic and I feel like I am in a closet. I can barely pull down my lime-green terry cloth caprees. I thank God that I am wearing sneakers. It reeks of urine and Clorox bleach. I bend my knees and stand, careful to avoid the seat, which would be devastating. I extend my right leg to the button that flushes the toilet and tap it with my red and white adidas sneakers. I am surely a fashion disaster, but who cares? The toilet swallows my pee and toilet paper like a famished grizzly bear. The sound is similar to a blow drier in action. It makes my ears pop. I decide that I must wash my hands. The sink is filthy; water, soap, and toothpaste occupy the silver metal spaces. I find myself grabbing the edges of the sink as the plane begins to shake with turbulence. Of course, it happens while I am in the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is the shortest it's been in awhile; barely touching my shoulders and highlighted; all golden blonde. My eyes are red, flustered all around the edges and my long eyelashes are crusty from dried tears. My curls twist perfectly around my cheeks. My nose protrudes from my face; the only confirmation of my Italian heritage. My cheek bones rest high and two lines crease perfectly from beneath the edges of my nose to the top of my upper lip. Lines are the same as my mothers. I hate my nose. I always have. "It gives me personality," I joke to myself. I am impatient because my feet want to touch solid ground.
### It's 10:30 am CET when we board the second flight. We have to take a shuttle bus to Alitalia'ssmall cargo plane. There are two seats in each aisle. They check our second carry-on automatically to the bottom of the plane because there is no room for it to fit above our seats. Our flight to Rome was extra vacant compared to this one. I remind myself it's only for an hour and take a deep breath. The air is hot and dry. My body is sticky and I smell foul from the last 8 hour flight. I am determined to resist sleep, so that I can explore Falconara with Gemma and Erica. After all, it's been a year from the last time we were all together.
My father gathers all 6 of the oversized luggages that my mother insisted we needed for the trip. Ancona's airport is a clutter. There's only a few entrance doors and one baggage claim machine. Apparently, we were the only arriving flight. Falconara is surrounded by green mountain tops, an extremely old castle rests on top of one of the hills, visible from the flat airport. All of the windows are broken in and no one has vacated it for centuries. I tap my father on his shoulder and ask it's name. Monte Domini, he says in a thick Italian accent. Although he's lived in America for over 30 years, it has never left him and never will.
### Customs consists of two men standing at the middle door and the only entrance into Falconara. They are in blue uniforms and armed with two large rifles. Erica, her cousin, Dario, his parents, and a few of my fathers friends eagerly wave at us through the thick, green, translucent glass. The officers ask my father how long we will be in Falconara and why. He lies and says a few weeks. "We are only visiting."He says in perfect Italian, which is also a lie. My father never reveals too much. They will make us pay them if we tell the truth. One officer takes our passports, glances at them one by one, and let's us all through. It's a relief! Everyone runs to embrace us all and they pop open a bottle of "Spumante," an Italian champagne. In Italy, the drinking age is 18, but no one ever checks. We make a toast to our safe travel, take group photographs, and reminisce from our past.
### When we arrive at our apartment, it looks the same. The black glass tinted door stands there on a tiny, marble, brown step, waiting to be opened. The key to the house is extremely old fashioned with two loops at the end and long teeth that enter the key hole. As we swing the door open, the marble, peach tinted stairs sparkled in the touch of sunlight. It's as if they've been cleaned in our preparation of our arrival. There are three apartments in the building, one in the middle half of the building on the second floor, across from Erica's belongs to Indians from Bangladesh. I can smell the garlic and curry mix as I climb up the stairs to the top floor. It makes me want to vomit because it reminds me of someone marinating in body odor. It stuns me that people don't notice they smell of what they eat. I quickly turn to my parents halfway up the stairs to leave the door (il portone) open. I notice a Winnie the Pooh sign that reads, "Welcome home," which was designed by Erica hanging on the white walls, crooked from many difficult torrential years.
### Erica is eager to show Gemma and me off to her friends. We barely have time to leave the luggages in the house. I feel nasty from the last 24 hours, but we have no other choice, but to give in to Erica's wishes. Gemma is wearing a jogging suit identical to mine in hot pink. We instantly grab sunglasses and our purses and bounce out the door. Gemma's shoes match, like Barbie, appropriate for a 12-year-old. Erica hasn't changed much from the year before. Her hair is blonder and layered; shoulder-length. Her grin sparkles in the sun. I would compare her skin to a fresh baby's bottom. Unfortunately, Erica wasn't blessed with a nice chest. It's padded three cups, but that doesn't seem to irritate her much. Her behind makes up for it. I give her a quick slap with my right hand. It's firm and hard as usual. The irony for someone the doesn't work out. She lets out a shriek and nudges me with an elbow to the chest as we move out of, "il portone."
"We are going to il parco, Kassedy. (Kassedy Park)," she exclaims.
It's a fifteen minute walk before we arrive at the gate. The sun begins to hide behind the clouds. There are so many diverse individuals outside and inside the rusted, black, iron gate and brown cracked bricks that surround Kassedy park. I take a moment to close my eyes and breathe in the crisp ocean air. It's only a few streets away from the beach. I take of my sweatshirt and gently loop it around my waist. The terry cloth material absorbs the sweat of my palms and and rests in front of me. An innocent Disney Character from Peter Pan is on my green t-shirt. Tinkerbell's magic is sprouting from the palm of her hand. I didn't know it then. but my day was about to explode with magic.
I looked around and noticed three trails that lead in and out of the park. There's green grass all around us; a basketball court rests on the top hill with two benches, a rusted copper play set for children, another basketball court on the second layer, bathrooms, and a spacious soccer field. My jaw instantaneously drops. I have never seen a park this large. Gemma is vey outgoing and quickly introduces herself to people with Erica's direction. All three of us have different personalities. My sister is bubbly and I am shy, which irritates Erica. Gemma's italian is broken, while mine is fluent without an accent. I frown in a daze as Erica nudges me to present myself to her friends. I first meet Aamir, an attractive Tunisian boy, which Erica mentions, with extremely tight curls, tied and tucked away in a pony tail; covered by a folded up white bandana. His skin is shiny and tanned and I see that Gemma intrigues him. She's turned a shade of hot pink that matched her outfit. As I continue to examine Aamir, I notice that his features are chiseled. His stomach is tight and all six of his ribs blend into a "six pack." He's wearing umbrella pants that match his bandana. His style is "hip-hop" as Italians refer to the baggy appearance. He breaks down into a dance and spins on his head with another Tunisian boy, who is his younger brother, Muneeb. He's a little darker than Aamir and his skin doesn't sparkle as much. His hair is darker and short, much different than his older brother.
Erica proceeds to pull Gemma's arm and introduces us to a boy that has a chilling resemblance to the late, Tupac. His name is Mike. My mouth begins to feel heavy and I feel my jaw drop once again. His smile is breathtaking. He has a monroe piercing, which I notice Erica peering at. She looks at him the way a baby looks at a new toy. I am intrigued by their relationship.
### As I am concentrating on their body language, a soccer ball flies in the air and hits my dazed ass square in the face. I heard the pleas and warnings, but it was too late. I close my eyes and squint in agony. All of my reactions are late as per usual. Although I am the one that suffered the blow and felt the red dirt mark forming on my left cheek, Erica is the one that turns pink. She's pissed and embarrassed.
"Alessandra, alzate!! Get up this instant! You're making a fool out of us!" She whispers with through painfully gritted teeth. There's a definite lump on my face and it stings. I sigh at Erica. I have fallen to the ground and am too embarrassed to get up. I notice the black paved street beneath me that leads to the entrance of the park. Erica steps away when I refuse to get up. I see a shadow approaching through my parallel vision. From the heavy feet, I can tell it's a boy. His black Ray Ban's and jet black hair more than catch my complete, but hazy attention as he towers over me. He's a literal, "upside down triangle" from the way I am lying. I feel cold sweat dripping from the crevices of my forehead. I am definitely turning a shade of eggplant purple. I find myself swallowing and gulping air. i could die at this moment. He puts out his small, pudgy, but rectangular hand to help me up from the ground. There are no words. There is complete silence. I could sense his scrutiny and observations through his thick lenses. He was detailing every inch of my body. Those five quiet minutes on the ground felt like an eternity. He roughly tugs my hand and my arm sputters up. I am instantly at my feet, dizzy as hell. I must have some strange concussion. Erica is staring at us with her skinny, but pudgy arms crossed tightly against her flat chest. Her eyes are clenched tightly together. She's giving the boy who rescued me from the depth of embarrassment a hard stare. He's perfect. His shiny black hair flops over the top of his forehead and is short, spiky, and gelled in a mess. His sideburns are short and neatly shaped above his ears. My mouth begins to water and drool falls from the creases of my lips. i quickly wipe it away. A gold, heavy, chain rests in the center of his chest. It's a cross. I immediately think that he's spiritual (A wonderful bonus)! Two tiny, gold hooped earrings with small crosses hang from his ears and match his necklace. His olive brown skin is super sexy. I wonder if he's Indian. His style shoots a trouble signal to my brain.
My skin changes to a vanilla shade of white and my palms are sweaty. His navy blue adidas outfit flows a little past his black Nike cleats. A plain, whit v-neck t-shirt protrudes from the top of his zippered sweater.
"Emilio, she didn't need your help! Go away! Vai via! Stay away from her!" Erica spits out.
She's in a fit of rage, but Emilio ignores it and doesn't budge. Instead, he moves closer to me. He holds out his hand again. The most senseless expression is lying on his face. His lips crinkle together and are thin, but flawless as he examines me. I wish I could see his eyes, but his sunglasses are pitch black and he doesn't brush them off his face. I remember to grab his hand.
"Piacere, Emilio. Nice to meet you, Emilio." He says, his voice is like a sweet lullaby as he pronounces each word. I unconsciously lick my lips. I am stuck and mute. Erica punches me hard in the middle of my shoulder blades.
"Alessandra," I squeal in pain.
Emilio begins to twirl the soccer ball on his left index finger as I peer down at him. He is slightly shorter than me. His forehead reaches the top of my nosy nose.
"Short, but sexy." I think to myself. I nod my head in agreement. He responds to my attraction with a puckered smile. Erica manages to tug me away by the arm.
"Apresto, bella. See you soon, beautiful." He shouts sternly as I stare back at him not noticing my steps and tripping as usual.
### "Alessandra, I want you to listen to me very clearly. Emilio may appear nice, but he isn't. He's a gypsy, zingaro, rom, gitano, zigeuner, mustalainen, etc. He's no good for you!" Erica is screaming at the top of her lungs behind a tree. She's confident that no one can hear her. I have no idea what the hell she's talking about. I have never really looked up the complete definition of a gypsy. I know my grandfather uses the word to describe me once in a while, but my eyes are expressionless and I blink at her in bewilderment.
My white "Jackie-O" sunglasses rest on my head, tucking my hair behind my ears. My eyebrows arch high with my expressions. Erica looks like a child begging her mother for a toy that she cannot have. It should be vice-versa. I should be stern with her. After all, I am one year older. Her sincerity shocks me. She's never banned me from communicating with someone before.
"Don't look at me like that, Alessandra! He gets so many girls, dates them, and then drops them! Your parents would kill me if I let you associate with his kind. His culture is simply fucked up!"
She begins to whine and has tied her choppy, layered hair into a tight bun. The sun is strong and sweat is pouring off her face and damping her hair.
"I don't care, Erica! What the hell is a zingaro? I have never heard that word describe something evil. My nonno (grandfather) calls me zingarella or gypsy girl sometimes. What exactly does that mean? What are you talking about when you say "his kind?" What is "his kind?" My eyes curiously squint together. My expressions are so obvious that I do not have to utter any words.
"You know.. How do I put this? Esmeralda, from "The Hunchback of Notre Dame?" She's extremely agitated and frustrated with my stupidity. She's spitting her words through her teeth. Her face is beat read and she hasn't uncrossed her arms at all.
"I love Esmeralda!" I manage to spray cheerfully. I am now annoying her on purpose.
"You mean he's a real life gypsy? I never met a gypsy before. That's so cool!" I gasp repeating each word, which pisses Erica off even more.
"Noooo! Alessandra! You don't understand! In Italy and all over the world, gypsies are thieves! They are classified by their last names. Emilio's is the worst kind!" I have obviously pushed Erica over the edge. She's impatient and walks away from me.
"Do what you want, Alessandra!" She mumbles.
"Don't say that I did not warn you!" She walks away from me towards Gemma, who's visibly smitten by Aamir. I can't believe my eyes. She's sitting on his lap.
"What the fuck is she doing? She is 12. How old is he any way?" I think to myself.
### Emilio is playing soccer with his friends. I find myself alone and distracted by him. He's fascinating to me. Maybe it is the fact that he is a gypsy and that I have never associated with one in my life. I am mesmerized by his style and ability to glide the ball quickly across the field. I wonder how I could make him understand my interest. Maybe I should follow Erica's guidance. I frown at the idea. I have to make my own decisions in life. I ignore the thought completely and snap back into reality. I have a boyfriend in America and I should be faithful to him, but at this age we are just beginning to learn what that means. I decide to spy on Erica and Gemma. I am the typical loner staring into space. I have always been this way. I observe every detail. People never seem to understand me. They think I am awkward for always being alone.
"Enjoying the view, Ale? He's pretty cute. Isn't he? Remember, you have Steven back at home who is probably worried sick about you. You should really inform him that you have landed." Gemma snaps at me like some smart ass grown adult. I knew she was right, but I couldn't help to thank the Lord that she said it in English.
### I turn on the silver oversized Dell laptop that I brought from Florida and sign on to my Myspace account. I decide to send Steven a brief message. My fingers begin to tremble with every thrust of the buttons.
"Stevie,
I have arrived safely. I love you and miss you. Hope everything is well and you're enjoying your new job. I haven't gotten any minutes for a prepaid cellphone yet. As soon as I do, I will give you a call.
Xoxo,
Alessandra"
I suddenly feel nauseated. I wish Stevie was here. He would probably love it! He's Irish and Jewish, a very interesting combination. He was baptized Christian, but denies the faith.
### Somehow, I find Emilio in my thoughts again. I stretch out my lips and grind my teeth to prevent a forbidden smile. I vow to explore his culture whether or not we end up "friends." I wonder why people assume that they are bad people. Somehow, I hope to find the answer. It makes me frown. I have never judged anyone for who they are or what they believe in. People deserve to be treated as human beings.
### Erica has gone down to her home to take a shower and prepare for the night. I am already dressed and am excited by the upcoming events. Erica, Gemma, and I will return to the parco at 8:00 P.M. or 20:00 P.M. to hang with Michael. I decide to go to Erica's because she is always fashionably late. I never understand why it takes people so long to get ready. I do my makeup and everything and it still only takes me 30 minutes. I am wearing a pale blue v-neck dress and my hair twirls into a curly wet affect. I also have black eyeliner on top and bottom of my lids. That really makes my almond eyes widen. People often mistake me for an oriental girl. Many assume that I lie when I say that I am not. I am 1st and 2nd generation Italian. Before I can knock on the shiny, wooden, steel door, Erica opens it. My whole body jolts backwards. Her hair is still dripping water on the ends from a fresh shower. She smiles widely revealing her two missing incisors. She was born without them. She is still a beautiful soul. I frown because the old wooden clock in her home reveals it's 19:45.
"Erica! It's almost 20:00 P.M. Why aren't you ready? It's going to get dark fast and we will have to walk alone on the stradale (main road)."
I tap my white, sky blue flip flops against her freshly cleaned floor. She leads me into her bedroom. It's quaint and faces the beach. The salty air tingles in my nose. Her wooden windows are tightly closed. Everything in her home is made of wood. Sweat slowly begins to form on my forehead. Italians don't have air conditioning units like the U.S.A and if they do, it's usually a central air system. As Erica turns her blow drier, I don't know how she can bare the heat against her skin. She uses a bunch of L'oreal products to scrunch her hair, so the layers radiate, but she still isn't happy. She is still naked and frantically searching for an outfit to wear. She owns a variety of clothing, but still manages to be picky. According to Erica, all of her clothing is old because she has worn them at least once before. After ten minutes, she decides on oversized, "hip-hop" jeans that would be shunned upon if a girl decided to wear them in America. Her t-shirt reveals Bob Marley's face. Her black and white Converse shoes neutralize all of the colors she wears. I suddenly feel over dressed, but I am a girly-girl or at least at that stage. Erica assures me that I look beautiful and shouldn't change.
Suddenly, there is a bang on the door and the call of the intercom doorbell becomes static. Erica sends me to see who it is, of course. I push the door open a bit and Gemma pops at me. She's wearing low rise jeans and a studded, black belt. Flower patterns wrap around her halter top and black eyeliner with a dab of mascara seal her eyelids. She never seems to overdue makeup, but why should she? She is stunning. I on the contrary, am wearing beige cover-up to hide the extra dark circles around my eyes, some bronzer, blush, blue eye shadow on my bottom lids, black liquid eyeliner taped above my eyelashes. It's definitely a cat eye effect. I have to wear mascara to extend my small lashes outward. Gemma doesn't need it, but still wears it anyway.
### It's 20:30 when we arrive at "il parco." Mike greets us with a girl I haven't met at his side. They kiss and I jump ten feet in the air. I never assumed he had a girlfriend. His skin sparkles in the dark night and a fresh smell of cocoa butter extends from his direction. "How delicious!" I think to myself.
“Hello, I am Amanda.” The girl that he’s with introduces herself in broken English. She gives Gemma and me a dirty look as she squints her eyes together.
Amanda’s skin is milky brown and her hair is so curly and red. It poofs into a perfect short square. She’s extremely curvy in every sense of the word. I notice Erica frown at her presence. It’s so dark that the moon glows from the distance. There are stars everywhere and I would love to stand on a hill and try to grab one. We sit on bleachers that overlook the park. I don’t want to go up that high for the simple fear of someone peaking under my dress. I am peering up at the sky, trapped in my own world when I feel someone tap me on the shoulder. I turn around and notice it’s Emilio. He’s wearing a black shirt, that’s tight around his body and baggy blue shorts that might as well be pants. His perfect behind protrudes outwards, revealing his black Hugo Boss underwear. I could see the white letters shining with the sky light. I examine him from head to toe in awe and suddenly forget to speak. He must really think I am a mess. I notice he isn’t wearing those Ray Bans that covered his eyes. They are almost the same exact shape as mine. The color... is mine. Now I feel myself stuttering and acting like a clutz. I can’t speak Italian or English. I find myself on a journey that cannot be reached as I glare at him. A million butterflies whirl in the pit of my stomach and I feel as if I can fly. Maybe I’d rather grow wings and disappear. His eyes reveal mixed signals, which will forever remain a mystery. He’s unreadable. My lips pop together as a reflex to ensure that they haven’t lost any moisture. Emilio’s eyes close a bit and a half smile crosses his thin lips. His nose sits perfectly on his face. It’s wide, but small. He has a tiny beauty mark in on the right corner of his right eye. His skin is smooth and clean. Another dot of perfection lies on the left side of his nose frame. His eyes glimmer with life and hope. His face as rectangular with high cheekbones, almost as high as mine. They are definitely a gorgeous sight.
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