Chapter 1.
1996
Samuel
The first time I talked to Alice, it was on the bus to San Giuliano.
Of course, I knew her from town. After all, Castelnuovo is a small enough place that you would have an idea of who everyone is, if they are about your same age. She was a Giannelli, big enough clan; one of her several aunts had just made a move to get into Il Cavallino.
I never spent any significant amount of time in her company. The very few times I had seen her around, she seemed quiet. I didn’t see her at my school, so I could safely assume she was going to the other school in San Giuliano, a fancy-ass liceo classico. I was three years older than her. Vastly more experienced in life. Not, but I was not going to tell her that anytime soon.
That morning, I was late. It was the first day of the new school year, and I had got sidetracked by listening to some Beck, lost track of time, and here I was, sprinting as almost every morning, really.
I didn’t mind going to school, but punctuality was not my thing. I decided to go to a geometra school, called Avogadro, in San Giuliano, because I could get a job afterwards without going to college. My mom was only getting by and she would need some help as soon as I was able to give it to her.
When I reached the bus stop, I screeched to a halt. Surely that yellow thing, which looked like it was kept together by sticky tape, was not my bus. It looked like I could run to San Giuliano faster.
I was on my last year of secondary school, so I had seen my share of shit buses. This one took the prize.
However, it was the only one there. It was sputtering gently, black smoke coming out of its exhaust, not a good sign already. I approached, slowly despite the urgency, and saw the sign: “San Giuliano”. Scribbled in marker on an A4, slightly stained, page. Classy.
I hopped in, and presented the leathery year ticket to the conductor, scanning the bus. No seats left, bar one.
Alice was sitting near the window, next to the last seat available in what I then understood was clearly a repurposed city bus. Her hair was very curly and quite long back then. It looked like it was almost engulfing her head. She was wearing a colourful jumper and her expression was crossed, like she had a problem with the universe. What struck me the most was her mouth, pursed in annoyance. That little pout made my heart speed up immediately.
There weren’t many people I wanted to talk to on this bus. I was friendly enough with most of them, but I didn’t particularly care about chit-chatting at seven in the morning.
And this girl looked angry enough that something clicked in me, an instinct I couldn’t really ignore.
I wanted to make this girl smile.
Alice
I had just hit the play button on my Walkman (REM, my favourite at the time, I am still proud to say), when a hand appeared in front of my face and waved.
I looked up from the hand to the body it was attached to, and I realised, eventually, that someone was talking to me. Slowly removing my headphones, I scanned the rest of the bus quickly and realised what was happening: “Do you mind if I sit here?”
I shrugged one shoulder in reply.
I knew his name: Samuel. Not much else, bar the fact that he was late for the bus and was looking at me with a cheeky grin I didn’t like. He had curly hair, light brown, that were falling on his forehead.
He was a couple of years older than me, I thought. His smile was far too big for this early in the morning. I was instantly annoyed by those dimples he was flashing at me. I never liked cocky guys, and he seemed to belong into that category. Not that I had exchanged more than two words with him, like, ever, but he seemed that sort of person that finger guns you and is instantly your best friend. Yuck.
I, on the other hand, was one to keep to myself. I never thought my nerdy interests were a thing for anyone else. I always felt older than my actual age. My idea of hell was to go out to a disco where horrible dance music would be the main attraction of the venue, that and cheap alcohol. It nauseated me to think about those sweet peach vodka drinks. See? Already horrible. Wait until you factor in the sleazy, sweaty, older men trying to come onto you.
I loved music, books, videogames (in this order; however, the hierarchy of the first two would change regularly). These hobbies could be enjoyed in the privacy of my home. Clara shared with me a deep, unending love for fantasy books, but with the exception of my best friend, I was very happy to enjoy my hobbies by myself.
That applied to making friends, too. I had two best friends, and I wasn’t looking for a third one.
That’s why when that smiley lunatic left himself fold into the seat next to me, I was instantly rubbed up the wrong way. I mean, there was nothing I could be doing about that, it was the last sit left on the bus, after all.
Marchetti. His surname popped up into my head, not that that bit of information was useful, or welcome for that matter.
I made a big show of putting on my headphones again, turning the volume up.
The seats, by the way, were tiny. So much so that we were kind of squashed together, side body against side body, arm against arm and leg against leg.
Even if I was trying to play it cool, I could feel my face grow warm at the contact.
I wasn’t too comfortable with physical proximity. I was sixteen and although I had had my (very small) share of experiences, I normally preferred other, easier and more satisfactory endeavours that didn’t include physical contact or awkward conversations.
While Michael Stipe started to complain about being worn out because of a fake breakup (not that I could really understand the lyrics at the time), my neighbour placed his backpack under the seat in front of us.
I could feel him eyeing me.
I turned toward the window. Hopefully the message would be clear.
I didn’t have time, however, to think about the new school year, which hopefully would be better than the last one, because the same hand as before (a big hand, with long fingers) appeared in front of my face again, wiggling.
I removed my headphones, again, trying, and failing, not to eye-roll. This boy.
“Which school are you going to?” asked Samuel.
The bus had started to (oh so slowly) make its way out of the village.
A disturbing smell of oil and burnt fuel started to make its way to my nose.
At this point I would’ve taken exploding over talking, but I had no such luck, so I replied, begrudgingly: “Giacomo Leopardi.”
It was the secondary school for people who wanted to go to university. Apparently, that was where smart people went, after. Apparently, I was one of them.
“Ah, you study Greek and Latin, so!” Exclaimed Samuel, with an asymmetrical grin that showed a dimple in his right cheek. It was such a big dimple I couldn’t fail but notice it.
“Don’t get too excited about it,” I sighed. Greek and Latin were not only dead languages, but also difficult ones to study. Because, you know, they were dead languages. After the first year had come and gone, I had started to second guess my choice.
What was I going to use Greek and Latin for, in the future?
I looked up to find Samuel’s golden eyes on me. He had not finger-gunned me, which was better than nothing, I suppose. But he was still looking at me, smiling, seemingly waiting for something.
Ah.
“So, uhm, where do you go?” I asked, because it really seemed like he wanted to be asked.
“Avogadro, fifth year. I’m Samuel Marchetti, by the way.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“Alice Giannelli”.
“I have seen you around too, I think,” Samuel smiled. That was smile number seventy-seven in three minutes. Or it felt that way to me, anyway.
Then, he put forward his hand: “Hey Ali, nice to actually meet you.”
I was put out by his easy familiarity. I gave him my hand, suspicious, like he was going to pickpocket me or something. Of course, he only gave me a firm, but not too firm, handshake. His palms felt a little rough against mine.
“Hey Samuel, nice meeting you too.”
“Very formal. You can call me Sami, or Sam, or whatever shorter version of my name you prefer if we are going to be friends.”
At that point, the feeling of being on the verge of having my wallet swiped intensified.
“Ah, are we? Going to be friends?” I asked, narrowing my eyes: “Why?”
“Because we are. Why do you think I just sat next to you?”
“Eh, because everywhere else was taken?”
Samuel gave me another grin: “I thought you looked cute and you were sitting here looking gloomy, so I wanted to cheer you up.”
The cheek of him.
“What… Why do you even think I need cheering up?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking, facing the wannabe thief with a well-deserved frown.
“You tell me, Giannelli.”
It came out before I could really think it through: “Well, last year was a bit shit to be honest, so I’m hoping to start off better this semester; I’m praying it’s not a complete shitshow.”
A dimple showed up then, and Samuel nodded sagely: “Fair. My first year was horrible. I had two guys from third year who thought making me fall flat on my face and tripping me in the corridors was the most fun thing ever. They stopped after a while, thank Christ.”
I could only look at him, horrified. He seemed unfazed by that whole bullying scenario, and that made me mellow a minuscule amount.
Samuel then asked: “How do you like your school? I heard it’s full of dickheads.”
At this, a small cackle escaped me: “Well, if by dickheads you mean sons and daughters of doctors and local entrepreneurs, yeah, you are right. And they are, mostly, dickheads. But then, there’s also me.”
“You don’t look particularly dickheadish.”
“I’m also very much not rich.”
Samuel chuckled: “That might do it. Why do you take the bus? I don’t think I saw you last year.”
“I used to go with a friend of mine, but this year my mom said it’d do me good to take the bus.”
“Well thank you, Alice’s mom.”
He yawned, suddenly, and stretched in all directions, so much so that I had to shrink to avoid being touched too much.
Samuel threw a look at my Walkman.
“The reason why I sat here, really, is because I love REM,” he said, nodding in the direction of the CD player that was still sitting, forgotten, on my lap.
Well, I was trying to avoid talking to him after all: “Was it that loud?”
“Oh, in a bus full of sleepy people? Yep.”
“Ah, fuck. Sorry.” I wasn’t, but that’s what you normally say in a situation such as that.
“Language, Giannelli,” said Samuel (not for the last time), waggling his finger in my direction; “and you don’t have to, but mind sharing?”
It had been an exhausting ten minutes, at that point. Having to make small talk with this guy had drained the little energy I had. In fairness, it had been surprisingly easy, but what did I know. I wanted to play cool, so I nodded and gave him one earbud.
Rewind and Play 