Eleven Days Ago

WHEN I RANG the doorbell, I could hear dogs barking in the background and Neil yelling over them. “Mina! Firenze! Calmatevi!”

The lock rustled. “One second,” Neil said. He cracked the door open, the dogs skittering around his feet. “Hey! Come in,” he said.

We were having our lesson at Neil’s apartment today because I wanted to meet his dogs. I had thought he would just bring them by Rigatteria, but Neil had the day off from the bookstore, so he asked if I could just meet him at his apartment.

Neil and Francesco lived in a neighborhood called Pigneto (pronounced pin-yeto; in our first lesson, Neil had told me that in Italian, you pronounce every letter. I soon learned that was a big lie). I got there by taking one of the trams from Trastevere to Porta Maggiore, a massive, ancient gate that used to be part of the wall of Rome and was now a major traffic hub.

Neil’s apartment was much nicer than Jahan’s. It was airy, with a large balcony and lots of antique art scattered throughout. We studied on the couch in the living room, our notebooks spread out over the treasure chest coffee table. The couch was old and sank, which meant his waist was pressed right into mine and our knees sometimes touched. But I wasn’t freaking out nearly as much as you might expect. Just weeks ago, if you’d typed this equation into the Hot Dude Calculator—hidden heartthrob, works at a bookstore, multiplied by intimate Italian lessons—you would have gotten ERROR: CANNOT COMPUTE. Divided by a lesson at his apartment? LOL: GOOD ONE.

But today, I was fine. I kept my cool. Besides, I had a date with Valerio tonight. A real date. My very first real date. He had asked after that night at Rigatteria if he could take me out to dinner.

When I told Neil, he became unreasonably excited. “We found you an Italian boy!” he exclaimed. Even the dogs were freaking out. Neil translated what I had just told him for Francesco, and midsentence, Francesco’s eyebrows shot up, but then he smiled. He said something in Italian. “Keeping it in the family,” Neil translated for me.

We spent the rest of the lesson going over Italian words for love and bed-related things. Francesco got involved. They were like my gay uncles, preparing me for my very first date.

On my way out the door, Neil taught me one more phrase, “In bocca al lupo,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “It means good luck. Although—Italian has a lot of weird phrases like this—it technically translates into, ‘in the mouth of the wolf.’ You’re supposed to respond ‘crepi,’ which basically means, ‘may the wolf die.’”

I shook my head. “Italian is a strange language.”

Outside, I found Valerio leaning against a motorcycle. I complimented him on finding such a badass vehicle to stand and look cool against, and he chuckled and said, “No, this is mine.”