A Summer Like No Other Read online

  “Cool,” I tell Giovanni and shake his hand.

  “We have to go. I’m walking Giovanni back to his apartment and we need to study, but I wanted you to meet him,” Rob says and stands up. “I have been kicking your ass since we got here. Probably because you’ve had your mind somewhere else. And for some reason, I have a feeling this somewhere else includes my sister.” He pauses and his happy-careless smile morphs into a frown. “We’ve talked about that, dude.”

  “And you usually never say dude...I guess things can change.”

  “Unless you can promise my sister more than a fling then, nope, nothing can change.” His hands land on both my shoulders. “You understand, right?”

  I have no choice but to look him in the eyes as I reply. “I understand.”

  It’s a lie.

  “Where are you?” My dad’s voice carries through the entire ground floor. After coming home from Modern Pinball, I’ve been chilling in the living room, watching TV on the super comfy leather couch, kind of waiting for Dad to come back from his cocktail party. But I must have fallen asleep.

  “You left for the spa without telling me? What is wrong with you, Annie?” He’s talking to Mom, or rather yelling at Mom. I get up and follow the sound of his voice. The door of his office is open and he’s sitting at his desk, a whiskey in his hand.

  “You really think that’s the answer! That you leaving is the answer! Goddamn it, we are married for better and worse. Not only for when it suits your fucking highness!” He pauses. “No, I will not apologize. And stop it, stop telling me it’s all my fault. I was trying to do the right thing! I didn’t know until last month...” He takes a sip of his drink. “I have no idea if Amanda knows or not.”

  What does Em’s mom have to do with any of this?

  Dad leans back on his chair. “It’s not like we had a drink and talked about what happened sixteen years ago!” He downs the rest of his whiskey in one shot and flips through a file on his desk. “Of course, Emilia’s adoption is legal. Claire Carter has nothing to say. Do not dare contact her. And we need to speak before you hire a fucking divorce lawyer.” He slams his fist on the desk. “Do not dare throw our marriage in the trash without talking to me first!”

  It’s not the first time my parents have talked about getting a divorce and it probably won’t be the last, but...Em’s adoption, I’ve never heard a word about it from them.

  I mold my back to the wall.

  I could go in and face my dad, but I’ve learned the hard way that he will not budge if he doesn’t want to.

  I need to go upstairs before he sees me.

  I need to step away from here.

  I need to talk to Emilia.

  CHAPTER 9 – EM

  Our family used to go to brunch quite often, especially on weekends, but today, we’re all sitting at the table, talking about the move, the restaurant, Nonna, my dancing, Roberto’s research, Mom’s last fundraiser. Trying to sound normal and cheery and happy. And failing.

  I clear my throat. “I’ve received a notification on Facebook that someone might have more information about my birth parents.”

  Everyone turns to me: Mom’s hands shake, Roberto frowns and Dad’s eyes widen.

  “What are you talking about?” Dad says and turns to Mom. “What is she talking about?”

  I hate when he speaks as if I’m not in the room. “She’s right here.” I point to my face. “And I’m talking about the Find My Birth Parents group. I showed it to you last week.”

  “I thought we agreed you would wait until you’re eighteen.”

  “No. That’s not what we agreed. We agreed I could start searching, but that I needed to keep you updated on my progress. Mom said she would help.”

  “That’s true.” Mom’s voice trembles and Roberto glares at me.

  Dad takes a deep breath and closes the conversation with his usual, “We’ll talk about this later.”

  I plop myself on my bed, lie down with my eyes open, thinking about what I could have said differently to convince them. Maybe if I didn’t snap at them, maybe if I told them again that it didn’t change the way I feel about them, maybe if I told them I have the feeling I’m losing myself not knowing where I come from.

  Three fast taps and one slow tap on my door snap me away from me feeling sorry about myself. It’s Roberto’s and my secret knock, the one we came up with when we were younger and grounded and defying the rules.

  “What do you want?” I call.

  “Can I come in?” he asks, and his voice sounds way too serious. With the way he was looking at me during dinner, I know he’s not about to tell me that I’m right and Dad’s wrong. But I also can’t leave him in the hallway after he’s used our secret knock.

  “Whatever,” I reply and hide my face under my arm.

  The door screeches open and he clears his throat three times. “I don’t understand,” he says and nudges me. “Don’t be a baby, look at me.”

  “According to you, I’m the baby of the family anyways,” I whine. I hate it but I can’t help it. From time to time, I revert to my twelve-year-old self—insecure and whiny. When Roberto was fourteen and pushing my buttons.

  “You’re acting like one.” He sighs. “Come on Em, let’s talk about this.” He pauses. “Rationally.”

  “Because of course I’m not being rational. Of course, there’s something wrong with me for wanting to meet my parents. Of course there’s something wrong.” I look up at him.

  “And in one second, you go from baby to drama queen,” he says. I would be offended if he didn’t smile the way he does. It’s his half smile, the one he only has when he gets hurt and doesn’t want to show it. Roberto never wants to show he has feelings.

  “What do you want to tell me?” I sit up and pat the spot next to me. Instead of sitting there, he pulls a chair over and sits in front of me, boring his eyes into mine.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to get hurt,” he says.

  “But isn’t that supposed to be my decision?”

  “Wasn’t that supposed to be your birth parents’ decision?” He pauses. “Listen, they abandoned you outside this hospital for a reason. They may not want to be found. And let’s say you do find them; what are you going to do?”

  I glance at my nails...they’re still pinkish from the last nail polish I used. I don’t chew my nails, but I have a very big urge to check my hair for split ends. I run my hair through my fingers, and Roberto gently slaps them away.

  “I’m not saying it’s easy for you. But I don’t want it to become even more difficult. What do you want to find? Why are you even doing this?”

  “Because I don’t know who I am. I’m afraid of what I could find, but I’m even more afraid of not finding anything. I’m afraid that a part of me will always wonder, always worry.”

  “And if you find them and they’re fucked up or they hurt you. Do you want a relationship with them? They kicked you to the curb!”

  “We don’t know that for sure! I was wrapped in a baby blanket. Lovingly. Someone did love me.” I look away from him, hating my voice for breaking, hating myself for breaking along with it. I wipe away my tears and blink super fast to avoid any new ones. “Why can’t you be supportive?”

  “Sometimes, it feels like you’re not happy with what you got. That you want a redo.” Roberto stands up. “We’re your family.”

  “And I’m happy for that. Nothing will change the fact that you’re my brother.”

  “I hope you’re right. Because right now, it feels like it has already changed things.”

  “It hasn’t,” I protest but still can’t look at him. The tension I feel is mounting. Because of the search he doesn’t approve of. Because he doesn’t understand me.

  “You don’t have to do it alone,” Roberto says. And I know he wants me to ask him for help. But I can’t. Not right now. I don’t want to add any additional pain to the one he’s clearly already feeling.

  “I know,” I reply. “Thank you,” I add. And he n
ods one time before leaving my room. I stretch my muscles and slowly get up where my laptop’s standing.

  And I lose myself in the search.

  CHAPTER 10 - NICK

  What’s the best way to tell Em? Do I even tell her? What do I fucking know? Not much...but she’s looking for her birth parents, she’s set on the idea of meeting them, she’s hopeful. My fingers dialed her number five times, but every time I stopped myself. Telling her on the phone seemed wrong.

  I hurry up the stairs, down the hallway, push open the door to the studio.

  And my mind goes blank. Em’s already there, but she’s not dancing. Instead she’s lying on the floor with her eyes closed.

  “That’s not the place to take a nap. If Svetlana could see you, she would rip you a new one,” I tell her, and can’t help but chuckle. Svetlana is one of our nicest teachers, but sleeping in her class would still be a criminal offence.

  “I’m not sleeping. I’m visualizing,” Em replies, still with her eyes closed. “Nata does this every single time we have an audition or something important to rehearse for, and she’s the best dancer at school. Better than any seniors, better than anyone, really.”

  “She’s not better than me,” I joke, even though Natalya—Emilia’s roommate—is a wonderful dancer. Em smiles. I want to see her smile more often. I rub the back of my neck, wondering if I should tell her or wait until I have more answers.

  “It’s a close call,” she answers. “But the thing is? What I’m sure of is that I’m trailing behind.”

  I focus on her, on the moment. “You’re an amazing dancer.”

  “Who has the technique but can’t let go. When I’m on stage, I can’t let myself simply be. I can’t be me. Because I have no idea who I am.” She finally opens her eyes and turns to rest on her left elbow. I swear I’m not appreciating how that position makes her boobs look bigger. She continues, “You know who you are. You were always so sure about who you were. You never let anyone tell you what to do, what to believe in. It’s like you know so much better than the rest of us who you truly are, and you’re not afraid to show it.”

  Her lips turn into a smile that crushes my chest—it’s sadder than any choreography I’ve ever danced, and I danced the role of Hilarion in Giselle, dying at every performance for two months. “I know how to pretend,” I tell her. “Is that why you want to find your real parents?” I bore my eyes into her, trying to figure out if that’s really what she wants, or if it’s what she thinks she should do.

  “My real parents are the ones who have been raising me, they’re the ones who have to tell me to loosen up, they’re the ones who were there for me when I had to get my appendix removed, the ones who taught me to walk, to talk...” She stares behind me. Her voice falters. “But a part of me always wonders.” Her eyes gaze into mine and she whispers, “Before getting into the School, do you remember the physical we had to take?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “Those questions about hereditary diseases, and about father, mother, siblings and all that, I couldn’t answer them.” The words rush out of her mouth now, like she’s been holding them in for such a long time. “And then that one time Mom was late picking me up, I thought maybe they decided they didn’t want me anymore. Another time, we were on holidays and this woman came and stared at me. I thought maybe she recognized me, maybe she gave birth to me. Sometimes, I can’t look at strangers without wondering.” She sighs. “I’m a mess.”

  “Everybody is.” I stand up over her and extend my hand. I know how to distract her, if only for a few minutes. Then, we can talk. Then, I can spill my guts. Then, we can analyze everything. But right now, I only want to erase her worries. “Come on, let’s dance. I want you to do something though.”

  “What?”

  “Let me lead and close your eyes, let your body do the talking, lose yourself in the moment.”

  She nods, uncertain, and takes my hand. I wrap an arm around her waist and without any music on, I lead her into an arabesque. My fingers guide her as they trail down the side of her body.

  We move together. As one. Our bodies are in a harmony you can’t fake; the chemistry between us is off the roof. Her movements are fluid and real.

  When we stop, I’m almost out of breath and her laugh is my new favorite music. She looks up at me, still in my arms and if I bend down only slightly, I’ll finally taste her lips.

  And I will.

  I can’t help myself.

  But then she surprises me: she rises on her toes and whispers, “You’re the best.” And then her lips mold themselves to mine. Tentative at first, but then bolder.

  I can’t get enough. I can’t break away. I can’t for the life of me remember why this is a bad idea.

  I open her mouth to my tongue and press her even closer. One of my hands stays on the small of her back, while the other cups her face.

  She’s so sweet and passionate.

  She’s everything.

  CHAPTER 11- EM

  I can’t get enough of him, of the way his arms tighten around me before one of his hands caresses my cheek, of the way he’s kissing like it’s inevitable, impossible to resist, incredible, of the way his lips trail down my neck while he whispers my name.

  I never want it to end.

  I know it needs to stop, otherwise I’m not sure my heart will ever recover.

  I slowly pull away and then take his hand in mind. “Thumb war?” I ask and he laughs.

  “Thumb war,” he replies. It used to be my way of helping him when his parents fought all the time or when he had a bad grade at school, or when he thought his dad would never let him dance.

  His eyes smile almost as much as his lips, and the butterflies in my stomach are not only flapping their wings, they’re doing pirouettes after pirouettes.

  Our thumbs intertwine and we spend the next ten minutes laughing, talking about everything but that sizzling kiss.

  “You have no idea how much I want to kiss you again,” he says out of nowhere.

  “I kissed you,” I reply, tilting my head. “Technically, I was the kisser and you, my friend, were the kiss-ee.”

  “You have a point,” he replies and then rubs the back of his neck. My stomach drops to my ankles because that’s his tell he’s about to do something he doesn’t like, something he feels obliged to do. I don’t want to hear him tell me what it is. I don’t want to hear him tell me that we shouldn’t kiss again, so I say it first.

  “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. And I mean, I get it, but it was not grandiose. Nothing to lose my sleep over.”

  He furrows his eyebrows. “So this kiss meant nothing, right?”

  “Nope. Nothing at all.” I lean back on the cold studio’s floor again. “One way to distract myself.”

  “I was your distraction?”

  “Hurts, no? Imagine all the girls you said that to before; they probably didn’t want to only be your flavor of the hour.”

  “I have an understanding with them—they know what they’re getting into,” he says and sits next to me. “What was I distracting you from?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek and raise my arms above my head, relaxing my body completely, my lips still tingling from our kiss. I turn my head to look at him. He knows almost everything about me, and he’s always been there for me: he showed me the ropes when I first got into the School, he covered for me the one time I got drunk at a party and made sure I got home okay, he spent hours rehearsing with me when I asked him to, and even when I didn’t. He doesn’t say a word, waits for me to be ready to talk again. “I told you. It’s hard to see people in the streets, at the movies, in Central Park and wonder... Sometimes, I wonder if they’re even still alive, what their stories were, why they left me like this. I could have died, I could have stopped breathing and they wouldn’t have known. Why didn’t they want me?” I pause. “And I love my family. I do. I don’t want any other one, but am I enough for them? Roberto could be on his way to win a Nobel Prize in Physics�
�he makes them proud. I can’t even make it to the top of my class. And part of me thinks it’s because I can never clear my mind of all the questions I have. I can never let go, because I don’t know what I’m supposed to let go of.”

  He clears his throat, shifts next to me. I sit up and our arms touch. They’re aligned. He clears his throat again—I’ve never heard him this nervous. I tilt my head. “What’s wrong?”

  “What if I could help you?”

  “What?” I stand up so fast my head gets as dizzy as if I didn’t use an anchor point for a pirouette.

  “What if I could help you find your mom?” Nick asks, rubbing the back of his neck and then glancing at the door. “What if I told you that my father knows something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I overheard my father arguing with my mom last night. He was yelling at her, and telling her not to leave him.”

  My heart aches for him, at the way his voice turns all robotic as it does when he tries to protect himself. But before I can say anything, he continues. “He said something about your adoption, about your mom not knowing about whatever it is he’s hiding and telling my mom not to contact Claire Carter.”

  My body shifts back and my heart hammers. “Wh-what are you saying?” I shake my head without saying another word. Claire Carter? That’s not possible—it doesn’t make any sense.

  “That’s what he said. And I tried to find more information yesterday, but I couldn’t. The name sounds familiar.” His voice turns into a noisy background. Claire Carter—I remember that name. It’s fuzzy, but I remember it. I’ve only seen her once years ago at one of Dad’s and Nick’s Dad’s office parties. I remember Mom laughing with her at the party. I was maybe eight. Mom told her she talked to her more than she talked to Dad because he was always busy in meetings.