Kitty Kitty (3 page)

Allow me to pause here for a moment to say that while it might be unusual for most people to have others shouting “RUN!” at them, it happens to me pretty often. And I’ve developed a simple set of guidelines for these situations:

Little Life Lesson 2: Don’t do it.

Little Life Lesson 3: Ever.

Little Life Lesson 4: Especially if you are trying to be a Model Daughter and the person who yelled it at you is a nineteen-year-old girl dressed like a homeless pixie whose life goal is to Write on Rice and who adds, with a quiver in her voice, “They’re going to kill me, too.”

They. Are. Going. To. Kill. Me.

TOO
.

But sometimes doing What Is Right is not an option, such as when the nineteen-year-old homeless pixie whips out her Incredible Hulk strength and starts dragging you down the tourist-filled street at a rapid pace.

“Where are we going?” I shouted at Arabella as she bounced me off of two tourists.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said desperately. “We just have to get away from him.”

“From who?”

“The man in the straw hat. He’s following us!”

I glanced around and saw a straw hat bobbing through the crowd behind us, but no evidence at all that he was on our tail.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Watch.”

Arabella moved like someone who’d aced Advanced Placement Dodging Through Crowds, which should have made me suspicious, but I didn’t have time for that. Without warning, she yanked me around a corner and started running faster. As she wove expertly between the tourists on the crowded street, cleverly using me as a buffer, I stole a look over my shoulder and had to admit she might be right: The straw hat was still behind us. And gaining.

Whizzing past luxury boutiques and tourist landmarks, I realized that this could be an enticing metaphor for my college essays. Like a lesson—
bam
—about not rushing through life—
bash
—because you miss things and—
thud
—can wind up in a lot of pain. Out of nowhere two men carrying a pane of glass appeared, blocking the entire street (for real. A PANE OF GLASS), but instead of, oh, stopping, Arabella ducked down and dragged me under it.

Little Life Lesson 5: When towing a six-foot-tall girl, try to
bear in mind that her head clearance is different from yours.

After putting How Low We Could Go to the test, we were confronted by a gaggle of Russian tourists with large rolling bags clogging the entire side of the Bridge of Sighs in front of us, and I knew we’d reached the end. This was it. I had to admit I was kind of relieved. I’d had all the—

Arabella sped up. Before I realized what she had in mind, she was leaping over suitcases like hurdles. From there it was just a simple matter of winding between souvenir kiosks, cafés, and people stopped in the middle of the path to snap memorable vacation photos—
smash!
—into Saint Mark’s Square, the biggest piazza in Venice.

Saint Mark’s is filled with three things: 1) Tourists 2) Cafés 3) Carts that sell birdseed to tourists so they can feed pigeons out of their hands while they sit at the cafés. I tried to suggest that since there was such a big crowd to le mingle ourselves with we could stop and catch our breath, but Arabella had a different plan. The Tear-Through-the-Middle-of-the-Square-Swinging-Jas-Wildly-into-Objects Plan.

What was pleasant about this was it allowed me to experience several of the rules of physics firsthand. For example, the faster you are going when you bash into a man with a hard-sided briefcase, the more it will hurt (Force = Mass x Acceleration). And that being pulled between two women chatting and carrying large shopping bags will result in them screaming not-very-nice things at you. (For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.) And my favorite: A Jas in
motion—such as one who sidesteps to avoid running into a stroller and instead finds herself tripping over a small dog and launching into the air as though she’s a trouble-seeking missile—will stay in motion unless acted on by an equal but opposite force.

Like the little girl I crashed into.

A little girl whose mother had just bought her a bag of birdseed. Which flew into the air, traced a parabola, and cascaded back down (gravity = 9.81 m/s
²
), landing on me. Or rather, in my hair.

Where a hundred pigeons suddenly decided to have lunch.

Oh hello, icing the cake of my day badly needed!

The nice thing about having your head dive-bombed by pigeons—besides how lovely comma un it feels—is that you can’t see anything. Which, okay, doesn’t matter that much when you are busy being the pull toy of Le Crazy Person. But seeing does come in handy when Le Crazy stops without warning and you keep going, crashing into something hard.

Something that says,
“Che diavolo fai? Sei pazza?”

This does not mean “Ah, just what I wanted today, a very tall girl to fly into my arms!” but is more along the lines of “What the hell are you doing? Are you insane?” Not the kind of thing Model Daughters want to hear, ever.

Especially not what they want to hear when the pigeons take off, and they can see again, and what they see is that they’ve run right into a police officer. A police officer who looks as angry as he is large. Which is very.

So I said the first thing that I could think of to explain. It turns out, “The smaller monkey is better for that experiment” is not actually a multipurpose phrase.

In fact, some people might even think you were insulting them. Especially if they happened to look a bit like a large ape and had probably been mocked for it during their formative years.

“Who do you call a monkey?” asked Officer Ape—whose name tag read
ALLEGRINI
—not exactly in a Filled-with-Fun tone.

Little Life Lesson 6: There is no JAS in TROUBLE.

Little Life Lesson 7: But there is a JAS in JAIL SENTENCE FOR INSULTING A POLICE OFFICER.

I did a rapid search of all my extracurricular vocabulary and managed to come up with: “There are no monkeys here. That crazed assassin is after my friend to kill her,” while pointing at Straw Hat, who had just entered the square.

I was pretty sure I got all the words right, but Officer Allegrini didn’t move.

“He is a bad guy!” I said, waving my arms for emphasis. “A dangerous assassin! He plans to murder my friend.”

“Pardon,
signorina
, but please explain,” Officer Allegrini said in Italian. “To what friend do you refer?”

That’s when I realized there wasn’t anything wrong with my Italian. It was my story.

Because Arabella had given me le slip.

Little Life Lesson 8: If the police already think you are making up a friend, having the person you described as a crazed assassin march right up to you and say
“Bellissima! Eccomi qui!”
(Beautiful lady! Here I am!) will not help your credibility any.

“Arrest him!” I cried. “He is an assassin!”

The straw-hatted assassin laughed as though he was a visitor from the Planet of Hilarity. “But no, I am merely a gondolier,” he said.

“He is merely a gondolier,” Officer Allegrini repeated like he’d been mind melded.

“Which is an excellent cover for being an assassin,” I pointed out.

Straw Hat shook his head and said, “No, I do not think so. First, the gondola is too slow for making a good escape. Second, this cover would work only in Venice. I do not think you could make the living being an only-in-Venice assassin.”
Then he smacked himself on the forehead and said, “Pardon me, I am very rude. My name is Massimo, but you may call me Max.” After which he bowed, took my hand, and kissed it.

Allowing me to notice:

• 1) he was speaking English, with only a very faint accent
  
• 2) he’d had to bend down to talk to me
  
• 3) (down, as in, he was taller than I was)
  
• 4) he had longish light brown hair
  
• 5) and mysterious smoky blue eyes
  
• 6) that made him seem kind of fascinating
  
• 7) and could have gotten him a DANGER: HOT SURFACE label
  
• 8) BUT HE WAS NOT AS FASCINATING OR HOT AS JACK—
  
• 9) (who was possibly at that moment meeting a willowy marine biology major with a double-jointed tongue who once outswam a pack of sharks and an angry dolphin while carrying adorable orphans on her back)
  
• 10)—AT ALL.
  

Possibly not in that order.

As Max stood up he whispered, “Leave the
carabin-iere
to me,” and winked.

WINKED.

I was so stunned that by the time I reacted he was already talking to Officer Allegrini, saying in Italian, “Thank you very much, my friend. We shall not detain you any longer. This lady has apologized and I have graciously decided not to press charges. Also I will tell my uncle, the
capo
of police, what a good job you have done. Now leave us, we would be alone.”

And Officer Allegrini did! After hitting me with a look that said seeing me again wasn’t going to top his to-do list, he melted into the crowd like a lozenge. Leaving me completely on my own with someone who, while probably not an assassin, had just chased me halfway around the city.

Who was now smiling at me and saying, “At last, it is just the two of us! I thought he would never leave!”

There were probably three hundred things I should have said but what came out instead was “Your uncle is not the head of the police.”

“Do not spoil it for Officer Allegrini! The
carabinieri
may have very sharp outfits, but their brains are not so sharp and they have few pleasures. He thinks he has earned a commendation. You do not wish him to be unhappy, do you?”

I stared at him.

“No, I did not think so. I could tell you have a kind heart from the first time I saw you. Now tell me why you make all this trouble for me.”

I blinked at him. “You’re the one who chased after us.”

“Of course. Because you were running.”

“We were running because you were chasing us.”

“I chase you because you are running.”

“You chased us first.”

He shook his head. “I did not chase you. Max does not chase girls. Girls chase Max.”

“If you weren’t following us, what are you doing here?”

“Aha! I did not say I was not following you.”

“But—”

“I did follow you. To give you back this.” He reached into his pocket and in the back of my mind it occurred to me that if I were an assassin, this would be exactly the moment when I’d pull out my gun and start shooting.

Instead, what he pulled out were seven euros. “Your friend leaves her change when she buys her gelato,” he explained. “Signora Lee cannot leave the stand to bring it to her, so I go after to return it.”

“Wait, you were bringing Arabella her change? That’s all?”

“
Sì
,” he said. “I try to be the good sam. Especially where the
bellissime
ladies are involved.”

It took me a second to figure out he meant Good Samaritan. “That was really nice of you. I’m sure my friend will be grateful.”

He frowned. “I doubt it. She is not a gentleman. She leaves you here to face the police all alone, holding the cat bag.”

“The what?”

“The bag from which the cat has been let out.”

“I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

“Our first disagreement already! I am glad things are progressing so quickly. And since we are being honest, I will tell you: I do not think this girl is a good friend for you.”

Maybe it was just because I wanted to be a Model Daughter and avoid any sightseeing trips to the Temple of Trouble, but I found myself believing he really was a gondolier trying to do a good deed. Which meant he wasn’t an assassin, which meant no one was after Arabella, which meant she was insane, yes, but fundamentally safe. I felt so relieved I was almost giddy. “Okay. Well, I’ll take that into consideration. I’m sorry if we inconvenienced you, but—”

He cut me off. “Do not worry, I understand this is not your fault. No doubt you ache with the injury you have done me. Fine. It is over. We will never speak of it again. What time shall I call for you on the gondola tonight?”

“What?”

“To make up for having me arrested. I am very upset about it.”

“You weren’t arrested. You almost had
me
arrested!”

“The smallest of details.”

“And you don’t look upset.”

“Inside,” he said, tapping his chest, “I am desolated. Also I am hungry. Ah, this is a better idea. Come and have a pizza with me now.”

“I really can’t. I have to go back to my hotel.”

“Max understands. Say no more.”

“What do you understand?”

“You are afraid to be alone with me. Afraid of my charms. I know this is a problem.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “That’s exactly what’s going on.”

He nodded sympathetically. “It is very common. But do not worry, you will get over it. The only cure is to spend more time with me.”

“Or I could spend no time with you. Rip myself away.”

“But this will just make your heart bleed and why should you suffer? I cannot allow that.”

I decided I’d had my daily dose of Vitamin Lunacy with Arabella and I didn’t want to risk an O.D. “That’s really nice of you, but I’m afraid I’m not allowed to go out. Ever.” I started backing away. “Thank you for returning my friend’s money. Ciao.”

“So brave!” he said. “And yet, you must be careful. I will keep my eyes open for you, but I am afraid this friend will bring you trouble.”

Superfantastico! Now I had relative strangers making dire predictions about my future!

Of course, given the way things had been going, he might be right. Turning to go, I found myself wondering where Arabella had vanished to. And where Max had learned to speak such good English. And if—

Nothing. I was going to wonder nothing. About My Own Business was where I wanted to be Going, and my pigeon-styled hair and I were taking the express train, making no
stops, to that destination. Model Daughters who earned their parents’ trust and were allowed to meet up with their pals for a college visit (and their boyfriend for kissing) did NOT get chased through the streets by potential assassins, or run into police, or have their hair attacked by birds. I would wipe all of that from my mind and it would be like it never happened. No one, especially no one of the species Dadzilla, would ever know about it.

Only at that moment did I become aware of an American voice speaking very fast behind me. It was the woman with the big blond hair I’d spotted behind Arabella and me earlier, when the Dragging Through Venice marathon began. She was now saying into a cell phone, “Yes, Doug, I’m sure. It was
her
. Being chased by an assassin! At least that’s what her friend said. I was following her the whole time. No, she disappeared but the girl who was with her is an American, named—J-A…Hang on, I can’t see the rest.”

Little Life Lesson 9: If you are trying to be a Girl Out of Trouble but you happen to have a name tag for Italian class, be sure to keep it well hidden in your bag.

Little Life Lesson 10: It is also a good idea to have an alias prepared because at the times when you find yourself needing one, chances are you won’t really be in a frame of mind to think of something good.

I sped up as soon as I heard what she was saying but she managed to catch up to me. She waved a business card in front of my face and said, “I’m a reporter. You’re going to be
famous. Tell me how to spell your name. Is it Jane?”

“Yes,” I agreed, practically running now. Model Daughters are allergic to fame. “It’s Jane.”

“Jane what?”

I said, “Jane Doe.” And then the monkeys in my head who always like to help me out added, “—nut.”

“Jane Doughnut?” the blond reporter lady repeated, giving me a look filled with pity and scorn, which seems like a hard combo especially since we were both nearly sprinting, but she managed it. “What is your name, really?”

“Jane Doughnut,” the monkeys affirmed.

She said into the phone, “Jane Doughnut. That is what she says. Yes, I’ll see if I can do a bit better.”

Which I decided was my cue to disappear. Because although the monkeys were VERY curious about why Arabella was being followed by a reporter, Model Jas perceived that knowing more about it was contraindicated for her continuing longevity.

I’m not proud of what I did next. Lying is not strictly in keeping with the Model Daughter creed, but I was desperate. I glanced over the reporter’s shoulder, did a double take, then came to an abrupt halt. “Look!” I said, pointing. “There’s my friend!”

“Where?” she asked, following my finger.

“She’s taken off her turban but that’s her, next to the jewelry store. I’m positive.”

I waited until the reporter had taken two steps toward
what I was pretty sure was an old woman with a walker, then turned and fled. Although the Grissini Palace Hotel was just around the corner, I chose a circuitous route back to it just in case I was being followed. After weaving through five squares, crossing eight bridges, ducking into and out of two stores—on purpose! Totally! Not because I was at all distracted wondering why Arabella would have reporters following her, which might have caused me to stop paying attention where I was walking and wind up somewhere I’d never been before and have to ask directions from a hunched-over old woman who made me carry twelve water bottles up to her attic apartment in return—I slowed to a normal walk.

I was safe. Arabella was safe. That whole brush with Trouble was behind me. Over and done with.

Yes, I really believed that. No, that scratch near my eye is not a lobotomy scar.