There’s no way I’d survive without Luca. And that scares me.
CHAPTER 11 – LUCA
I never thought I’d say it, but Maz Dean is a coward. He’d say he’s giving me ‘space’ to process, but this time it doesn’t feel generous, but selfish. By avoiding me, he avoids having to face up to any mistakes he’s made. He may pretend his mother never walked into the cafe and upended our lives, but I won’t play along. Yes, he’s got the stubbornness of a mule, but guess who inherited that character trait along with a whole bunch of other charming attributes? The boy in question is currently stuffing blocks of Parmesan into a food blender.
Instead of working in the cafe, I’m processing my feelings by making a mess of the upstairs kitchen. A Lorde album blasts from the speakers, her sound perfectly capturing my rage-infused melancholy. I’ve already prepared a fresh batch of chilli jam and enough apple crisps to feed all of Lombard. If Dad needs my help, he only has to ask, but since he’s not speaking, I make no move to either. He can’t call me petulant, because what would that make him, being twice my age?
Once I’ve added basil, garlic, olive oil and roasted pine nuts to the Parmesan, I hit the ‘BLEND’ button with moreforce than necessary. While the blender does its thing, I step over to by the window and check the empty pet shop across the street. The stickers remain where I put them up to cover the S x L heart, secretly and in the middle of the night, like one of those vandals that Mayor Pickering fears will spoil the town’s spotless image. But I’d rather be found vandalising Lombard than be accused of having a crush on Simo. Again.
We often turn Friday evenings into film nights, but I haven’t mentioned anything about it to him. Things aren’t weird exactly, but they’re not normal either. It’s been more than two days since Louise’s lunchtime inquisition and he’s made no move to hang out after school. Neither have I, mostly because I’m scared he’ll say no. If it was up to me, I’d rather bear the gossip than keep my distance to make them go away. But I can’t speak for Simo. I’m used to the other students commenting on me liking boys, but it’s a new thing for him. And whether someone’s gay or not, having people question who you are day in, day out starts to wear on you.
I realise far too late that the blender is still going, and what was meant to be a textured pesto with small chunks of cheese and nuts has turned into a smooth paste the colour of a swamp. Still tastes good though. Maybe if I promise Simo fresh pesto if he comes over, he’ll be unable to say no. Bribing people with food is a special talent of mine, but I’m reluctant to make use of it now. If it was up to me, Simo would already be on the couch, waiting for the film to start. It makes me miss the time when planning film nights didn’t send me into an emotional crisis.
As I set water to boil in a pot, my thoughts return to Dad. He’s never given me a reason to be truly angry at him before. I’m sure I’ve given him loads, but if so, he kept his frustration hidden. Occasionally teachers would question how a dad so young could raise a child, but being closer in age made us closer in life. He hasn’t had enough time to forget what it’s like being a teenager. He relates, and I’ve always known I could come to him with anything and he wouldn’t freak out. The grandparent revelation has knocked that trust. It’s made me realise that Dad isn’t just Dad. He’s sixteen years of a life before I existed, sixteen years he’s shut away. It’s no surprise I’m stress-cooking.
Dad walks into the lounge as I’m draining the linguine. I divide it between two plates and add the fresh pesto and cocktail tomatoes. The only reason he gets a plate is because I suck at measuring enough pasta for one. And maybe also because he worked hard all day, without my help, but mainly because of the measuring thing.
He spots the dinner arrangement and, for a second, he looks as if he wants to say something. Whatever it is, he keeps it to himself and joins me at the table, bringing a stale taste to my mouth that I quickly drown in pesto. The food is a tiny peace offering. I’m giving him a chance to speak. But after several silent bites I’m tempted to drop my fork and walk out. What holds me back is the refusal to turn my back on pasta. I clear my plate, then hit the stop button on Lorde.
‘Care to explain?’ I ask.
‘I’d rather not, no,’ he replies, wiping his mouth with a serviette.
‘Right.’ I shove the chair back and make sure the legs scrape the floor hard enough to produce the screeching sound he hates.
‘Luca, please.’ Dad raises his hands in defeat. ‘I know I owe you answers, but it’s hard. You can’t imagine how hard. Look, could you sit?’
Despite the anger filling me up, I struggle to direct it towards him. I’ve never had to fight him before, and I don’t know how start now. So I sit.
‘I have my reasons, just believe that. I would never have kept you from my parents if I thought they had something good to give. To you and your mum. To our family.’ He doesn’t look at me as he says this, his eyes scanning the pictures above the sofa. There’s one of Mum, vest top stretched tight over a belly round as a beach ball. She poses in front of their ancient Beetle after its final journey to the scrapyard, just days before I was born. The photograph is faded, bleached by the time that’s passed.
‘That’s no real answer,’ I say. ‘It’s barely even an explanation.’ Also, not a hint of an apology. I’ve always rated Dad for admitting to his mistakes, while most adults I know pretend they’re beyond them.
‘They’re bad parents. You weren’t even born and I knew I didn’t want you anywhere near them. Still don’t, if I’m being honest. And I’m trying very hard to be honest.’
‘You’re not doing a very good job,’ I point out.
‘I’m out of practice. I haven’t talked about them in years.’
Which brings me to the biggest question of all. ‘What was so bad that you pretended they were dead?’
‘It was easier that way. I planned never to see them again,so they might as well have been.’ His words are cold and practical, like he’s making a grocery list rather than cutting his parents out of his life. And out of mine.
‘So, it was easy lying to me?’
‘No, not easy, but necessary. Your mum told me it was a stupid idea, but I was doing it to protect you.’
‘And to protect yourself!’
‘Yes, for good reasons.’
‘Which you won’t tell me!’
‘Luca!’ he shouts, finally. I’m relieved to hear his voice crack with real emotion. ‘I apologise for lying to you. I know you’re hurt and that’s the last thing I want. But I’m not sorry for keeping you from my parents. Because I’d rather lie than give them a chance to hurt you!’
‘Dad, why won’t you just say—’ but he won’t let me finish.
‘I don’t need to lay out my childhood trauma in front of you! My parents shouldn’t have been parents, simple as that. The only reason they had a child was to complete their set of status symbols, alongside the villa, the Bentley and the Schiaparelli dresses. But nobody wants to hear that sob story, and I certainly don’t owe it to you or anyone!’
