My phone is next to my hand when I wake up. I grab it to check the time, and find a notification waiting on the lock screen:
@RenaissanceRebel:
Instantly more awake, I swipe it open. There’s a second message.
@RenaissanceRebel: Am I too late?
@TotallySketchy: Never.
A tiny green dot appears next to his profile picture and my heart skips. He’s online.
@RenaissanceRebel: I must have fallen asleep before you. That never happens.
@TotallySketchy: Are you calling me a lightweight?
@RenaissanceRebel: Blank
@TotallySketchy: Go back to sleep.
@RenaissanceRebel: I wish! I’m already up. I have a after homework thing.
@TotallySketchy: Sigh.
@RenaissanceRebel: Double sigh. Have to go. Blank you!
@TotallySketchy: Blank you, too.
I drop the phone on to the mattress, annoyed that the app that brought us together is also keeping us apart.
The screen hasn’t even dimmed when Leo starts bellowing through the bathroom door – ‘Pope oeeee. It’s parade time,’ – like a demented alarm clock. He only stops when I croak back, ‘Oeeee vien vanti,’ laughing at how ridiculous it sounds in my Scottish accent.
Outside, the city’s even more amped up than yesterday. And there are already a few hundred people wedged on to the Rialto Bridge when we get there. Leo and I squeeze in, but I’m convinced we’re about to topple over the stone balustrade. Yesterday’s fall into the water was bad enough, but the Grand Canal is easily as wide as a motorway and just as busy. Parade boats, festooned with streamers and painted panels, float in the water below, clustered behind a comically huge papier-mâché rat with goofy buck teeth.
‘Erm … what is that?’ I ask, pointing to it.
‘ThePantegana. A sewer rat. It symbolizes our city.’
‘Bit of a downgrade from a winged lion, no offence.’
He smirks. ‘Got something better, Nessie?’
OK, so the nickname is happening. I lift my chin. ‘Scotland’s national animal is a unicorn, actually.’
His snort of laughter tickles the back of my neck, and it hits me how different he is out here. Away from his mum, maybe. He couldn’t get out of the palazzo fast enough this morning when Veronica started going on about his dad, and how they’ll do the Carnevale project in a way that ‘won’t turn the school into a tourist spectacle’.
Now he’s here. Smiling. Easy. Like someone I don’t quite know yet – but might actually want to.
A voice crackles through a loudspeaker and a countdown rings out over the water.
Leo moves closer. ‘Listen … It’s starting.’
Even with his warning, I jump about a mile when thePanteganabursts open, releasing a cloud of colourful smoke, balloons and confetti into the air. The crowd surges and Leo tugs me in front of him, his arms forming a loose, protective circle around me. His hands aren’t even touching me, just keeping a bit of space clear, but I’m suddenly very aware of them as I breathe in the sharp smell of burnt fireworks. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I jolt away from Leo,convinced it’s Rebel somehow knowing what I’m thinking.
It’s a message from an unknown number starting with +39, the code for Italy.
CiaoEvie, I’m a friend of Grace from Florence!
Welcome to my city. I would like to show you some great places. Let me know when you are free.
