We take the long way back to the palazzo, choosing quietercalliwhere the only sign of Carnevale is a sad clump of muddy confetti in a doorway.
My phone buzzes again. Griselda. For the third time tonight.
Leo nods at it. ‘Seems important.’
I shove it back in my pocket. ‘She probably wants to grill me about Florence air quality data. I’ll talk to her after the showcase tomorrow.’
I can’t let her into my head now. I’ve listened too much already. Dropped art when I didn’t want to. Let her sideline the one thing I was actually good at. But I’m backing myself now, because there’s no neat path, no obvious version of success you can point at and saythat.
This is my shot.
And what really scares me is the idea of not taking it – that I’ll chicken out and play it safe without ever giving my art a real chance. Because then, yeah, it really will have been for nothing. And it’s not just about me any more. It’s Leo. It’s … almost everyone.
It’s Sunday morning, parade day, and Griselda has already left a message telling me to call her. There’s one from Mum too, ordering me to return Griselda’s call. I toy with the idea of just phoning, ripping the plaster off, but go for a text instead:
Science fair today. Too nervous to chat right now. Call you when it’s over.
Which isn’t a total lie. I am nervous. It was easy to believe in what we were doing when everyone was sketching and arguing and laughing together. Now all I can picture is Martino Ballarin’s face when he sees our new floats. And Veronica’s face. And Silvia’s. And – OK. I feel sick.
The queasiness spikes when I step into the kitchen and find Veronica at the table with Leo and his dad, their voices low and serious as she mentions something about the art being damaged.
My eyes snap to Leo’s. This is it. We’ve been caught.My brain’s already scrambling for … what? An apology? A cover story? Both?
Then I listen more carefully and realize she’s worrying about the workers moving the portraits and the base structures. ‘Remember when the removals people damaged our baby grand? I should be there to keep an eye on things.’
‘But the Palazzo Grassi exhibition finishes today,’ Martino huffs. ‘Carnevale has taken enough time already.’
Leo and I share a panicked look. Not because of a slightly dented piano – I mean, boohoo – but because if Veronica shows up at the studio today, she’ll see exactly what we did yesterday and it’ll be over before we even begin.
‘There is a problem?’ Jacopo appears, dragging his mum’scarrellobehind him.
‘Mum’s considering heading to the studio later to supervise the workers,’ Leo says, voice smooth as glass. I’m amazed at how calm he sounds. ‘But Dad wants her to visit an exhibition with him.’
Jacopo nods slowly, like he’s slotting pieces into a puzzle. ‘Vabon. If that’s all it is, I can do it. I’ve been helping out all through Carnevale. It’s often the same crew, and we’re friends now. I can make sure they’re extra careful.’
Veronica hesitates. ‘Are you sure?’
She glances at Martino, who’s stabbing an angry finger at his state-of-the-art coffee machine, grumbling about how temperamental it is.
Jacopo’s mum sweeps in, presses a single button, and the machine bursts into a grind-whirr before dripping espresso into the waiting cup.
‘As I was saying,’ Jacopo goes on, deadpan. ‘Better to have the right person for the job.’
I bite back a grin as, oblivious to Jacopo’s jab, Martino brightens. ‘There, see, Veronica? We are free to go.’
She relents. ‘Fine. But please be careful. And Leonardo, Evie, you go too, and call me if there’s any problem, OK?’
The workers aren’t due until late afternoon and the parade doesn’t kick off until seven, but being in the studio with the floats – the others busy around me – soothes me a little. Approved soothing would be better, obviously, but this stolen, precarious kind will have to do.
I’m in the middle of tweaking an animation loop when I think I hear my phone. I grab it, but the screen is dark and there are no missed calls. I’ve got so used to Griselda calling every five minutes that I’mimagining it now. The silence makes me uneasy.
I try ringing her. Then Mum. Then Dad.
Straight to voicemail, all three.
They’re probably at work, but I can’t concentrate on making my piece feel like me when I’m listening out for my phone. After a moment, I switch it off and shove it deep into my bag. Griselda will see my text and my missed call. She’ll know I tried.
Leo appears, right when I need him – the same way Rebel’s posts always used to land in my inbox at the right time.
