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“LA VITA VA AVANTI”
Or in English: “Life goes on.” It’s what my mother always says. It’s a sentiment that I grew up hearing any time things seemed bleak. Whenever I felt the world at my back my mother would give me a day to wallow in self-pity before force feeding me a week’s worth of lasagna, followed by a kick in the ass, and the affirmation that life did, in fact, go on. It wasn’t until I traveled across the globe to the motherland and managed to fall in love and get my heart broken in the span of three months did I really understand the sentiment.
I rub the tattoo written in faint script trailing down my arm.
La vita va Avanti
My heart flutters against my ribcage as I think about riding on the back of a Vespa through the streets of Venice engorging in far too much pizza and pistachio gelato. Spending the nights making love under the skylight in the apartment my parents had rented for me. Everything about it felt magical. But I guess that’s what every young girl says about her whirlwind romance with the sweet-talking Italian.
“God Sky, you’re such a cliché.” My older sister snickered after I’d returned home four months later, ten pounds heavier with a heart I swore was broken inside my chest. I’d flipped her off and proceeded to spend the next two days in bed—Mom offered me a one day grace period because I guess I really looked pathetic. But, sure enough, on that second day, my mother slammed my curtains open, made me the breakfast of champions—frittata and more fresh rolls than was acceptable for your daily carbohydrate intake—and told me to take on the world because “La Vita va Avanti, Bella.” Life goes on.
It wasn’t until I found myself staring up into the neon sign of the tattoo parlor, sipping the iced coffee from the best, tiny bakery in Connecticut, that I realized just how I would show the world and myself that I had moved on.
Armed with the belief that I was a strong independent woman who didn’t need a man, I’d marched into the small shop, slapped my ID on the counter, and took control of my destiny.
My initial idea, a tattoo that read “men ain’t shit,” didn’t get rave reviews. The male tattoo artist seemed to take issue with that. And swore one day I would too.
I guess.
He’d urged me to get one that meant something and not an impulsive reaction in response to pain or heartbreak, because one day I wouldn’t hurt anymore. One day I wouldn’t give a fuck about he who shall not be named.
“Heartbreak sucks, kid, but you’ll love again.” He’d told me as he crossed his tattooed arms, lines of reds and blues inking his olive skin.
It wasn’t the same, but I heard the sentiment lurking behind the words.
Life goes on.
Ten minutes later, La Vita va Avanti was on my arm forever.
My mother had a fucking fit.
Ilook around the one-bedroom apartment just off campus that my parents got for me—an I’m sorry but this is for your own good. I’d wanted to forego another year of school, tackle another European country, or maybe visit South America, or Africa, or Australia—hell, really any other continent except the one I was born on. I still crave adventure, and I still crave it beyond the borders of the US of A. At nineteen, I’m not ready for college, after spending eighteen years in what felt like shackles—known as the American school system—and they had finally set me free. I’m not ready for another four years of homework and tests and waking up before 8 AM for anything that isn’t to catch the sunrise or McDonald’s breakfast. I’m over school. That, coupled with the fact that I’m smarter than the average nineteen year old—I have an IQ over one forty and grades that had every Ivy League banging down my door last year—makes me wonder what college really has to offer me.
Nevertheless, my parents wouldn’t hear of it. They had stressed the importance of a good education—even if the diploma did just collect dust on a shelf while I fed my hunger for adventure with a backpack and a compass or whatever. These weremy parents’ musings as they all but shoved me out the door. So, here I am, five hours from my parents’ house, in an apartment smaller than my room at home, prepared to take on Camden Graf University, my next adventure. College.
I’m startled from my thoughts by a banging on the door and I approach it with caution, wondering who in the world would be looking for me. I know no one in D.C., and classes don’t start for another two days. I know this is a building for students, but I thought I’d slid in sight unseen, opting for a Saturday morning move-in when I was sure more than half of the residents would be hungover from the night before.
I press my face to the door, standing on my tiptoes to peer out the peephole. “I’m not going to bite, open up! It’s the building welcome wagon!” I see a girl with blonde hair wielding a bottle of champagne and a tray of brownies.
I open the door, but not too far, not wanting her to take it as an invitation to come in. To be honest, all I want to do is go to bed early, and a chatty neighbor that wants to stay up to the wee hours of the morning gabbing like girlfriends and trading life stories would definitely throw a wrench in that plan.
“Hey, neighbor!” The girl, who seems no older than me but certainly taller than me, stands in my entryway. A crop top barely covers her breasts, and high-waisted pants are cut off at her ankles, exposing her bare feet. Her blonde hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail secured at the back of her head, and a small diamond stud gleams from her nose. Her makeup looks like she’s just stepped off a runway show, with perfect lashes and lipstick. “Welcome to the building. I’m Peyton. Peyton White. And you are?”
“Skyler,” I tell her as she hands me the plate of brownies and begins to pour the Andre champagne into a solo cup. Andre? But…why? There are so many better options than this toilet bubbly. I wrinkle my nose slightly and shake my head.
“Oh, what, you don’t drink? Shit. I have some La Croix in my fridge.”
My mouth waters; I do love La Croix. But I also love champagne. I just am not about to drink that.
Don’t be a bitch, Sky. My sister’s words blare in my head. “I drink. I just…haven’t had much to eat, and I’m a bit of a lightweight.” Lie number one.
“Oh! Well, have a brownie. Come on, a bunch of us are pregaming at my place to go out tonight. You should totally come.”
“You know, tonight isn’t great, I’m supposed to meet up with some old friends.” I shake my head. Lie number two.
She raises an eyebrow at me as if she doesn’t believe me. “Where ya from?”
“Connecticut.”
