Kitty Kitty

  “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.

  Chapter Five

  According to my translation program, this is the essay I wrote to introduce myself to my Intermediate Italian class during our third week here:

  Good day. I am called Jasmine Callihan. I have seventeen years and am born and evolved in Los Angeles. Because cleaning agents are lacking a definitive history, my father, who I call Lo Zilla del Dad, has made the subtle choice to move to Venice in the middle of my life. Despite the factoid that if I had a euro for every time my father has done the weird and wonderful thing of this type I would be able to buy a pony (if it was very small), still I question if there is a dark and majestic reason that we have exited the scene, but Lo Zilla is staying mum. He answers only interrogations such as “I can go to the Internet café for IM with my small friends?” To which, ten times for nine, he says “NOT!” in a monster voice.

  But apart from the fact that I must cohabitate with Lo Zilla and my half-mother Sherri!, and in the absence of my friends and my heart, Venice appeal
s to me a lot. We live in the Grissini Palace Hotel, which is in a palace on the Grand Canal and is crammed with beauty. The building is made in 1586 by an unstable person smarting from thwarted love, and so it surprises not that even today it is chock with unstable people such as: Lo Zilla and Sherri! who are a paragraph of joy in themselves but I will save you that; Colonel Larabee who scribes a book about his life and sometimes could be found talking to the armor suits that make the lobby so homelike; Camilla, the concierge who bursts with information about every guest and is my friend but normal? No. She has a fish named Orlando the Furious who inhabits a bowl on her desk with coins on the bottom because, says Camilla, he will require only metal alloys to live on. And try if you do to give him even the smallest crumb of bread for food because he look zest-less, then everyone runs crazy like you are attempting to murder him in his bed! If fishes had themselves beds, I mean to say.

  This is where I live. It is incredible that I have not also gone unstable.

  I got a B-plus on the essay because although my verb tenses were “reckless,” my vocabulary was “surprising and muscular.” I didn’t tell Professore Rossi that I learned most of it from my ChiPs-watching rather than from class. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  Despite the fact that the Grissini Palace was like Crazy Zoo, Proudly Displaying All Aspects of Crazy, Twenty-four Hours a Day, I loved it there. As soon as I arrived inside its walls I could tell that something was UP. I was trying to figure out what when I saw Camilla, standing behind her desk, waving me over.

  Camilla had a dark brown bob and a round face with wide-spaced blue eyes and looked more like a little porcelain doll than a real person. She was twenty-five and from a distance her face was so sweet you wondered what she was doing working in a place like Crazy Zoo, but when you got up close you could see that there was a hint of the insane around those eyes. Usually she was energetically bouncing from minding one person’s business to minding another’s, but today she looked almost as zestless as her fish.

  Even though my desire to escape the lobby—aka the Place Where Dadzillas Roamed Free—was extreme, she looked so sad that I detoured toward her. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Oh, Yasmine, it is awful here today. The Save Venice people start to arrive. For the big events this week? And they all want to know where the ice machine is. Why do you Americans love ice so much? Is it because you are hot-blooded?”

  “I don’t know, it could—”

  “Sì, I bet that it is,” she rushed on, musing to herself. One nice thing about chatting with Camilla was that you didn’t have to prepare any material because her superpower was to be able to hold both sides of a conversation by herself, complete with interruptions. “I wonder if I should date an American boy. I did date a Canadian once. Are they different from Americans?”

  “I imagine that—”

  “This one, he wasn’t crazy for the ice. He did like—” She cut herself off there, looking at me as if she’d just noticed my presence. And as if what she were seeing was not exactly a gorgeous dessert tray. Pained is what her expression was.

  “I do not mean to be rude, but I am not sure that this hairstyle is the most good for you,” she said finally. “It looks like you have been picked at by the birds.”

  My desire for flight suddenly million-troupled. “Birds. Ha-ha. I was just trying out something new. Well, it looks like I have to—”

  “I suggest you do not try this new thing out,” she said. “Yes, I tell you as girlfriend to girlfriend, if I were you I would go to your room and fix it before your surprise tonight.”

  If I’d still had any lingering thoughts about who Arabella was or if she was okay—which I did NOT—this reminder of Things to Come would have erased them. “How do you know about my surprise?”

  She snorted. “My job is knowing. Also, this morning after you go, the Sherri! came to arrange for the airport transfers. You are going to have the colossal fun, no?”

  And was clearly about to say a lot more when her phone started ringing. Muttering, “I bet this is another looking for ice,” she answered it, and I dashed to the elevator.

  As it went up, I started a to-do list in my mind:

  Get to room without being seen by Dadzilla.

  Do not do anything to antagonize-slash-upset Dadzilla.

  Avoid all encounters with the insane (except Dadzilla).

  Practice Surprised-n-Grateful expressions for when Dadzilla announces trip.

  Pack clothes and presents for pals—(chocolate shaped like a salami for Roxy; pink silk Fortuny scarf and Italian hand sanitizer for Polly; Dylan Dog comic for Tom; light-up gondola for Jack).

  Apply pore-shrinking mask.

  Go to San Francisco.

  ¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡KISSING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Just thinking about getting to see my tiny pals and Jack made me all giddy, and by the time I reached my room (crossing off the first item! Only six things between me and KISSING) I was refilled with all the dolce vita I’d had before my high-speed-chase plus aerial-assault experiences.

  Of all the things I loved about the Grissini Palace, the one I loved the very most was my room. Not only did it have an ornate old-fashioned key and a door that locked—which, although I suspected he had a secret key of his own, still placed at least some barrier between Lo Zilla and myself—it was also the most beautiful room I’d ever seen anywhere. My first thought every time I walked in was that Polly would break up with Tom to date my room if she ever laid eyes on it.

  It was like a room for a princess, with two beds, both covered with a rose silk spread and a striped pink-and-white silk canopy that attached to a gold crown above each one; a white marble floor with tiny pieces of pink pearl inlaid in a swirly border around the edge; a silk carpet embroidered with bows; a tiny marble balcony; and walls painted to look like pale-green-and-cream-colored marble, except in two places, where there were tiny little dancing dogs chasing butterflies.

  For. Real.

  The only bad part of my room was that the balcony was on the back side of the hotel, overlooking a little side canal where gondolas were kept overnight and where, on weekends, Venetian teens came to make out. In fact, as I looked down now, even though it was broad daylight, a couple paused to kiss and run their fingers through each other’s hair. Right under my balcony. Taunting me.

  That is the kind of city Venice is. Although I was deprived of love, love was not deprived of my company. I’m sure it was there all week long, but on the weekends it really made itself felt. Which was why, although it meant at least a day and a half off from school, I usually sort of dreaded them. Because being alone in Venice, which every year is voted “most romantic city in the world,” is bad. But being here with MAKING-OUT TEENS UNDER YOUR WINDOW when your boyfriend and his incredibly kissable lips are infinity miles away, possibly meeting a girl who hiked Mt. Everest barefoot and has a sexy scar on her thigh from doing battle with a mammoth that she’d love to show him—that is just cruel.

  This afternoon, though, when I looked at the kissing teens, instead of feeling lonely or sad or jealous or depressed or in need of kissing or like my life was an unremitting toothache,

  I felt happy for them. And grateful, because they reminded me that I should deep-condition my hair.

  Six hours fly by when you have packing and pore-shrinking and Surprise-Face practicing to do. I’d just finished my required homeschool half hour of PE (courtesy of my How 2 Break-dance Like Da Pros DVD) and was changing into my second-most Trouble-none-of-that-here-esque outfit (Polly Catalog 10b—white-and-brown-striped button-down shirt, purple-and-brown sweater vest, denim skirt, brown cowboy boots with owls embroidered on them, and long amber beaded necklace—because Trouble hates a sweater vest) when the phone rang.

  The only person who ever called me was my father, so I put on my most charming voice. “Yes? How may I be of service to you?”

  “Jasmine, thank God I got you,” said the voice on the other end that clearly did not belo
ng to my father. “It’s a matter of life or death.”

  Chapter Six

  “Arabella?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you okay? Where are you? Why did you disappear like that today?”

  “I had to. It was the only way to escape from him. If he was busy, then he couldn’t follow me to Prada.”

  “But there was nothing to be afraid of, that guy was just trying to—”

  “You talked to him? What did he say? Did he say who he was working for?”

  “Working for? He wasn’t working for anyone. He’s a gondolier. He was just returning the change that you left at the gelato shop.”

  “That’s a lie,” she said.

  “But he had the money.”

  “I didn’t leave my change. He just said it to cover up his true motives. That he was following me.”

  Oh, look who just pulled off the Hint of Insanity Highway at Paranoia Plaza!

  “Um, maybe,” I said. “Are you sure? Did you recognize him?”

  “No, of course not. Why would I?”

  “If you didn’t recognize him, how do you know he’s the one who’s been following you?”

  “I told you, I never see him, I just know he is there. Waiting for me.”

  “Let me see if I understand. You’ve never seen anyone. You just sense him.”

  She made an impatient noise. “Yes. Did you see anyone else? Talk to anyone? Did anyone follow you?”

  “A reporter followed me and asked some questions, but I didn’t say anything. Why is a reporter following you?”

  “What kind of questions? What exactly did she ask you? Things about my family?”

  Apparently this was a one-way game of Twenty Questions. “She just asked me my name. Why?”