Luca Marcello's POV
"What's your name?" the boy questioned. I realized it was stupid of me to walk up to him and talk to him without introducing myself to him.
"Oh," I hesitate, even though I'm not sure why, "I-it's Luca. Luca Marcello."
"Umm, well," he began, then said my name with a smile and then finished without it "Luca Marcello, I have to leave. Will I see you here again."
I wonder why he did that. Saying only my name with a smile, not the whole point. Maybe cause it was foreign to him. Ya, that's it, I decided.
I could see that as soon as he asked me that he regretted it and got nervous. He began to pack his things quickly and turned around and headed for the door.
As soon as he got to the door I decided to call out, "I'm always here!"
I saw him hold in his smile until he grabbed his bike. When he grabbed it and put his backpack I could see him hesitate and a crack of a smile appeared on his face, and as soon as it came it disappeared.
I watched from the front door of the coffee shop, as he rode down the street.
I hope we can become friends before school starts in a couple weeks, I think. School starts in exactly three weeks and since all of my friends are busy this summer, it would be great to have another friend even if it is just for the summer.
I had hopped into my car and was almost home when I realized that I never got his name. I began to think about what his name could be. Could it be Daniel, no that doesn't sound right. Maybe he's a Matthew. He sort of looks like a Matthew to me. His hair was bleached blonde with black against his scalp. He had a slightly smaller body than me and was a few inches shorter than me. Maybe 5'11". He had circular glasses as well, but his were silver and they covered up green and gold eyes.
Thinking of him kept me happy until I stepped into my house to my dad yelling Italian syllables at my mother. "Esci da casa mia, non voglio vederi mai più!" (Get out of my house I never want to see you again!)
My dad says this a lot, and it never really get's followed through with. My mother stands were she is in the living room not doin anything but ducking when Clyde throws things at her, which is best when my father is drunk. Which he is.
My father grabs a glass bottle and chucks it at my mother, thankfully he misses just by a little when she ducks and it smashes against the wall behind her. She's crouched on the ground now holding her cheek. A shard must have bounced of the wall and hit her, I think.
I throw my bag down on the ground and here it land on glass. I run over to my mom and stand in fron of her. "Papà, le stai facendo del male. Non puoi dirlo, è graffiata e contusa!" (Dad, you're hurting her. You can't tell, it's scratched and bruised!)
His eyes flicker an emotion that I wasn't quick enough to catch. Pain, maybe, regret.
"Mama, go to the bedroom." she does. I turn back to my father.
He grabs the vase that sits on counter in the kitchen and dumbs the contents out of it. Before he's able to throw it, I lunge forward just quick enough to grab it out of his hands but not quick enough to get out of the way.
He lands a hard punch on the side of my face and I loose my balance and drop the vase and it shatters. I groan. That shit hurts, I think, How does mom handle this?
I here my mom cry as her baby boy gets beaten. I regain my footing quickly after, and steal a glance at where my mom stands in the hallway secretly watching.
"Mama, go to the bedroom." she does. I turn back to my father.
"Inutile pezzo di merda, guarda cosa hai fatto. L'hai lasciato cadere." (Useless piece of shit, look what you did. You dropped it.) Papa says sarcastically. I just roll my eyes in response.
He tries to through a punch at me but I catch it and twist his arm. I kick him in the ribs and let go of his arm at the same time.. He falls back ward and hits his head on the edge of the counter and gets knocked out.
"I guess your not as fit as you used to be, huh, Pa?", I say to my father even though I know he can't hear me.
"Mama, help me take father to the bedroom please." I holler out. She returns and I see a scrape on her left cheek and arm.
"Perché dovrei? Guarda cosa ha fatto al mio dolce bambino." she cups my face in her hands, running her thumb over the side of my eye. I know my eye must be gaining color and it hurts like hell, too.
"Mama, he's still your husband and my father. And besides he doesn't mean it, he's just drunk." Well, at least that's what I keep telling myself. He's just drunk, he doesn't know what he's doing. He does still love us.
ns 18.68.41.175da2
