Free A Year Straight by Elena Azzoni Page B

scary yet enthralling image. I was familiar with my dad’s favorite Italian swears by then, and I would almost hear them from across the lake, as if I had indeed lost my grip on the rope and floated away.
    â€œPorca puttana schifa eva!” I never did drift away.
    My dad would return from parking the car with our poles in one hand and the cooler in the other, the rest of the
stuff already in the boat with me. As he’d step into the boat, it would tilt precariously to one side, but I’d know how to shift my weight to help balance it out. It was an army green rowboat with a little motor and two oars (just in case). And yes, we’d had to use them.
    â€œPorca puttana!” My dad would try starting the motor, tugging violently on the pull cord. It would always start up eventually, and he would always act as if it wouldn’t. On particularly unlucky days, we’d end up using the oars, but not because the motor had died. No. Rather, it was because somehow, even from the boat, I’d manage to get my fishing line caught on a tree branch on the nearby shore.
    â€œPorca puttana schifa!”
    I never understood why, with all that open water, my dad insisted on fishing right along the shore. Apparently, that’s where the fish like to hide out. Over the years, the fish certainly hid out, and I certainly learned my Italian. It was never the actual fly my dad was after, as he leaned over the edge of the boat, swatting at trees with the oar. He could have just cut the line. But my dad never cut the line. He’d stretch, sweat, and curse rather than cut the line. It was obvious, even to an eight-year-old, that he enjoyed the challenge—proving to me that you can do anything you put your mind to. Ultimately, it wasn’t about catching fish anyway. I’m well aware those excursions would have been a lot easier without me in tow. But he’d invite me every time.
AFTER THE L word incident, I was ready to give up on men altogether. But being a determined Italian woman, I said, “Porca puttana” and set out on fresh water.

CHAPTER SIX
    Just-in Town for the Night
    S tartled to find a stranger sitting in my chair at work, I walked right past my cubicle and made a beeline for Megan’s desk.
    â€œUm, Meg, there’s someone in my seat. Were we bought overnight? Have I been downsized?”
    â€œI have no idea. Ooh, let’s go ask Jared. That new bimbo from HR was in his office when I got here. I need to show her who’s boss.”
    Megan bounced out of her seat and whisked past me on her way to his office. I knew that “Let’s go ask Jared” meant let Megan go ask Jared alone in hopes of an on-the-clock kiss. I sat down at her desk.
    â€œPromoted, I see?” Noah asked, strolling by while sipping his coffee, looking rather boyish from behind his giant vente Starbucks cup.

    â€œPromoted? I thought I was already at the top of your list.” I shifted around in Megan’s chair to face him. For the first time, I noticed the mole right under his left eye. It was kind of cute.
    â€œAlways. So when you want to change departments, let me know,” Noah said, winking and walking away.
    Bimbo. I hadn’t heard a friend use that word in a very long time, and hearing it come out of Megan’s mouth was jarring. I’d been living in a feminist lesbian bubble. My friends and I respected other women, celebrated them even. We did not see other women as rivals by default. Of course, there were bouts of jealousy here and there, friends dumped for other friends, but there lacked the general air of contempt for other women that I was witnessing in the straight world. It was not an unfamiliar concept to me, it had just been a while. There was a turning point in my teens when I realized I wasn’t cut out for the divisive game of girl versus girl.
    During my junior year of high school, this cute new girl, Jenny, arrived on the scene. I was threatened by