Free Wish You Were Italian by Kristin Rae Page A

my skin, but it’s not from the chilled air.
    “For this!” She waves her arms like she made everything inside the trendy hair salon appear by magic.
    My stomach drops. Why am I so nervous?
    I’ve never done anything to my hair except for the summer I wanted to be blond like Morgan, and Mom wouldn’t spend money on highlights. Too much upkeep , she’d said. So I took matters into my own hands and tried a poolside remedy: lemon juice. Sure it was lighter, but it took weeks to get moisture back in my crunchy hair. After that, I swore I’d never try anything else.
    “You are slow to make decisions,” Chiara says. “You are bored with your hair, no? Mamma always says that if I complain about something, I must find a way to change it.”
    “But what if it’s something you don’t have control over?”
    “Then you find a way to live with it.” She grabs a fistful of my hair. “But this is only hair. And the control”—she points to a man dressed in all black approaching us with a smile—“has you for the next two hours.”
    Angelo’s dark hair is shorter on the sides but long and spiky all down the middle to the back—a faux-hawk. He’s beautifully put together, like the exotic bad boy I’ve always wanted to like.
    Chiara takes charge and rattles off to him with over-the-top enthusiasm, but he matches it, and together they pull me to a chair stationed in front of a giant mirror with a bright red frame. Neither of them asks me anything. They stare into the mirror while Angelo gently runs his fingers through my hair and Chiara mimes what she’s saying with her hands.
    A head full of foil, a shampoo, cut, blow-dry, and one energetic styling later, Angelo swivels my chair toward the mirror, finally allowing me to see.
    My eyes blink repeatedly. It’s my face, yet it looks nothing like me. My hair … I thought he cut it, but it almost looks like there’s more . It falls all around my shoulders, ends curling slightly every which way. And the color! It’s the dark chocolate I’ve always wanted but never thought I could pull off. Bangs reach from far back on the side of my head and swoop across my forehead above my eyes and down the right side of my face. It shines, it bounces.
    “It’s perfect,” I say through quivering lips.
    Moisture pools at the edges of my eyes and drips down one of my cheeks. I stand and reach for Chiara, pulling her into a hug. I feel one of my tears soak into the shoulder of her shirt. It doesn’t quite bind us by blood, but it feels close enough. I’m so grateful I walked into that bakery when I did. Somehow I know we’re going to be friends even after this summer is long gone.
    Darren’s face comes to mind again, and I imagine his jawdropping in reaction to my transformation. I shake my head to clear it and look back into the mirror. I catch eyes with Angelo and tear up again.
    “ Grazie , Angelo.”
    He reaches for my hand and kisses it, muttering a string of phrases in Italian.
    “What’s he saying?” I ask Chiara.
    “He says you are beautiful.” She smiles, her eyes glistening too. “And that there will be a line.”
    “For what, the salon?” I laugh.
    “For you.”
    I love Italian men.

Chapter Fourteen
Get a makeover
    Trains are not a new thing for me. Having grown up in Chicago, I’ve ridden them plenty. But this is a real train. One that travels across a whole country, complete with semicomfortable seats clumped together in groups of four with a table between, outlets for computer and phone chargers, overhead compartments for luggage. It’s more spacious than I thought it would be, and much more tolerable than a plane.
    Chiara and I sit across from each other at the window. I try to take photos of the rolling hills and villas as we pass by, but all the shots come out blurred and my reflection shows in the window.
    “So tell me about your family we’re staying with.”
    She settles deeper into her seat. “ Zia Matilde, my aunt, is mymother’s sister. She