Free Cindy and the Prom King by Carol Culver

Or an Italian Lancia.
    At the end of the hour Marco had the first paragraph of his essay written in pretty much his own words, as well as an outline for the rest of the paper. At the end of the hour Cindy still didn’t know if he really was a prince, if he’d been in the
Oceans Eleven
movie or if he had a girlfriend back in Italy.
    But she knew more important things about him. She knew by reading between the lines that he had self-confidence, charm, kindness and honesty, and that she’d fallen head over heels in love with him. Or at least in lust, as her sisters would say. Not that it mattered. She would keep her infatuation to herself the way she kept everything else bottled up inside.
    Cindy was also proud of Marco for his rapid progress in writing his paper in English, while never giving up his seductive accent. She was proud of herself for not correcting his English any more than she absolutely had to. It would be so easy to just rewrite the paper for him. But that was cheating. And the final product wouldn’t sound like him.
    She was not proud of herself for falling under his spell quite so fast and so easily. But who could resist that accent, his European manners, the occasional low chuckle when she said something he thought was funny, and the touch of his hand on her arm to punctuate his words.
    Yes, she knew it was stupid and pointless to let herself get carried away like this. This was no ordinary guy. This was a foreign exchange student. Someone who’d be gone at the end of the school year, either returning to his country or going to college in the U.S., and she’d never see him again. Besides, she was not the kind of girl he would ever fall for.
    “About this rebel idea,” Marco said, leaning back in his chair so he was balancing on the rear two legs and surveying her with a curious gaze. “I’m not sure I understand. Tell me if you are one.”
    “Me, a rebel? Oh … I don’t think so.”
    Marco opened his English dictionary and thumbed through the pages. “Here it is. Rebel. I should have looked it up before. But I like hearing you explain things to me. I’m very lazy, yes?”
    A little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
    “It says here,” he said, “ ‘Rebel. Disobedient. Resists or defies authority.’ This is not you, is it?” He narrowed his gaze and kept it focused on her.
    “Oh, no. Sometimes I’d like to be a rebel, but I’m not. Not ever. I look up to people who stand up for themselves, like my father. He quit his job years ago to work for himself, and he rebelled against the system. Even though he knew independent inventors hardly ever make it on their own. Not many people quit a high-paying job to take a chance like that. He believed in himself. His wife, my stepmother, didn’t. She told him he’d never make it. She told him to get a real job. So he had to rebel against her too. She was so angry he’d forced her to be the breadwinner.” His puzzled expression caused her to stop and explain. “A breadwinner is the person who earns the money in the family, who brings home the bread.”
    “Ah,” he said with a smile. “The bread is very important in Italy too. As well as the pasta. Perhaps you have nothing to rebel against.”
    “Maybe not,” she said. But what about the pressure her sisters put on her and the lies they told about her? What about the job her stepmother made her do? Nothing worth rebelling against? “Anyway, I’m not the kind who’d rock the boat.” “What boat?” he asked with a puzzled look.
    “It’s just a saying. It means I don’t want to upset the situation the way it is. I sit quietly in the boat because I don’t want the boat to sink and me to drown. Does that make sense?”
    He gave her a long look before he spoke. “So you always do what you’re supposed to do. Like your homework.”
    “Yes, of course, but also, I work for my stepmother after school. She’s my boss, both at home and at work. My stepsisters tell me what to do