Free The Sun and Other Stars by Brigid Pasulka Page B

parents’ restaurant. Claudia in particular is always pointing out people’s plastic surgery, as if no one noticed when she came back from the “Bahamas” that one Christmas and her nose was half the size.
    I watch Claudia’s sister Camilla through the front windows of the bar, which are flung open to the night air. She’s rushing back and forth, pulling out bottles, greeting people, and giving instructions to the bartenders. She bought this bar at nineteen with her own money, and now it’s the most popular one for the under-thirty crowd. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that she and Claudia come from the same parents. I wonder if Luca and I would have anything in common by now, or if his life would be a string of matches, interviews, girlfriends, and parties. Maybe he would still be with the French girl, or maybe he would have found himself a proper showgirl to hang his arm on. Maybe he would be playing for Milan, or abroad, in England or Spain. I wonder if he would still call home like he used to at the academy, or if he would fade away and come back to San Benedetto only when he had a girl to impress or felt some nostalgia for the holidays.
    Fede changes the subject to the topless woman at the beach, and Casella finally comes back from the toilet.
    “Ciao, Etto. Glad you could make it. How’d that band saw blade work out?”
    “Fine, fine.”
    I try to remember how it used to be with Casella, when it was just the two of us hanging out, talking about life or the girls we liked. We’d laugh about the comic books we used to make, which became our joint obsession for at least six or seven years. I would do the drawing, and Casella would do the writing and the lettering. We were young and stupid, so most of them were rip-offs of something else. There was one called SuperBunny , about a rabbit that was impervious to everything but carrots. Then Crabman , the mild-mannered teenager who turned into a crab and swung from the tops of buildings with his crab hands, and of course Cin-Cin , the flame-haired reporter who traveled the world with a dog and a drink in his hands, toasting the death of tyrants and stereotyping the natives. Jacopo’s mother would let us use the copier at the Hotel Paradiso, and we’d walk the whole length of the beach, right behind the Algerians and their fake purses, selling copies for a thousand lire apiece.
    “I mean, they’re just so ugly . . .” Fede continues, still going on about Medusa.
    “The Spanish say there is no ugly,” Claudia says, “only strange beauty.”
    “Then no one in Spain has ever seen a chest that looks like a pair of wet pantyhose hanging on the line. She should need a license for that, or at least special dispensation from Father Marco. Those things have got to be worth a couple of Hail Marys at least.”
    “Fede, does Father Marco even know who you are?” Claudia asks.
    “Sure. I go to confession every couple of weeks.”
    “ You do ?” This gets the same stunned look from everyone at the table.
    “But, Fede, you don’t even go to Mass.”
    Fede shrugs. “Hey, you can’t let that stuff build up.”
    “Let me get this straight. You—Fede—go to confession ?” Claudia demands.
    “Why is that so surprising?”
    Claudia rolls her eyes at him. “Well, I hope you confess your beach attire sins. If that poor old woman is condemned for going topless, I have a long list of men who should wear out their knees begging for forgiveness.”
    “Who?”
    “Number one—Mimmo and Franco and those tiny suits. Number two—you and your scorpion. Oh, look, not as long a list as I thought.”
    Fede smirks. He crosses his arms, and his muscles pop to the surface. “Did you hear that, Casella? Your girlfriend’s looking at my scorpion.”
    “You know, I’ve had enough of you for one night, Fede. Come on, Casella, let’s go inside and talk to my sister.” Claudia stands up, and Casella follows.
    “Good plan, Casella,” Fede says. “Maybe if you trail behind