October 20th

"Why don't you guys just have plain New York coffee?" Isaac asked, pushing the tips of his dirty-blond hair out of his face. An assortment of colorful hemp bracelets covered his left wrist along with a military-looking watch, and the sleeves of his dirty gray T-shirt hiked up just enough to reveal that his biceps weren't as tanned as his forearms. As soon as his shoulders relaxed, his hair fell back in his face. He pushed it behind his ears again as if on autopilot.

Today was really no different from the last eight; only today I was having trouble suppressing the urge to drop-kick him as he asked for a refill.

"Oh, I know where you can get some plain New York coffee," I said.

His big brown eyes lit up.

"In New York. I'm sure they would looove to have you back."

He started laughing. "Are you sure you're from around here? Aren't southern girls supposed to be hospitable?"

I wanted to jump across the counter and strangle him. Instead of getting angry, he was actually being congenial for the first time. Is this how New Yorkers are? Be mean to them, and they like you back?

"So, where are you from?" he asked.

I was still a little taken aback by his nonobligatory chatter.

"I'm from around the corner." I knew exactly where this conversation was going. I'd had it a hundred times with tourists over the years, but it had never truly annoyed me until the question came from him.

"You were born around the corner?"

"Well, technically, I was born in a hospital a couple of miles away, but I was raised my whole life, minus the last two months, around the corner from here."

"You don't sound southern," he replied in his usual know-it-all tone.

Films and TV shows almost always got the New Orleans dialect wrong, further perpetuating the incorrect assumption that we all have a twang. It was a pet peeve of all native New Orleanians. Even though Isaac was correct—my accent did sound nearly identical to his—I scowled, not wanting to be disassociated from my hometown, especially not now.

"Are you some kind of expert on southern dialects?"

"Uh, no. I just thought—"

"You just thought we'd all sound like Scarlett O'Hara?"

"I guess. I don't know . . . You seem to really love this place."

"Well, yeah. It's messed up right now, but you're an idiot if you can't see why I love this place."

His smile cocked. I call him an idiot and he smiles?

"Maybe you could show me around sometime? Take me to see some of the things that were so great?"

"Are so great. The city isn't dead!"

"Right . . . I guess I've only seen the dead parts."

He was not helping his cause.

"So how about it?"

Is this some coy way of asking me out? And like that, my defensiveness flipped into nervousness. I slammed his coffee mug down, sloshing the contents over the rim. "Sorry, I don't have time. Too busy trying to keep things from dying."

"Fine, sorry I asked."

He went back to his table, jammed his headphones on, and started furiously moving his pen.

Great, now he's probably turning me into a monster.

I cranked some classical music, hoping to scare him off, then picked up the loaner copy of Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis from the small stack of books I kept handy on the counter. The deceptively thin paperback was the only book on the Sacred Heart reading list I hadn't already read. I sighed, shuffled the pages to my bookmark, and read the next three sentences.

Then I read the same three sentences again.

And again.

Despite not retaining much, I turned the page, trying to prompt my brain into a reading rhythm.

Read.

Read.

Read.

My eyes kept moving from the page to the two lonely nickels sitting in the tip jar—they begged me to play with them.

Unlike my reading progress, it took only a little mental focus before the coins were dancing around the jar to the Tchaikovsky overture blaring in the background. Careful not to let them clink on the glass and bring attention to what I was doing, I smiled as a dime did a swan dive to join the pirouetting nickels. The motion was hypnotizing.

When the song ended, I glanced up and saw Isaac staring at me from his table. The coins clanked back to the base of the jar. There's no way he could have seen the tiny coins from across the room, right? This time his gaze didn't break away as quickly as usual. My cheeks flushed, and I ducked under the counter to have a moment to myself.

Ugh. Focus your energy on something productive, or you're going to end up doing something stupid.

I took a deep breath while I searched for a less dramatic song on the radio and then grabbed a small black notebook from my bag. When I stood back up, his gaze had returned to the felt tip of his marker. I daydreamed that the marker floated from his hand and inked a mustache across his upper lip. Thank God it didn't actually happen, but trying to contain the giggle made me snort.

He looked up. My hand flew to my head to hide my smile as I flipped open the notebook.

Trying my best to ignore him, I drew a line down the middle of a new page. On the left side I listed all the items I'd tried to move but couldn't: box of oatmeal, ceramic bowl, sponge, tennis shoe, bag of coffee beans, single coffee bean, toilet paper, broom, towel, stick of gum, book.

There must be some kind of pattern.

I forced myself not to chew on the pen while I recalled more items.

A chill swept up my arms, making the hairs stand up. Without looking up from the notebook, I tugged the short sleeves of my coffee-stained V-neck and rubbed my arms, my fingers landing on the thin gris-gris ribbon.

"Your cut is getting better—"

I slammed the notebook shut, jumping an inch off the stool. The voice had come from lips just a few inches from my forehead. Niccolò Medici, the Italiano.

"Scusa," he said softly, trying not to laugh. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"No worries." I attempted to resume my casual position on the counter, but it now felt awkward. He was still staring at my face. My hand went over the claw mark, which was now a scab-free, pinkish-purple raised line from the base of my neck to my cheekbone. He pushed my fingers away and softly touched the tender mark. His touch was cool on my warm skin; he must have been working outside this morning. Our eyes locked. I tried not to let my nervousness transfer from my pulse to my cheek to his fingertips. He did not need to know how intimidated I was by the close proximity of his ridiculous good looks.

But it was too late. Niccolò shifted back.

"Absurdist fiction?" he asked, picking up the tattered paperback. "So, you are into Kafka?" His accent slightly dragged the first vowel in the author's name.

My brain begged me not to lie. It had barely retained part one of the German novella.

"Well, I'm reading it for school. The jury's still out on whether I'm into it or not." My brain thanked me, but then I immediately wanted to choke myself to stop the next words from flying out. "But generally I like the absurd."

He laughed. "Me too." His forehead briefly scrunched, probably because he was trying to figure out whether I was alluding to Ionesco or just trying to be abstract. So was I.

He continued. "Although, I've learned to appreciate when things are simple, more straightforward." He leaned on the counter, his hands nearly touching mine. I had no clue whether we were still talking about literature. I nodded, even though "simple" was not the vibe I got from him. Something about him exuded cryptic—and for some twisted reason I was attracted to the confusion. Like wasabi-flavored ice cream.

Before I could respond, Isaac butted in with his empty mug. I quickly refilled it.

He gave Niccolò a hard stare before going back to his seat, and with that, our moment was over. I sighed internally. "Can I get you something?"

"No, I'm good."

"Are you sure?" I didn't want him to leave. "I know we aren't in Rome, but I can pull a pretty decent shot of espresso."

"No, grazie. I just came to see you."

"Oh." My stomach did a backflip.

"And I wanted a break from work," he added, "and from my brother."

"Gabe seems pretty full-on."

He let out a deep laugh and leaned back down on the counter. "That is a drastic understatement." His lips pressed into a tight smile. Then, as if beckoned, his older brother walked through the door.

"Bella, my heroine! We meet again."

My eyes widened as I suddenly wondered if I'd actually caused the Palermo's sign to fall, nearly crushing him.

He kissed my hand in a dramatic fashion, which I assumed was his norm.

Gabriel Medici was the type of guy who commanded the attention of a room simply by walking in and being beautiful. It was strange to think about a man being beautiful, but it really was the most fitting word to describe the blond—well, both of them, really, but Gabe had the unabashed personality to go along with it.

"Why do you look so sad, bella?" he asked, raising my arm over the empty pastry case and guiding me around the counter. "A beautiful woman should never look so sad." He spun me around just as a Louis Armstrong and Billie Holiday duet started. No big surprise Gabe was as good at dancing as he was at posing. He led me around the floor in perfect time with the music, turning me at all the appropriate moments. It was totally over the top, but I couldn't say I didn't enjoy the attention, especially since he was doing it right in front of Isaac, which for some reason delighted me.

Gabe seemed to pick up on this and further taunted Isaac by bending me into a low dip directly in front of his table. I shot the northerner a look that meant, Take note, as Gabe held the pose for another measure. Isaac must have gotten the hint, because he grabbed his stuff and huffed out the door.

When my attention turned back to my partner, his eyes were stuck on my chest. My face flushed the color of a Creole tomato. Instead of attempting to hide his overt behavior, he looked up at me with an inquisitive expression and then looked back down at my chest.

That's when I realized he was just looking at my necklace. The medallion had slipped out of my V-neck. Innocent enough, I suppose. He pulled me up with such excitement my feet couldn't keep up with the spin. I stumbled toward the door, where I careened into Désirée Borges. My momentum knocked us both over, because, of course, she was wearing six-inch heels. She was cursing my name before we even hit the ground.

She knows my name?

In a flash, Niccolò put himself between me and Désirée's whip of venomous lashes. As he helped me up, Gabe extended his hand to Désirée, and we all witnessed her slanderous rage dwindle to silence as her gaze went from his fingers to his face. I tried to contain it, but watching Gabe's mere presence shut her up, I couldn't help letting out a quiet giggle.

"Please accept my apology, signorina. I am entirely at fault." He helped her up with one fell swoop.

She looked from Gabe to me and then to Niccolò as she adjusted the micro-miniskirt over her perfect stems. She seemed rendered speechless by the idea of me fraternizing with them. I couldn't say I blamed her.

"No harm, no foul," she finally managed.

I walked back behind the counter to get a better view of whatever was about to unfold.

"Adele, aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?"

She knows my name? "Friends" was a bit of a stretch, but there was no way I was going to let an opportunity like this pass me by. "Désirée Borges, meet Gabe and Niccolò Medici. They're over from Italy, looking for some missing relatives and staying with the Palermos."

"That's so terrible," she said. I couldn't help but wonder if she cared at all or just wanted to jump Gabe. "Anyway, it's nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is entirely ours," Gabe said as he kissed her hand.

Niccolò looked my way and rolled his eyes. I got the impression this was something he'd heard a thousand times before. Another quiet giggle escaped my lips.

"We're not staying with the Palermos anymore," he said to me. "We managed to get our own place around the corner."

"So, how do you ladies know each other?" Gabe asked Désirée.

The look in her eyes showed she was falling fast. "Well . . . um . . . our parents . . ."

I intercepted. "We don't actually know each other that well." She appeared grateful to no longer be on the spot but alarmed I might blow the fact that we weren't BFFs. "But we're going to be spending a lot of time together soon."

Her eyebrows slanted with suspicion.

"Because we'll be attending the same school as of tomorrow, right?" I flashed her a beaming smile.

Her eyes bugged out. "Right," she said through gritted teeth.

I guess she hadn't heard I was the Academy's newest recruit.

"Eccellente!" Gabe said. "Adele is my absolute favorite person in New Orleans. Promise me you'll take good care of her."

"Really?" Désirée asked, flabbergasted.

I owed Gabe for this. Big time.

"Sì, she saved my life, but that's another story for another day."

"I promise," she said. "And you can tell me the whole story . . . another night."

While she continued to flirt relentlessly, I realized Niccolò had disappeared. My disappointment surprised me, but I couldn't blame him for wanting to bail on the nauseating display of high school flirtation. I wished I could have.

I made Désirée her sugar-free vanilla coffee so I didn't have to watch every move as she threw herself at the elder Medici. When I slid the cup across the counter, she happily grabbed it and seductively sucked on the straw, ogling Gabe.

Vomit.

"Burgundy, right?" she asked as she flipped her hair and sashayed to the door. The question was directed at me.

"Huh?"

"You live on Burgundy Street, right? Tomorrow morning. Seven sharp. Bring coffee." Before committing to the exit, she turned back and winked at Gabe. He returned a small wave.

I was stunned. Did Désirée Borges really just offer me a ride to school?

Gabe leaned on the counter, posing again, and turned to me. "Well, she seems like trouble."

"Sì, she scares me."

We both laughed, and then he looked me straight in the eyes. "She's nothing you can't handle, Adele."

"I don't know . . . she might cast a spell on me."

"A spell?"

"Her family owns the Voodoo shop around the corner."

"Pfft . . ." He paused, as if thinking. "Like I said, nothing you can't handle." He winked, and it somehow felt genuine, like he had finally stopped performing.

"Grazie, Gabriel."