How It All Blew Up by Arvin Ahmadi

Author:Arvin Ahmadi [Ahmadi, Arvin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2020-09-22T00:00:00+00:00

Fourteen Days Ago

IT WAS A cool Italian night, the stars in full view over the rooftop of Rigatteria. Broken windowpanes and antique furniture were scattered all over the giant wooden deck. At my last Italian lesson, Francesco explained to me—through Neil, who translated his broken English—that Rigatteria was actually built on the side of a mound called Monte Testaccio, which used to be where ancient Romans all disposed of their olive oil jars. We were partying atop millions of broken antique shards.

About fifteen people were taking turns breaking a piñata when I arrived. I’m not going to describe the piñata in detail, except to say that it was exceptionally phallic.

Meanwhile, Jahan was trying to convince a group of Italians that gorgonzola is the gayest cheese.

“Ascoltami,” he said. He noticed me out of the side of his eye. “Sembra che tu stia succhiando un cazzo quando lo dici. Gorrrrgonnnzzzoollllaaaaa,” he stretched out the word and made a sexual gesture with his hand and mouth.

“Gorrgonnzoolaaa,” one of the boys said.

“Gorrggohhrrrhgghhh,” said a girl with pink streaks in her hair. She practically choked on the word. Jahan explained to me what was going on, and I agreed that although I might have previously questioned how cheese could have a sexual orientation, after this debate, I fully believed that gorgonzola was the gayest cheese.

I looked around for Neil and Francesco. Between the penis piñata and the gorgonzola debate, it didn’t seem like quite the right mood for a proposal tonight. Though I should have been used to these gay blends of silly and serious. It seemed to be the tempo of my life these days.

After the candy and condoms from the penis piñata had been cleared out, Francesco stepped out from behind the bar. Everyone gathered around him.

Francesco spoke in Italian—fast, nervous, shaky—but I didn’t need any translation when he got down on one knee. The way he looked in Neil’s eyes when he popped the question, the way Neil held his hand over his chest as he watched, and the way he uttered one of the few words in Italian I knew—sì—I was overwhelmed. We all were.

Everyone pulled out their phones to take pictures. I would have pulled mine out, too, but the camera was hardly any good. I was using an old Android Jahan had given me earlier that day. After the last call with my parents, I decided to lose my American number and get an Italian one. I didn’t share that number with anyone from back home.

As Jahan and Neil and Francesco, all their friends, their family, snapped photos and cheered, something came over me. I was so damn happy for Neil and Francesco. I thought maybe someday, I could find happiness, too.

Later, I found Neil in the crowd. He slung an arm around my neck and I went in for a full hug, like we were best friends or something. Neil stumbled forward; he was more than a little bit drunk. I held him up. High on the proposal,

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