Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) by Esther Dalseno Page A

life.
    Winter came and went, and in the spring Papa attended to the vineyard and the olive grove, detracting old brittle branches. In April, when spring was promising to fully bloom, the swallows returned to Orvieto. “They spent their winter in the Sahara and Arabia,” Papa said, consulting his Oxford Guide to Birds . “I’m sure happy they’re back.”
    “Why, Papa?” I said.
    “Because they eat all the insects that want to eat our grapes,” my father responded. One strict regulation the DOC – the Italian wine board – had in making the Dolce Fantasia wine was that very limited pesticides were permitted in the vineyards, and our farm relied mainly on nature to keep us afloat.
    “Oh,” I said, and Papa laced his arm over my shoulders, and we watched a flock of swallows descend upon an olive tree. I wanted to say something about Volatile then, but I couldn’t. My parents hadn’t mentioned her to me since the morning she disappeared, nine months ago.
    Orlando was a brilliant student and even though he acted otherwise, I knew he secretly liked school. He excelled at mathematics and languages, and Signorina Greco once mentioned that he could go all the way to Cambridge, his English was so fluent. He also spoke another language at home, something grating yet earthy, like fine cigar ash ground out in a glass bowl.  So when Orlando stayed bedridden for a week with influenza, I was forlorn: lonely and fearful that one of the strong boys would notice his absence and it would begin again.
    They did not notice. And if they did, very little was done about it. Once, I caught Darlo Gallo glaring at me with her cat-like eyes, and she whispered something to Christopher Esposito who shared her desk, and he turned around and looked at me in a way that made my stomach crawl. All during the lesson he would look at me this way, and often when he was sure I wouldn’t notice.
    It was during cursive writing class – the stupidest and most pointless of all classes, and to this I hold to this day – that I excused myself to go to the bathroom, more out of tedium than necessity. There were no mirrors in the small, whitewashed lavatory, and as I stood at the cistern, with my pants around my ankles and my undershorts supported by my left hand, I heard the door close quietly behind me. A chill ran up my spine as I heard soft, labored breathing. I willed my urine to stop its flow, told myself there was hardly any left, but it trickled out of me in what seemed to be a slow, never ending stream. Footsteps closer. My right hand began to shake and the flow began to deviate onto the wall. There was a sigh, and Christopher Esposito’s clammy hand cupping my buttock.
    I did not scream. I could not look at him in the eye. In a flash, I had whipped up my pants and buttoned them, ducked under his arm, and ran out of the lavatory as fast as my feet could carry me. Aware that there was a growing stain on my trousers – Goddammit, was I still pissing ? I fled past the classroom door and down the hall, through the front doors and down the steps onto the street of Piazza Marconi and the two Jerusalem trees. What if he comes back for more? I hesitated, and ran. I thought I heard Darlo Gallo’s voice calling my name.
    I don’t know why I didn’t run toward home or to my only friend, perhaps a fear of discovery and a terrible shame that began to overcome me, a notion that I had become dirty. Christopher Esposito’s face kept returning to my mind’s eye, and even though I checked that I wasn’t being followed, I could not trust my own eyes. All along the city wall I ran, on the path that had no name, the enormous volcanic tuff barrier rising and falling, the valley and vineyards far below.
    I noticed a little cavern in the yellow umber wall, the entrance mostly concealed by white-tipped vines. I thought it would be enough to hide me for a moment. No, I didn’t want concealment; I just wanted to be in a small, dark, cramped space for a moment, for