Love & Gelato by Jenna Evans Welch Page B

you about a recent life decision I’ve made. [Wording taken directly from a book called Savvy Communication: How to Talk So They’ll Agree .]
    Mom: Good heavens. Hadley, are you gay?
    Dad: Rachelle, she doesn’t even have a girlfriend.
    Me: [Abandoning all attempts at civilized conversation.] NO. What I’m trying to tell you is that I’m not going to nursing school anymore. I just got accepted to an art school in Florence, Italy, and I’ll be there for six months studying photography. And . . . it starts in three weeks.
    Mom/Dad: [Prolonged silence involving two trout-like open mouths.]
    Me: So . . .
    Mom/Dad: [Continue gaping]
    Me: Could you please say something?
    Dad: [weakly] But, Hadley, you don’t even have a decent camera.
    Mom: [regaining voice] WHATDOYOUMEANYOU’RENOTGOINGTONURSINGSCHOOO . . .
    [Neighborhood dogs start howling]
    I’ll spare you the lecture that followed, but it basically boils down to this: I am throwing away my life. I’m wasting my time, my scholarship, and their hard-earned money for six frivolous months in a country where the women don’t even shave their armpits. (That last tidbit was contributed by my mother. I have no idea if it’s true or not.)
    I explained to them that I will pay for the entire thing. I thanked them for their contributions to my education. I assured them that I’ll keep up on my normal grooming routines. And then I went up to my room and bawled my eyes out for at least an hour because I am SO SCARED. But what choice do I have? The second I had that art-school acceptance letter in my hand I knew I wanted it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I’m going because it feels scarier not to!

    I set the journal down. A straight-up monsoon was happening in the general vicinity of my face, and the words kept running together in a big, blurry mess. This was why I couldn’t read her journals. They made me feel like I was overhearing her talking on the phone to a friend and then when I looked up from the page and she wasn’t there . . .
    Pull it together. I rubbed my eyes ferociously. She’d sent me this journal for a reason, and I had to find out what it was.

    JUNE 13
    It seems like a bad omen to be leaving on the thirteenth, but here I am. Chilly good-bye from Mom, then Dad dropped me off at the airport. Hello, unknown.
    JUNE 20
    I’M HERE. I could write fifty pages about my first week in Florence, but suffice it to say, I am here . FAAF is exactly what I pictured: tiny, cluttered, overflowing with talent. My apartment is right above a noisy bakery and my mattress might be made of cardboard, but who cares when the world’s most gorgeous city is right outside my window?
    My roommate is named Francesca, and she’s a fashion photography student from northern Italy. She wears all black, switches effortlessly in and out of Italian, French, and English, and has been chain-smoking out our window since she the moment she arrived. I adore her.
    JUNE 23
    First free day in Italy. I was looking forward to a lazy morning involving a fresh jar of Nutella and some bread from the bakery downstairs, but Francesca had other plans. When I came out of my room she instructed me to get dressed, then spent the next thirty minutes arguing enthusiastically with someone on the phone while I sat waiting for her. When she finally hung up she insisted I had to change my shoes. “No sandals. It’s after eleven o’clock.” She made me change twice more. (“No dark denim after April.” “Never match your shoes to your handbag.”) It was exhausting.
    Finally we were out on the street and Francesca started giving me a speed-dating version of Florence’s history. “Florence is the birthplace of the Renaissance. You do know what the Renaissance is, don’t you?” I assured her that everyone knows what the Renaissance is, but she explained it anyway.