The First True Lie: A Novel by Marina Mander Page B

they didn’t bother with the details of my private life.
    Our science teacher talked to us about third-world diseases.
    “It’s not the immigrants’ fault if they bring diseases here, because it’s not their fault if they’re sick. It’s because they’re poor.”
    “Why do mosquitoes only sting poor people?”
    “Maybe poor people are tastier?”
    “Why?”
    As we leave we all say good-bye. I wave ciao, ciao.
    I’ve just gone through the main door when I hear Mrs. Squarzetti calling me back.
    “Luca! Luca!”
    Suddenly I’m terrified again. Where did I mess up?
    “Sorry, Luca, but your mother forgot this the last time we saw each other. Would you be so kind as to give it to her?”
    She hands me my progress report and gives me a smile, showing off a mouthful of crooked teeth, then turns—hurry-hurry—on her heel. It’s Saturday for her too.
    This is what the authorities have to say about Luca:
Luca displays self-confidence and a lively disposition. He is endowed with considerable intelligence and a sense of responsibility. The pupil succeeds in all subjects. He consistently applies himself, and the results are excellent. He has demonstrated a good deal of interest and ability in artistic activities and a notable interest in science and history. Kindhearted and generous, he does all he can for his classmates and is full of initiative.
    The pupil Luca responds:
    “Go fuck yourselves, every last one of you.”
    Assfaces. What do you know about being kindhearted, generous, and full of initiative? The only generous part of you is your asshole, the source of all your bullshit.
    I don’t know why, but I’m so furious.
    Well, I know why, but that just makes me twice as furious. For the first time in days there’s a blue streak in the sky that you can pick out between the raggedy clouds at the end of the street, but I don’t even know what to make of it.
    I march home with the report in my hand and the wind in my face, with every step feeling more and more desperate to shut the door behind me—soon—sooner—soonest—as soon as soon can be.
    The perfect image of a mama, the perfect image of a beautiful child, the perfect picture of health! Too bad Mama can’t read it and Dad disappeared into smoke and I’ve got a fucking shit of a weekend ahead of me. Too bad that not long from now Mama’s going to start to really stink.
    Corpses stink after a bit, regardless of your sense of responsibility. It’s a chemical process that can’t be stopped. Even Lieutenant Columbo says so. After three days corpses stink, just like fish and houseguests, but getting rid of them is not so simple, even if you’re bursting with initiative. I can’t send Mama to a hotel or off to stink up some other relative’s place.
    You think someone’s dead then and there, but it’s not true.
    If I tell you Mama’s stone-dead in her bed, my artistic gifts will no longer be of interest to you; you’ll send me straight to an orphanage to throw up little pasta tubes.
    My eyes fill up with hot water again. Bullshit, I’m in the shitty bullshit.
    And I have a whole weekend ahead of me.
    It’s strange. As I’m thinking all these things, I realize I’m already inside, leaning back against the apartment door to catch my breath, the little swinging cover over the spyhole winking at the elevator.
    It’s strange but I feel safer here inside the apartment, even with my dead mama’s body in the bed, than out there.
    It seems less serious. Here, inside, no one can hurt us. Here, inside, no one can pull me out just to put me in some other place I’ll never get out of, where no one will care about me only because they’re paid to care, which doesn’t count. It’s all a cheat. Like Grandma playing solitaire, when she chooses her cards and then boasts about always winning. I’m not falling for it. I try to turn the key again, but it’s already turned as far as it can go. I sneeze hard two or three times.
    Even if my hideout isn’t much,