Untamed Hearts

1- The Unpopular Guy.

Angelo Tallerico

Welcome to Atlantic Hall. Academy. Home of the Mighty Eagles... and also imbecilic ignoramus- jocks who ran high on testosterone, and plastic air headed Barbie dolls that were looking for love and acceptance in all the wrong places. And that's putting it mildly.

I consider myself a nice guy. I mean really, I have taken a lot of crap from people in all my seventeen years of life. When you're named Michelangelo Kendhal Tallerico, you learn to forgive, forget and over look people's shortcomings. If not, you ignore them and pray to Christ that they wise up fast. My lessons in forgiveness began with mother dearest whose well meaning naming talents saw it fit to name her firstborn son after a renaissance painter. Kendhal was a hand me down, but to everyone, it was Angelo Tallerico; clean and nice. Either that or suffer curious looks and raised eyebrows when I introduced myself as Michelangelo Tallerico. I'm going to go out on a limb and also say that there were other masters of the Arts, like Leonardo Da Vinci, Donatello, or Rafaele. I would have gladly answered to any of those names, or even Vincenzo, Alessandro, Giovanni, or Antonio, all of which are considered fine upstanding names for fine upstanding Italian gentlemen.

Anyhow, I don't mind much. Michelangelo is a peculiar name for a peculiar guy, which is exactly what I am so it fits.

Anyhow, back to Atlantic Hall.

Atlantic hall is like this little oasis where football is God, and baseball a close second. And where football players are, can pretty, little rich princesses be far off? It couldn't have gotten more cliché than that even if they tried. The students all come from nice, prestigious, respectable families, live in Up Town Los Angeles, drive flashy cars and just generally steer clear of outsiders, like happy little cult members.

I could never afford to go to a school like Atlantic Hall Academy if it weren't on scholarship. My mother slaved away each day for hours at a bakery for three children and the simple fact was she wasn't exactly raking in the big bucks. I started earning my keep as young as ten years old even though she didn't like it. Papa, who was my grandfather, Leoluca Tallerico encouraged me. Papa had come to America as a young man of twenty from his hometown in Syracuse, Sicily, and he would always say that American kids were spoiled lazy. I went to the Italian part of time and worked as a go-fer at first, but it wasn't easy, especially if you weren't Italian. The DiMaggio's were the only willing ones to hire a ten year old.

"You Italian?" one of the owners, Carmelo DiMaggio had asked gruffly.

My mother was Italian, but I knew nothing about my biological father. I scratched my head. "Mama's from Sicily. That's got to count for something, si?"

"Speak Italian?"

I nodded. It wad the lingua france at home.

"Catholic?"

"Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart." I answered with a proud grin.

"name?"

"Kendhal Tallerico."

"that's no Italian name. You cant be walking around here sounding all Celtic and whatnot. Got a real Italian name?"

I flushed and said, "Michelangelo."

Carmelo looked at me long and hard. "Really? You're named Michelangelo?"

"Mama's his biggest fan," I sighed glumly.

Carmelo grinned and whistled. "Gino!" a gangly lad bounded up to us and I was assigned to him. Gino DiMaggio became sometime of my mentor, and was constantly saw bucking me to death, a twenty here and a twenty there. I worked for the street bosses, buying them cigars, making sandwiches, sweet talking girls for them- anything I could do to land a dollar. Sometimes, the big guys would come into the joint and Gino would toss me their keys. I mean, I'm this little kid who cant even see over the steering wheel and I'm here parking sport cars. Mama wasn't too happy with my new job, because she knew what really went on in there, so Gino got me a job in his father's restaurant. I first started as a kitchen boy then I became a waiter.