Margherita's good mood was short lived.
A couple days later, she found on her desk a magazine, open at a double-page picture of the famous model Ludovica Zampieri. At eighteen, the Milanese had traveled the world acting and modeling, but more importantly using her visibility to talk about minorities and less privileged groups. Margherita had always admired her.
Ludovica was the daughter of one of the biggest meat companies in the country, but—at least on TV—she'd seemed kind and polite, refined, gracious: the way Margherita had expected wealthy people would be.
She read the article with interest. In a corner, Stefania had signed her name and scribbled, "Enjoy!"
Margherita understood why when she turned the page. A lovely picture of a younger Lorenzo laughed, beaming as Marghe had never seen him, with Ludovica in his arms. The magazine claimed they'd been inseparable since childhood.
According to the journalist, Lorenzo had been raised pretty much by the Vincitores after the tragic loss of his parents in a car accident when he'd been four. Part of the same entourage, Ludovica had been a big sister to Lorenzo, who'd been nonverbal for the two years following the accident. Ludovica's solar disposition had brought him out of his shell.
The magazine insinuated things had gotten messy after puberty. Gossip of a romantic tryst between Ludovica and the minor had pushed the actress to Los Angeles, where she'd starred in a Hollywood movie and attended acting school for the past year. With the scandal blown over, Ludovica was now returning to Milan, which explained Lorenzo's unusual good mood.
"Lost your spunk?" Stefania grinned, leaning on Margherita's desk. "About time." She snatched the magazine back.
Apparently, Margherita's huge disappointment was a surprise only to herself.
At recess, in the courtyard, Mauro worried around Marghe. "Is this about the party? Come on, who cares!"
The science teacher, Professor Cerimele, chimed in. "Pescatore, do you have a minute?"
Margherita walked with the teacher along the path. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with short blond hair and clever green eyes that moved constantly, Prof. Cerimele was different from the faculty that Margherita tended to distrust.
Prof. Cerimele asked, "I saw the videos on Insta about the gala throwdown. How are you fairing?"
Margherita shrugged. "It's not like I was popular before."
The teacher smiled. "You only need to be popular with a couple people, and you definitely have at least a fan." Mauro was sunning himself on the bench, golden hair glinting in the sun. "But you seem down today. Heart problems?" Margherita's upper lip trembled enough to warrant an assumption. "My most intense love story started in high school, and the heartache that followed was brutal. Yet, part of growing up is getting used to pain and disappointment."
Margherita tucked her hair behind her ear. "It doesn't sound appealing."
Prof. Cerimele smiled. "It's not, but love makes it worth it. I regret nothing. If you fall in love, go all out. If it doesn't work, at least you'll have no regrets."
Margherita took her advice under consideration. "So you have no regrets?"
Prof. Cerimele shook her head, but her longing gaze told a different story.
After classes, Margherita and Mauro hid in the library to eat their home-packed lunches away from judging glares—no one else brought food from home, but the prices at the cafeteria were outrageous.
The library was one enormous room, two glass walls faced the garden and were lined with couches and tables. The rest was slightly cavernous and crowded with endless bookshelves that stretched to the tall ceilings. Old ladders slid along the floor to gain access to the uppermost volumes. In truth, nobody used books anymore; the internet had most of the information students needed (or thought they needed).
After lunch, Mauro helped Margherita with math. When he left, she crossed the semi-deserted courtyard toward the pool.
Re watched her, curious, from the P2-lounge window. Three fifth-years smoked under the shade of a tree. The tallest one exhaled smoke, then hollered, "Hey, Laundry Angel! I heard you can blow."
Margherita didn't turn; she simply flipped him off. Luca smiled, until the guy ditched his cigarette and went after her.
Luca hurried out the lounge and downstairs into the courtyard. The three guys were pushing Margherita around. She had a (lousy) boxing stance on but didn't move, studying her opponents. Her gumption kind of turned him on...until one of the boys tripped her, and she fell backward on her ass.
"Go," Re ordered to no one in particular in a level voice. The three, startled, bowed to him (what the hell?) and disappeared.
"Cowards!" Margherita yelled after them, bracing to face her real enemy.
Luca, hands in his pockets, asked, concerned, "Are you okay?" He sounded genuine.
That simple question got her eyes to water. Damn it. She wasn't okay. In the dust again, her butt hurt. She'd been fighting a pointless war to stay in a school where everyone hated her—and Lorenzo had a girlfriend.
Re's lips parted in surprise. "Don't cry. It's not like you."
Had he always been this charming? He'd certainly never been kind before.
Re offered her his hand. "Come on, get up."
Her mind went blank, erased. His eyes were liquid gold. Under Vincitore's spell, Margherita couldn't breathe, couldn't think. When he smiled to reassure her, she blushed, and reached out.
His hand was dry and warm, enveloping hers. He pulled her up, and she found herself a few centimeters away from him, heart racing.
Their eyes met.
Re froze, startled by the intensity of his reaction to Margherita's proximity, but he was much better than her at hiding his emotions. He'd had years of practice. Inwardly, an unknown longing spread, the hope for a sense of belonging.
A few intense seconds passed before Margherita could snap out of it and retrieve her hand. "Damn you, trickster!" Flustered, she pushed him away with both hands.
"What?" Luca was not angry, just overall discombobulated.
"Whose fault is it that I'm in this situation to begin with? Damn you!" She wiped her eyes.
"What's with the attitude? I just saved you!"
"I never asked you to!" She stepped backward, away from him, needing space from the intensity between them.
Re smirked, amused at her irreverence. "No one talks back to me, ever, not here, not anywhere."
She outrageously flipped him off, resuming her boxing stance, which he itched to correct.
Luca pulled up his sleeves. Somehow he'd gotten overheated all of a sudden.
Patiently, he asked, "What is it that you dislike so strongly about me?" He gestured at himself bluntly, well aware she would have no retort. "What's not to your liking?"
He'd meant it as a dare, ready to bet she wouldn't be able to come up with one thing to say.
Margherita counted on her fingers. "Oh, man, I hate your arrogance, how self-assured you are, how you think you know everything when you know nothing but what you've been fed; you wouldn't survive one day on your own, and that hairstyle is so fucking stupid, it drives me nuts. I hate everything about you, and everything you represent!"
She backed a few steps and walked away into the pool building, utterly shocked about what had just happened—not her insulting Re, but suddenly losing her words in front of him, finding him charming, if even for a moment.
What the hell? Was he a vampire? What the fuck had happened when their eyes had locked? It had been so unexpected.
Most of all, she hated that he'd seen her cry.
That night, Re struggled to fall asleep. Sprawl-eagled on his king-sized bed, in his boxers, eyes to the ceiling, he thought about what had passed between him and Pescatore, the moment their eyes had locked. Whatever it had been, it had been big and terrifying—to both of them. She had felt it, too, he was certain.
Margherita had unsettled him from their very first meeting, and every encounter since had made it worse, but today she had stirred his blood. Who was he kidding? His blood was fucking singing. Had she not pushed him away, he probably would have kissed her. Just the thought made him curl into a ball.
Why her?
He was not a sadist and avoided pain if he could, and Margherita Pescatore treated him horribly, possibly because he deserved it. Yet, he was an excellent judge of character, which was essential in business, and he was convinced—positive—that she felt the same attraction toward him. If she abused him, it was because she was terrified of the chemistry between them as much as he was intrigued by it.
On the next day, after classes, Margherita swam hard. Her lap-times were improving, and repetitive exertion calmed her and settled her thoughts.
On the previous night, at the pizzeria, she'd shared with Chiara the "vampire incident," as she'd dubbed it. Chiara thought that chemistry had nothing to do with love, and that what had happened to Marghe was similar to how Chiara herself felt about Samuele Bellocchio, whose behavior Chiara detested. Attraction did not necessarily translate into compatibility or romance.
"Actually," she had elaborated, "my prospective soulmate will be incredibly attractive—to me, at least—on top of being someone I admire."
Marghe had replied, "So maybe chemistry is an ingredient of romance, but not sufficient on its own?"
"Definitely. At least for me."
On a different note, as unfortunate as it was, the two friends had agreed that Marghe had caught some feelings for the unavailable (and regardless, unattainable) Lorenzo Tristante.
Marghe switched to backstroke.
Hearing voices echoing in the pool, she stopped at the starting blocks. Sam and Giuliano were slouched on two lounge chairs, chatting. Giuliano was in a t-shirt, his massive arms behind his head. His brown hair was short and adorably messy, an unkempt scruff and a worn leather cuff, on top of his impressive muscles, gave him an intimidating air. Yet, Giuliano's large eyes where of a deep, russet brown.
He was saying, "...and Ludo will be here soon."
In a loose, wide-necked sweatshirt, Sam grinned, a sprig of grass in his mouth. "I've never seen Lorenzo in such a good mood."
The words dropped on Margherita like anvils. Lorenzo had been in a good mood because the love of his life was coming back—not because he'd been interested in deluded Margherita.
She dunked her head underwater and blew some bubbles, but her frustration remained intact.
When she emerged again, Sam asked her, "Yo, Laundry Angel, have you seen Lorenzo?"
She shook her head. "Why does he come here all the time?"
Giuliano replied, "He has trouble sleeping."
Sam added, "...Unless Ludo's with him."
Giuliano nodded. "This room is right beside the concert hall, and it's warm."
His coming to the pool had nothing to do with her, just like he'd said. "Is Ludo his girlfriend?"
Sam's grey eyes roamed to the window. "She's much more than that: his sister, mother, lover, best friend... his first love."
Giuliano made eyes at Sam. "Like you and me, Brah."
Sam rolled his eyes, and the two laughed together.
Were they ever serious? Margherita left the water and showered. Once she returned to the pool to exit, quiet reigned; the boys were gone.
On the way to the subway, she mulled over her thoughts. Sunset dripped over Milan, and red radiance painted the contours of the cityscape against the hectic hum of traffic. Spring was sweet in the air. The idea that Lorenzo was unattainable had been sinking in, and it made sense. A subtle melancholy lingered.
Lorenzo's slender figure leaned against an advertising billboard at a bus stop. A tramcar clanked. The billboard was a huge closeup of Ludovica's perfect face: big hazel eyes; long and wavy brown hair livened by golden strands; soft, full lips; porcelain skin. He leaned his forehead against her cheek, eyes closed, his thumb by the oversized image of her lower lip.
When he pulled back, opening his eyes, he was jolted by the sight of Margherita. "You, again."
Margherita wished to disappear, in vain. She managed to croak out, "That would be my line."
Lorenzo hated that Pescatore had caught him in such a pathetic moment. He stood in front of her with a mean, somewhat seductive smirk. "So, you like me? Is that it?"
Margherita recognized him then as one of the P2: nothing better, nothing different. Saddened and slightly humiliated, but mostly outraged, she spat at him, "What is there to like?"
He stepped closer, as if he were leaning in to kiss her, stopping just before his skin brushed hers. Taken aback, Margherita focused all her might on staying perfectly still.
He whispered in her ear, "What? Were you hoping for a kiss?"
Had she? He was toying with her. She stepped back. Turned around and walked home.
She hated being a teenager. All she wanted was to love and be loved, not this stupid power play with people that clearly didn't care about her.
Fuck the P2.
At the end of May, on the morning of the day of Ludovica's expected return, Mauro met Margherita outside the academy before classes. People parted around them, still pointedly ignoring them, occasionally wondering in hurried whispers why they hadn't quit already.
When Mauro walked into his classroom to review for a test, Margherita aimed for the restroom.
Re had been coming to school regularly and early just to see Pescatore, and on that same morning he'd been waiting for her by the academy entrance, inconspicuous in the shadow of a tree, when she'd appeared with some dork. Wait, was that the Arcani kid?
He followed them inside. When the dork finally left, he walked past Pescatore without sparing her a glance.
Margherita exclaimed, "Wow, what happened to your hair?"
Re looked amazing, even more amazing than usual. He'd buzzed the curls at the sides of his head, so that only fuzz remained. His hair was longer on top, still falling over his forehead, though shorter than before.
Luca absorbed her reaction, overjoyed, but still masking his emotions. "Nothing to do with you," he lied, defensively.
In fact, it had everything to do with Margherita's comment about how she hated his stupid haircut.
He added, "It was just time for a change." His tone was impassive, neutral. His features did not betray any of the many emotions tearing through him, although the fact that he'd stopped to talk with her was telling enough, but Margherita wouldn't know that.
Entranced, she blurted, "Well, wow, it looks great." Then she wished she could die.
It was too much even for the stone-faced king. He could feel the heat rising to his face and blessed his complexion for hiding it.
"Yea?" He asked, like a dork.
Margherita caught herself. "No, just kidding."
Re turned into a smug cat. "But you weren't."
"I was."
"Not."
Wait, was she having fun, bantering with the bullying monster? They could have been eight-year olds, and they would have continued hadn't Giuliano Faitari come barreling down the hallway. "Luca, Ludovica's here!"
Re's face lit up with joy as he turned to follow Giuliano. Did he also have a crush on the super model? Margherita followed them at a distance, curious, despite the first bell.
When Re and Faitari trotted down the stairs, Marghe remained on the mezzanine, from where she had a good view of Lorenzo (the dick) and Sam loitering by the door to the courtyard.
A dark car pulled up by the entrance. The P2 turned toward the entrance, expectant. When Ludovica saw her friends waiting for her, the clacking of heels sped to a run.
Ludovica flew straight into Lorenzo's arms. The two embraced longingly, and Lorenzo kissed her, long and hard, on the mouth. She was even more beautiful in person: graceful, tall, hair tumbling to the small of her back.
Slightly stunned, Margherita crouched to her knees, leaning against the wall for support. The P2 had succeeded in making her miserable, after all. From now on she would avoid them at all cost, hopefully disappearing back into the shadows of anonymity.
If only.
Author's note: I'm so glad Marghe and Chiara figured out the difference between physical attraction and actually liking someone. It sure took me some time. Movies and books too often make them look like they are the same thing (love at first sight and all that). Well, it should be a crush at first sight, or lust at first sight. I hope that piece of advice serves you well 😇 Star if you liked it! 🥰