Read Lost in Rome for Free Online

salad with vegetables of every color, and crusty bread wooed me to sit at the table set for seven.
    â€œWhat’s all this?” I asked.
    â€œWe will eat together,” Aunt Maria said. She poured olive oil on little plates and sprinkled it with seasoning. “Sit.” She broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the oil. No one butters bread in Italy.
    As if on cue, Gianna, Jane, and a young guy my age, looking absurd in a mid-length black skirt with many layers of pink tulle underneath, entered Amore Pizzeria through the back door.
    â€œAh, Rico. Here is Lucy. You remember her, sì ?” She dashed into the kitchen, calling for AJ and Vito.
    â€œRemember what?” I asked him, confused.
    He shrugged. “I guess she meant that she told me you were coming. It’s all she’s talked about for days,” he said. He popped a chunk of bread in his mouth.
    â€œYou don’t have an Italian accent either,” I said to Rico.
    â€œNope. I was born in the US. But my parents are Italian. We moved back when I was, like, six,” he explained. “A lot of tourists come into Amore Pizzeria. It helps Maria to have fluent English speakers around.”
    That all made sense to me.
    AJ sat down and asked Rico, “You the model again?”
    Rico said, “Seems that I have the best legs.” He jutted his bruised and battered typical boy leg out for everyone to see.
    As far as banged-up boy legs go, I guessed his were pretty good. But it wasn’t his legs that struck me; it was something about his eyes—dark, dark brown—that was strangely familiar. He reminded me of a boy I sometimes put in my stories.
    Did I know him from somewhere? Were we online friends?
    I didn’t think so. A cute Italian boy who didn’t mind wearing a skirt seemed like something I would remember. I got a weird feeling in my gut. Was it telling me to match him with someone? I didn’t even know what kind of pizza he liked.
    Rico said to me, “I know this might look weird to you, but I’m an unusual guy. I like football, snakes, loud music, horror movies, and”—he indicated the skirt—“I happen to have a knack for fashion. And, FYI, I don’t usually wear skirts.”
    â€œYou’re right. That is unusual. But I like that.” I whispered, “I’m a little different myself.”
    â€œYeah? How?” he asked.
    â€œMaybe I’ll tell you one of these days.”
    â€œI can’t wait.”
    Gianna looked at me talking to Rico and raised an eyebrow. Recently she’d been asking me if I thought there were any cute boys at school, if I liked anyone, etc. Maybe she thought it was somehow her responsibility as my older sister to show me how to meet boys. She dropped her brow and said, “Dinner looks great. I’m so hungry.”
    Rico said, “Those are Maria’s favorite three words to hear.” His name and appearance were blatantly Italian—dark hair, skin, and eyes—but he had no accent. It seemed that Aunt Maria had somehow attracted Americans.
    Aunt Maria said to everyone, “ Mangia .” Then she called, “Meataball! Psst! Psst!”
    The cat ran in and sat on his haunches next to a plate of fettuccini that Aunt Maria had cut up and put on the floor for him.
    â€œIt’s his favorite,” AJ said to me.
    Then she dished out a generous bowl of pasta for each of us. My stomach growled at the squishy sound of the white cream sauce hitting the plate. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.
    â€œDid you work hard today?” Aunt Maria asked Gianna.
    Gianna said, “Jane and Rico don’t stop. Not even for lunch.”
    Aunt Maria said, “Then you eat a big dinner, like AJ.”
    AJ twirled pasta around his fork, making sure no noodle went astray. Then he crammed the forkful into his mouth. “You can always count on me to be hungry,” he said through the mouthful of pasta.
    We