Gina Lucci was my idea of the perfect sixth-grade girl: tall, brunette, and aloof. Best of all she was Italian, so of course I lover her. Gina Lucci, Gina Lucci, I would breathe her name in and out as I walked to school each morning, imagining her eyes looking back at me, visualizing her walking with me in the field at school.
“I’m Italian, too,” I’d tell her.
“Really?” she’d murmur, and I would say, “Sure. Burastero is my mother’s maiden name. My grandmother calls me Giovanni.”
Gina would smile and take my hand, and we’d keep walking out in that field.
The truth is, I was terrified to speak with her. Gina would lean up against the ball wall with her two best friends, her hands in the pockets of her short sleeved jumper, rocking on her heels, staring out over out heads as if she was watching waves roll in on some Mediterranean beach, as if my buddies and I messing around on the field weren’t there at all. She exuded independence. That’s what made the results of our meeting such a surprise.
Thursday at lunch recess, Dave Frazell had finally had enough of my mooning over Gina. He grabbed me by the back of my shirt and shoved me into the hallway, practically into her as she and her girlfriends walked toward the girls’ bathroom.
- 1 decade agoFavorite Answer
然而，真實的情況可沒這麼美好，因為我從來就不敢和她說話。她會和她的二個好姐妹倚在ball wall上(ball wall有待高手解答)、並把雙手插在毛衣口袋裡、腳跟隨著節奏擺動、眼神則看著遠處，就好像我們幾個在操場閒晃的哥兒們根本不在場似的…。她散發出一種和外界相獨立的感覺，也因此讓後來我們相遇的情況感到令人意外。