Fragments Read Free Page B

sleepless nights and frustrated mornings with only the occasional gust of wind.  Going to school was unbearable.  We caught the bus with hard, cracked leather seats, where the sweat would bead down our backs and leave us soaking under our legs. More often than not, before we had even arrived at school, we were already flustered and worn. Rising up from the seat, our school dresses would stick to our arse and be plucked off quickly, while turning to check if we had left a sweat stain on the seat. With a quick wipe of your hand, the sweaty seat would disappear, but not before you heard about it from the bitches on the bus.
    I wandered downstairs from my bedroom to the kitchen. My mother stood by the stove, monitoring her sauce for tonight. Tendrils of rosemary, basil, and oregano wafted through the rooms, soothing me with its familiar scent of being home. Next to it, a pot simmered, cooking our brodo or chicken soup as my friends knew it. Despite it already being the peak of summer, we would usually have a hot meal for lunch and always one for dinner.  My mother also had a strong inclination to use deodorizers throughout the house. The sickly sweet smells of lavender and rose assaulted my senses and usually left me with a blinding headache. As often as she turned on the ones with the sensor, I would swiftly turn them off.
    I was tall like her, five-foot-eight, but with brown hair. Her body was curvaceous and reminded me of a 50s pin-up model.  Her eyes, dark as molten chocolate, were the key factor in determining what mood she was in. If they were black, it was best to step back.  She wore an emerald green capped-sleeved, V-neck, buttoned dress that gathered under the bust while flowing into an A-line skirt. She looked right out of an advert for Coca Cola in the 50s. Her curves were abundant, yet she held them with grace and dignity. She never looked unkempt in case someone was to ‘drop in.’
    Unlike my mamma, I didn’t care about guests. Our heights made us seem similar, yet we were so different. Her short, straight black hair was cut and set regularly into a perfect bob, which contrasted with my long, brown, messy, wavy curls. We had the same colouring, yet where she neatly presented, I was scruffy. My unruly hair was the bane of my existence, and more so in this tempered heat. My hairstyle of choice was often a messy bun at the top of my head, with a pencil or two helping to secure it if I had been studying.
    My hunger lingered so, while the kitchen itself felt hot, I quickly walked past her and opened the fridge for a moment’s reprieve as I investigated its contents. Our air conditioner functioned well, however when up against a four-burner stove heavily occupied with all sorts of dishes, it failed to compensate.    
    “Mamma, aren’t you hot?” I asked while fanning myself with the fridge door. “It’s boiling already.” She turned and looked at me, rolling her eyes.
    “You, gioventú , are weak. Back in my day, we didn’t have air conditioners or these gas stoves. Be grateful. Stop doing that to my fridge!”
    I jumped, barely missing the saucy tip of the wooden spoon that stood inches from me. Any closer and my shirt would be stained by it. She pointed the spoon closer to my face, scolding me with it in her hand.  Regardless of what she was doing, whenever she was in the kitchen, she would communicate using whichever utensil was in her hand. If you were looking for something, she’d point; if she was telling you about some gossip, it would be used to punctuate the story highlights, and all while cleverly not spilling food onto the floor. If you were naughty, the utensil became the world’s fastest ninja move, connecting with your arse and back by her side before you could blink an eye.
    I released the door and sheepishly looked at her. Once again, my mamma had managed to both scold and spread a thick wad of guilt over me. You weren’t a true Italian mamma if you didn’t make your children feel