Saving Francesca Read Free Page A

I look at the coat of arms behind William Trombal’s head, which is full of Latin pretension.
    “. . . if the P stands for pace . . . peace. . . ,” I finish off for her. I feel her glaring at me, but it is not as bad as the smug, condescending look on William Trombal’s face.
    “You’re saying it in Italian,” he says, like he’s speaking to a moron. “In Latin it’s pax .” Then he deliberately turns around to look at the coat of arms and then looks back at me. “And there’s no P there, anyway. It’s a V. For veritas. ‘Truth.’ ” He pauses for emphasis after each word. “But I can understand how the V/P thing could confuse you.”
    “Ripped,” Thomas Mackee behind me snickers, suggesting that William Trombal has well and truly won the point in this exchange.
    When the meeting is over, Ms. Quinn, our House dean, is standing there in front of me. She holds out her hand and I realize I still have Tara’s note.
    “Can you come to my office?”
    I sit in front of Ms. Quinn, watching as she reads the list. Most of the time she looks highly strung or half-bemused. She’s pretty tough and doesn’t give an inch, but I think that’s how she has to be. My mother began her teaching career in a boys’ school, and she said that every day was like going to war and every day she’d come home with battle fatigue. Ms. Quinn is youngish, but not teenage-boy lust material. I think they like her, but they still call her a bitch behind her back. She’s spoken to me once or twice about some screw-ups on my timetable, but that’s as far as it’s ever gone.
    “I like this,” she says after a moment. I recognize the look in her eye. It’s that Tara Finke/Mia Spinelli look. “I think you should have issues. This must be hard on you girls. I’ll set you up with Will and he’ll work through these requests with you.”
    I’m already picking up my bag. I’m not interested in dealing with William Trombal so soon after this morning’s alphabet lesson.
    “Tara Finke would probably prefer to do that,” I say politely.
    “According to this, Tara Finke thinks that Will has an object protruding from a part of his body,” she explains to me politely. “I don’t think she’s the right person to speak to him.”
    “I don’t think I am either.”
    She smiles and hands me back the list. “If he came across as gruff, it’s because he’s actually quite shy.”
    I nod. It’s a blowing-her-off nod. It works, because she looks past me to the door as if to say, “You can go now.” I do the polite-smile thing and, relieved, I turn around.
    And walk straight into William Trombal.
    We’re almost exactly the same height, so eye contact is inevitable. I find a scar between his eyes to concentrate on. He has a strange face. It’s all sharpness and angles and incredibly fair skin. But then he’s got this thatch of black hair that’s such a contrast. It’s like two cultures had a massive fight over his face and neither won.
    “The girls are just having a few issues that they thought maybe you could iron out,” Ms. Quinn explains.
    “About?”
    His voice is deep and gravelly. I once heard one of the girls say that he had the voice of a sex god, but because I’ve never really heard what a sex god sounds like, I can’t verify that.
    The list in my hand suddenly feels like a hot wedge against my palm. I don’t want to hand it over. Apart from the comment about him, Tara Finke has this tampon machine obsession and she insisted on putting it at the top of the list. He holds out his hand, and I’m hating Tara Finke’s guts for putting me through this.
    He runs his eyes over the list, and I know the exact moment that he’s reached the final line. His face flushes red and then he looks at me.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Francis . . . Francesca . . . Spinelli.”
    Your grandmother stole my grandmother’s S biscuit recipe, as you well know.
    “I was going to be called Francesca,” Ms. Quinn tells us. She nods,