Field of Blackbirds - Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen (me reader txt) 📗

entirely too short. Marcielli had an awful premonition that his was next.
Senior Dantis had assigned the students to write a poem on ‘Hope’ over the weekend and was now reading them out loud one by one. He placed the person’s name on the chalkboard as he read. He turned around and erased Luciano's name from the board. Uneasiness began wrestling Marcielli’s stomach. And now when he saw Senior Dantis write an “M” on the board his vision began to narrow. His muscles constricted. Everything around the word ‘Marcielli’ was fuzzy.
“Marcielli, now we will read your poem.” announced Senior Dantis. And as he began to read, Marcielli sank into his chair.

“A bell is not a bell until you ring it.
A song is not a song until you sing it,
and love in your heart wasn't put there to stay.
Love is not love until you give it away.”

In all truth, Marcielli had forgotten about the assignment until he was waiting at the bus stop and heard some of the other kids talking about it. He would be in big trouble if his father found out. In hopes that the dead spirit of Shakespeare would enter his body, Marcielli reached into his backpack for a piece of paper. It was then that he found a birthday card that his grandmother sent to him a couple months prior. When he opened it, he was overjoyed to see the poem on the inside cover. As an added bonus, ‘Author Unknown’ was written at the bottom. Before the bus ride was over, the poem was transferred into his own handwriting.
Senior Dantis held a prolonged stare at the folded piece of paper. “Well Marcielli, that sounded very grown up. Good job, even though it did stray just a little from the assignment.”
Most of the students were giggling now; probably because the poem was so gushy with love. But what Marcielli also noticed was that Marianna Lucini was now glaring at him with a certain look in her eyes. You know, that one look. Did the poem actually work on her? Marcielli had a crush on Marianna the whole year. She knew it too, but never quite returned the same feelings.
To Marcielli, Marianna was the most beautiful of all bella bambinas. She was popular. She was smart. He loved how she dressed, especially when she wore different color socks for each day of the week. She pulled them all the way up to her knees. Today they were blue, yellow, and white plaid. Most of all, he loved how she would sit with her elbows on the desk with both hands supporting her face. And occasionally she would use both hands to tuck her hair behind her ears.
The bell rang for recess. Marcielli was granted a little relief from the attention he’d gathered. He wondered if, while playing soccer, he would see Marianna on the sidelines looking for him.
When Marcielli walked outside, he was surprised to see the sun had faded behind an overcast. The clouds hung low and heavy. A light sprinkle began. Recess, however, had not been cancelled. While teams were being picked, Marcielli heard someone say,
“I don't want lover boy on my team. He’ll probably try to kiss me or something.”
Everybody laughed. Marcielli felt blood pumping to his face. If only they knew the truth; he didn't really write that poem. He had a feeling the consequences of cheating would start weighing in on him, at least they were now. Marcielli glanced over to make sure nobody on the girls’ side of the playground heard the joke. He saw Marianna over on the merry-go-round with her friends. They were dragging their feet slowly in the sand as it turned. Marianna also happened to be blowing a bubble with her chewing gum. She didn’t notice him.
What happened next, Marcielli was not prepared for. Antigo Fetti, the newly promoted school bully was standing in front of him.
“I don't want him playing with any of us.” Antigo then gave Marcielli the old two-handed shove, causing him to land flat on his butt.
Marcielli was fuming, but embarrassment overpowered all the other emotions. This time when Marcielli looked over at the other side of the playground he could see that Mariana and her friends were now paying attention. All the eyes in the world seemed glued to his body. Rage bubbled inside him. Veins in his head pulsated. He clenched his fists . . . . .
The next few seconds flashed like a ride through hyperspace. He only remembered the horror on everyone’s faces. He would never forget the look on Marianna's face, disbelief and disgust. Antigo’s nose and lips were covered in blood. Marcielli looked down at his own hands. They were also red with blood. What compelled him to do that? He’d never exerted that kind of energy.
Marcielli spent the rest of the day in Father Lamonte’s office, the principal. Father Lamonte tried to talk to him, find out why he did what he did. Marcielli just stared into the blackness of his cloak, ignoring the Father’s admonition to repent. He was suspended for three days.
Marcielli didn’t take the bus home. He decided to walk. He made his way down a windy road, lined with narrow, but thick trees. He passed through the industrial part of town. Milan was the second largest city in Italy behind Rome. Milan, however, was the nation’s economic engine, in terms of Trade, Manufacturing and Banking.
He crossed through the square, passed Duomo, the famous gothic cathedral, and turned down his street. The street was long and narrow. It dipped toward the end showcasing all the red tiled roof tops. Foreigners seemed to appreciate the antiquated look of chipped stucco, long running cracks from building to building and eroded cobblestone. But Marcielli thought it looked run-down. He wanted to live outside the city, where homes were newer, bigger and not so bunched up. Marcielli did enjoy the vibrant, multicolored flowers that trimmed window wells and balconies as far as he could see. It was a coziness he didn’t want to get used to.
Marcielli suddenly felt a blast of wind as he was surrounded by pigeons. He looked up and saw an old lady dumping a bucket of dry bread over the balcony. In Italy, bread was considered sacred, because it represented the body of Christ. In that respect, bread was never wasted or thrown out with the trash. Instead, people would feed it to the birds.
Nearing the end of the street, Marcielli heard a sound that was so familiar to him, the sound of a piano, Mrs. Clara Caporetto’s piana. She had left her window open as she did so many times in the past. She was playing a beautiful melody. Marcielli sat down just outside her window, listened to the music and began to contemplate just how to present today’s fiasco to his father.
Dominico Corleon, Marcielli’s father, was a bitter man. He showed no passion for life and he had more enemies than friends. Over the past year, he had become an alcoholic. Most of the time, he would force his authority on Marcielli with his fist. Partly, because of the alcohol, but mostly because it was the way he was raised.
Dominico wasn’t a member of the Italian Mafia, but he did work closely with them. He would occasionally carry out tasks for them. Two years ago, the Left Wing Red Brigade Terrorists captured the former Prime Minister Aldo Moro. They promised they would kill him if the government didn’t release some of their fellow terrorists. The demands weren’t met and Aldo Moro was executed. Aldo was a member of a government party that was strongly backed by the Italian Mafia. Because of Dominico’s assignments in the military, the Mafia had contracted him to assassinate the head of the Red Brigade, Renato Curcio. Dominico completed the assignment.
The Mafia upholds a code of silence; known as the ‘Omerta’. Dominico has been forced to live by it. Marcielli doesn’t know half of the ugly tasks his father has had to face in his ties to the Mafia and the military. It seemed to explain his father’s bitterness. But Marcielli still loved his dad.
The music stopped. Marcielli could see Mrs. Caporetto get up from the piano. He made eye contact with her, but he knew he couldn’t waste anymore time. He bolted across the street to his house. When she came outside he was gone. Marcielli opened the door to their narrow, two-story home. He could smell fresh basil and garlic. His mother was cooking something. His father was sitting at the table.
“Ciou,” sighed Marcielli.
“Marcielli, Bueno seri.” replied Dominico. Dominico was stout, but strong, despite his round belly. He had dark-brown, Italian eyes and a strong jaw, and a face that always seemed filled with impatience and disinterest. He wore a white, tank-top undershirt that revealed more hair on his chest and back than he had on his head.
But today, Dominico was in high spirits. So when Marcielli delicately unfolded his version of what happened at school, Dominico’s only response was; “That boy deserved what he got. He tried to embarrass my son, a Corleon. Were there a lot of people around to see it?”
“Yes,” answered Marcielli.
“Good,” said Dominico.
Marcielli walked through the kitchen to get to the living room. He caught his mother’s eye. Rianna was a typical Italian woman, filled with love and good recipes. She was petite. She had dark, insightful brown eyes and bright red lips. Her dark brown hair was always wrapped tightly in a bun. It kept it out of the way when she cooked and off her neck when she cleaned in the summertime. In the evening, sometimes she would let it down. She looked tired, but Marcielli thought she was beautiful, even though he never heard Dominico tell her that.
The expression on Rianna’s face said that she was displeased with the way Dominico handled things. But she wouldn’t dare challenge him. Rianna had lost enough fights with Dominico over the years that she stopped trying long ago.
They say all boys turn out to be like their fathers. Was Marcielli destined to be just like Dominico, bitter and detached, angry and inebriate? Rianna had said if she knew how Dominico would end up; she would have never married him. She expected more out of Marcielli and often reminded him of it.
Three days have passed now and Marcielli’s suspension from school was up. He had plenty of time to reflect on what he had done. Marcielli didn’t remember the fight, but friends told him, even after Antigo cryed for him to stop, he kept beating him. And when Antigo tried to get up, Marcielli threw him back to the ground and