Work Text:
Milan, September 24th 2015
The bell rang. Mrs. Pearson kept talking ― she always kept talking, she never heard the bell, or maybe she heard it and didn't care ― and then stopped mid-sentence, blinked, and said, "Oh. Right. Before you go―an essay for next Monday. Title: My Father. Two pages, please."
Around him, chairs scraped. Backpacks zipped. Someone kicked a football against a desk leg. Andrea Kimi Antonelli sat very still in his seat and stared at the lined notebook in front of him as though it had done something wrong.
Two pages. My Father.
Which one?
Matteo's Fiat was idling in the second row of the pickup lane, right where it always was. AKA climbed into the back seat, tossed his bag onto the floor, and pulled the seatbelt across his chest. The car smelled like the clinic ― hand sanitiser and something faintly sweet, like the strawberry stickers Matteo gave the little kids when they didn't cry.
"Come è andata a scuola?" Matteo asked, checking the mirror before pulling out.
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"We have to write an essay." AKA pressed his forehead against the window. Milan slid past in its usual grey ― tram wires, yellowing plane trees, a woman walking three small dogs at once. "In English."
"Ah." Matteo glanced at him in the rearview. "What about?"
"My father."
Matteo said nothing for a moment. He indicated left, waited for a scooter to pass. "That's a nice topic," he said, in the voice he used when he was being careful.
AKA didn't answer. He watched a pigeon land on a traffic light.
"Oh―I moved your dentist appointment to Saturday morning," Matteo said. "Nine-thirty. Don't eat anything sticky on Friday night."
"Can I have gelato after?"
"We'll see."
That meant yes. AKA knew Matteo's vocabulary. We'll see was yes. We'll talk about it was also yes but slower. Let's ask your dad meant Matteo had already decided no but wanted Nico to say it.
"When is Dad coming back?" AKA asked.
"Next Tuesday. Or Wednesday. He said he'd call tonight."
AKA thought about this. The essay was due next Monday. He would have to do it alone.
Well, not alone. Matteo was right here. But Matteo wouldn't know what to do with this essay either.
His room was on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard with the lemon tree that never actually grew lemons. AKA sat at his desk, opened his notebook, and wrote:
My Father
By Andrea Kimi Antonelli
He stared at it. He picked up his eraser and rubbed out Antonelli, then wrote it again because he didn't know what else to put.
His phone buzzed. Oliver's face appeared on the screen ― freckled, grinning, already in his pyjamas even though it was only five o'clock in London.
"Alright?" Oliver said.
"I have a problem," AKA said.
"Maths?"
"Essay. English class."
Oliver's grin widened. "You need help with English? Finally, you admit―"
"I don't need help with English. I need help with the topic."
"What's the topic?"
"My Father."
Oliver waited for the problem. AKA waited for Oliver to understand. There was a short silence.
"Oh," Oliver said. "Right. Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Can't you just―pick one?"
"Pick one," AKA repeated flatly.
"I mean, like―" Oliver shifted on his bed, pulling a pillow onto his lap. "You're nine, mate. Just keep it simple."
"You're only one year older, Ollie."
"How about Matteo? You live with him, you call him Papà."
"But Matteo isn't―I mean, he is, but―" AKA rubbed his face. "The teacher said my father. Like, my actual one."
"So write about your dad. Nico."
"But then what about Lewis?"
Oliver made the face he always made when AKA's family came up―a kind of sympathetic squint, like he was trying to read a sign in a language he didn't speak. "I mean... do you have to include Lewis?"
"He's my father, Ollie."
"Right, but, like―you call him Lewis."
"So?"
"So nothing. It's just―I don't call my dad David, do I?"
AKA hadn't thought about that before. He thought about it now, briefly, and then put it in the same place he put most confusing things about his family ― a mental drawer that was getting quite full.
"Okay," Oliver said, leaning forward as though they were strategising before a race. "Let's go through them one by one. We'll work it out."
AKA held up his hand and started counting on his fingers. "Dad―that's Nico. He's in Japan right now."
"One," Oliver said.
"Lewis. He's also in Japan now. He's―" AKA paused. "He's very busy. He sends me things sometimes. He sent me a helmet for my birthday. Custom painted."
"That's cool."
"Yeah." AKA looked at the helmet sitting on his shelf. Purple and green, his initials on the side. It was too big for karting. He'd never worn it. "Two."
"Two," Oliver confirmed.
"Papà. Matteo." AKA put up a third finger.
"Oh, I love Matteo. Remember when he made us that risotto?"
"He makes really good risotto," AKA agreed.
"He's the most normal person in your family," Oliver said.
"That's the point."
AKA tapped his pen against the notebook. "Uncle Kimi. He's my godfather. He lives in Switzerland with Uncle Seb."
"Uncle Kimi is in Japan too, isn't he?" Oliver said.
AKA blinked. "Yeah. And Uncle Seb."
They looked at each other through the screen.
"They're all in the same place," AKA said slowly, "and I'm here writing an essay about them."
Oliver tried not to laugh. He didn't try very hard.
"So five fathers," Oliver said.
"Five," AKA exhaled. He looked down at his empty notebook. "The essay is two pages, Ollie. Two pages. About my father. Singular."
Oliver was quiet for a moment. In the background, AKA could hear Oliver's mum calling him for dinner ― one voice, one name. Simple.
"Maybe just write about all of them," Oliver suggested. "Start with the most important one."
"Which one is the most important one?"
Oliver opened his mouth, then closed it. "I'll let you figure that out, mate."
"Thanks. Very helpful."
"I try." Oliver grinned. "Hey―at least your English is getting better. You only said the wrong twice today."
"Shut up, Ollie."
"Good luck with the essay! Use spell check!"
AKA hung up and stared at his notebook again. The courtyard was getting dark outside. He could hear Matteo downstairs, opening cupboards, running water. Starting dinner.
AKA picked up his pen.
My Father
By Andrea Kimi Antonelli
My English teacher says to write about my father. The problem is I think I might be the person in the world who has the most fathers. I have so many that I need more than two pages, but I will try.
My Dad is called Nico. He is German but he speaks a lot of languages. He is away a lot for work but when he comes home he always hugs me very hard.
My Papà is called Matteo. He is Italian and he is a doctor for children. He makes sure I go to the dentist and he―
AKA paused, chewing the end of his pen. He could hear Matteo calling from downstairs. "Andrea! A tavola! Wash your hands—with soap, not just water!"
He looked back at the page. He still had to write about Lewis, and Uncle Kimi, and Uncle Seb, and explain how they were all connected, and he wasn't sure two pages was going to be enough, and he also wasn't sure his English was going to survive the attempt.
He added one more line:
Oh, I forgot to say. My name is Andrea Kimi Antonelli. My middle name is the same as my godfather, Uncle Kimi, but I don't know why. Actually my birth certificate says a different name. It says Anthony Rosberg Hamilton.
Downstairs, Matteo called again. AKA closed his notebook, slid out of his chair, and went to wash his hands.
The essay could wait. Risotto couldn't.