There are six of us, all stereotyped the moment we're seen - Matt, Gee, Will, Jen, Court and Lena. The athlete, the princess, the brain, the criminal, the beauty and the sister.
"The four of us students in here are the four most stereotyped kids in...
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Georgia
It was a bit of a lesser-known fact that I'm Italian. The people at Church know it and some of the people on the street, as well as Julia. That's it. The pale skin and blue eyes I've inherited are from my Grandad, who grew up in Northern Italy. The jet black hair I have is from my Nanna, who grew up in France. Thus, my dad was half-French. My mother was born here in Australia but was Italian. Therefore, I am Australian, French and Italian.
Grandma has always tried to enforce my roots into me, in a way. She never allows me at Church to say, "I'm Australian." I must always say, "I'm Australian, French and Italian."
Grandma grew up in Northern Italy too but I didn't inherit her green eyes or pale blonde hair which has now become white. Grandma's well past the average age that most retire as well, yet, she loves her job too much.
She owns Biviano's. The only Italian restaurant in all of Eastpoint and the only place where it's obligatory to wear a suit or dress. No jeans, no sandals and, for males, tie required.
And on a Friday night, it was the traditional Biviano's night between Grandma and I. We'd been coming to Biviano's every Friday night for the last four years. Except for that time I had pneumonia. She doesn't uphold coming to Biviano's as seriously as going to Church.
"And for you, ma'am?" the new waiter asked Grandma.
Without glancing at the menu, Grandma ordered her usual, "The chicken parmigiana with a salad. No tomato."
The waiter smiled politely and took our menus, "They'll be out as soon as possible."
He walked away and I turned to Grandma, "Do you like the new waiter?"
She pursed her thin lips in thought, "Let's wait until the end of his shift for that verdict, dear."
I nodded at her. I smoothed down my short skirt under the table. I was in a black skirt that came just two inches above my knee with a tucked-in red blouse and red flats. Grandma wore her necklace of pearls and skirt-suit where her blazer matched the skirt that came to her knees. She had dozens of outfits just like it hanging up.
She always tells me, "Never mix outfits. The blazer must always match the skirt if you want to be presentable."
"How is school going, Georgia?" Grandma asked once I'd started looking into the distance.
"Alright, Grandma," I said quietly, "The detentions aren't too bad. We're just practising music. Mitch is the teacher on duty for the four of us."
"I didn't ask about the detentions, dear," she sighed, "I asked about school. How are your grades? Friends? Classes?"
"They're all fine," I responded, "I got an A in my French exam. A B+ in Italian. Julia's fine. Classes are alright."
"French and Italian..." she mused, "How's Music, English and Math?"
