I glared at him in response. "All right," I said, sitting down, "Suppose I go with you back to Italy - which I am not going to do, by the way - just suppose. How long would I have to stay?"
"At least until the end of high school. Then you can come back to the States for college."
"I'm not going," I said tonelessly. "There is no way you can make me, and there is not a snowman's chance in freaking hell I'm leaving California." Until the end of high school? I scoffed. Think again, father dearest.
"You will be coming with us to Italy," my father said quietly, coldly. "It's not open for negotiation or bargaining. This discussion is over." He dismissed me with a wave of his hand and turned to his computer.
I stalked out of the room and back to the foyer. No more Liszt now. I wrenched my fat
