by Kristin Rae
The sweaty crowd impatiently nudges me to move along, and a bored server waits for me to order. Feeling the pressure to make a fast decision, I point to the one called stracciatella because it looks the most like cookies and cream, then pick an unlabeled green one, hoping that it’s mint and not something weird like pistachio.
As I walk out to find a place to sit, a family of three—speaking what I’m pretty sure is French—abandons their table, so I slip into one of the little chairs before anyone else claims it. I set my cup on the table and take aim with my camera, zooming in nice and close with a large aperture so everything but my focal point will be blurred together. Snap. My first photograph in Italy.
“Nice camera.”
Startled, I glance up as a scruffy-faced guy about my age pulls out a chair across the table from me.
“Thanks.”
“Mind if I sit here?”
I give a slight shake of my head, looking him up and down quickly. Aside from the insane amount of curly, dark hair on the top of his head, he sort of reminds me of Morgan’s older brother. Tall, same toned build, super-light-brown eyes. The crush that crushed me.
He takes a bite of his gelato. “I’d never be able to use one of those big cameras. Too many buttons.”
I can’t help but smile. I haven’t even been in Italy a whole day, but I’m already relieved to hear English—my English. But … “How did you know I speak English?”
A dimple appears when he smirks and points at me with his little plastic spatula-like spoon. “Because you’re taking pictures of your food, which means not only that you speak English, but you’re also American. Probably a blogger.”
I click the lens cap back on and let the camera rest safely on my lap. “Well, of course now you know I’m American because you can hear that I don’t have an accent. And I’m not a blogger.”
I tried blogging last year, mostly to post some of the photos I was proud of, but I never got any followers, so I took the blog down. I keep my special photos to myself now.
“Oh, you have an accent.” He takes another bite and leans back in his chair. “It’s American. And northern, by the sound of it.” He points at me with his spoon again. “Gelato’s melting.”
I look at my cup and gasp when I see how much is being wasted, dripping all down the side and making a puddle on the table. I quickly scrape the spoon along the edge before lifting it to my mouth.
My eyes close automatically, helping to block out all other senses but taste. And the green one is mint, not pistachio, thankfully. It’s the softest, creamiest, most amazing flavor I’ve ever experienced. My tongue is cool, not only because the gelato is cold, but because of the mint itself. It floods my whole mouth then disappears down my throat. I need more.
I dip my spoon into the other flavor. “Ohhhh, wow this is good.” I sigh.
“First timer?”
I swallow and nod, looking back at my table companion. “It’s amazing.”
“So, you’re not a blogger. Are you a photographer then?”
“Hopefully one day.”
“Oh,” he says as he rubs his fingers over his dark stubble. I can hear it, scratchy like sandpaper. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
Suddenly I feel insecure, like he’ll think I’m too young to bother with now. I shake the thought away and rescue another bite of gelato from the heat.
“You seem older than that,” he says, somehow finished with his monster cup. He wads his napkin into a ball before plopping it in.
I smile and watch as the melted remains saturate the entire napkin. “Yeah, I’ve been told that before, actually.”
Mom says it’s the way I handle myself, especially around adults and strangers. I’ve been forced into more than my share of social situations where I was often the only child, so I learned to fit in to my surroundings.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Eighteen. Just turned.”
“Really, you seem … younger than that.”
I did not just flirt with him.
He smiles, revealing mostly straight teeth. One of the top ones is a little crooked, but not in a hideous way. I kind of like it actually.
“Yeah, well, I—” He stops and his eyes shift behind me, wide in amusement.
I turn my head to find a couple straight out of the 1980s at the end of the gelato line. They’re both sporting mullets and faded jeans. White sneakers. When I notice the matching red fanny packs, I have to look away.
“You should take a picture of that,” he says, resting his forearms on the table.
“What?” I lean in closer and speak just above a whisper. “No way.”
“Do it!” he insists. “Five euros.” He digs into his pocket and clanks down five coins.
I sneak a peek at the unsuspecting couple. The man is wiping sweat off his face with a hanky. They’re too close. I’d never get away with it.
“I can’t,” I say.
“Pansy.”
With a grunt, I switch my camera on and set it to automatic. I raise it to my face and start to twist my upper body.
“No, wait!” he says. “You’re doing it wrong.”
I drop the camera to my lap and face him. “What?”
“You’re too obvious. You need stealth. Watch and learn.” He retrieves a small point-and-shoot camera from his pocket and aims it toward me. “Say cheese!” he says so loudly that I’m sure everyone around us is looking.
“Uh … cheese?”
“Done.” He hits a few buttons and shows me the display screen.
There they are. Looked right at him too. Clever. But I can’t let him win.
“Wow. That’s pretty pixelated. What kind of setting do you have that on?”
He frowns. “It’s just zoomed in.”
“Oh.” I reach to zoom out, but he pulls it away too fast. “What? Why can’t I see? Did you actually take a picture of me or something?”
“Stealth.” He shrugs and my cheeks turn pink. “Guess these are my winnings.” The coins scrape across the table as he scoops them up to put in his pocket.
“You didn’t even give me a chance to redeem myself,” I defend.
“Excuses, excuses. Just admit I’m the better photographer.” He laughs, standing to shoot his empty cup in the trash. “Finished?”
I nod and he tosses mine too. “Braver maybe, but better? Your camera doesn’t have enough buttons.”
His dimples reappear as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his navy-blue cargo shorts. “Well, thanks for letting me sit with you.”
“Oh, sure. No problem.” I slouch into my seat and wiggle my fingers in a low wave before reaching into my bag for the map from the hotel.
He still hasn’t walked away. “Where you headed?”
“Not sure.” I shrug. “I want to check out the Colosseum, but I’m sort of getting hungry.”
He grips the back of the chair he’d sat in and leans on it. “You ate gelato before dinner too, huh?”
I shrug again. “When in Rome.”
He laughs. “It’s going to get dark soon. I’m not sure you should venture halfway across the city by yourself. Unless”—he looks around—“you’re with your family or something.”
No. My family sent me over here. All. By. Myself.
“Oh. Well, I planned on going alone.”
He moves to stand next to me and points at the map. His hand lightly brushes against mine for the tiniest fraction of a second. “We’re here, and the Colosseum is over here. There’s no metro close, so it’ll be a bit of a walk but definitely doable. I could go with you … if you want.”
I look up at him to gauge if he’s serious and I feel a little swirl in my stomach.
“I don’t even know your name,” I say.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” He takes a small step back and offers me his hand.
Our fingers are just about to touch when a girl’s voice calls out and startles me. “Hey, Darren!”
The guy about to shake my
hand turns his head in response.
A rail-thin girl strides over to us. She’s wearing jean capris with a loose, purple sundress overtop, and several brass necklaces that dangle almost to her stomach. Bulky sunglasses perch high in the messy bleached-blond hair piled on top of her head.
“I’m Darren, and this is Nina,” he says to me when she stops next to him.
Nina looks me over. “Hi.” Her tone is friendly with an undercurrent of protectiveness.
“Hi,” I respond, with maybe a little too much I come in peace worked in. “I’m Pippa.”
“Pippa? Isn’t that a cute name?” Nina squeaks, surprisingly genuine. She looks up at Darren and smiles, and my eyes follow hers to him.
“It’s a great name,” he agrees. There’s his little twisted tooth again.
I’ve always thought my name was ridiculous, but if a guy can like it … My cheeks flush.
Darren clears his throat. “Pippa still hasn’t seen the Colosseum. How do you feel about walking over there?” he asks Nina.
“Sure!” She turns toward him and holds out her palm. “But I want some gelato first.”
Without missing a beat, he pulls a few coins out of his pocket and drops them in her palm.
“Thanks, doll,” she says as she scampers off.
So he has a girlfriend. My reaction to this piece of information confuses me. Part of me is relieved—I feel like if he’s got a girlfriend, the chances of him being a psycho trying to lure me away are slightly less. But another part of me is disappointed.
Oh, well. He’s not Italian anyway.
Chapter Five
Darren leads the way down narrow sidewalks, past street vendors and homeless beggars. Nina’s quiet, busy shoveling gelato into her mouth, and Darren plays tour guide, spouting facts about various buildings and points of interest. I try to keep up with our route on my map, but there are so many tight little turns and alleys, I lose track of where we are until we reach a major intersection I recognize from my taxi ride earlier. Hard to believe that was only this morning.
On the opposite side of the street stands an enormous white building with steps and pillars all across the front and tarnished statues mounted proudly on each end of the roof. Easily one of the fanciest buildings I’ve ever seen. The map’s key says it’s the Victor Emmanuel Monument. I don’t remember ever hearing about this Victor, but he must have been someone important to get a monument like this.
“It’s made of marble,” Darren says, after we dart across the piazza when it’s clear of traffic. “Incredible, huh? They don’t build ’em like that back home.” I’m about to ask where home is, but his face turns sour and it throws me off guard. “Too bad they destroyed so much of Capitoline Hill to make it.”
“Oh, would you stop with that already?” Nina says in a way only people truly close to each other can. “It’s done. Get over it.”
“But there would have been so much more to see. Who knows what they—”
“Done!” she says with a light punch to his shoulder. Darren grabs her fist and playfully twists her arm back until she actually cries “uncle.”
I want to gag.
“So.” I clear my throat as I take a few pictures. “We can’t climb the steps then?”
Darren whips his head around to look at me. “No way. It’s barely even a hundred years old! You need ruins,” he says, gently rotating me until I’ve turned my back on Victor. “See that fenced-off section there?” He points out to the middle of the intersection. He’s so excited about this, it’s sort of precious. “They were digging around looking for a route to lay the new metro line, and they found the Athenaeum of Hadrian!”
“Maybe they found it.” Nina doesn’t even hide that she’s bored.
“They found the what?” I glance between the two of them and shrug. “Sorry. I flunked Italian history.”
Darren laughs and says, “Think of it like … the grad school of ancient Rome.”
“Where do you go to school, Pippa?” Nina asks, ignoring the lecture. “Somewhere in Rome?”
“She was joking, Nina.” He looks at me, one eyebrow up. “Unless your high school really does offer Italian history? In which case, you should consider studying. It generally prevents failure.” A smirk tugs on his lips.
“No,” I tell him with a shake of my head.
I know I’m still in high school, but to hear him make sure Nina knows makes me feel like the tagalong kid sister. I mean, he’s not even a year older than me.
Just take me to the Colosseum, and you don’t ever have to entertain me again. Promise.
“Are we getting close to the Colosseum yet?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s just down this street.” Nina points to our right.
I turn to look, but Darren jumps in front of me, blocking my line of sight. I realize for the first time that we’re almost the same height. He’s not really short, I’m just that tall. It’s why I never wear heels.
“You should wait to look,” he says, eyes bright. “It’ll be so much more impressive if you wait until you’re right in front of it.”
“Ooh, I like that idea.” His excitement transfers to me, and my pulse races in anticipation.
It takes every ounce of self-control I possess, but I focus on the sidewalk. I can tell we’re getting close because Darren picks up speed, weaving us between other pedestrians and calling out an occasional “Permesso.”
We stop when we reach a street of uneven cobblestones. Instinctively, I raise my head but there’s a hand a few inches in front of my face. I look over and find Darren smiling at me.
“You see it for the first time only once,” he says. “Are you ready?”
I take a deep breath and nod as he slowly lowers his hand, but my eyes are still locked onto his, paralyzed by his incredibly sweet effort to make this special for me. He blinks, barely tilting his head to the side as he looks at me. I take his movement as an opportunity to turn my gaze away from him.
And toward the Colosseum.
I get it now. The name fits, there’s no other word to describe it but colossal. The Pantheon was huge, but this thing is so massive, I can’t even take it all in at once. I have to sweep my eyes over it, back and forth, row by row of arched windows. Stone and bricks all set in place by workers who probably never considered even for a second that two thousand years later it would be the symbol everyone across the globe pictures when they think of Rome.
Will it still be here two thousand years from now?
I shudder at the realization that for countless people throughout history, this building was the last thing they saw. To them, it was hideous. It was death. But I feel more alive, and somehow connected to the people who built everything around me and laid the stones on the street beneath my feet.
My breath catches in my throat and my eyes sting. I hadn’t anticipated this reaction, but I think for the first time today it’s hitting me how far away from home I am.
The click of a camera’s shutter pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look over at Darren just as he lowers the silver point-and-shoot from his face. My years of experience in drama club fail me as fire creeps up my neck and settles in my cheeks. I can’t even imagine the level of nerd on my face right now.
“You did not just take a picture of me.”
“Pretty sure I did.” He turns the display side of the camera around long enough for me to recognize my pointy nose.
I reach for it, but he holds it above his head. “Let me delete—I mean, see it!”
He hides it behind his back, then brings both hands in front of him, empty. I refrain from reaching into his pocket for it, but bite my lip at the thought.
“I’d ask you what you think,” Nina says to me, “but I can see it in your eyes. You’re in l-o-v-e.”
I’m glad my cheeks are already red, because for a second I’m not sure what she’s talking about. I nod before turning to the Colosseum again.
“It’s incredible.”
I glance at the people all around us,
every second person with a camera, snapping away, looking as happy as I am to finally see the Colosseum in person. I join in the picture-taking, zooming in close to explore the detail of the stone. White and gray, crevices darkened with the grime age has exposed it to.
An Australian couple near us asks Darren to take a picture of them with the Colosseum as the backdrop, and when he’s done, they offer to take one of the three of us. I hesitate for a moment, fingers gripping my baby firmly, but I would like to document my trip thoroughly. And I’m sure I’ll want to remember what Darren and Nina look like. Darren passes his camera over to the man, so I suck it up and turn the dial to automatic before handing mine to the woman. Even if they did steal it now, they’d only be getting the twenty photos I just took. And a freaking nice camera.
I wonder how far into my trip it’ll be before I stop thinking of everyone as a potential thief.
Darren and Nina stand on either side of me, one of them touching a hand on my back so lightly, I almost think I’m imagining it. I shift to make sure I’m standing closer to Nina than I am to Darren—out of respect for her, of course—and I feel her hand down at her side between us and not on my back. Which means the hand that’s there belongs to …
Darren leans his head toward me and says, “Say ‘pizza.’”
The three of us laugh and I check out the picture on the preview screen. Shoulder to shoulder, mouths open in the laughter of a shared joke. Students studying abroad. Dropouts backpacking our way across Europe, one historical monument at a time. Best friends. The couple who took our picture has no idea I met them only an hour ago. That soon, we’ll continue on our own ways. They’ll go on to do whatever it is they’re in Italy for, and I’ll go on to Florence to learn about Michelangelo and Leonardo. The artists, not the Ninja Turtles.
Looking back at the Colosseum, I notice for the first time that the bottom row of arched windows is equipped with metal fencing, and there are people milling about on the other side of it.
“Can we go in?” I ask hopefully.