by Kristin Rae
“But it’s such a great opportunity for you!” she said, entirely too animated like she was trying to convince us both. “Think of all the background knowledge you’ll gain. You have to understand the early works to see their influence today. It’s our dream to have our own ga—”
“No, it’s your dream to run a stuffy art gallery and host parties and be the queen of Chicago’s social circuit. It has nothing to do with me! I want to study something real, like photography.”
“Pippa,” Dad chimed in with the even tone of a mediator. “If you don’t want to go—”
“Oh, she’s going.” Mom straightened as tall as she could get, towering over him with her power. “Arrangements have been set.” She turned to me again, still in giantess form. “Do you have any idea what it took to make this happen?”
“Apparently your firstborn,” I muttered.
She heard me.
Yeah, it all went really well. I’d definitely be grounded right now if I weren’t in a foreign country.
To: Pippa Preston
From: Mary Preston
Subject: Re: Ciao from Italy
Hi, Hon,
Glad to hear you made it without any problems. How’s the school? Are they treating you well? I’m confident you will have a great time this summer. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.
I have to run. In the middle of a huge estate acquisition.
Love,
Mom
I roll my eyes. It’s even shorter than I expected. Although she didn’t mention herself in every sentence, so I should be impressed.
I formulate a quick and equally dissatisfying response, deleting the angsty parts like “Don’t worry about me, just take care of your work crap” until it’s even more vague than the last one I sent. I don’t know why I keep hoping for her to be different, but I do.
Next I check Morgan’s e-mail, which is longer than Mom’s and sprinkled with exclamation points. It’s just what I need to see.
To: Pippa Preston
From: Morgan Arrant
Subject: Re: I’m in freaking ITALY
WHAT?! You’re actually LYING to your parents? Who are you and what have you done with the real Pippa? Not that I blame you. I’m still surprised you actually got on the plane in the first place. You should have seen yourself at the airport. You were a MESS! And I mean that in the nicest possible way.
Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Just tell me when you get to school so I can stop worrying.
Let’s get down to business. What do the boys look like? Are they GORGEOUS?! Have any of them tried to lure you up to their apartment yet? Shove their tongue down your throat? Kidding aside, be careful out there by yourself. You may not know this, but you’re kind of adorable. Remember our mantra for all things scandalous: JUST SAY NO.
I know you’ve taken a million pictures by now, so pick out a good one and shoot it over. I need proof that you’re really in another country. I just sighed. Did you hear it? It’s our last summer of youthful freedom and we’re missing our Summer-o-Rama! I need my Pippa! Okay, venting over.
My jealousy knows no bounds,
—M
I sigh too. Morgan and I had planned out the summer before our last year as slaves to mandatory schooling—because college is essentially voluntary. Even though neither of us has a choice in whether we’re going or not, we at least have a say in where we’re going. As soon as we move our tassels from one side to the other, our classmates will scatter like ants on an abandoned picnic spread. Two things I know for sure: Morgan and I will be going to the same college, and it will be far, far away from home. Far from the gallery of forced servitude, from the monotony of what my life has become.
Even just being in Rome for two days, I’ve gotten the itch. This is only a glimpse of what’s out there. Just one tiny corner of the world. I have to get out. I have to see more, and take pictures of all of it.
In my reply, I tell her she’s paranoid worrying about me so much, that I’m perfectly safe. I gush about the pretty boys—especially the polizia in their uniforms—and send along a hastily edited photo of the Colosseum. I also inform her that I’m skipping out on the art program altogether and ask that she please keep her mouth shut.
I realize only when I click send that I didn’t mention Darren and Nina. I’m not sure what I would have said. So I met this American couple who showed me around Rome for a little bit. We shared pizza, then the boyfriend bought me ice cream and walked me home. Then I randomly saw them again today but I was on the metro train—that you made me get on—and they were on the other platform so I couldn’t talk to them and I’ll probably never see them again.
My wide eyes stare at the worn bedspread but focus on nothing. Morgan led me to the metro. If I hadn’t gotten on it precisely when I did, I wouldn’t have seen Darren, and he’d be one day further away in my memory.
But I did see him. And he saw me.
I clutch the journal in my hands. Maybe there really is something cosmic about this trip.
Chapter Ten
“Mommy, I want to throw another coin in the fountain,” the child sitting next to me squeaks. His mother hands him one before he skips down to the edge of the Trevi Fountain, or Fontana di Trevi.
“Jude! Don’t forget to turn around!” the woman hollers above the crowd. “Now throw it behind you!” She mimes throwing it over her shoulder.
Jude smiles and tosses the coin in the air, just as his mom’s camera flashes, brightly illuminating the muscular Neptune sculpture and his loincloth—more than most of the sculptures around here are wearing. For the first time tonight I notice that every third person at the base of the fountain is also throwing coins into the pool behind them. Clearly this is more than the typical wish on a coin.
I lean toward the woman and ask her what it’s all about.
“Oh.” She laughs and waves her hand like either what I said was silly, or what she’s about to tell me is. “They say if you throw a coin into the fountain, you’ll return to Rome one day. You have to hold it in your right hand and throw it over your left shoulder or it won’t work.”
Jude climbs back up to where we sit, but leans against a railing to face us, eying me curiously.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi. I saw you throw in your coin. That was a good toss!”
His face lights up. “I’m coming back to Rome five more times!” he exclaims in all sincerity.
“I’m not sure it works like that, sweetie.” His mom gathers their things and stands. “Come on, let’s go find Dad and head to the hotel. I know someone who needs a bath!”
“Another coin! Another coin!” He grips the bar behind him and leans forward, butting his blond head against his mom’s stomach as he chants.
She fishes a coin out of her pocket and hands it to him. “This is the last one. Make it good.”
He stares at the dark circle in his open palm, then holds it out to me.
I’m not sure what he’s waiting for, so I smile and say, “This will make six times.”
He brings it closer. “Your turn.”
His mom is beaming at him. I try to remember the last time my mom was so visibly proud of me and come up with nothing.
She nods for me to take it and Jude leads me down to the fountain, instructing me to turn around. We count to three and I toss the coin over my shoulder, with Jude next to me pretending to. Should I feel a tingle of magic work through me? Is my next foray to Rome written in the stars now?
“How long have you been here?” the woman asks.
“Just got in yesterday.”
“Oh, lucky! We’re headed home tomorrow already.” She glances at the Trevi one more time, eyes tired but bright. It’s love. She smiles at me. “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my shorts as I watch them disappear into the crowd. A few coins clink between my f
ingertips and my eyes dart to the pool of the fountain. Before I realize it, I’m back at the edge, coin resting in the center of my sweaty palm.
This wish isn’t for Rome.
Looking around to make sure no one is watching, I hold my hand out over the water and turn it over slowly, but the coin doesn’t fall. It’s stuck to my palm.
I keep my hand steady and close my eyes.
I wish to fall in love with an Italian.
Darren’s face flashes across my mind. Definitely not Italian. Definitely not available. But it’s too late. I open my eyes and turn my hand over. The coin is gone.
The girl I bought my pastry from yesterday is working again this morning, wearing the same uniform—black shirt, white apron, and white cap—like she never left.
“Giorno,” she says as I walk up to the counter. Her smile lets on that she recognizes me.
I reply with more confidence than before, “Giorno.”
She cocks her head to the side, studying me. “Something is different.”
My eyes close for a second as I laugh to myself. Oh, how I’m different, let me count the ways: I’m in Italy. I’m lying to my parents. I met a super nice yet unavailable guy I can’t seem to stop thinking about, and just when I convince myself I’ll never see him again, I do, all thanks to instructions I followed from a friend who isn’t even here.
She shifts closer, leaning onto the counter. “You met someone.”
I blink at her. “What?” I try to play dumb, but Darren is still on my mind and I bite back a smile.
She smirks and wipes a cloth across the already clean counter. “I recognize that look.”
I don’t like that I have that look. I need to make it go away. It’s useless.
“I think I need a latte. And chocolate,” I say, dropping a handful of euros onto the counter.
“You want a glass of milk, or you want coffee?”
“Milk?”
“Latte is milk, un caffè is coffee. Un caffè con latte is coffee with milk.”
“How on earth do you keep all that straight?” A tired sigh escapes my lips. “I have so much to learn, I don’t even know where to start. So how about un caffè latte, per favore.”
“Brava! See, you are learning already,” she says through an ear-to-ear grin. “I was fortunate to grow up speaking both. Much easier. I speak Spanish and some French, too, but not so good.” She points across the little room. “Sit. I will bring them to you.”
“Grazie,” I say as I shuffle over.
“Prego!”
I set my bag on the floor between the chair and the wall, and place my camera on the table. A small tray presenting two cups of coffee and a plate of pastries appears, and the girl sits across from me, handing me a napkin. A lovely melody flows from her mouth, but I have no clue what she’s saying, if she’s even talking to me. I stare at her, unsure of how I’m supposed to react.
She finally puts a hand on her chest and speaks slowly, “Mi chiamo—my name is—Chiara.”
I turn her name over on my tongue. Key-ahr-uh. “Really? That’s the name of my hotel, the Albergo Santa Chiara.”
“By the Pantheon, sì, I know of it. Come ti chiami?” she asks, apparently determined to teach me Italian.
I remember enough Spanish to note the similarity to “¿Cómo te llamas?” “I’m Pippa.”
“Pippa? This is a whole name?”
“It’s short for Philippa. But—”
“Ah, sì! Philippa!”
“Yeah, I go by Pippa, though.” I take a timid sip of coffee, the burning liquid as bitter to my mouth as my proper name is to my ears. “Chiara is a pretty name. Does it mean anything?” I ask, stuffing the pastry in my mouth to combat the coffee flavor.
She circles the rim of her cup with a finger. “Every name means something. Mine means clear or bright.”
My eyebrows pinch together. “Those don’t exactly mean the same thing. How can something that’s clear be bright? Wouldn’t it just be clear?”
The corner of her mouth twists upward. “You haven’t seen the Ligurian Sea.”
“Where’s that?” But somehow, I already know the answer.
At the same time, we say, “Cinque Terre.”
“Sì.” Chiara grins and props her elbows on the tiny table, cradling her chin in a hand-hammock. “So tell me, Pippa. How did you meet this someone?”
She’s not Morgan, but something about her makes me spout my whole story from the beginning. At times I wonder if she’s actually listening, but then she makes an exclamation I don’t understand, yet somehow completely agree with. Maybe it helps that Chiara is an outside party, unattached to everyone I mention. I don’t have to worry about the truth of my unfiltered words getting back to anyone important.
By the time I finish my tale, I’m practically weightless. I hadn’t realized before how much I was holding in.
She leans back and exhales. “That explains why you came in by yourself.”
“Yeah. Sucks, right?”
“Do you believe that it does?”
If I hadn’t come over here by myself, my story over the past few days would be totally different. Darren wouldn’t have been a part of it even once, and now I’ve seen him twice. I’ll always remember my first day in Rome with him in it, and that most definitely does not suck.
“Not anymore, I guess,” I finally answer.
“And now you have the whole summer to do as you please, here in Italia.”
“Looks that way.” I twist the cooling coffee cup on the saucer and sigh. “Have you ever done anything this crazy?”
“Crazy? I think it is brave! What fun, no?” She’s nearly lifting off her seat. “Secrets and lies! Scandals and intrigue!”
“What are you talking about?” I cover my mouth with my hand to suppress my laughter.
She giggles. “Just trying to make you feel better. I can tell you have doubts.”
My smile droops. “That’s some insight you’ve got.”
“Practice.” She shrugs. “So what is next for the summer travels of Pippa?”
I pull out my guidebook and flip to the Rome section for reinforcement. “There are still a couple of things in Rome I want to see for sure before moving on. Catacombs, the Vatican—”
“Oh, you must see la città del Vaticano! Tomorrow! I will take you.”
I snap my head up to meet her dark eyes. “What? I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Who is asking? I am offering.” She deflates a little. “Unless you prefer to be alone?”
My heart warms and my smile spreads. A real local to show me around the Vatican.
“It sounds great.”
Chapter Eleven
ASSIGNMENT NUMERO QUATTRO: FACE YOUR FEARS I know you well enough to know that by this point, you’re struggling with a few things. You’re out of your comfort zone, surrounded by a language you don’t understand, studying for a job you don’t want. They say you should face your fears head-on. Write some things down that you’re afraid of or intimidated by, then write a way you could get over each of them. Example: I am, as you know, illogically afraid of naturally occurring bodies of water. And to get over this, I could fall in love with someone who lives on a yacht. See? It doesn’t even have to be realistic. And, go!
Fear: sneezing while driving and getting in a wreck
Remedy: learn to sneeze with eyes open (I will prove that it’s not impossible)
Fear: that I won’t know when I really fall in love with someone
Remedy: learn to be patient
Fear: never having a good relationship with Mom
Remedy: learn to talk to her
Fear: going back home to listen to said mother screech about my disobedience
Remedy: stay in Italy indefinitely
The slow-moving line wraps around the outer wall to Vatican City, but Chiara leads us past everyone to the entrance where the tour groups gather. She approaches a woman who is clutching a clipboard and a thin wooden rod with strips of colorful fabric d
angling from the top, similar to what the other tour guides are sporting. Chiara and the woman smile and kiss each other’s cheeks, but I can’t tell if they know each other or if that’s just the way things are done here.
Chiara waves me closer and we’re absorbed into the tour, shuffling through the entrance ahead of the mile-long line.
“How did you do that?” I ask after we hand over money for the entrance fee. The guide wanders to the counter to buy tickets for the group.
“I simply asked if she had room for two more!”
We’re given headsets so we can all hear the guide without her yelling, and it’s only after I finish adjusting the volume that I realize she’s speaking in French. I catch eyes with Chiara and frown.
“Oops!” She puts a hand to her mouth.
We dissolve into laughter and I return my headset. There’s no point in a French soundtrack to my Vatican experience. At least we’re not still waiting to get in.
Chiara relays anything interesting that’s mentioned, but for the most part, I bring up the rear and observe my surroundings. We’re led through immense halls lined with tapestries and frescoes, past statues of all sizes, some missing limbs, noses, ears, breasts, or other parts. We climb up stairs, down stairs. My calf muscles are killing me and even my right arm is sore from lifting my mammoth of a camera up to my eye every couple of minutes.
There is one thing this place doesn’t lack: art. I’m practically drowning in it. Everywhere I turn is another reminder of my lie. Another needle to the chest.
I finally remember to breathe when we get to an open courtyard.
“You are bored,” Chiara says. “I am sorry it is not an English tour.” She pulls the headphones off and drapes them over her shoulder.
I manage a smile so I don’t appear ungrateful. “I’m trying to be interested in all this. And it is beautiful, but … I don’t know.” I fan my hand in front of my face, hoping I can pass it off on the heat. “It’s miserable out here. Hard to concentrate, you know?”
The fabric-strip beacon flutters near the door to another building and our group lines up behind it. I stifle a groan, pinch my shirt at the neck and repeatedly pull it away from my body, pumping wind down my chest and stomach.