For a second I freeze, Rome hovering on the tip of my tongue. Do I bring it up? What do I say?
“Nothing,” Dillon says, smoothly covering up my awkward pause. “Except that Emma missed me. Desperately,” he adds with a cocky grin.
I bat my eyelashes. “Did you go somewhere?”
Spence laughs.
“Where’s Jace?” Hannah asks.
“I thought I’d see him at the trail this morning, but he didn’t show up,” I say.
“He texted,” Dillon says. “Woke up late.”
“Gawd,” Hannah says suddenly. “Is that Nick Walters?”
We all swivel to look behind the bleachers. Nick’s long hair is mostly gone, just enough left so you can see a smiley face outlined in the white of his scalp.
“That’s unsettling,” Hannah says.
“Eyes in the back of his head,” Spence intones in a spooky voice, and Hannah smacks him and shivers.
“Remember Dorcas?” Dillon asks.
I frown. “You didn’t really know someone named Dorcas, did you?”
But Dillon doesn’t hear me because Hannah’s already grabbed his arm. “That was spring break, too, wasn’t it? Maybe there’s a weird hair thing in the universe.”
Spence’s grin widens. “That blue—”
“Even her toes,” Dillon adds.
The three of them bust up. Awkwardly, I smile. “What?”
But before the word is even out, first bell rings. Automatically, we all get to our feet.
Hannah exchanges one more smile with Dillon. “Never mind,” she says to me. “You had to be there.”
I nod and try not to notice that she seems glad I wasn’t.
—
Mrs. Lyght is straightening a stack of papers when I knock on her open door after school. She glances up and adjusts her glasses. “Emma, there you are. Come on in.”
I came here directly from chemistry, so the hallways are still full of kids heading home or making their way to club meetings and practices. My heart is beating so fast you’d think I’d run all the way here.
I didn’t want to squeeze in a talk before first-period history class, so I asked if we could meet now. But I’m so nervous. I want her to have the answers to my questions, but I’m afraid to ask.
“Have a seat,” she says.
I nod. The back of my neck feels warm even though Mrs. Lyght’s room is in one of the coolest parts of the building. The only downside is that it’s also close to the cafeteria, so it always has the faint scent of tomato.
History doesn’t smell like pasta sauce. It smells like the earth. Like dust and dark mud and cool sand. It smells like my first dig at an ancient Indian settlement in northern Arizona—all sunshine and sweat and mystery.
Mrs. Lyght sets some papers in a basket on her desk, then sits and looks up at me expectantly. “So,” she says. “You’ve thought about it?”
I smile. “For a minute or two.”
She smiles back. “And?”
“And I still love the idea,” I begin. “I’m waiting for a call from the study abroad office at ASU, but it looks like I meet all the qualifications for the American University. I would need a recommendation letter,” I add, giving her a hopeful look.
“I’d be happy to,” she says. “And if you’re selected for the internship, Dr. Abella will speak to the admissions office on your behalf.”
“Oh.” I nod. “That’s great. Then it seems like it’s all…possible.”
“But?” Mrs. Lyght asks.
I blush. “How did you know there’s a but?”
“You’ve had a week to think about it, Emma. You must have questions.”
“Actually, I do.” I look above her desk to the poster hanging there. Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
“Fire away,” she says.
I slide my hands under my thighs to keep them from shaking. “First of all, I don’t know anything about the museum.”
“Bernadetta Musea,” she says. “It’s very small. It mainly houses the collection of an old Italian family, though they’ve just received a new bequest that Dr. Abella is especially excited about.”
Goose bumps tiptoe up my arms. “That sounds very cool.”
“It is,” she says. “I’d refer you to the website, but there isn’t one. Not yet. Right now the collection is housed in a renovated school building and Dr. Abella has some very unique ideas for ways to expand.”
“So if I were to go, would I be doing actual museum work?”
She frowns. “Meaning?”
“I wouldn’t be working in a gift shop or taking admission tickets?”
“I promise you it won’t be that. But not all the work you do will be wildly exciting. It will most likely be research, cataloguing entries—that sort of thing. But it will be skilled, meaningful work.”
“Then why would Dr. Abella choose someone like me? Why not a college student with more education and experience?”
“That may be the direction he goes,” she says matter-of-factly. I blush. I’m speaking as if it’s already mine. “But you have a few things in your favor.”
“My dad, you mean?”
“The Lorde name doesn’t hurt. But I wouldn’t have recommended you if I didn’t think you had the passion and the ability. You have experience at dig sites and some basic knowledge of dealing with artifacts. Most college students can’t match you there. Your research skills need some work, granted, but you’re a talented writer, and I think it’s important that you have a particular interest in the general area.”
I let out a long breath. “It would be nice if I knew more about current-day Rome. The language, the money, that sort of thing.”
“Does that worry you?”
“Not me,” I say.
When her eyebrows quirk, I feel like I have to explain. “My boyfriend thinks I might be miserable going away for so long.”
“Dillon Hobbs, right?”
I nod.
“He may be right. You wouldn’t be the first student to go abroad and find the culture shock and the distance very difficult to handle.”
“Then you’re saying I wouldn’t like it?”
“I’d never presume to tell you what you would or wouldn’t like.” Her eyes narrow. “I shouldn’t think you’d let anyone else decide that for you, either.”
Another flush burns up my neck. “No, I…” Swallowing, I nod. She’s right. I can’t be sure how I’ll feel, and yes, there’s a buzz of nervousness in the pit of my stomach. But enough to pass on this opportunity? I run my hands up the sides of my face and push back the hair that’s fallen over my eyes. “How do I apply?”
Mrs. Lyght grins as she rolls back her chair and opens the bottom drawer of her desk. She pulls out a large brown envelope and hands it to me. “This is all the information you need. You should fill out the online application today so Dr. Abella knows you’re applying. You’ll also need to submit a resume.”
“What about the assignment?” I ask.
“It’s in there.” She gestures to the envelope. “He wanted to provide actual photos so everyone has the same print quality. You’ll understand when you take a look. Just be sure to have the assignment completed and submitted to me via email a week from next Monday.”
“So I have two weeks?”
She nods. “All the applicants are being given the same amount of time.”
“And when will Dr. Abella decide?”
“Quickly, I’m sure. Whoever is selected needs time to plan and prepare. I would guess no more than a week or two. You should know before the end of April.”
“So soon.” The envelope suddenly feels heavier in my hands.
Mrs. Lyght stands and I do the same, shrugging my pack over my shoulder.
“I really hope you’ll apply,” she says.
I grip the envelope tighter as I realize that I do, too.
The library is busier than I expect—every computer is taken—but the couch near the printers is empty and
I sit at one end, avoiding the butt print that sags in the middle of the cushion and balancing the sealed envelope on my knees. My mouth feels dry. The envelope isn’t very thick. It’s bent at one corner and there’s a stain that looks like a thumbprint on the flap. Not very impressive for something with the power to change my future.
This makes me think of Lauren. I imagine her flashing her green eyes at me with impatience. It’s just an envelope. You’re the only one with the power to change your future. I don’t know what Marissa would think. I haven’t even told her about it yet. I forgot to call again yesterday, which I only remembered today during chemistry. I braved Mr. Sean’s anger and pulled out my phone long enough to send a text and ask her to call.
I pry open the flap and pull out a small stack of papers. The cover sheet has the logo of the Bernadetta Musea followed by a description of the internship and requirements.
DATES: August 28, 2017–June 8, 2018
The candidate will assist the museum director and staff in cataloguing artifacts and updating the database and other such tasks. The student will work fifteen (15) hours a week.
I skim past a paragraph on scheduling and financial information. I’m responsible for tuition, books, and room and board. I’ll receive six credit hours, a small stipend, free admission to all local historical sites, and the opportunity to visit and work at local dig sites.
I read that part again and wonder if that includes Pompeii. My heart thumps hard against my ribs, and I close my eyes while the images play through my mind. I’m not a complete idiot. I realize I’m not going to show up at Pompeii and suddenly uncover something major that’s been missed by hundreds of crews working on this exact location for hundreds of years. But that hasn’t stopped me from imagining it so many times that I can feel the ache in my thighs from crouching in the dust, the heat of the Italian sun on my back. I can see my hand smoothing dirt and ash off something smooth and flat and discovering the diary of my fresco girl.
The first time I saw Fresco Girl, I was at Dad’s office thumbing through a book of artwork discovered in Pompeii. As the villas were excavated, archaeologists found beautifully painted frescoes covering the walls. Many have been restored now, and it’s amazing to look at the vivid colors of gold and red and green. One of the scenes in the book depicted a proud family gathered beneath a tree while slaves laid out a feast and provided shade. Fresco Girl was one of the slaves. She’s serving a platter of fish, but her expression suggests she’s somewhere far away. And her smile…her smile is what first caught my attention. I don’t know if it’s happy or sad. It’s an in-between smile, like she has a secret and doesn’t yet know if it’s something to be glad about or not.
I made a copy of the fresco and named the girl Anna. I still imagine digging up her diary and reading about whatever it was that made her smile like that. What would she have written about those last days? Those last moments?
Lauren thinks the whole thing is morbid.
When I was six, she told me it wasn’t treasure archaeologists dig up. It was dead bodies. She said buried twigs were fingers that would crawl up my neck and choke me to death. I ran sobbing to Dad. Lauren got in trouble and I got a trip downtown to the Pueblo Grande Ruins, the site of a Hohokam village. Dad explained how everything tells a story about the people who lived before us. The houses they built. The pottery they made and the baskets they wove. And yes, even their bones. He knelt beside me in the dirt and promised that the people didn’t want to hurt us. They wanted me to find them so I could bring them back to life by sharing their story with the world.
That’s the day I decided to be an archaeologist.
My dream never changed, though it shifted over time. Then last year, I couldn’t look beyond what was happening at home. As a junior, I should have been researching colleges around the country. Instead, I was riding the roller coaster of a dad who had moved across town and started drinking and a mom who said she loved us but didn’t act like it. School had become a hated place where I worried about running into my mother’s lover every time I walked the halls. At first, no one knew except Marissa—at least there was that. The affair had started over the summer while Mom was overseeing new paint and carpet in the teachers’ lounge. The truth didn’t leak out until close to the holidays, when Dad moved out. By then I was better at hiding my emotions in front of other people. Still, I couldn’t focus. I was cold all the time. Jumpy. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but I’d never seen the first one coming. Weekends were spent with Dad in his rental house with bare walls and a table with two place mats.
Time slipped away from me. So did my dreams of working abroad. But they’re here again, dropped into my lap. Literally. I have the same fluttery feeling I get when I’m reconstructing something and I suddenly see how the pieces fit.
“Hey.”
Startled, I clutch the papers to my chest and look up. “Jace!”
He smiles and dumps his heavy backpack on the floor beside me. His hair is still damp, the brown waves tousled as if he finger-combed it and called it good. Which I’m sure he did. “Baseball practice is already over?”
“It’s after five.”
Surprised, I hit the power button on my phone. I turned it off when I got to the library and now I see that it’s 5:08 and I’ve missed two texts from Dillon and a call from Marissa.
“Crap. Guess I’ve been daydreaming.”
“About what?”
I take a deep breath. “You have a minute?”
“This sounds promising.” He drops down beside me, sitting sideways, and throws one arm over the back of the couch.
“Give me a sec to text Dillon.” Quickly I type:
At library. Call you later.
Then I set down my phone and turn to Jace. “Mrs. Lyght is recommending me for an internship next year. In Rome.”
He blinks, straight-faced. “Rome, Ohio? How exciting.”
“Idiot,” I say.
“Ohhhh.” He nods as if he’s just figured it out. “You mean the city with all the old buildings?”
“You’re seething with jealousy, aren’t you?”
“I only seethe on Tuesdays. But I do hate you right now.” Then his lips quirk and his right cheek dimples. I was right about Jace from the beginning—he is the kind of guy who smiles a lot. Jace is cute in a messy way—wavy hair the color of a paper bag, wrinkled T-shirts and worn jeans. His nose is crooked and a little smushed from running into a stop sign on a skateboard when he was ten. It’s his sense of humor and his easy smile that make so many girls call him adorable. That and the dimples. “So tell me,” he says. “What happened? What did she say? When do you leave?”
It all comes out in a rush and I feel myself getting excited all over again. Especially when Jace’s eyes widen and the smartest guy I know is reduced to words like What? Wow!
Jace has turned out to be one of my closest friends—and not just because of Dillon. Our morning trail runs started by accident, but now we try to meet up at least two days a week. It’s not as if we bare our hearts at seven a.m., but you get to know someone when you spend time together like that.
“If you go to Rome, you’ll be within spitting distance of Pompeii,” Jace says.
Of course his brain goes to the same place mine did. Jace has a thing for doomed cities, just like me. I’m fascinated by the history—he’s fascinated by natural disasters. Suddenly I realize that this internship would be perfect for him, too. Jace is crazy smart at just about everything and loves history almost as much as I do. “I’m kind of surprised Mrs. Lyght didn’t ask you,” I say as I think about it. My chest tightens with an uncomfortable thought. “You think it’s just because of my dad?”
“No way. She wouldn’t risk her reputation recommending someone who couldn’t handle it.”
I nod, feeling a little easier. “And she wouldn’t offer it to you because you’re already a Bergen Scholar.”
He smiles, but it’s forced. I know Jace well enough to recognize the sudden tightness in
his shoulders.
“What?”
He shifts the backpack by his leg. “I would love for five minutes to go by without someone bringing that up.”
“Why?” I ask. “It’s a good thing.”
“But it’s not everything.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s going on? You’ve been so quiet. Even Dillon thinks—”
“I know what Dillon thinks, okay?” he snaps.
I stiffen. Jace flushes and looks away. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him pissed off before.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and ruffles his hair with nervous fingers. “It’s just turned into this big deal.”
“It is a big deal.” The Bergen Scholar is gifted every year to a student with remarkable potential. As long as Jace chooses an in-state university, the scholarship pays for tuition, books, a full year of study abroad, and a $500 stipend each semester. Plus, it’s like a banner on your resume screaming, Hire Me, Hire Me.
“I don’t know if it’s what I want.”
I blink, not sure I heard him. “What isn’t what you want? The scholarship? The money?”
He shifts on the couch so he’s facing out, his long legs angled wide, his hands rubbing the faded denim of his jeans. “All of it,” he says. “College.”
My mouth hangs open; I have no words. My brain feels blank. If anyone is made for college, it’s Jace. “When did this happen?”
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”
“For a while? Why didn’t you say something?”
“To Dillon?” He gives me a pointed look and I hate to admit it, but I know what he’s thinking. In Dillon’s mind it’s all settled. Jace will take the scholarship and go to ASU. They’ll play club baseball and study together and we’ll all go to Pizza Joe’s every Friday night. No wonder Jace has been acting weird all spring when the subject of next year comes up.
“You could have told me,” I say.
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