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Brandon is tucking into a foot-long Slim Jim, and when he sees my head poking over the top of the seat, he tilts it toward me.
“Want a bite?”
There’s absolutely nothing I want less.
“No thank you.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Then, I remember the rest of the kids. I haven’t checked on them in an hour! I leap up out of my seat, groan when my seatbelt bites into my hips, clumsily undo the metal buckle, and then scramble to count everyone. All nine students are sitting right where they should be like perfect little angels.
Huh.
Maybe this won’t be so bad.
Maybe this is going to be the European holiday I’ve always dreamed of.
Cut to screeching traffic, heat so stifling I can barely breathe, and a long string of curse words I’m forced to stifle for the sake of the children.
Getting from the airport to the Italian school where we’re boarding should have been easy. We pre-booked a car service. A Sprinter van should have been idling at the curb with a genial Italian driver sitting behind the wheel, but no. After copious bathroom breaks, snack breaks, and shoe-tying breaks, we leave the airport with all our luggage in tow, only to find no van waiting for us.
No worries.
I point everyone toward a cluster of benches and tell them to take a seat as I call the car company to get answers. The person on the other end of the line only speaks choppy English. After a drawn-out conversation where we both think the other person will suddenly become bilingual if only we just talk veryyyy slooowwwllyy, I understand only four words: too busy, no car.
Right. Okay. We’ll improvise. Unfortunately, taxis aren’t an option because we’d have to split the group in three and we only have two adult chaperones, but Rome has subway systems. A gal from the northeast knows how to handle a subway.
And to be fair, it’s not the subway that causes problems; it’s the getting to and from the subway that throws us for a loop: the luggage, the teenage annoyance, the constant “Keep up, everyone,” the blistered heels, and the heat. THE HEAT.
Rome is almost unbearably hot in the summer. I knew that going into this, but it’s another thing to experience it. There’s moisture collecting on my brow and dripping down my back as I lug my suitcases down the streets. I am in Rome (holy crap!) but there’s no real appreciation for the city. There’s no way to take in the sights. I have one goal and it’s to get these kids and all our luggage to the school in one piece.
I don’t even have the energy to pick a fight with Noah. He’s actually being helpful.
Sensing every time I’m about to lose it, he’s the one to lead the group, take another suitcase from a student to lighten their load, encourage us all to keep moving.
When we’re almost to our destination, I turn to give the group a big We Can Do It smile, and in that precise moment, I lose my footing and trip over a suitcase, going down with my limbs flailing. I mostly land on my suitcase—thank goodness—but my right knee scrapes on the sidewalk enough that it starts to bleed.
Noah’s there immediately. “Sit down and let me take a look.”
I shoo him away. “No. It’s all right. We’re almost there—let’s not stop now. It’s really not that bad.”
I chance a quick glance down and blanch as I see the blood dribbling down my shin. It’s slightly worse than I originally thought, but my leg would have to be falling off before I let it deter me from my end goal. According to my phone’s directions, of which I understand very little, we should be at the school at any moment. In fact, there’s a chance we passed it and didn’t notice. Oh Jesus. What if we’ve led a group of middle schoolers on a wild goose chase around Rome? What if I’m not cut out for this chaperoning gig?
“There! That’s the school!” Lizzy shouts, and I whip around to see where she’s pointing. Sure enough, there’s a small placard half hidden behind overgrown purple bougainvillea that reads: St. Cecilia’s International School.
I could weep.
The small boarding school is straight out of a Renaissance painting. When we pass through a small gate off the street, we enter a square cobblestone courtyard. On three sides, the three-story marble building surrounds us with all the hallmarks of classic Roman architecture: symmetrical design, arches, columns, and ornamental details carved right into the stone. On the second story, a deep balcony runs along the length of the courtyard with potted trees and flowering vines, and already I’m imagining myself sipping coffee and reading there in the mornings before the heat creeps into the city. I might be able to trick myself into thinking I’m in Rome on a fancy holiday. Noah, meanwhile, is imprisoned for some heinous crime.
