Enemies Abroad, Page 3

  This…this is nothing short of torture.

  “Ms. Cohen, I think I forgot my passport!”

  “Ms. Cohen, how long is the flight again?”

  “Ms. Cohen, I have to pee! I swear it’s an emergency this time!”

  I remind Lizzy that I collected everyone’s passports back at the ticket counter for safekeeping. I inform Zach that the flight is just over eight hours. I point Isaiah toward the bathroom behind us, and just like that, the fires are put out. Just in time for ten more to ignite.

  Noah and I were supposed to have ten students with us, but one girl got mono last minute (thank god) and had to drop out. Altogether, we’ve got Lizzy, Kylie, Millie, and Alice. Then, acting as if the girls don’t exist, there’s Brandon, Lee, Chris, Zach, and Isaiah. Because of Instagram, I know there are thirteen-year-olds parading around with better hair and makeup than me. These are not those kids. These are quintessential middle schoolers with oily foreheads and mouths full of braces. The girls are all a head taller than the boys, who are still soft-cheeked and mid-pubescent. There’s an unspoken uniform the kids adhere to. For the girls, it’s a pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt. The boys wear shirts for various sports teams and cargo shorts. God knows what they keep in all those pockets.

  We arrive at the terminal early, and it’s my doing. I have a healthy fear of being late for flights, and I knew our group would hit roadblocks along the way. Back outside on the curb, parents lingered, cried, kissed, and hugged their children so long airport security had to come shoo everyone out of the drop-off lane. The TSA security checkpoint came with its own set of nightmares: triple-knotted Skechers that refused to come off, one kid’s overladen cargo shorts fell down when he removed his belt for the scanner, and don’t get me started on all the oversized bottles of hair gel. Not my Axe Body Spray! It’s brand new! It took nearly forty minutes to get us all through the metal detectors, and then I got suckered into letting everyone browse through a convenience store for snacks and magazines. After slapping a bag of Chex Mix against Noah’s chest to repay my debt, I kept careful track of the time on my watch, worried we were lingering too long, but now here we are, at the gate an hour before our flight.

  “You did it. You managed to get us here before the plane. Feel better?” Noah asks, tilting his bag of Chex Mix toward me in invitation.

  I reach in for a little brown crispy thing—arguably the best part of any snack mix—and eat it in two anxious bites. My stomach can’t handle anything more.

  “I’ll feel better once we’re in Rome.”

  I’m not exactly relaxed by nature. I like plans, protocols, schedules, minute-by-minute itineraries. I’ve made one for today, and I have it printed and tucked into the ID holder attached to the lanyard around my neck.

  “What’s that say we’re supposed to do now?” Noah asks, pointing a pretzel at my chest.

  He’s teasing, but still, I check.

  In neat computer print, it reads: 6:10 to 7:10 PM - Wait quietly at the terminal.

  Then, we’re supposed to board the flight, and we do, precisely on time. I count our nine students before they step onto the plane and after they take their seats, and I’ll continue to do so every hour, on the hour throughout the duration of the flight. Don’t ask me why. I’ve tried to reason with myself that children can’t get lost on an airplane, but if you’ve ever been charged with taking care of a bunch of thirteen-year-olds, you know Murphy’s law applies. Anything that can go wrong, will. “Ma’am, one of your students has climbed out onto the wing of the aircraft and we need you to go retrieve him.”

  It’s not like I was going to be able to sleep much during the flight anyway. There’s a lot going on in my head right now: I’m excited to be leaving the country for the first time, anxious about how the kids will act during the flight, annoyed that Noah and I are seated right next to each other.

  “You know, you could switch with one of them,” I tell him.

  He looks up from his book, lazily following the direction of my pointed finger.

  Across the aisle, there are two guys who both seem relatively harmless. One is young and cute. He looks up, sees me, and smiles. The other one is sweaty and coughing and keeps rudely pestering the flight attendant about bringing him a drink. I don’t care who I end up with as long as it’s not Noah.

  “I’m fine,” Noah says, returning to his book.

  I sigh and go back to my task at hand: opening and closing my tiny window shade. One moment, I can see the 757 parked beside us. The next, beige plastic. Then, the 757 slides back into view.

  Noah, having reached his limit, reaches over and puts his big hand on top of mine.

  “You’re driving me insane.”

  “Good. Switch seats.”

  He sighs and leans back, closing his book. I see the front cover. Capital in the Twenty-First Century by Thomas Piketty.

  “Who’s Thomas Piketty?” I ask.

  “A French economist.”

  “Oh my god. You chose a book about economics for your in-flight entertainment? If I didn’t think you were a complete psychopath before this, I do now.”

  “Are you almost done with your little meltdown? They’re going to drag you out of here in handcuffs soon if you don’t chill out.”

  I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts and tell myself to calm down. It’s just a quick flight. A hop, skip, and a jump over the Atlantic and then I’ll be alone in Rome with Noah and a gaggle of youths I have to keep track of. My panic only multiplies.

  Dear god, what have I done?

  Chapter Four

  Men have the uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere, at any time.

  Noah’s out five minutes after takeoff.

  Now, a few hours into our flight, his head slips down the seat and lands on my shoulder, and I resist the urge to nudge him off me. I tell myself he needs the sleep. That way, at least one of us will be well rested when we touch down in Italy. But actually, the weight of his head on my shoulder is helping calm my anxiety. Human touch will do that, I suppose. Any human, even Noah. It doesn’t hurt that his hair smells nice. It’s that perfect pine fresh scent companies use to exploit women’s ovaries.

  With the brightness on my phone dimmed as much as possible, I practice my Italian on Duolingo, proud of myself for having learned at least a few basic phrases before the trip.

  Hello. Ciao.

  Where is the bathroom? Dov'è il bagno?

  The children have gone missing. I bambini sono scomparsi.

  Eventually, I do manage to take a quick nap during the flight. Like a toddler on a long-haul road trip falling asleep five minutes from their final destination, I’m jolted awake by the sound of the captain telling us to prepare for landing.

  I reorient myself, blinking sleep from my eyes, trying to will the impending headache away when I register the overwhelming smell coming from the seat behind me.

  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 copi
ous 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.

  St. Cecilia’s International School is in the historic center of Rome, and though I imagine it’s normally packed to the gills with faculty and students, now that it’s summer time, the school has emptied and opened its doors for small study abroad programs like ours.

  We’ll have free use of the school’s facilities along with one other school, and from the looks of it, they’ve beat us here.

  At my age, I like to think I’ve cultivated a healthy amount of confidence, but when I look over at the students from Trinity Prep who’ve gathered near the fountain in the courtyard, I have a weird guttural fear that I’m about to get shoved into a locker.

  Damn they’re cool.

  They can’t be older than fourteen, yet they could all easily pass for the cast of Gossip Girl. They’re wearing their school’s uniform—Trinity’s logo embroidered on their breast pockets—but they’ve adapted it, of course. A few undone buttons, a pair of chunky boots, and is that…a cigarette?! No. Just a pen.

  My students are in awe of them as we pass by.

  I hear Isaiah whisper to Zach, “That girl is so hot.”

  The Trinity girls see Noah and immediately perk up. One nudges her friend to get her attention so she doesn’t miss him.

  He’s none the wiser. His arms are so overloaded with luggage. Sweat has his shirt sticking to his chest. I want to be repulsed, but I can’t quite force the feeling.

  I can feel when the Trinity students turn their attention to me. I’m their worst nightmare come to life: a boring adult. It must be terrifying to see me in my non-designer shorts and white t-shirt. My sneakers—though trendy—were picked because of their arch support. I’m still wearing my lanyard with my itinerary. And oh yeah, I’m bleeding.

  We make it to the entrance of the school, and Noah ushers the students inside.

  They don’t fight to stay out in the courtyard with the cool kids because the lobby is a wonderfully cold refrigerator compared to the streets of Rome. Every student sighs in relief as they shuffle past me, wiping sweat from their brows.

  Unlike the students outside who seem extremely wealthy and privileged and probably bored by everything, my students are in awe of this place.

  It’s fancy with a capital F. Nothing like schools in America.

  The front foyer is made up entirely of black and white marble, and in the center of the room, there’s a cluster of three statues that I suspect are copies of Greek originals. They’re amazingly detailed.

  “This place is like a museum,” Lizzy says, stepping closer to the statues.

  “That’s because it used to be one,” I tell her, explaining how the school was originally home to a cardinal before being turned into a museum for a few years in the early ’90s.

  “Cardinals…like the baseball team?” Zach asks, frowning in confusion.

  “No, like the bird, you idiot,” Brandon says with a Get a Load of This Kid eyeroll. “Yes, of course the baseball team. How do you think the guy could afford this place?”

  I grin.

  “Actually, neither. A cardinal is the most senior member of the clergy of the Catholic Church, second only to the pope. After the cardinal passed away, this building was used as a museum for a brief period, then it was gifted to the school, and now, here we stand, a part of Roman history.”

  I think I have them on the edge of their proverbial seats—a regular Ms. Frizzle—and then Isaiah nudges Brandon, points to the statue closest to him, and loudly whispers, “I can see his butt.”

  The students erupt into laughter.

  Right, well, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

  “All right,” Noah says, stepping up and grabbing everyone’s attention. “No offense, but there’s some major body odor coming from this group. Let’s find our rooms so everyone can unpack and rinse off.”

  For once, I think Noah is brilliant.

  We trek up the central staircase with our luggage, and the children follow closely behind.

  “Do you guys think this place is haunted?” Lizzy asks, looking up at the dark corners of the hallway as if to confirm there’s nothing about to jump out and scare her.

  “Oh definitely. I bet the cardinal’s dead corpse wanders the halls at night,” Brandon says, his eyes alight with possibilities.

  Lee rolls his eyes. “Let’s show some respect toward the dead.”

  “Why? The cardinal can’t hear us,” Brandon says, turning back to Lizzy. “Or can he?” His voic
e has taken on the classic ghoulish “oOoOo” lilt.

  Then Isaiah, capitalizing on Lizzy’s fear, jumps out from behind a column and shouts, “Boo!” at the top of his lungs.

  Lizzy, poor thing, jumps out of her skin and scoots closer to Kylie, linking their arms.

  “Lizzy, there’s nothing to fear here,” Noah tells her. “If you want to visit the dead, you’ll have to go to the Capuchin Crypt.”

  As expected, the students immediately stop and spin around to face Noah, their eyes wide with curiosity. I, reluctantly, pause to hear him too.

  “What’s that?” Isaiah asks, edging closer.

  “A group of tiny chapels located beneath a Roman church. It contains the skeletal remains of 3,700 friars.”

  “Are you serious?” Zach asks.

  “Dead serious.”

  His little joke goes over their head, but I smirk at the floor.

  “Capuchin monks had a long tradition of hanging their dead brothers to dry. Their crypt, now open to the public, is filled with still-clothed skeletons. The monks describe it as a space in which to reflect on the visitor’s own mortality and thus atone for their sins.”

  “Wicked,” Zach says.

  “Gross!” Kylie protests.

  “‘What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.’”

  The quote is spoken by an Italian-accented voice behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see a man approaching from down the hall.

  He’s well-dressed in slacks, brown leather oxfords, and a button-down shirt with rolled sleeves. He’s extremely handsome. His wide-set jaw balances perfectly against his sharp cheekbones and thick dark brows. His brown eyes complement his olive skin.

  He reaches our group and his gaze lands on me, narrowing only slightly, possibly with intrigue before he smiles at everyone.