A Little Too Far (9 page)

“I’ve got a date,” she says, sliding back into her chair with a self-satisfied grin on her face.

I roll my eyes again.

She smirks. “Don’t worry. We’ll find you a special someone too.”

We pay the check, and when we find the club, just a few blocks away, it’s already crowded. The techno-dance music is so loud I feel it shake the floor, vibrating up my legs and making me feel seasick.

Abby slithers her way between people to the bar in the back and orders us two beers. “I’m going to get pissed tonight,” she yells in my ear when she turns and hands me a mug. “Have a pint on me!” She pounds her entire beer in thirty seconds flat, then turns and orders another.

“What if your date shows up?” I ask.

“He damn well better. I’ve got plans for him.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” I ask, just now realizing she’s serious about this.

“Best sodding idea I’ve ever had,” she says, then pours half her new beer down her throat.

And then I get it. I lean closer so I don’t have to yell so loud. “Is this because of Grant?”

“Grant bloody who?” she scowls.

“Listen, Abby. Sleeping with this guy isn’t going to make Grant want you.”

She finishes the rest her second beer in one swallow. “I’m just sampling the local cuisine,” she says with a suggestive smile. “It’s got nothing to do with that wanker.”

She grabs my hand and drags me toward the mosh of undulating bodies near the DJ. We dance, and I’m a sweaty mess over an hour later when I see Abby’s Carabinieri moving through the crowd toward us. He’s traded his uniform for a white linen shirt that’s open at the collar and a pair of dark jeans. I’m only on my second beer, but Abby’s well on her way to getting “pissed,” so even when she sees him and stumbles into his arms, I don’t let her out of my sight. I back to the edge of the dance floor as they dance, their bodies grinding together, swaying slowly, even though it’s a fast song.

A tall, not-so-bad-looking guy comes up to me and starts shouting over the music in rapid Italian. By the way his eyes flicker between me and the mass of people on the dance floor, I think he’s trying to ask me to dance.

I squint apologetically at him. “I don’t speak Italian. Sorry.”

“Ah. You are American?” he asks with a thick accent.

I nod and when I look back at the dance floor, I see Mr. Carabinieri making a less-than-flattering face and holding Abby at arm’s length.

“Excuse me,” I say, pushing onto the dance floor. I realize Abby looks a little green as I get closer. “Are you okay?” I shout as I reach her.

“She is not well,” Carabinieri Boy says.

I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her to my side. “I should take her home.”

“No,” Abby slurs. She flops her head in the Carabinieri’s direction. “Marco.”

“Abby, just let me take you home,” I say, shooting a glare at Carabinieri Marco.

But just then, Abby lurches forward with a hand over her mouth. Marco drops her like a hot potato. I pull her to my side, and we just make it out the door when all six pints of beer and most of her dinner makes its reappearance.

I stand with her, one arm around her waist to hold her up and the other pulling back her hair, while she heaves onto the sidewalk.

“Where are my shoes?” she asks when her convulsions slow.

I look down as she backs away and see her bare feet are splattered with vomit. “I’ll buy you a new pair.”

She’s still staring at her feet. “Bloody shame. Those were my favorites.”

“Come on. I’ll take you home.”

She stands unsteadily, and we start in the direction of my apartment. Even though she puked up volumes of beer, she’s still pretty drunk. After a block, I’m mostly dragging her so I decide to take my life into my hands and hail a taxi. It’s not that far back to my apartment, but I’m not going to make it if I have to carry her. When we get there, I shove her ahead of me up the stairs and dump her on the love seat, then go to boil water for tea. I bring a wad of damp paper towels back with me while the water’s boiling and work on cleaning up her feet.

She kicks my hand away. “Where’s your loo?”

“Over there,” I say, pointing to the door in the corner.

She hauls herself up. “I’m going to shower.” That’s obviously the easiest answer to the puke-on-the-legs situation, so I don’t argue as she staggers across the room toward the bathroom, undressing as she goes. First, the short skirt hits the floor, then the halter, which leaves her in just her sheer lace thong. I try not to look until she closes the door, then I pick up the trail of clothes and fold them onto the arm of the love seat.

The water starts, and, after a minute, I hear Abby singing loudly and very off-key. The teapot whistles, and I head back to the kitchen and make us both a cup of tea. When Abby emerges from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, wrapped in my towel, she looks a thousand times better. And her eyes are a very natural pale gray.

“I’m knackered,” she says, combing her damp, black hair back with her fingers. “Where’s your bed?”

“Don’t you want some tea?” I ask.

She presses a hand to her stomach, and her face twists. “Things are still a bit touchy in that department.”

I nod and sip the last of mine, then put the cup next to hers on the end table. “It’s in here,” I say, moving past my dining-room table to the door up front. She follows me in, drops the towel to the floor, and crawls under my sheets, heaving an epic sigh.

I usually sleep naked, but I’m thinking with another naked girl in my bed, maybe not so much. I grab Trent’s T-shirt from the armoire and pull it over my head, inhaling deeply. His smell is almost gone from it.

I think Abby’s asleep when I come back from the bathroom and click off the light, but as I settle in next to her, I hear the rustle of sheets as she turns to face me. “Men are complete prats, the whole bloody lot of them.”

“I don’t know,” I muse, bringing Trent’s shirt to my nose again. “There might be one or two who redeem the whole bloody lot.”

Chapter Nine

I
T’S
D
-DAY.
I
’M
so nervous that I don’t really sleep that well and wake way before my alarm. I have class this morning, but I’m supposed to meet Alessandro at the Vatican at noon for our first tour. He thinks I know what I’m doing. I know he’s wrong.

I put on my smartest outfit: a blue blouse with a straight black skirt and low black pumps, then inspect myself in the mirror. Even though I look like someone’s grandmother, I decide it will have to do. I pack my things for school and my drawings and notes for the tour because I won’t have time to come home in between, and head to my favorite bakery for a currant croissant even though I’m not really hungry. I spill onto the sidewalk and hurry to class, but just as I’m walking into the building, my phone vibrates.

I press
CALL
and lift it to my ear, realizing in my panic this morning, I forgot to call Dad and Julie. “I’m sorry! I just—”

“Lex,” Trent slurs into the phone, stopping my words in my throat. “It’s me.”

“Hey,” I say, surprised. I do the math quickly in my head and realize it’s almost midnight there. “What’s up?”

“I just . . . shit Lexie . . .” He trails off, and there’s a lot of background noise—pounding music and people laughing and talking too loud.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Just a stupid par—” His voice breaks off, and there’s a loud thudding sound.

“Who are you talking to?” a slightly whiny girl’s voice asks in the background.

“Get off me and give me back the goddamn phone,” Trent slurs, his agitated voice coming from somewhere off in the distance.

“Who is this?” the girl asks into the phone.

“Trent’s sister,” I answer sharply. “Give him back the phone.”

“Whatever,” she says, then Trent’s voice is back.

“Lex? You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” I lean on the wall of the building and rub my temple, which is starting to pound. I want to climb through the airwaves between us and see him. “Are you okay?”

There’s a long pause, where all I can hear is the party noise. “I just needed to hear your voice,” he finally says. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I tell him, leaning harder into the building.

“I just . . . I want you so fucking much right now. Shit, Lexie. I can’t even . . .” He trails off again.

I close my eyes and focus on breathing. “You’re drunk, Trent. Where are you?”

“Just some friends of George’s apartment,” he slurs.

George is Trent’s wrestling partner, and despite the fact that he’s a scholarship athlete, he’s a serious tweaker.

“Are you okay to get home?” I ask. “Is there someone there who can help you get home?”

I hear another thud in my ear.

“Seriously, Becca. Get off me,” Trent says, his voice away from the phone. There’s some rustling and a muffled female voice, then the line goes dead.

I want to call him back, but what would I say? “I want you too?” Could I say it?

I will. If he calls back, I’ll tell him.

My heart pounds, and my hand starts to shake as I stare at my phone, willing it to ring. It doesn’t.

“He was just drunk,” I tell myself. “Drunk and horny. That’s all.”

Right? He just wants me because he’s drunk.

I start my feet moving into the building, and I’m late for my Renaissance class. For the rest of the morning, my head spins with what to do. I put my phone on my thigh and stare at it some more. I’m sure Trent is asleep now—probably passed out somewhere. I hope he’s not with that girl, Becca. Either way, I can’t call him back.

After class, I march across Trastevere to the Vatican and am actually early for a change. “I am so unprepared,” I whisper to Alessandro as we lead the first group of kids across the courtyard to Apollo.

He doesn’t answer but rests his hand on my back, and I instantly feel stronger. I force myself to stop chewing my cheek and try to tap into his serenity. He’s always so calm, and if there’s one thing I need right now, it’s to stay calm. I can’t dissolve into a writhing heap of giggles in front of fourteen twelve-year-olds and their nun teacher. I’ve spent the week since my meltdown working more on my composure than the material, which, as Alessandro pointed out, I already have in my head.

“I still think you should do this,” I tell him.

We reach the Apollo, and he grasps my hand. “You’ll be fine,” he whispers.

I breathe deep and turn to the group, who are gathering around the statue. “Hi, everyone. I’m Lexie, and this is the Reverend Moretti,” I say with a nod toward Alessandro. “Can everyone understand me?”

Most of the group nod.

“Their English is quite good,” their teacher, Sister Clarice says. She’s in the full nun getup, and it’s a little unnerving.

“Good,” I say with a nod. I look up at Apollo. “So does anyone know who this is?”

They all just stare at me blankly. So, I take that as a no.

“Who knows something about the Greek gods?” I ask.

A smallish boy in the back raises his hand.

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

“Antonio,” he says, very quietly.

He’s shy. I can tell by the way he sort of sinks into himself when there’s any attention on him, just like I used to do when I was his age.

I smile at him. “Have you ever heard of Apollo?”

Several other kids raise their hands, but I keep my eyes on Antonio. He nods.

“Do you know what he was the god of?”

He glances at his teacher, who nods her encouragement. He points up. “Sun.”

“Excellent, Antonio.” I give him a smile. “Apollo is the Greek god of sun and light, and a lot of other things as well. This statue of him has been here at the Vatican for over five hundred years, but it’s actually a copy of a much older statue, one that was made well over two thousand years ago.” I step aside to give the kids a look without me in the way. “Does anyone have any questions?”

No one does, so we start across the courtyard to Laocoön. I glance up at Alessandro, and he looks relieved. Probably because I made it through the whole Apollo spiel without melting down or mentioning genitalia.

By the time we get through the galleries to the Sistine Chapel, the kids have all started to warm up, asking questions and telling me the tidbits they know about the art. As they get more comfortable, they also get more curious, and it starts to feel a little like herding cats. I need both Alessandro and Sister Clarice to keep track of everyone.

The line for the chapel is long, as usual. As we move slowly down stairs that lead to the entrance, I tell them, “Inside the chapel, we’re not allowed to talk above a whisper, so I’ll give you these now.” I pull the copies of my sketches from my bag and hand them out. “On the ceiling, you’ll see a famous painting by Michelangelo. Your sketch matches a scene from the ceiling. I want you to find the scene, and when you do, show me what you have.”

We step through the door into the crowded chapel, and the same grumpy Swiss Guard who tried to throw me out a month ago is here. I swear he recognizes me because he follows me around, waiting for me to make a fatal mistake so he can boot my ass.

I try to lose him in the crowd, then I see Alessandro. He’s leaning a shoulder against the partition near the exit, one ankle crossed over the other and his hands tucked loosely into his slacks pockets. I make a beeline for him, and the Swiss Guard follows.

“Make him stop following me,” I hiss between my teeth when I reach Alessandro. I turn and smile sweetly at the guard as he approaches. When Alessandro doesn’t say anything, I give him a “go on, tell him,” glance. He tips his head at the guard as if to say, “keep an eye on her.” I turn and glare at him, and when he lifts an eyebrow at me, I want to rip it off his face. I spin and move through the horde toward Sister Clarice.

One by one, the kids come up to me with their sketches and point to the ceiling panel it matches. I whisper to each to look carefully at the scene and tell me what they think is happening in it. Some know their scripture, because they tell me about the Creation, Noah, and Adam and Eve, while others make up elaborate stories to go with their pictures. When they’ve all found their scene, I move them toward Alessandro at the exit.

He nods when we reach him.

I nod back.

We snake our little parade through the throng into St. Peter’s Basilica, and I lead them up all five hundred feet of central nave to the Papal Altar with the dome of St. Peter towering above it.

Once everyone is gathered, I turn to them. “What did you think of the ceiling in the chapel? Pretty amazing, huh?”

They all nod, and one girl holds up her sketch. “I want to paint this like Michelangelo.”

I smile. “You can take those home and paint them or color them or whatever you want. But did you know that Michelangelo didn’t really want to paint that ceiling?”

Many of them shake their heads.

“The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel was done by Michelangelo on orders from Pope Julius II. He tried to tell the Pope to get somebody else because he wasn’t a painter, but the Pope forced him to do it.” I glance at Alessandro to see if he’s pissed I just dissed a pope, but there’s an expression on his face that I can’t read at all.

I look back at the kids and scrunch my face. “Have your parents ever made you clean up your room?”

They all make faces and grumble.

“To Michelangelo,” I continue, “painting the Sistine Chapel was like having to do his chores. He considered himself a sculptor and an architect, not a painter. But . . .” I say, holding up a finger and smiling, “there is something he considered one of his greatest achievements, and it’s right here in this basilica. Does anyone know what it is?”

Several of them point behind us to the Pietà (which, admittedly, still makes me cream my knickers a little), but Antonio, the little shy boy who knew about Apollo, points straight up, and his eyes brighten.

I take a few steps toward him. “Tell us what you’re pointing to, Antonio.”

“The dome,” he says with an almost smile.

“You are absolutely right. St. Peter’s Basilica is so big that it took 120 years to build it. No person can live that long, right?”

A group nod.

“So, they went through a lot of architects before the basilica was finished. Michelangelo was one of them, and he’s the one who figured out how to stack a bunch of really huge rocks into the shape of an enormous dome and not have them fall down—because if the dome fell on the Pope, that would really suck, right?”

Another group nod, and a few stifled giggles.

I can’t believe these kids are so interested. And I can’t believe how much fun I’m having. I’m so full of nervous giddiness, I have to force myself to slow down my speech so these poor kids can keep up. “The dome of St. Peter’s was one of Michelangelo’s last masterpieces, and he didn’t even live to see it completed. He designed it in 1547, and he died in 1564. Stories say he was making changes to the design on his deathbed. The dome wasn’t completed until 1590.”

“Can we climb?” a boy shouts, pointing to some people walking along the viewing platform on the first ring of the cupola, 250 feet above our heads.

“We will climb on another day,” Sister Clarice says, and a few of the kids grumble while a few others squeal.

“There is one other great work of Michelangelo’s in St. Peter’s, and many of you pointed to it earlier,” I say, turning and leading them toward the Pietà. As we get close, I tell them, “Michelangelo carved this sculpture, the Pietà, depicting Mary and Jesus after the crucifixion, when he was only twenty-three. How old are you guys?”

“Twelve!” someone shouts.

“Really? I thought you were at least twenty,” I say, looking out over them. “So . . . maybe not quite yet, but in a few years, do you want to try to carving something like this?”

“Too hard,” a boy right up front says. He’s leaning over the rail to get a closer look.

“This was Michelangelo’s passion, though, so to him, it wasn’t hard work. Name one thing you love to do.”

“Football!” the boy up front says. A few others yell some things in Italian, and I swear I hear Warcraft from someone.

“Would some people consider what you love to do hard work?”

The boy pushes off the railing and faces me. “Yes, if they weren’t a good footballer.”

“Is it hard for
you
?” I ask, tipping my head toward him and smiling.

“Not really,” he says, puffing out his chest.

“So, when you’re doing something you love, sometimes it doesn’t
feel
hard, even if it is. That’s how Michelangelo felt about sculpture.”

Some of them are beaming at the Pietà, as if they’re dying to give it a try. I hope some of them do. (Not that I’m suggesting it’s a good idea for a bunch of twelve-year-olds to go home and take sharp things to a block of marble. But maybe with clay.) Others are looking around the cavernous space in awe. And the little boy, Antonio, is looking at me. He makes his way slowly through the group and stops in front of me. “I want to build churches,” he whispers. He looks toward the center of the church, up at the monstrous dome. “I want to build domes like Michelangelo.”

I lean into the marble rail next to him. “Then I think you should. If you love something, and you’re willing to work for it, your dreams can come true.”

He smiles.

I smile.

When I look up at Alessandro, he’s leaning against the far wall with his hands in his pockets, one ankle crossed over the other. I’m not even sure he’s paying attention.

Everyone says their good-byes, and I wave as the kids file out of the basilica behind Sister Clarice.

Alessandro makes his way through the crowd to where I am. “Come with me,” he says, then turns and walks briskly toward the exit.

I don’t follow. Instead, I ball my hands on my hips, and shout, “That’s it? No ‘Wow, Lexie, that was really great.’ Or, ‘Gee, Lexie, you pulled that off despite yourself.’ ”

He turns and levels me in his gaze. “Gee, Lexie, you pulled that off despite yourself.”

I’m not going to let his accent throw me, so I ignore the tingle in my stomach. “I swear to Go—” I catch myself, but not before Alessandro lifts an eyebrow at me. I storm over to him and get in his face. “Listen, Reverend, if I didn’t think this was my only chance not to burn in hell for what I did, I’d be so out of here.” That’s a total lie. I’m here for the art. But admitting that doesn’t buy me any leverage.