Burning the Map (2 page)

W
e purchase paper cups of beer from the McDonald's tucked in a corner of Piazza di Spagna. Beer at McDonald's—just another reason to love Italy. We carry them, looking for a seat on the Spanish Steps, a gorgeous run of wide stone stairs that's topped with a two-towered church and crowded with bushes and people.

“Basta,”
Sin keeps saying to the young boy of about fourteen who's tailing her and mumbling declarations of love in Italian.
“Basta!”

She loses him eventually, and we find an open spot on the steps. As I sit down behind Kat and Sin, I make sure to tuck my dress under my legs, but I know it makes little difference, since most of the men in the piazza are looking at us as if we're parading around naked. While this probably sounds unfeminist or downright sad, I rather like the ogling from the Italians, the crude sort of flattery that comes from their eyes so squarely on you that there's no hiding what they're thinking.

For the moment, Lindsey has dropped the diamond ear
ring interrogation, but I know Sin. She won't let it go for long.

“Get a load of those pants,” she says, jabbing Kat in the arm and gesturing to a woman in black leather pants and a flimsy camisole that shows off flawless breasts. “She'll sweat her ass off if she has one.”

Kat laughs, and she and Sin start talking, quietly pointing out one woman's shoes, another's dress, the distinguished man in the suit smoking a cigar. Talking about someone else—it's the way they always smooth over a rough spot. But it's also the game everyone immediately learns to play in Rome—gawk and be gawked at. Do it too much and you'll convince yourself you're the most poorly dressed person in the city. I'm glad to see Kat and Sin getting along. It'll be a much better trip for all of us if they do, but watching Kat's long, amber locks mix with Sin's short, dark hair as they tilt heads together and laugh only reminds me of hearing about Kat's birthday dinner after the fact.

I lean back and make myself take a deep breath. Light sparkles from the stars and the apartment windows overlooking the piazza, making the place look like a glittering movie set. The Spanish Steps had been a favorite hangout of mine when I lived here, and for a second, being back makes me feel like I did then—fairly confident and actually anticipating the future. Well, the immediate future, anyway. I don't want to think about my parents or even John, who I miss a bit already. I certainly don't want to think about the job that awaits me at Billings Sherman & Lott, one of those oh-so-cool firms featured in a Grisham novel. My law-type friends are green that I landed the gig, but I've been working there for a few months part-time, and the thought of going full-time feels oddly like a prison sentence.

“Case, come down here,” Sin says, reaching behind and grabbing my leg.

I scoot down the step as fast as if I'd been offered free shoes.
Once I'm level with them, the three of us huddle together, giggling like schoolgirls, talking about the cute guys and the great clothes until we're interrupted by a shout.

“Hey you! Americans?”

I glance down to see four men, all good-looking, who've just pulled up to the base of the steps. It was just a matter of time before this happened, especially since Kat is with us. All the guys are on very large, expensive-looking Vespa scooters, with the exception of one on a Pepto Bismol pink moped that's on its last legs. The leader of the pack, the one who called to us, is so gorgeous it's silly. He looks like an Italian poster boy—shiny black hair, deep-set liquid brown eyes, full pink lips, the works.

“Biscuit,” Kat says.

Biscuit
is Kat's irreverent word for a hot guy, or a hot boy for that matter, since she doesn't discriminate on the basis of age.

“How can you tell we're Americans?” Kat calls in her best come-hither voice, cupping a hand around her mouth.

“The most beautiful women are Americans.”

“Oh puh-lease,” Lindsey says, but Kat is sold.

“Come with me,” she whispers as she stands and throws her hair over her shoulders.

I glance at Lindsey, ready to say, “It'll be fine,” or some other platitude that she usually looks to me to provide when Kat is on the prowl and we're dragged along, but she doesn't turn to me this time. Instead, she mutters, “Jesus Christ,” and heads down the stairs.

We learn that Alesandro, the poster boy, had attended boarding school in London, hence his perfect English. His friends, Massimo and Francesco (of the lame moped), have quite good English, too, making it easy enough to talk. The fourth, Paulo, speaks no
Inglese
whatsoever, and he stands there kicking a foot back and forth while he watches the group. I make an effort to have a brief conversation with him
using the minimal Italian I've retained. Unfortunately I can't get past the, “How old are you?” “Where do you live?” stage.

“Why don't you ladies join us for a cappuccino? I know a very good coffee bar near the Pantheon,” Poster Boy says.

“As long as we can get food and beer there,” Kat says without a glance at Sin or me.

I smile at Sin, geared to reassure her, to tell her that they're just a bunch of harmless pretty boys as far as I can see, that we'll be perfectly safe. Again, her eyes don't seek mine. No conspiratorial grin comes my way.

Poster Boy makes room for Kat on his scooter, and Massimo, a tall, lean guy with an angular face who'd been making eyes at Sin, does the same for her. But she just stands there with a hand on her hip.

“Can we talk about this?” she asks Kat, who's already climbed behind Poster Boy. I take a step toward them, but neither seems to notice.

“Please,” Kat says, practically bouncing up and down on the seat. “We need to eat, so we might as well have them take us somewhere.”

“Any of them could be Italy's version of Ted Bundy,” Sin says.

Kat responds with a shout of laughter.

“Oh, all right.” Sin climbs cautiously on Massimo's scooter.

Poster Boy's machine roars to life, and he takes off with Kat, while Massimo and Sin follow closely behind. I watch them pull away, two trails of blue-gray smoke shooting from the scooters, Kat's hair flying in the wind.

I turn around and realize that I'm left there with Paulo and Francesco. I prefer to ride with Paulo, who has a state-of-the-art scooter that could fit a family of five, but he's facing in a different direction.

“He does not feel comfortable because of his English,” Francesco explains to me. He's a shorter, solid guy with inky-black, wavy hair and kind eyes.

Paulo and Francesco exchange a few words, and then Paulo is off. Francesco straddles his tiny pink moped, gives me a smile and waves his hand toward the two inches of space behind him as if he's inviting me into a palatial villa. I suck in my stomach, perch on the minuscule seat and hang on like hell.

 

I've always been the sane middle between Kat's desires run amok and Sin's inability to let hers run enough. The first time I knew I'd found my place was freshman year in college. I hadn't known them long, so I was more the type of friend who passes you a beer rather than one who holds your hair back when you throw up after too many. But they were tight. They'd known each other only six months longer, yet they gave the impression of having been friends since biblical times.

One night, though, something was off-kilter. They'd brought me along to a party given by some senior guys I thought were godlike at the time. The apartment was chock-full of smoke and people and Zeppelin music so loud you could feel the bass in your stomach. I walked into the kitchen to find Kat sitting at the table with two guys, a bottle of Jaegermeister between them. Though easily fifty pounds lighter, Kat was matching both guys shot for shot in some kind of contest. About eight people hung around the table chanting and cheering with each drink. Sin was one of them, but she stood slightly apart, her arms clamped over her chest, her face tense, eyes staring.

“Don't,” she said to Kat when another shot was poured, but Kat waved her away with a lazy arm that seemed to float.

I watched this for a minute. I don't know why Sin didn't speak up more, tell her to fucking knock it off, but that's how it is between those two. It's as if Sin can't comprehend Kat's behavior, or maybe she wishes she could be more like her.
Either way, at Kat's craziest moments, Sin seems to lose her usual strength and drop into the background.

I didn't know the whole pattern that night. I just saw one friend about to pass out on her face and another about to combust. So I leaned over Kat, poured a huge triple shot in the plastic cup she was using, and chugged it.

“There,” I said, trying not to gag. “She won.”

The guys protested, but the crowd around us burst into applause. I pulled Kat from the chair and out the door into a chilly Michigan night.

She slung her arms around my neck in a stumbling hug. “You're all right,” she said, her words a little slurry.

“Thanks,” Sin said, when she came out with our coats. She squeezed my hand and shot me an open, relieved kind of smile I'd never seen on her before.

I hadn't done much, at least I didn't think so at the time. But I had earned my role in our little group that night. I'd found my place.

 

The piazza surrounding the Pantheon is aglow in a warm, gold light that shines from the fountain in the middle. Francesco knows the owner of the bar and is able to get us a table just to the right of the fountain. Kat, Lindsey and I order Moretti beers, while Poster Boy orders cappuccinos for his crew.

Once we sit, Poster Boy places his arm around Kat in a way that strikes me as proprietary rather than friendly, but she doesn't seem bothered. She keeps touching him—her fingers grazing his hand, her head resting briefly on his shoulder—and even the way she gazes at him when he's talking seems more a stroke than a look. She's always been a flirt, but this is fast. Maybe it's the change of scenery, being on the other side of the pond for the first time.

I keep glancing at Sin to see if she's noticing this, but she seems more loosened up than usual, too. She asks the guys
questions about living in Italy and kids them about their need to tie sweaters around their shoulders.

Meanwhile, Francesco pays little direct attention to me, which is slightly insulting, but just fine, since I'm not looking to hook up. I let the conversation swirl around me while I stare at the Pantheon, a huge circular temple made of stone and cement. The interior design classes I took in college taught me that it's an engineering marvel because of the massive domed ceiling that lets light onto the marble floors, but what really baffles me is that it was originally built in 27
B.C
. Ironic, because it's now surrounded by cars and cell phones and platform sandals.

As a History Channel junkie, John would have loved it here if only he could have ripped himself away from the office for a few weeks. Lately, I've wondered if he enjoys his work more than he enjoys me. As I sip my beer, I start to review the moments we've spent together during the past few months, then going back further, to come up with the last time we'd had fun together, real fun, not just the getting-dressed-up-to-go-to-a-cousin's-wedding-and-drinking-bad-table-wine kind of fun. I want to remember the belly laughs, the accidental fun, the spontaneous good times at the end of an otherwise crappy day. We'd had those times at the beginning—the pub crawl we arranged with John's neighbors during a blizzard; the time John surprised me with a weekend trip to Manhattan because I was depressed about a bad grade; the New Year's Day that we drank every bit of leftover alcohol in his place and watched football and movies for fourteen hours. But where are those times lately? Absent, it seems, lost somewhere in the desire for career advancement and the late nights at the library.

“Casey,” Lindsey says, bringing me back to Rome, back to the now. “Ready to order dinner?”

I nod.

She leans across the table. “Are you okay?”

I haven't told Kat or Sin about the distance I feel growing between John and me, probably because a different kind of space has grown between them and myself as well. But now with Sin looking at me, some concern in her eyes, I wish that we were alone, just the three of us, so I could spill everything out—my parents' problems, this thing with John that I can't put my finger on, the way I'm terrified to start working for a living. But Massimo and Francesco turn to me, too, waiting for me to answer Lindsey's question, so I just nod again and take the menu from her hand.

Kat orders spaghetti carbonara, a rich, egg-filled pasta. She's one of those criminally thin people with a perpetually high metabolism. I opt for a light caprese salad to try to whittle away some of my post bar exam girth, and Lindsey orders the same. When the food comes, she offers bites to everyone at the table, although only Kat accepts. The tomato and mozzarella, dribbled with olive oil and sprinkled with basil, taste ridiculously fresh and healthy, two foreign concepts, since I subsisted the entire summer on various members of the Frito Lay family.

Once I'm finished, I notice that Francesco sits silently while Kat is busy making faces at Poster Boy. Lindsey, surprisingly, appears to be enjoying her conversation with Massimo. My side of the table is overly quiet except for the clinking of glasses from other diners and the lilting Italian music wafting from the bar.