Instructions for a Broken Heart (14 page)

“Your mother?”

He mimed the frog bobbing along, a big goofy smile on his face.

“Francesca’s your mom!”

He nodded, returning to his pasta.

Jessa took another small sip of wine, a smile pulling at her mouth. “OK. Interesting. But she doesn’t look like that. At least not the smiling part.”

“Yes. My mother could smile more.”

His smile was like something in one of the fountains, lit and otherworldly and maybe, at the edges, a little sad.

***

Rome buzzed with the night, something alive and electric as she walked with Giacomo back toward the bus. She had never had dinner for three hours before—pasta and lamb, gelato drizzled with strawberry sauce, a sweet dessert wine in tiny, smoky glasses. Jessa wasn’t much of a drinker. Was always happy to be designated driver at her friend’s parties. As they walked, the wine whirled about her head, drawing a dreamy cloak behind her eyes. And she had never eaten lamb before, was actually fundamentally against lamb. A baby sheep—who ate that? But it had been seasoned with what could only be herbs grown in heaven and marinated in something smoky and dark.

She felt a little criminal eating it.

On their way out of the restaurant, she realized she had left Carissa’s envelope on the table. She didn’t go back for it. Didn’t care if it ended up in the bottom of a garbage can filled with congealing noodles and leftover salad.

She laced her arm through Giacomo’s, the sounds of water from the fountains filling her ears, and tried to watch him without him noticing. Giacomo was eighteen. Amazing. He could pass for his early twenties. Jessa had always been jealous of her friends who could pass for older. Last summer, she had been carded for a PG-13 movie, which made her want to rip off the ticket-window glass and strangle the little idiot selling tickets who was like fifty years old. PG-13? Sean had not stopped laughing through the entire previews. “Why don’t you call Maisy and see if she can come down and get you into the movie,” he’d said, slurping his soda. She’d thrown most of her popcorn at him and moved three seats away. Not funny. OK, sort of funny, but the worst thing was she’d had to use her school ID card to prove she was in high school. Idiot troll working at the movie theater when he was fifty. But Jessa knew she looked young. Something her mother always told her she’d be grateful for when she was thirty. Whatever.

Giacomo didn’t seem to find her young.

“Oh, I want to show you this.” He unwound his arm, grabbed her hand, and pulled her toward a side street.

Her heart began to pound. Was he going to kiss her? He would, right? She licked her dry lips, brushed at some strands of hair that had fallen from her ponytail. She really, really wished her hair wasn’t in a ponytail. She probably did look thirteen.

The side street was suddenly quiet, the air still and shadowed.

Her heart skipped. Maybe she shouldn’t be heading down this street with a total stranger—an Italian stranger, who had been kicked out of school. Why had he said he’d been kicked out of school? Narrow minds. What did that mean? What if people were narrow minded about him killing people?

He led her down the little street, the buildings pressed a bit too snug next to each other. Jessa eyed the balconies overhead, the hanging plants and pots of flowers, their petals velvet with night. From one of the windows, an opera played and its steady, lilting sound made her think of the Sarah Brightman she’d been listening to earlier that day, the way her voice always made Jessa feel like nothing in the world could go truly wrong, not when a voice like that existed.

“Here.” Giacomo motioned to the outside of a small café, closed for the night, tables and chairs pulled inside and stacked. “What do you think?”

“Um…” Jessa hesitated, not quite sure what she was being asked to look at.

“The mural.” He gestured to the wide, modern fresco on the café wall. In the painting, the earth seemed to split behind a shadow of cloud, spilling curls of color in a sunburst, almost a spiral toward a black, starry background.

“It’s beautiful.” Jessa stepped back, trying to take it all in, but the narrow space didn’t allow her to look at the whole thing at once.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s not the best space. You should stand back farther. Yes.” He shook his head, bit his lip.

“It’s yours?” Jessa watched him study the wall.

“Yes. Mine. And my friend, Aaron. He does most of the original design and I’m the color, the brush.” He squinted, frowned at a small patch of graffiti on one side of the mural, said something in Italian Jessa was pretty sure she wouldn’t find in her guidebook.

“It’s wonderful.” Jessa felt the color escaping from the wall even in the darkness, the passion in the brushstrokes. “It has amazing energy.”

He snapped his fingers, smiling at her widely. “Yes, energy! That is what we wanted. I knew you would see it.”

She grew warm, his compliment like a towel just out of the dryer wrapped around bare skin. She took his hand again. “You’re very talented.”

He flushed. “Grazie.”

Jessa checked her watch. “The bus!” She dropped Giacomo’s hand.

She was more than twenty minutes late.

***

“Nice of you to join us.”

Jessa slid into the seat next to Dylan Thomas, pausing at the snip in his words. “I lost track of time.” She settled her bag on her lap.

His eyes strayed to where Giacomo was in a heated whispery discussion with Francesca at the front of the bus.

“We didn’t do anything,” she added, feeling oddly self-conscious.

Dylan Thomas plugged up his ears with his iPod and stared out the window as the bus began to pull away into the night.

“Hey…” she started, reaching out to touch his arm, but he didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice, and she decided not to indulge it. She rested her head against the back of the seat, her body light and floaty. Several seats away, Sean turned and studied her, then folded his arms across his chest, slumping into his own seat. Even with two mad boys, Jessa could only smile into the warm glow of Rome.

Jessa woke suddenly—breaking glass, shouting. She sat up, rubbed her eyes. In the bed next to her, Lizzie fumbled for her glasses on the side table, knocking them to the ground. Jessa slipped out of bed, picked them up, and handed them back.

“Shanks,” Lizzie said, her voice thick with sleep, and mumbled something that sounded like, “Blind shout shasses toncats,” which Jessa assumed had something to do with being blind without her glasses or contacts. Jessa’s mom was the same way.

Another shattering of glass. The shouting seemed clearer, as if the voices were coming down the hall.

Jessa, with Lizzie on her heels, cracked the door open an inch and stared into the dim light of the hallway.

Cruella stood in a glittering ring of glass, like some sort of witch in a trance. Her husband, looking rumpled and small in striped pajamas, was pleading with her. “Please just come back to the room…”

“I hate it here!” she howled, and Jessa realized she would have to concede screechdom to this woman. Her pitch must be what broke all that glass.

Lizzie, attempting to get a better look over Jessa’s shoulders, leaned into her, but not before Jessa could get her footing and the two of them toppled into the hallway.

Cruella and the world’s most boring world history teacher suddenly took in their audience. “Go back to bed, girls…It’s fine,” Bob started. Cruella held a crumpled tissue to her face.

“Um,” Lizzie said fully awake now, her voice small and airy. “Do you need something…Can we get you something?”

Cruella’s eyes fell like embers on them. “You and your horrible friends have done enough, thank you very much.” She reached for her husband, who took her arm, and started to step carefully over the glass—a water glass from the looks of it. Jessa and Lizzie both had one by their bedsides.

Jessa studied Cruella—the mascara-streaked face, the deep orange silk of her kimono robe, the pale, thin legs. A rotting pumpkin of a woman.

“Why do you think that is?” Jessa heard herself asking, felt Lizzie’s wide eyes on her.

Cruella turned. “Excuse me?” She drew herself up tall, the way some women could, made herself a few inches taller as if her skin expanded like a cobra’s.

“Why do you think they’re hard on you?” Jessa swallowed, her heart racing.

“Hard on me?” Cruella took a step toward her, and Jessa’s feet cemented themselves to the floor. She was not afraid. OK, yes she was. She couldn’t move out of fear. But Cruella didn’t need to know that. “Those children aren’t hard on me. They are vicious. They’ve ruined my Italian experience. My whole life I’ve dreamed of Rome and now…I am going to demand a full refund.”

She was very close to Jessa now. Only a few feet away. Bob stood behind her, his eyes on the floor. Jessa could feel Lizzie behind her, hear her breathing, low and steady.

Jessa locked eyes with Cruella. “My grandmother would say you’re the kind of person who can’t find something sweet in a candy store.”

Lizzie let out a surprised laugh.

Cruella’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“In fact,” Jessa continued, her voice taking on the edge of the glass on the floor. “If I were you, I would start to wonder, Why do all the bad things keep happening to me all the time? Why is everything so awful? Everything. Think about it. I mean, you know what flies are attracted to?” And then Jessa answered her own question.

Lizzie gasped.

Cruella’s face drained of color. Jessa had heard about that happening, had seen people go pale before, but she had never seen a face drain of color the way Cruella’s just had, like the last bit of water before the tub sucked it down.

Cruella’s skin expanded again and she took a darting step forward, a white striking snake, and for a sliver of a second Jessa thought Cruella might hit her.

But then something weirder happened.

Cruella smiled at her. Not a creepy Joker-from-
Batman
sort of smile, not Wicked Witchy at all. Something else, something like water. Too sweet, too sad—laced with something distant, something that must be memory. The whole of it made Jessa wish Cruella had just hit her.

“You’re young,” Cruella whispered, smoothing the kimono over her stomach, studying the diamond on her finger. “You still get to throw drinks at boys and have your whole life ahead of you. Just wait.”

Bob knelt down and started to collect the glass, using the front of his pajamas like a little basket.

Cruella took careful steps around the glass, around him, and disappeared down the hall.

Jessa and Lizzie both bent to help him, the clear shards like ice.

“Don’t, girls.” He didn’t lift his gaze to them. “Please. Just go back to bed.”

***

Mr. Campbell asked Lizzie if he could switch places with her for a minute. She nodded, gathered up the novel she was reading, and let him sit down next to Jessa on the bus.

Jessa pulled her eyes from the view, the pasture land washed clean with last night’s rain, the chocolate-brown horses dotted against the deep green of their fields, the small houses creamy in the morning light. They headed toward Pompeii, had left the hotel at five-thirty that morning, half asleep and gauzy eyed.

She stopped the
Rent
on her iPod, waiting for her teacher to say something.

“You finish Joyce?” He nodded toward the closed novel on her lap.

“Almost. His language is so incredible. I love it.” She ran her hand over the cover of the book.

“I knew you would.” He rubbed his hands on his jeans, staring at the seat back. “OK, so we have a situation.”

Jessa nodded. She felt the pull of the bus beneath her, the ebb and shift of its wheels over the black highway.

“Gwen, Bob’s wife, from the other group, said you swore at her last night. Said you said some pretty awful stuff. I told her she must have that wrong.” Mr. Campbell looked sideways at her. “Does she have that wrong?”

Jessa turned in her seat so she could look at him directly. “No.”

He gave a low whistle through his teeth. “Well, Ms. Gardner, you’re having quite a trip. You want to tell me what happened?”

She told him, noticing the slow rub of his temples after the last part.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes studying the silhouette of Stephen on the cover of the novel in her lap. Sometimes, she felt like she existed as shadow, as if the world could only really see a chalk outline of her, couldn’t see anything real.

“Well,” Mr. Campbell sighed after a moment. “She’s gone back home. To California. Taking a flight from Rome later today. She won’t be on the trip anymore. All I can say is, thank God for Jason.”

“Who’s Jason?”

“The other teacher in their group.” Mr. Campbell motioned toward Quiet Guy, squinting at Jessa that way her mom did when Jessa had a fever. “He’s pretty much their lone adult on the trip. Anyway, Francesca said that Gwen’s claiming emotional distress. Not just you. The whole group. But we’ll have to document her actions, report to the guys who run this tour.” He paused, then said quietly. “I’ll be saying that you two exchanged words in the hall after she broke a glass and screamed at her husband, woke you guys in the middle of the night, but I’ll leave out what you said. It was late. People are tired. Lizzie will confirm that.”

Jessa’s face went hot. “It’s OK. I know what I said. I can take responsibility for it.”

“Jess,” Mr. Campbell said, his voice sounding tired. “I talked to Francesca. She feels like you guys have taken on enough already with this woman. It’s just a report.”

“But her husband was there…”

Mr. Campbell interrupted her. “Here’s the thing: he’s not saying anything one way or the other. Said he doesn’t really remember what was said. Said you girls were ‘within your rights of self-expression.’ Those exact words.”

“He said that?”

Mr. Campbell nodded. “Gwen’s apparently had problems on other tours. Francesca talked to some friends of hers in England who had her on a trip last fall. She has a history.”

“Poor Bob.” Jessa let her gaze slip to the front of the bus where Bob sat, shoulders sagging, his eyes ahead on the road. Then she remembered Cruella’s sad, distant face. “I feel sorry for both of them.”

Mr. Campbell shrugged. “Everyone has to make their own choices.” But she could tell he felt sorry for them too. It was hard not to heap pity on people who just kept electing to be miserable.

Jessa watched her teacher move back to his seat, letting Lizzie out first. Lizzie plopped into the seat next to her and flipped open her novel. “You OK?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Jessa plugged herself back into
Rent
. Outside, the landscape shifted, the sky lit in places, dark in others, a glow coming from some hidden sun.

She studied Sean asleep several rows ahead, head back, mouth slightly open, face slack. For the first time since landing in Italy, she didn’t really miss him at all.

***

“Where have you been?” Jessa found Tyler leaving the little store with two panini wrapped in white paper. They’d stopped in a tree-dotted town to stretch their legs and get some snacks, and they had five more minutes before they had to be back on the bus and on their way. Jessa had been looking all over for Tyler.

He closed the door behind him. “Cameron and I went for a quick walk.”

“I need to talk to you.” She could see Cameron waiting by the bus, sipping from her water bottle.

“OK,” he said distractedly, his eyes smiling at Cameron.

“Are you paying attention?” Jessa heard the creak of irritation in her voice.

His eyes slipped back to her, shadowing. “OK, that’s a tone I don’t love.”

“Sorry, but you’ve been completely MIA.” Suddenly warm, Jessa swept her hair off her neck, fastened it back into a ponytail.

“MIA? Are you serious?”

She had his full attention now but couldn’t remember exactly what it was she was going to tell him. Something about Sean? It had seemed urgent. “Um, it’s just…you’ve been kind of distant with me lately.”

Clearly the wrong thing to say. Tyler’s eyebrows shot up. “Distant?”

“Forget it.” She turned and started to head back toward the bus.

“You know what? No.” Tyler was suddenly standing in front of her, all black jacketed and eyes flaring. “You’re telling me
I’ve
been distant.”

Cameron perked up, took a couple of steps toward them, then stopped.

Heart pounding, Jessa shook her head. What just happened? “Tyler, I just meant that…”

“Have you noticed for one second that I have a girlfriend now?” His voice arched, and Jessa could see Tim and Jade stop their conversation several yards away, their heads swiveling to watch them.

“OK, sorry…” Jessa inched her way toward the bus, her eyes on the dusty ground.

His face flushed red. “You know why you haven’t said anything to me about it? Because it has nothing to do with you. Because this whole trip has to be about you, right?
Brokenhearted in Italy
, starring Jessa Gardner? Who cares about Tyler? He’s just the stage manager! I know you’re upset about Sean. I know you’re frustrated, but could you maybe just take a time-out to be even remotely happy for me? To let me star in my own little show for a bit. I mean, I was taking all sorts of time to help you out. To do the envelopes with you.”

Jessa swallowed, her throat full of straw. She couldn’t move, could barely blink. She couldn’t remember Tyler ever getting mad at her, not like this. Not shouting at her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the dust.

She heard him take a shaky breath and brought her eyes to his. He was done, it seemed. Tyler could be a bit like a summer rainstorm, a flash of thunder and lightning, driving rain, then skies clearing. Of course, she’d never felt his deluge, never had it empty on her. His eyes darted about. Tim and Jade jumped back into their conversation, pretending they hadn’t been listening, but three girls from the other school openly stared. Finally, Cameron came quietly up alongside of him, took his hand, and led him onto the bus.

Back in her seat, against the faint rumble of the engine, Jessa plugged her ears up with “Anthem” from
Chess
. Her stomach clenched, she stared at the back of Tyler’s head, willing him to turn, to see her, to give a nod—anything to show the storm had passed, but he didn’t turn around, didn’t feel her eyes on him or, worse, didn’t care.

***

Even the other group was quiet for once.

The bodies were just casts, just models made of where the archeologists found the pockets of earth where people had been encased, voids in the ash where the bodies decayed, where the frightened villagers cowered as their lives blinked away. In August of A.D. 79, Mount Vesuvius, so long thought dormant, erupted and a city was gone, frozen. Jessa blinked tears from her eyes. Just imagine. You’re walking downtown, you’ve got your iPod and a Starbucks and you’re just walking along and then a blinding darkness, the world coming to an end.

She shivered—it kind of put things in perspective.

On the ground before them, she stared at what must have been a family. A man, a woman, and a small child, sprawled, their bodies captured forever for millions of tourists to stare at, wonder about. What had they been doing before the sky went black? Had they been eating? Maybe the mother had asked about their day. Maybe the little boy, because Jessa thought it must be a boy, maybe he’d had a good day at school, had found the lost toy he’d hidden in his school things. Then the sky blacked out.

She followed the group through the rest of the tour, her head clouded with the sprawl of that boy, the way his arms were up by his ears in protection, the mother’s hand in despair over her eyes, turned away from her family.

Jessa found a place to sit where she could see down into the amphitheater. The people of Pompeii had performed plays, had gone to see their favorite actors just like they did at Williams Peak. She thought of her Ophelia costume, all gauzy and like a dream. If she were going to be taken down by a thought-to-be-dormant volcano, she would want to be in her Ophelia costume, drowning in ash.

Someone settled beside her. “OK, you’ve got that look.” It was Tyler—and Cameron, who curled gracefully next to him, crossing her tan legs at the ankles. Cameron, who looked way too cute for the eighth day of a grueling tour: Bermudas with a tank and a cap pulled over two braids that dusted the top of her shoulders. It was totally and completely unfair that a person should make braids look that sexy.