Instructions for a Broken Heart (4 page)

One boy from the other group, dressed in a Tim Burton sweatshirt and standing a bit off by himself, caught Jessa’s eye and raised his eyebrows. He made a little talk-talk-talk sign with his hands, a little Cruella shadow puppet, and then pretended to strangle it. Jessa suppressed a giggle.

Fifteen minutes later, they waited on the cusp of the chapel’s entrance. Ms. Jackson made sure the girls had their shoulders covered and that all hats were stashed in back pockets and bags.

“No pictures, guys.” Ms. Jackson motioned at Devon and Tim. “That means your camera phones too. And no talking.” She shot a look at a giggling Rachel and Lizzie, and the girls clapped hands over their mouths. “This is a pretty special thing, to view this place on a holiday like this one. Act like it, please.”

“Um, why can’t we take pictures?” Cruella again. Tyler widened his eyes and made a low gagging noise. Francesca explained about the delicate artwork, the respect for the space. Cruella adjusted the huge sunglasses atop her head, then parked her hands on her hips over the two twists of gold cord she wore wound around her waist. Belts? A noose should she need one? Jessa wasn’t sure.

“They shouldn’t show it to us if we can’t take pictures of it.” Her voice rang out over their heads like a living, breathing thing of its own, a specter.

Jessa felt her group shift, send out a bubble of space between them and the other school. Tim whispered something to Devon, who started to laugh.

Cruella’s eyes swiveled his direction. “Is something funny?”

Silence from Tim and Devon, eyes on the floor.

Cruella’s eyes narrowed. She waited.

Drop it. Drop it. Jessa waited for her teachers to say something. Mr. Campbell glanced at Ms. Jackson, who was chewing her lip. Jessa watched Cruella from under her lashes.

“Ready, please.” Saved by the frog. Francesca waved the students one by one into the chapel, the frog giving a quick little nod on the end of the stick each time one passed. Mr. Campbell shook his head at Tim, who shrugged, sheepish, and then Jessa stepped inside.

***

The flayed skin on the mural followed Jessa with its hollowed out eyes. The Sistine Chapel was actually much smaller than she’d thought it would be—dramatic and haunting but smaller. She couldn’t seem to escape that image of the flayed skin. Turning her back on it, she scanned the pages of her Italy book, tried to look somewhere else, at the South Wall with its crossing of the Red Sea, the ceiling arching with the events of man before Christ. The North Wall, the temptations of Christ in broad, rich colors. Michelangelo had painted his soul into these walls with each brushstroke; the emotion, the vision, seeped through them, permeated the air. The silence. Around her, coats rustled against each other; shoes shushed along the floor. Somewhere a guard said, “Shhh,” though Jessa hadn’t heard anyone say anything.

She could feel the skin watching her. Her eyes slipped back to it.

Behind the altar, Michelangelo had painted
The Last Judgment
. Francesca had said the work showcased his maturity, as he’d been in his sixties when he finished it. Jessa’s eyes fell on the powerful central figure of Christ, one hand allowing the rising figures to ascend, the other keeping those souls down who would not rise. Two times Michelangelo’s self-portrait appeared in the Sistine Chapel. Once in a small figure watching the souls try to rise from the grave, and the other in the flayed skin that St. Bartholomew held like a sack of dirty laundry, a screaming sack.

Jessa felt suddenly cold, felt the grip of the saint at her neck, stripped of bone, peeled from ligament and tissue, left an empty, gaping thing. Sweat collected on her upper lip. There were too many people pressing in all around her. She hurried toward an exit.

Outside, a breeze caught her, cooled her. The sky had gone gray with rain clouds, casting the world into a cool, blue light, and making the sweeping stone of St. Peter’s look like weathered bone.

It had been raining the night of her first fight with Sean.

One of those strange late-April rains that hit suddenly and soaked through your clothes. They had been waiting outside the movie theater, waiting for Carissa and her flavor-of-the-week boyfriend to show up so they could choose a movie.

Sean had gotten mad at her because of the end of the year fund-raiser Scene and Be Seen. She and Carissa wanted to do a scene from
The Women,
but he wanted her to do a scene with him from
A Streetcar Named Desire
. She would suck as Blanche, and she didn’t want to do it, but he really, really wanted to play Stanley. Mostly, he wanted to scream a lot so people would think he was an amazing actor. Jessa said as much—huge fight.

The poor guy in the box office hid behind a copy of
The Hunt for Red October
. By the time Carissa called and said they weren’t coming, Jessa was already heading off down the street, calling her mom for a ride home.

When she turned at the corner, waiting for her mom to pick up, she had seen Sean duck under the shelter of the theater. He had seen the movie anyway.

***

Tyler found her standing alone outside of the chapel in the looming shadow of St. Peter’s. “Where did you go?”

She pulled her hair from her neck, her pulse returning to a steady rippled river through her body. “I was having a religious moment or something.”

“Well, this is the place for it.” He looted his jacket pocket for a half empty bag of bears.

Jessa wrinkled her nose. “More gummy bears? Isn’t this your third bag today?”

“Enough stalling. Read your poem.” He chewed a huge gob of them. “I saw you writing it at lunch.”

Jessa imagined all the little gummy-bear bodies colliding, all their colors mixing, churning in his teeth. She blinked in the strange light. Tyler picked a green fleck of bear from his teeth. Jessa declined the open bag he held out to her.

“You want me to read it here?” Jessa shivered a bit in her denim jacket, eyeing the spill of tourists from the chapel.

“Why not? You going to offend the pope or something?” Two elderly Italian women passed by in their Good Friday fine dresses, their pinched faces frowning under their kerchiefs. Tyler lowered his voice. “Come on.” He shook the bag of bears at her. “Carissa said you would stall. Don’t let Carissa be right about anything. You know how she gets.”

“OK.” Jessa pulled Tyler to a nearby bench, dug through her bag for her journal. She took a breath. “It’s called ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors.’”

Tyler made a face. “Very funny. But I made you play that game for the audition description, not this one.”

“I knew you’d appreciate the reference.” Jessa took a breath, then read her poem into the still, rain-scented air:

With you, I am paper, wrapped around, folded, creased,
left cut with your slices. You are rock and scissors—hard
and sharp. You are the metal blades and blue plastic handles
of my childhood craft bin scissors. You are the smooth river rock
I’m collecting and losing in that same sunlit day where the sky split

open, drenched our towels—and you, your pockets filled with stones,

ankle deep in river water, you smiled at me with rain on your face.

That day—the day after finding the dead dog, the day after my tears and our fight—that day I filled my pockets with the stones you found me,
the stones you named for me—the black one “night,” the quartz-shot
granite “love,” and the one I lost, the gray-flecked small one,
you named “George.” Now, paper Me is pocked with rainwater, turning to pulp—and you are nowhere, no one to papier-mâché me

whole, no one to reconstruct me.

She snapped her journal shut and jammed it back in her bag. Tyler sat silently, his eyes blanketing her, seeking hers out, but she couldn’t meet them. She could only wipe at her eyes, unfold Carissa’s third instruction, press it into his hand, and say, “Long enough. What it means.”

“What does it mean?”

Jessa surveyed the massive walls of St. Peter’s Basilica, a church so big, Francesca had told them, that you could fit the Statue of Liberty inside it. Sighing, she closed her eyes against all that ancient stone.

“‘Long enough’ means that even though I pretty much hate him now, even if he ruined everything, it wasn’t long enough. Something about Sean, I don’t know what, just something, made me feel whole. Now”—she blinked in the gray light—“now, I just feel like I’m in ripped-up pieces.”

Jessa couldn’t get off the bus. It sped down the Italian highway, the Tuscan landscape a sepia blur. Sean kept smashing his face all over Natalie’s face three seats away, and Jessa couldn’t even get off the bus. She had not bought a ticket for this show. Wanting to scream, throw something at them, or better, jump out the window to be swallowed up by the blur, she squeezed her eyes shut. Seriously, if he didn’t stop it soon, the girl would have permanent face damage. A smile twitched the corners of Jessa’s mouth, her eyes fluttering open. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. She forced her eyes back to them, her smile slipping, her chest clenching like it had its own gag reflex. No, it was worse than bad.

Blinking tears, she pressed a warm hand to her chest. What was all this muck in her? This shortage of air, this pressure? She had no body memory for it, no tools, no study guide. Like the view outside the window, it was foreign, unknown. Jessa’s relatively normal family hadn’t prepared her for this brand of heartbreak, if that was in fact what this was—her heart a ceramic dish pitched onto a tile floor. She had nice parents—as far as parents go—who asked her how she felt about things, a basically sweet sister who smelled like strawberry gum and left Jessa little watercolor paper hearts on her pillow. She had friends—Tyler and Carissa, especially. School was a constant, controlled challenge, like running stairs during volleyball practice. There was always an understandable goal—study, get good grades, move forward—checking off the boxes inside her school-supplied day planner with the picture of the Williams Peak jaguar on the front. It wasn’t like she was perfect or anything—she wasn’t perfect. Things weren’t always good, and she had bad days like everyone else, but they didn’t feel like this, like being smashed between two huge plates of cold steel.

Of course, she knew what loss was. She’d lost things—spelling bees, parts in plays, volleyball games, Becky from next door, who’d moved to Holland when they were ten. Two of Jessa’s grandparents had died. But they had been old—sick. Her parents had spoken to her in soft whispers, their hands warm across hers at both funerals like giant Band-Aids. Everything in the natural order of things, the right kinds of loss, not this inky, evil thing asleep in her.

Before high school, perhaps she’d checked the box next to “Drama I” on the counselor’s pink sheet, sought out the theater world simply because she’d lacked so much of her own drama. Maybe that’s what had drawn her toward Carissa, who had to put her daily drama into categories the way some people separated their recycling. Carissa never seemed to feel more alive than when she was caught up in a crisis. Or two. Or three. Jessa had been swimming in Carissa’s disposable angst since Carissa had plopped down beside her in Ms. Jenkin’s third-grade class—her pigtails bouncing, one red ribbon slipping—and told her they had to be friends, because both of their names ended in
ssa
, so it was
destiny
. And Carissa leaned on steady, box-checking Jessa for the right words said in the right order. It’s what they did for each other. It was like that biology word—what was it? Symbiosis.

Until now.

Because this break, this ache, this pressure in her chest, it
hurt
—a sticky, ugly stomach-flu type of ache, like a tiny miserable elf had burrowed under her skin and had started pulling apart her nerve endings. No steady Jessa now. No, Jessa couldn’t shake it, couldn’t seem to stop from wobbling. It wasn’t the kind of pain you just popped a couple of Advil for; it wasn’t isolated to her ankle or her back—it existed everywhere, even in the balls of her feet, in her cuticles.

Being here wasn’t helping. She had thought maybe Italy would make it better, but it seemed like it was having the opposite effect. The dawn light spread across the Italian countryside like syrup; she could almost drown in it. There was too, too much of it, all that yellow light, all the
newness
adding to the death grip on her heart. She needed to do something to release it, to pry open the grip of that miserable elf, kick him to the side of the Italian road, so she could regain her footing. She hated how she felt, didn’t want to be one of those annoying, angsty girls who were wrecked by the slight of a boy. Carissa knew that; it’s why she sent the instructions. She wanted to help drag Jessa out of the muck, plop her back on steady ground.

Tyler shifted beside her, asleep against the faded bus seat, her iPod blaring into his ears, the rockabilly tap-rattle pulse of the Lee Rocker he had made her download because of the band’s kick-ass drummer. Like the way she heard the music, she was feeling things only as echo, her body trying to wall itself off from any more pain. She caught a shuffle out of the corner of her eye, watched Ms. Jackson slip down the bus aisle to the Sean and Natalie make-out accident scene, where they were definitely not coming up for air anytime soon. Ms. Jackson leaned over them, a human jaws of life, and waited until they pried themselves apart, neither of them looking as embarrassed as they both should. Ms. Jackson returned to her seat but not before catching Jessa’s eye and making a gag sign with her finger. Jessa nodded, mirrored it back to her.

Tyler stirred again, rubbed his eyes, sat up. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere between Rome and Florence.”

“Dubious.” He took a long drink of water from the bottle he fished out of his backpack and opened a bag of gummy bears.

“You think maybe you can OD on gummy bears?” Jessa grabbed a handful.

“Some people believe gummy to be a life-extending elixir.”

“What people?”

“Me.” Tyler chewed. He handed her back the iPod. “Thanks for the loaner.”

Jessa tucked it into her backpack. The bus whispered down the highway, full of morning hush, the group quiet. They slept or stared out the window, texted people, listened to music. In the row next to her, Jade was writing postcards, a huge stack of them, her curls bouncing around her face as she wrote. Francesca chatted on her phone at the front of the bus, preparing their day. Jessa tried to push aside the loss that weighted her to the seat, tried to open her glossy blue guidebook to the Florence section, fasten herself to some concrete facts about their next destination.

In Florence, they would see Brunelleschi’s dome, the Uffizi and
The Birth of Venus
, and the famed Piazza della Signoria. The pages in her lap, all those black-and-white words, told her that the square held statues humming with political contradictions, each with a different agenda. Contradiction, confusion—she’d feel right at home. Closing the book, she opened the envelope she’d been using as a bookmark.

Reason #4: Valentine’s Day from Hell: I don’t think I need to remind you, but I’ll paint the picture anyway. February 14th. Bright, cold. You waited in the front of school with the soccer jersey we stayed up all hours of the night bidding for on eBay until you got it for him, waiting for his car to pull in by the tree where he always parks. Did I mention how cold it was???? Fast-forward one hour. No car. No Sean. No answer when you call. He is not at school. And when he does finally appear somewhere around four for rehearsal, here is the reality. He has nothing for you. Has forgotten it is Valentine’s Day, and (here’s the kicker) gets MAD at you for having “commercial expectations for his love” which is some dial-an-excuse-crap for being a lousy boyfriend. Double kicker: You gave him his present anyway when the rest of us thought you should shove it up his pathetic ass. But you said maybe he had a point. Maybe Valentine’s Day has too many expectations attached to it.

He
DOESN’T
have a point. He’s a lazy, lying jerk cheater who doesn’t deserve you.

Jessa frowned at the instruction at the bottom, the un-Jessa-like thing that Carissa seemed to think she needed to do to move this two-thousand-pound weight off of her heart. She read it again. No way. She was
not
going to do that.

With the hum of travel all around her, she studied the arm of the Tim Burton boy from the other school through the slit in the bus seats in front of her. Folding the note back into the envelope, she looked out at Tuscany, the clusters of stone villages and sweeping vineyards, the castles dotting the landscape.

Carissa had lost her mind.

***

Tuscany must have its own sun. Jessa squinted into the buttery light of Florence.

Firenze
, she mouthed, the word like working taffy around her tongue. The light infused warmth all around, into the creamy stucco of the buildings, into the arch and roll of the hills across the Arno River. She sent a picture of it to Carissa, with a note that read:

Florence. Miss you. Thank you for the envelopes. BTW: NOT doing #4. You’re CRAZY! They will send me home! Did I mention how beautiful it is here? p.s. when I read #3 to Tyler, there were two old ladies walking by and a million tourists. That counts.

They followed the frog through the streets, heading to the Galleria dell’Accademia to see
David
, Michelangelo’s, not Donatello’s. Francesca told them that one of the interesting things about Michelangelo’s
David
was that he chose to depict him in anticipation of the battle, whereas Donatello choose victory, with Goliath’s head at David’s feet. “Anticipation,” she had said—the moment before the moment when all of history spilled out in front of him.

Walking around, Jessa felt like a dyslexic David, with all of history spilling out
behind
her instead of in front. The colors, the sweeping churches, the stained-glass widows, even the buzzing scooters and people calling to each other, kissing each other’s faces, bursting from the small shops with loaves of fresh bread or cut flowers seemed formed from all their history. Everything was so
old
. Not like California, where old meant “last month.”

“Where’d you get that scar?” Tim Burton boy from the other group had fallen in step beside her. He ran a hand through his mop of dyed black hair and studied her with close-set eyes like two smoldering coals. “I’m Dylan, by the way. Dylan Thomas.”

“Like the poet?”

He looked impressed. “Yeah. Right. Wow, a girl with a brain in her head. You’ll excuse me if I seem a bit shocked considering who I’m here with.”

Jessa’s eyes swept over the gaggle from the other school, like a pack of designer ducklings all trying to find the water’s edge. “Not the sharpest knives in the drawer?”

He laughed, low and soft. “Not as sharp as spoons.”

“Why’d you come?” Jessa watched him from the corner of her eye as they walked. “I mean, if you knew you’d hate traveling with them?”

He shrugged. “It was this or my cousin’s house in Oregon. My cousin collects bug carcasses and smells like a wet washcloth. At least Italy has gelato.”

They walked a bit more. “So, not going to answer me about the scar?” Dylan Thomas asked. “Too personal?”

She held up her wrist. “I used to ice-skate when I was younger. It’s from another skater’s blade when we crashed.”

“Do you still skate?”

Jessa shook her head, fingering the iPod cord curling out of her sweatshirt pocket.

He nodded toward it. “Any good tunes?”

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t listen to music you like.”

He laughed again and Jessa liked him more, that low, breathy laugh wrapped itself around her insides, swirling like mist. “Assumptions. And what kind of music must I like?” He wrinkled his nose. “Whoa. What’s that smell?”

Jessa inhaled a whiff of something stale, something organic and rotting. Jessa imagined piles of it in the darkest corners of Florence, the parts tourists didn’t see, imagined tossing Sean and Natalie right into the middle of a big stinking pile of it, covering them with banana peels, coffee grounds, sticky gelato-melted cone wrappers.

“What’s funny?” Dylan Thomas asked. Jessa realized she’d laughed out loud at her little fantasy garbage-pile world.

“I was just imagining throwing my ex-boyfriend into a pile of Florence’s secret garbage heaps.”

She wondered if maybe he would bolt, hurry ahead wondering about the crazy ex-boyfriend-throwing nut from the other group. Instead, he asked, “Can I help?”

They walked a few more minutes in silence, the hum of the city drawing them forward, their eyes on the blur of stones beneath their feet. Even the streets here were prettier, older, more interesting, than the flat concrete back at home.

“I was just listening to
Mamma Mia!
by the way. Stage, not the movie.”

To her surprise, he busted out a few lines of “Honey, Honey,” dancing a circle around her.

Tyler wandered up alongside them. “Am I missing the show?”

“This is Dylan Thomas from the other school,” Jessa told him. “He sings and maybe dances.”

Tyler swept some of his own not-dyed black hair from his face, stuck his hands in jean pockets. “Dylan Thomas?”

He took a little bow. “My parents made me a tribute before I could breathe real air.”

Jessa watched the two boys appraise each other. Boys were so different from girls. She knew they weren’t comparing hair or asses for that matter. They were just circling the outside of a ring, figuring out where each one should stand.

They opted for either side of her.

“So, the
David
, huh?” Tyler broke the silence. “In California, we’d probably have a statue of Will Ferrell.” That was Tyler, offering out a peace treaty.

“And he’d be fine with the nudity,” Dylan Thomas said, signing and sealing it.

Now Jessa had a posse. This trip was looking up.

***

“What is he wearing?” Cruella waved a hand again into the middle of whatever Francesca had been saying. “What’s that around his neck? A scarf?”

The group shifted uncomfortably. Cruella’s husband, the travel-shirted teacher from their group, buried his head in a Frommer’s guide.

“It’s a sling.” Francesca tucked her curls behind her ear. The frog sagged in the curl of her arm where the stick was tucked.

“Is that a nod to the designers of Florence?” Cruella pushed her husband’s hand away from where he had settled it on her arm.

“It’s a nod to the Bible.” That was Tyler. And he got a full-body glare from Ms. Jackson for it.