through immense halls lined with tapestries and frescoes, past statues of all sizes, some missing limbs, noses, ears, breasts, or other parts. We climb up stairs, down stairs. My calf muscles are killing me and even my right arm is sore from lifting my mammoth of a camera up to my eye every couple of minutes.
There is one thing this place doesn’t lack: art. I’m practically drowning in it. Everywhere I turn is another reminder of my lie. Another needle to the chest.
I finally remember to breathe when we get to an open courtyard.
“You are bored,” Chiara says. “I am sorry it is not an English tour.” She pulls the headphones off and drapes them over her shoulder.
I manage a smile so I don’t appear ungrateful. “I’m trying to be interested in all this. And it is beautiful, but … I don’t know.” I fan my hand in front of my face, hoping I can pass it off on the heat. “It’s miserable out here. Hard to concentrate, you know?”
The fabric-strip beacon flutters near the door to another building and our group lines up behind it. I stifle a groan, pinch my shirt at the neck and repeatedly pull it away from my body, pumping wind down my chest and stomach.
“Here,” Chiara says, pressing a few buttons on her cell phone. “A picture will make you feel better.” She holds the phone out in front of us, putting her head against mine like we’re old friends.
We take half a dozen photos together with serious and goofy faces, but I get distracted when I spot a head of thick, dark curls about twenty feet in front of us. My heart pounds so hard, it makes me dizzy for a second. I clutch Chiara’s wrist.
“Chiara. I think that’s—”
The guy turns and catches eyes with me, smiling to reveal a mouthful of braces. So not Darren. And this kid might only be, like, fourteen.
Chiara clears her throat. “That is the guy you met?”
I let go of her. “No. Not even close.” A long sigh morphs into laughter. When did I become such a girl, freaking out over a boy I don’t even know?
“We should rest.” She points to a bench that just cleared at the end of the walkway. “We can always catch up with them later, or continue without them. I know where the important parts are.”
We’re facing a tarnished statue of a pinecone with two peacocks standing guard. I don’t get it at all. Even if someone explained the symbolism to me, why decorate with it? It’s a pinecone.
Mom will never understand this about me. She could probably look at this pinecone and know what it means without anyone telling her. She’s got the brain for it. I don’t. She pretends this fact doesn’t exist and continues pushing me into things she likes to do, all in preparation for a career she thinks she can make me want.
But I can’t let that happen. I won’t.
The Sistine Chapel is dim and a musty sort of cool, which is a surprise considering how many people are crammed into thespace. A camera flash briefly illuminates the room and a strongly accented man at the front yells, ‘ No foto! ”
Chiara points to the ceiling and my eyes follow the lead. There it is. Right. Up. There. The most famous painting I’ve ever heard of. God giving life to Adam.
“ Incredibile , no?” Chiara whispers.
I swallow hard and my eyes mist over. There are no adequate words. “ Sì .”
My neck struggles with the position of my head but I can’t look away. Michelangelo was in this exact room, way up there on scaffolding, so much higher than I imagined. If he was close enough to the ceiling to paint with a little brush, how did he know it would look this perfect from down here? That’s probably the sort of thing I’d be learning at that summer program.
Did I really write to them from a fake e-mail account, posing as my mother to get out of it?
My face flames and sweat dots my hairline. It itches, but my arms refuse to let me do anything about it. The crowd blurs into a dull shifting mass, pressing in on me. I look back up at the ceiling for
There is one thing this place doesn’t lack: art. I’m practically drowning in it. Everywhere I turn is another reminder of my lie. Another needle to the chest.
I finally remember to breathe when we get to an open courtyard.
“You are bored,” Chiara says. “I am sorry it is not an English tour.” She pulls the headphones off and drapes them over her shoulder.
I manage a smile so I don’t appear ungrateful. “I’m trying to be interested in all this. And it is beautiful, but … I don’t know.” I fan my hand in front of my face, hoping I can pass it off on the heat. “It’s miserable out here. Hard to concentrate, you know?”
The fabric-strip beacon flutters near the door to another building and our group lines up behind it. I stifle a groan, pinch my shirt at the neck and repeatedly pull it away from my body, pumping wind down my chest and stomach.
“Here,” Chiara says, pressing a few buttons on her cell phone. “A picture will make you feel better.” She holds the phone out in front of us, putting her head against mine like we’re old friends.
We take half a dozen photos together with serious and goofy faces, but I get distracted when I spot a head of thick, dark curls about twenty feet in front of us. My heart pounds so hard, it makes me dizzy for a second. I clutch Chiara’s wrist.
“Chiara. I think that’s—”
The guy turns and catches eyes with me, smiling to reveal a mouthful of braces. So not Darren. And this kid might only be, like, fourteen.
Chiara clears her throat. “That is the guy you met?”
I let go of her. “No. Not even close.” A long sigh morphs into laughter. When did I become such a girl, freaking out over a boy I don’t even know?
“We should rest.” She points to a bench that just cleared at the end of the walkway. “We can always catch up with them later, or continue without them. I know where the important parts are.”
We’re facing a tarnished statue of a pinecone with two peacocks standing guard. I don’t get it at all. Even if someone explained the symbolism to me, why decorate with it? It’s a pinecone.
Mom will never understand this about me. She could probably look at this pinecone and know what it means without anyone telling her. She’s got the brain for it. I don’t. She pretends this fact doesn’t exist and continues pushing me into things she likes to do, all in preparation for a career she thinks she can make me want.
But I can’t let that happen. I won’t.
The Sistine Chapel is dim and a musty sort of cool, which is a surprise considering how many people are crammed into thespace. A camera flash briefly illuminates the room and a strongly accented man at the front yells, ‘ No foto! ”
Chiara points to the ceiling and my eyes follow the lead. There it is. Right. Up. There. The most famous painting I’ve ever heard of. God giving life to Adam.
“ Incredibile , no?” Chiara whispers.
I swallow hard and my eyes mist over. There are no adequate words. “ Sì .”
My neck struggles with the position of my head but I can’t look away. Michelangelo was in this exact room, way up there on scaffolding, so much higher than I imagined. If he was close enough to the ceiling to paint with a little brush, how did he know it would look this perfect from down here? That’s probably the sort of thing I’d be learning at that summer program.
Did I really write to them from a fake e-mail account, posing as my mother to get out of it?
My face flames and sweat dots my hairline. It itches, but my arms refuse to let me do anything about it. The crowd blurs into a dull shifting mass, pressing in on me. I look back up at the ceiling for
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