Another student chimes in, “Who’s Elvis?”
To make matters worse, Noah and I are seated at different tables because the restaurant couldn’t accommodate our entire group. Each chaperone is on their own, assigned to a table full of kids who had to mind their manners at the Villa Borghese and are now hopped up on milkshakes. Noah’s table is catty-corner to mine and I find myself glancing over at him constantly, missing him in a way that feels childish and silly. He’s right there, I tell myself. Focus on your cheeseburger.
He glances back and sees me staring.
My gut reaction is to look away immediately. Don’t let him know you were ogling him! That’s what I’d do in the past. Either that or antagonize him somehow. It goes against my instincts to smile at him, and it feels like the absolute best part of my day when he smiles back.
Any chance of hanging out with Noah later is squashed when Lorenzo invites him to play soccer with some of his friends at an indoor club near the school. I hear Noah try to get out of it, but Lorenzo insists: “We need you. We’re down a guy and can’t play unless we find someone. You’d be perfect. The best one on the team!”
I try my hardest to stay awake waiting for him. I prop my door open and set up my laptop so I can watch shows from my bed, but sleep is too hard to resist. In the morning, I wake up and find my door closed, my blankets tucked up around me, and a little note Noah left for me on my desk.
Looking forward to Saturday.
Reading his note, I feel legitimate glee. I’m a jittery fool. If you cut into me, my insides would look like one of those surprise cakes filled with rainbow sprinkles and glitter.
On Thursday, I rush through getting ready, tug on a dress and sneakers, and leave my hair like it wants to be: wild. Noah’s sitting in the dining hall, eating cereal by himself and looking at his phone when I arrive. I half-run, half-walk to the food line, bouncing up and down with impatience as the cook takes his sweet time slathering my pancakes with syrup. Usually, I’d be like, Thank you for your attention to detail, sir. You’re a man after my own heart. At the moment, I’m thinking, Does every single square inch need to be covered?! Come on, man!
He gives me an extra orange I don’t ask for and then a banana too. I give him a few hearty thank-yous once he passes me my tray laden with so much food I’m worried I’ll drop it. I beeline straight for Noah with an aggressive stride. I only slow down when I’m about to reach him, realizing I should probably tone it down just a hair.
I’m a total cool girl as I gently set my tray down and take the seat across from him. Noah looks up and my expression says, Oh, you were sitting here? I didn’t even realize.
“Morning,” he says with a private little smile.
Dammit. I think he saw me running back there.
“Hi.”
His gaze falls to my plate. His expression is one of concern.
“That’s…quite a lot of syrup you’ve got there. It’s dribbling over the sides.”
“Yeah. I think the cook has a crush on me.” No matter that the cook in question is approaching his seventies.
Noah pretends to look crestfallen. “Damn. Stiff competition.”
It feels so good to laugh without having to suppress it.
And he must feel the same way because he’s looking at me with sheer wonder.
“I like hearing you laugh.”
“Well you’re in luck—you’re a funny guy. It’s the thing that attracts me to you the most.”
His eyebrow quirks in a cocky little gesture.
I look down at my food.
“You’re funny too.”
We might as well be confessing we love each other with how insanely serious this feels.
“So do you have a plan for Saturday?”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin then leans back. “Oh yeah. I have it completely mapped out.”
“Do tell.”
“I rented a moped with a sidecar attached. You’ll drive and I’ll ride shotgun, obviously. Dinner will be romantic. Candles. Ten courses. A man will stand beside our table—intimately close—and sing in Italian operetta the entire time. If you try to get up to go to the bathroom, he’ll follow you.”
“Sounds chaotic. I’m down.”
“Morning!” Ashley says, taking the seat beside me. “What’s the occasion? I don’t think I’ve ever seen the two of you willingly sitting at a table alone together. And smiling no less? Did they spike the syrup or something? Is that why you have so much of it, Audrey?”
“Us? We’re just two friends enjoying a friendly meal. Isn’t that right, Noah?”
“Oh sure. Friends.”
“Well I’m happy you guys are smiling now because word on the street is we’re headed to the Vatican today and tomorrow. Eight-hour tours, both days. We’re getting split up into two groups.”
Say it ain’t so!
If I were about to embark on a guided tour of the Vatican on my own, leisurely taking my time as I enjoyed all of Michelangelo’s creations, I have no doubt I would love every single second of it. I’d be awestruck and inspired. I’d quit my post at Lindale to pursue my rightful calling as a woman of the arts. I’d convert to Catholicism. I’d buy a mug with the pope’s face on it.
But this is not your grandma’s Italian holiday. This is boot camp. We’re split up in groups all right, and guess who ends up with Noah? Not me. Lorenzo says he wants there to be more mixing and mingling between the schools so the students get to know each other better, “to see how the other half lives”, and does that mean we’re the poor ones? So he sets up the groups to be a 50-50 split. I’m assigned to Group A with Ashley, and Noah is assigned to Group B with Lorenzo and Gabriella.
By Friday afternoon, we’re dead on our feet.