It’s true.
Noah is only one class over and we share a wall. I hear every time he makes his class laugh.
Still, for good show, I grunt in disbelief and tilt my head so I can look into his breathtakingly hideous brown eyes.
“They only laugh at your jokes because they feel bad for you.”
“I’m hilarious.”
“You mispronounced annoying.”
He doesn’t want to smile, but he almost does. I lean forward, wanting it. Then, realizing how close he is to giving me that pleasure, he restores his face to its factory setting.
After the meeting, I don’t expect to hear anything more about Rome.
I put it out of my head completely until I get an email about it later that night. I’m in my apartment, alone, making enough dinner for five and calculating how many days I can get away with eating leftover mushroom risotto without feeling physically ill at the thought. My phone pings and my heart leaps.
I want it to be a text from someone, anyone.
At twenty-seven, my single friends are starting to drop like flies. I can’t go to a family function without a well-meaning relative feeling sorry for me.
“Your time will come too, sweetie…”
Uh, thanks Aunt Marge, but I’m sort of just trying to eat my pumpkin pie in peace if that’s all right with you?
My friends are not only getting married, they’re starting to reproduce.
Fun boozy brunches have been replaced with playdates at the park and baby yoga classes. I participate as much as I can. I throw myself into being the best “auntie” ever, but at the end of the day, my friends’ lives are moving in a new direction and mine isn’t.
When I see the notification on my phone is just an email from work, I almost don’t read it. I already have a murder mystery cued up and a stack of assignments to grade, but the subject line catches my eye.
Bonus for Rome Chaperones!
Bonus!?
I open the email and groan at how long it is. There are details about the trip: dates, expectations, guidelines. Yada yada. I only care about one thing, and I find it way at the bottom.
Having conducted the trip every summer for the last fifteen years, Mr. and Mrs. Mann are very anxious to carry on the tradition and find two eager chaperones to fill their spots. Hearing that there was no initial interest, they have decided to generously establish an incentive fund. Each chaperone will be granted a $2,500 bonus on top of having their travel expenses covered.
If interested, please stop by Principal O’Malley’s office before May 20th.
Well now…that changes things.
I set down my phone and mull it over.
$2,500 is nothing to scoff at. That amount of money doesn’t regularly fall into my lap. My teacher salary affords me a one-bedroom apartment, meager living expenses, and a spare $100 a month to sock away into savings. I’m not exactly rolling in it.
At the same time, I’m not sure $2,500 is enough to convince me to spend three weeks abroad with a tagalong troop of middle schoolers.
Undecided, I take a bowl of risotto over to the couch and eat while I check my calendar.
Let’s see, in July, I have my dad’s birthday on the 6th and a routine dental cleaning on the 13th. There’s also an event on the 20th titled Beach Weekend with Jeff, but Jeff and I broke up a year ago, so I’m not sure what that’s doing there.
I delete it and my month clears up even more.
Some people would find this deeply depressing.
I only find it mildly depressing.
Look at all the days with no obligations. I could literally fall through an open manhole and no one would report me missing for weeks!
I don’t even need to consult my friends or family to know what their advice would be.
My mom would tell me, Do it! Shake things up! Get out of your comfort zone!
My friends would say, Think of all the hot Italian men! You could find your soulmate!
My dad would say, Rome?! I just watched a History Channel docuseries on Mount Vesuvius and it’s bound to blow any minute. You’re better off staying in the States. Don’t want to end up like those poor people in Pompeii.
With a defeated sigh, I close my laptop.
It’s decided then. I’ll go to Principal O’Malley’s office first thing in the morning.
Apparently, I’m going to Rome.
Chapter Two
If you’re wondering why there’s tension between Noah and me, it’s simple. We’re oil and water. We don’t mix. Oil and water should just leave each other alone, but in this case, oil likes to needle water. Water is completely innocent of any wrongdoing. Water is a good teacher who minds her own business. Oil is the villain here, not water.
We’ve worked together for three years and I’ve lost track of all our antics.
It’s hard to know who threw the first punch.
I remember Noah crafting an elaborate Halloween prank so that when I opened my classroom door, fake spiders rained down from the ceiling. I screamed so loud the school security guard came shuffling down the hall as fast as he could.
Take cover!
To be fair, later that year, I forged Noah’s signature on a fateful sign-up form.
“And I see Mr. Peterson volunteered to lead our sex-ed assembly for the eighth graders. Let’s give a round of applause for Mr. Peterson,” announced Principal O’Malley in that week’s all-staff meeting.
Noah’s withering gaze found me instantaneously.
His You’ve Gone Too Far stare was worth every spider.
Even though we both adhere to the unspoken rule Never tattle, word of our antics still travels around the school.
Once, early on, Principal O’Malley called us into his office for a “friendly conversation”.
“What seems to be the problem?” I asked, a picture of civility with my gentle smile and kind eyes. I was wearing a pale pink dress and I’d added soft curls to my long hair that morning. I looked as harmless as a kitten.