“What’s that say we’re supposed to do now?” Noah asks, pointing a pretzel at my chest.
He’s teasing, but still, I check.
In neat computer print, it reads: 6:10 to 7:10 PM - Wait quietly at the terminal.
Then, we’re supposed to board the flight, and we do, precisely on time. I count our nine students before they step onto the plane and after they take their seats, and I’ll continue to do so every hour, on the hour throughout the duration of the flight. Don’t ask me why. I’ve tried to reason with myself that children can’t get lost on an airplane, but if you’ve ever been charged with taking care of a bunch of thirteen-year-olds, you know Murphy’s law applies. Anything that can go wrong, will. “Ma’am, one of your students has climbed out onto the wing of the aircraft and we need you to go retrieve him.”
It’s not like I was going to be able to sleep much during the flight anyway. There’s a lot going on in my head right now: I’m excited to be leaving the country for the first time, anxious about how the kids will act during the flight, annoyed that Noah and I are seated right next to each other.
“You know, you could switch with one of them,” I tell him.
He looks up from his book, lazily following the direction of my pointed finger.
Across the aisle, there are two guys who both seem relatively harmless. One is young and cute. He looks up, sees me, and smiles. The other one is sweaty and coughing and keeps rudely pestering the flight attendant about bringing him a drink. I don’t care who I end up with as long as it’s not Noah.
“I’m fine,” Noah says, returning to his book.
I sigh and go back to my task at hand: opening and closing my tiny window shade. One moment, I can see the 757 parked beside us. The next, beige plastic. Then, the 757 slides back into view.
Noah, having reached his limit, reaches over and puts his big hand on top of mine.
“You’re driving me insane.”
“Good. Switch seats.”
He sighs and leans back, closing his book. I see the front cover. Capital in the Twenty-First Century by Thomas Piketty.
“Who’s Thomas Piketty?” I ask.
“A French economist.”
“Oh my god. You chose a book about economics for your in-flight entertainment? If I didn’t think you were a complete psychopath before this, I do now.”
“Are you almost done with your little meltdown? They’re going to drag you out of here in handcuffs soon if you don’t chill out.”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts and tell myself to calm down. It’s just a quick flight. A hop, skip, and a jump over the Atlantic and then I’ll be alone in Rome with Noah and a gaggle of youths I have to keep track of. My panic only multiplies.
Dear god, what have I done?
Chapter Four
Men have the uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere, at any time.
Noah’s out five minutes after takeoff.
Now, a few hours into our flight, his head slips down the seat and lands on my shoulder, and I resist the urge to nudge him off me. I tell myself he needs the sleep. That way, at least one of us will be well rested when we touch down in Italy. But actually, the weight of his head on my shoulder is helping calm my anxiety. Human touch will do that, I suppose. Any human, even Noah. It doesn’t hurt that his hair smells nice. It’s that perfect pine fresh scent companies use to exploit women’s ovaries.
With the brightness on my phone dimmed as much as possible, I practice my Italian on Duolingo, proud of myself for having learned at least a few basic phrases before the trip.
Hello. Ciao.
Where is the bathroom? Dov'è il bagno?
The children have gone missing. I bambini sono scomparsi.
Eventually, I do manage to take a quick nap during the flight. Like a toddler on a long-haul road trip falling asleep five minutes from their final destination, I’m jolted awake by the sound of the captain telling us to prepare for landing.
I reorient myself, blinking sleep from my eyes, trying to will the impending headache away when I register the overwhelming smell coming from the seat behind me.
Brandon is tucking into a foot-long Slim Jim, and when he sees my head poking over the top of the seat, he tilts it toward me.
“Want a bite?”
There’s absolutely nothing I want less.
“No thank you.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Then, I remember the rest of the kids. I haven’t checked on them in an hour! I leap up out of my seat, groan when my seatbelt bites into my hips, clumsily undo the metal buckle, and then scramble to count everyone. All nine students are sitting right where they should be like perfect little angels.
Huh.
Maybe this won’t be so bad.
Maybe this is going to be the European holiday I’ve always dreamed of.
Cut to screeching traffic, heat so stifling I can barely breathe, and a long string of curse words I’m forced to stifle for the sake of the children.
Getting from the airport to the Italian school where we’re boarding should have been easy. We pre-booked a car service. A Sprinter van should have been idling at the curb with a genial Italian driver sitting behind the wheel, but no. After copious bathroom breaks, snack breaks, and shoe-tying breaks, we leave the airport with all our luggage in tow, only to find no van waiting for us.
No worries.
I point everyone toward a cluster of benches and tell them to take a seat as I call the car company to get answers. The person on the other end of the line only speaks choppy English. After a drawn-out conversation where we both think the other person will suddenly become bilingual if only we just talk veryyyy slooowwwllyy, I understand only four words: too busy, no car.
Right. Okay. We’ll improvise. Unfortunately, taxis aren’t an option because we’d have to split the group in three and we only have two adult chaperones, but Rome has subway systems. A gal from the northeast knows how to handle a subway.