“You’re kidding me. Why do you have that?”
“Well first of all…there’s no good TV over here.”
Kylie nods. “Yeah, and we know Mr. Ricci asked you out. So anyway, we got to talking about if you should pick him or Mr. Peterson to be your husband. We’re not opposed to hosting a Bachelorette-style competition for you if you want. I do a pretty good Chris Harrison impersonation.”
I hold up my hand. “Okay, stop there. That’s enough.”
“Though to be honest, we were all surprised about Mr. Ricci asking you out because we thought you and Mr. Peterson were—”
“We’re not.”
“Interesting,” Kylie says, looking at me like she’s trying to read between the lines.
“This is highly inappropriate,” I point out again before leaning in closer. “Let me see that.”
Millie eagerly passes over her paper then comes around to explain it to me. “As you can see, our system is rudimentary and we’re open to suggestions on how to improve it. We just think you should consider your choices carefully before you make your decision. They say there are lots of fish in the sea, but you’re what…forty-five?”
“Your biological clock is ticking,” Kylie adds helpfully.
I don’t bother correcting them on my age or reminding them that my biological clock is a spring chicken, thank you very much.
I shove their list in my money belt, tell them to stop objectifying their male teachers, and force their attention back to Lorenzo, who’s still going on about the Pantheon and the way the Romans mixed the concrete so it wouldn’t collapse at the top of the dome.
That list taunts me though. I’m half-tempted to pull it out and peruse it again.
Where do these kids come up with this stuff?!
When I was their age, I’m pretty sure I was still playing with Polly Pockets. And if I were ranking guys on a hot scale, it would have been the members of NSYNC, not my teachers. Though to be fair, I never had teachers that looked like Noah or Lorenzo…
But, that’s beside the point. Their list is meaningless. First of all, I’m not interested in comparing Lorenzo and Noah. Second, Millie and Kylie didn’t even do it right. There’s no category for personality, and on a scale of 1 to 10, Noah would get a -5. His overall score could never recover. Case closed.
That night, I’m on the phone with my mom. She would prefer I call her twice a day while I’m here in Rome. We’ve settled on whenever I happen to remember.
So far we’ve discussed these topics: if I think St. Cecilia’s washed my bedding before I got here （bed bugs are pervasive in Europe, didn’t I know?）， how’s the food, where did I leave the DVR remote the last time I was at their house, have I seen the Colosseum, and why did her computer stop working after she was the one-millionth visitor to a reputable-looking cross-stitch website. Are they going to send my prize in the mail now or what?
Her brain has the uncanny ability to jump from topic to topic, no matter how outlandish.
“I was watching 60 Minutes,” she tells me, “and Lesley Stahl did a fascinating report on the germs you can find on any ordinary doorknob! I really think you ought to wipe down all the surfaces in your room. I don’t want you coming home with Zika.”
“Isn’t that transmitted by mosquitos?”
“Oh and they don’t have mosquitos in Italy? Just give me the address of where you’re staying and I’ll send over a whole heaping pile of Clorox wipes.”
I’m about to pass along my address—something I’ll come to deeply regret, no doubt—when my phone dies.
I’m not surprised. I’ve been using it all day to snap pictures around Rome.
I plug it in and, knowing my mom is already tail-spinning with horrific ideas of what could have happened to me—Taken is certainly playing in her mind scene by scene in full HD—I march across the hall to bang on Noah’s door.
“Open up.”
He speaks through the wood. “What do you want?”
“My phone died and I was talking to my mom. She’s probably already notified the police and put in a missing person report.”
“Not my problem.”
“Noah…let me use your phone.” Then, though it pains me to do it, I lean closer to the door and tack on a very quiet, “Please.”
To my relief, the door opens a second later. Noah stands there shirtless, tan, and muscled.
My eyes bug out of my head. And then, realizing that I’m staring, I squeeze them shut.