My mom never makes me wear sunscreen!
It smells!
You got it in my nose!
I’m trying to pay attention to Lorenzo as he explains that the Forum served as a hub for political and social activity, but I’m also trying to keep sweat from actively blurring my vision. I angle my little guidebook so it partly shields my eyes from the sun and remind Brandon and Chris that they aren’t allowed to wander off on their own.
“Boys, stick with the group please” is what comes out of my mouth when in my head I’m raging at them to behave because it’s too damn hot out here to be policing middle schoolers.
Suddenly, that bonus doesn’t seem like enough money to be here. Couldn’t we have visited such wonderful destinations as Siberia or Antarctica? I hear the northernmost tip of Alaska is lovely this time of year.
Gabriella and Ashley huddle together with their Trinity kids, who all have battery-powered misting fans and cooling towels around their necks. I watch with envy as Gabriella angles her fan toward her face and closes her eyes, basking in the chilled air.
Meanwhile I’m chafing in places the Roman sun don’t shine.
Noah appears by my side and tries to pass me his water bottle, and I stare down at it like it’s last month’s leftovers I just found in the back of my fridge.
“Your mouth was on that.”
“You’re going to dehydrate,” he says, nudging it closer.
I hold up my hand. “I’ll take my chances.”
He sighs as he lifts the bottle to his mouth. I watch him guzzle down a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I suddenly feel lightheaded.
Maybe I won’t have to fake an illness tonight after all.
“How long is your boy going to make us stand out here?”
I straighten my shoulders. “Lorenzo is not my boy.”
“We should have visited this place in the morning so we could have avoided the crowds and the heat. We could have swapped the schedule and had the kids do their Latin lesson in the afternoon.”
“Quit complaining. You’re supposed to be appreciating history. I, for one, am delighted to be here.”
“Uh-huh. Is that why you keep looking longingly at the exit?”
“I’m merely checking to make sure none of our kids try to escape.”
He sniffs derisively. “Not like they’d make it far. They’d pass out from heat stroke by the time they made it to the end of the street.”
Just then, Lorenzo strolls over, beaming and seemingly totally unaffected by the heat. “Audrey, come. Walk up front with me. I want to show you some of the ruins.” He holds out his arm for me to take, and when I hesitate, he looks over at Noah. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Noah shoots daggers at Lorenzo’s crooked arm. “Actually, Lorenzo, I think we should get these kids into some air conditioning. Audrey here’s about to faint.”
Annoyed that he’s lumping me in with the thirteen-year-olds, I step forward to take Lorenzo’s offered arm a little more forcefully than necessary.
“I’m fine, I promise. I mean…sure…it’s a little toasty out here.”
“Toasty?” he repeats with confused brows.
“Oh…yeah, toasty. Like hot.” I fan my face for emphasis.
He leads me to the front of the group. “Ah, yes. Rome is very toasty in July. Do you need to rest? We can go to the benches over there.”
The benches he’s pointing to are in full sun, and I bet if I touched my hand to the concrete, it would sizzle.
“No, no. Let’s keep trudging along. Don’t want to lose the kids’ interest.”
Turns out I didn’t need to worry about that. Their interest is long gone. When the complaining hits a crescendo, we have to cut the tour short and head back to the school. Noah suggests we catch a bus, but Lorenzo insists it’d be a waste of time.
“Rome is a city made for walking!”
We’re a bunch of sad Eeyores—defeated, sweat-stained, and sunburned—when we hobble through the gates of St. Cecilia’s half an hour later.
Noah tells the kids to get some water and take a load off before dinner.
I take my robe and toiletries to the bathroom, yank aside one of the shower curtains, and turn the water nozzle until it’s on the coldest setting. Conscious that Noah could walk into the bathroom at any moment （something I live in constant fear of）， I undress inside the shower and hang my clothes on the hook out on the wall. Icy water spills down my back and I turn to let it cover my face and chest. It’s not enough; when I look in the mirror after I’m done with my shower, my face is still flushed. I’m cooked through. Well-done.