Burning The Map. Laura Caldwell

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СКАЧАТЬ you anything then.” Lindsey stares at Kat.

      I glance down at the floor for a second, thinking that I wasn’t invited to that little dinner party. I can’t blame them really, since I didn’t even call Kat to wish her a happy birthday, but I’ve always been included before, and hearing about it now smarts a little.

      “It was later,” Kat says. “Now let’s get out of here.” She picks up her purse and heads to the door.

      I look at Lindsey, who doesn’t move, still watching Kat as if she’s trying to decide if she should say something more. She gets up from the bed then, silently following Kat, and I trail behind, wondering what I missed this summer.

      2

      We purchase paper cups of beer from the McDonald’s tucked in a corner of Piazza di Spagna. Beer at McDonald’s—just another reason to love Italy. We carry them, looking for a seat on the Spanish Steps, a gorgeous run of wide stone stairs that’s topped with a two-towered church and crowded with bushes and people.

      “Basta,” Sin keeps saying to the young boy of about fourteen who’s tailing her and mumbling declarations of love in Italian. “Basta!”

      She loses him eventually, and we find an open spot on the steps. As I sit down behind Kat and Sin, I make sure to tuck my dress under my legs, but I know it makes little difference, since most of the men in the piazza are looking at us as if we’re parading around naked. While this probably sounds unfeminist or downright sad, I rather like the ogling from the Italians, the crude sort of flattery that comes from their eyes so squarely on you that there’s no hiding what they’re thinking.

      For the moment, Lindsey has dropped the diamond earring interrogation, but I know Sin. She won’t let it go for long.

      “Get a load of those pants,” she says, jabbing Kat in the arm and gesturing to a woman in black leather pants and a flimsy camisole that shows off flawless breasts. “She’ll sweat her ass off if she has one.”

      Kat laughs, and she and Sin start talking, quietly pointing out one woman’s shoes, another’s dress, the distinguished man in the suit smoking a cigar. Talking about someone else—it’s the way they always smooth over a rough spot. But it’s also the game everyone immediately learns to play in Rome—gawk and be gawked at. Do it too much and you’ll convince yourself you’re the most poorly dressed person in the city. I’m glad to see Kat and Sin getting along. It’ll be a much better trip for all of us if they do, but watching Kat’s long, amber locks mix with Sin’s short, dark hair as they tilt heads together and laugh only reminds me of hearing about Kat’s birthday dinner after the fact.

      I lean back and make myself take a deep breath. Light sparkles from the stars and the apartment windows overlooking the piazza, making the place look like a glittering movie set. The Spanish Steps had been a favorite hangout of mine when I lived here, and for a second, being back makes me feel like I did then—fairly confident and actually anticipating the future. Well, the immediate future, anyway. I don’t want to think about my parents or even John, who I miss a bit already. I certainly don’t want to think about the job that awaits me at Billings Sherman & Lott, one of those oh-so-cool firms featured in a Grisham novel. My law-type friends are green that I landed the gig, but I’ve been working there for a few months part-time, and the thought of going full-time feels oddly like a prison sentence.

      “Case, come down here,” Sin says, reaching behind and grabbing my leg.

      I scoot down the step as fast as if I’d been offered free shoes. Once I’m level with them, the three of us huddle together, giggling like schoolgirls, talking about the cute guys and the great clothes until we’re interrupted by a shout.

      “Hey you! Americans?”

      I glance down to see four men, all good-looking, who’ve just pulled up to the base of the steps. It was just a matter of time before this happened, especially since Kat is with us. All the guys are on very large, expensive-looking Vespa scooters, with the exception of one on a Pepto Bismol pink moped that’s on its last legs. The leader of the pack, the one who called to us, is so gorgeous it’s silly. He looks like an Italian poster boy—shiny black hair, deep-set liquid brown eyes, full pink lips, the works.

      “Biscuit,” Kat says.

      Biscuit is Kat’s irreverent word for a hot guy, or a hot boy for that matter, since she doesn’t discriminate on the basis of age.

      “How can you tell we’re Americans?” Kat calls in her best come-hither voice, cupping a hand around her mouth.

      “The most beautiful women are Americans.”

      “Oh puh-lease,” Lindsey says, but Kat is sold.

      “Come with me,” she whispers as she stands and throws her hair over her shoulders.

      I glance at Lindsey, ready to say, “It’ll be fine,” or some other platitude that she usually looks to me to provide when Kat is on the prowl and we’re dragged along, but she doesn’t turn to me this time. Instead, she mutters, “Jesus Christ,” and heads down the stairs.

      We learn that Alesandro, the poster boy, had attended boarding school in London, hence his perfect English. His friends, Massimo and Francesco (of the lame moped), have quite good English, too, making it easy enough to talk. The fourth, Paulo, speaks no Inglese whatsoever, and he stands there kicking a foot back and forth while he watches the group. I make an effort to have a brief conversation with him using the minimal Italian I’ve retained. Unfortunately I can’t get past the, “How old are you?” “Where do you live?” stage.

      “Why don’t you ladies join us for a cappuccino? I know a very good coffee bar near the Pantheon,” Poster Boy says.

      “As long as we can get food and beer there,” Kat says without a glance at Sin or me.

      I smile at Sin, geared to reassure her, to tell her that they’re just a bunch of harmless pretty boys as far as I can see, that we’ll be perfectly safe. Again, her eyes don’t seek mine. No conspiratorial grin comes my way.

      Poster Boy makes room for Kat on his scooter, and Massimo, a tall, lean guy with an angular face who’d been making eyes at Sin, does the same for her. But she just stands there with a hand on her hip.

      “Can we talk about this?” she asks Kat, who’s already climbed behind Poster Boy. I take a step toward them, but neither seems to notice.

      “Please,” Kat says, practically bouncing up and down on the seat. “We need to eat, so we might as well have them take us somewhere.”

      “Any of them could be Italy’s version of Ted Bundy,” Sin says.

      Kat responds with a shout of laughter.

      “Oh, all right.” Sin climbs cautiously on Massimo’s scooter.

      Poster Boy’s machine roars to life, and he takes off with Kat, while Massimo and Sin follow closely behind. I watch them pull away, two trails of blue-gray smoke shooting from the scooters, Kat’s hair flying in the wind.

      I turn around and realize that I’m left there with Paulo and Francesco. I prefer to ride with Paulo, who has a state-of-the-art scooter that could fit a family of five, but he’s facing in a different direction.

      “He does not feel comfortable because of his English,” СКАЧАТЬ