Lizzie gasped.
Cruella’s face drained of color. Jessa had heard about that happening, had seen people go pale before, but she had never seen a face drain of color the way Cruella’s just had, like the last bit of water before the tub sucked it down.
Cruella’s skin expanded again and she took a darting step forward, a white striking snake, and for a sliver of a second Jessa thought Cruella might hit her.
But then something weirder happened.
Cruella smiled at her. Not a creepy Joker-from-Batman sort of smile, not Wicked Witchy at all. Something else, something like water. Too sweet, too sad—laced with something distant, something that must be memory. The whole of it made Jessa wish Cruella had just hit her.
“You’re young,” Cruella whispered, smoothing the kimono over her stomach, studying the diamond on her finger. “You still get to throw drinks at boys and have your whole life ahead of you. Just wait.”
Bob knelt down and started to collect the glass, using the front of his pajamas like a little basket.
Cruella took careful steps around the glass, around him, and disappeared down the hall.
Jessa and Lizzie both bent to help him, the clear shards like ice.
“Don’t, girls.” He didn’t lift his gaze to them. “Please. Just go back to bed.”
***
Mr. Campbell asked Lizzie if he could switch places with her for a minute. She nodded, gathered up the novel she was reading, and let him sit down next to Jessa on the bus.
Jessa pulled her eyes from the view, the pasture land washed clean with last night’s rain, the chocolate-brown horses dotted against the deep green of their fields, the small houses creamy in the morning light. They headed toward Pompeii, had left the hotel at five-thirty that morning, half asleep and gauzy eyed.
She stopped the Rent on her iPod, waiting for her teacher to say something.
“You finish Joyce?” He nodded toward the closed novel on her lap.
“Almost. His language is so incredible. I love it.” She ran her hand over the cover of the book.
“I knew you would.” He rubbed his hands on his jeans, staring at the seat back. “OK, so we have a situation.”
Jessa nodded. She felt the pull of the bus beneath her, the ebb and shift of its wheels over the black highway.
“Gwen, Bob’s wife, from the other group, said you swore at her last night. Said you said some pretty awful stuff. I told her she must have that wrong.” Mr. Campbell looked sideways at her. “Does she have that wrong?”
Jessa turned in her seat so she could look at him directly. “No.”
He gave a low whistle through his teeth. “Well, Ms. Gardner, you’re having quite a trip. You want to tell me what happened?”
She told him, noticing the slow rub of his temples after the last part.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes studying the silhouette of Stephen on the cover of the novel in her lap. Sometimes, she felt like she existed as shadow, as if the world could only really see a chalk outline of her, couldn’t see anything real.
“Well,” Mr. Campbell sighed after a moment. “She’s gone back home. To California. Taking a flight from Rome later today. She won’t be on the trip anymore. All I can say is, thank God for Jason.”
“Who’s Jason?”
“The other teacher in their group.” Mr. Campbell motioned toward Quiet Guy, squinting at Jessa that way her mom did when Jessa had a fever. “He’s pretty much their lone adult on the trip. Anyway, Francesca said that Gwen’s claiming emotional distress. Not just you. The whole group. But we’ll have to document her actions, report to the guys who run this tour.” He paused, then said quietly. “I’ll be saying that you two exchanged words in the hall after she broke a glass and screamed at her husband, woke you guys in the middle of the night, but I’ll leave out what you said. It was late. People are tired. Lizzie will confirm that.”
Jessa’s face went hot. “It’s OK. I know what I said. I can take responsibility for it.”
“Jess,” Mr. Campbell said, his voice sounding tired. “I talked to Francesca. She feels like you guys have taken on enough already with this woman. It’s just a report.”
“But her husband was there…”
Mr. Campbell interrupted her. “Here’s the thing: he’s not saying anything one way or the other. Said he doesn’t really remember what was said. Said you girls were ‘within your rights of self-expression.’ Those exact words.”
“He said that?”
Mr. Campbell nodded. “Gwen’s apparently had problems on other tours. Francesca talked to some friends of hers in England who had her on a trip last fall. She has a history.”
“Poor Bob.” Jessa let her gaze slip to the front of the bus where Bob sat, shoulders sagging, his eyes ahead on the road. Then she remembered Cruella’s sad, distant face. “I feel sorry for both of them.”
Mr. Campbell shrugged. “Everyone has to make their own choices.” But she could tell he felt sorry for them too. It was hard not to heap pity on people who just kept electing to be miserable.
Jessa watched her teacher move back to his seat, letting Lizzie out first. Lizzie plopped into the seat next to her and flipped open her novel. “You OK?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Jessa plugged herself back into Rent. Outside, the landscape shifted, the sky lit in places, dark in others, a glow coming from some hidden sun.
She studied Sean asleep several rows ahead, head back, mouth slightly open, face slack. For the first time since landing in Italy, she didn’t really miss him at all.
***
“Where have you been?” Jessa found Tyler leaving the little store with two panini wrapped in white paper. They’d stopped in a tree-dotted town to stretch their legs and get some snacks, and they had five more minutes before they had to be back on the bus and on their way. Jessa had been looking all over for Tyler.
He closed the door behind him. “Cameron and I went for a quick walk.”
“I need to talk to you.” She could see Cameron waiting by the bus, sipping from her water bottle.
“OK,” he said distractedly, his eyes smiling at Cameron.
“Are you paying attention?” Jessa heard the creak of irritation in her voice.
His eyes slipped back to her, shadowing. “OK, that’s a tone I don’t love.”
“Sorry, but you’ve been completely MIA.” Suddenly warm, Jessa swept her hair off her neck, fastened it back into a ponytail.
“MIA? Are you serious?”
She had his full attention now but couldn’t remember exactly what it was she was going to tell him. Something about Sean? It had seemed urgent. “Um, it’s just…you’ve been kind of distant with me lately.”
Clearly the wrong thing to say. Tyler’s eyebrows shot up. “Distant?”
“Forget it.” She turned and started to head back toward the bus.
“You know what? No.” Tyler was suddenly standing in front of her, all black jacketed and eyes flaring. “You’re telling me I’ve been distant.”
Cameron perked up, took a couple of steps toward them, then stopped.
Heart pounding, Jessa shook her head. What just happened? “Tyler, I just meant that…”
“Have you noticed for one second that I have a girlfriend now?” His voice arched, and Jessa could see Tim and Jade stop their conversation several yards away, their heads swiveling to watch them.
“OK, sorry…” Jessa inched her way toward the bus, her eyes on the dusty ground.
His face flushed red. “You know why you haven’t said anything to me about it? Because it has nothing to do with you. Because this whole trip has to be about you, right? Brokenhearted in Italy, starring Jessa Gardner? Who cares about Tyler? He’s just the stage manager! I know you’re upset about Sean. I know you’re frustrated, but could you maybe just take a time-out to be even remotely happy for me? To let me star in my own little show for a bit. I mean, I was taking all sorts of time to help you out. To do the envelopes with you.”
&nbs
p; Jessa swallowed, her throat full of straw. She couldn’t move, could barely blink. She couldn’t remember Tyler ever getting mad at her, not like this. Not shouting at her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the dust.
She heard him take a shaky breath and brought her eyes to his. He was done, it seemed. Tyler could be a bit like a summer rainstorm, a flash of thunder and lightning, driving rain, then skies clearing. Of course, she’d never felt his deluge, never had it empty on her. His eyes darted about. Tim and Jade jumped back into their conversation, pretending they hadn’t been listening, but three girls from the other school openly stared. Finally, Cameron came quietly up alongside of him, took his hand, and led him onto the bus.
Back in her seat, against the faint rumble of the engine, Jessa plugged her ears up with “Anthem” from Chess. Her stomach clenched, she stared at the back of Tyler’s head, willing him to turn, to see her, to give a nod—anything to show the storm had passed, but he didn’t turn around, didn’t feel her eyes on him or, worse, didn’t care.
***
Even the other group was quiet for once.
The bodies were just casts, just models made of where the archeologists found the pockets of earth where people had been encased, voids in the ash where the bodies decayed, where the frightened villagers cowered as their lives blinked away. In August of A.D. 79, Mount Vesuvius, so long thought dormant, erupted and a city was gone, frozen. Jessa blinked tears from her eyes. Just imagine. You’re walking downtown, you’ve got your iPod and a Starbucks and you’re just walking along and then a blinding darkness, the world coming to an end.
She shivered—it kind of put things in perspective.
On the ground before them, she stared at what must have been a family. A man, a woman, and a small child, sprawled, their bodies captured forever for millions of tourists to stare at, wonder about. What had they been doing before the sky went black? Had they been eating? Maybe the mother had asked about their day. Maybe the little boy, because Jessa thought it must be a boy, maybe he’d had a good day at school, had found the lost toy he’d hidden in his school things. Then the sky blacked out.
She followed the group through the rest of the tour, her head clouded with the sprawl of that boy, the way his arms were up by his ears in protection, the mother’s hand in despair over her eyes, turned away from her family.
Jessa found a place to sit where she could see down into the amphitheater. The people of Pompeii had performed plays, had gone to see their favorite actors just like they did at Williams Peak. She thought of her Ophelia costume, all gauzy and like a dream. If she were going to be taken down by a thought-to-be-dormant volcano, she would want to be in her Ophelia costume, drowning in ash.
Someone settled beside her. “OK, you’ve got that look.” It was Tyler—and Cameron, who curled gracefully next to him, crossing her tan legs at the ankles. Cameron, who looked way too cute for the eighth day of a grueling tour: Bermudas with a tank and a cap pulled over two braids that dusted the top of her shoulders. It was totally and completely unfair that a person should make braids look that sexy.
“What look?” Jessa asked, her voice careful.
“The contemplating the inequalities of the world look,” Cameron said, taking a long drink of her water. The girl was certainly well hydrated. Cameron noticed Jessa’s face. “What? Am I wrong?”
“No.”
They sat for a minute, staring down at the amphitheater. “Sorry there was yelling.” Tyler leaned a little into her, a body apology.
“You were right. About all of it.” Jessa leaned too, her own body apology, the knot in her belly unwinding a bit. “I’m a bad friend. Though, I’m not a fan of the yelling.”
“I should have talked to you earlier.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been such a train wreck on this trip.” Jessa rubbed her eyes, studied the green blades of grass shooting through bits of stone on the ground.
“I think you’re holding up pretty well considering.” Cameron nodded to where Sean sat by himself at the edge of the amphitheater. “But he looks worse than you do.”
“Good,” Tyler said, nudging a smile out of Jessa. “OK, we should really just enjoy the rest of this trip. This place is nothing if not carpe diem. Not subtle.”
The girls nodded.
Cameron pulled her legs up to her chest. “Speaking of enjoying the rest of the trip, I heard you totally trashed Borington’s wife!”
“Who?”
“Cruella,” Tyler said, helping himself to Cameron’s water. “They call him Mr. Borington because their last name is Corrington. Get it, Boring-ton.”
Jessa felt their ease creep its way back in. “Um, yeah. I get it. It’s not hard math.”
Cameron giggled, a sound maybe a touch too much like bells for Jessa’s taste—little golden fairy bells. But she was being really cool, and Tyler was over the moon about her. “Hilarious.” Cameron offered her the water bottle.
Jessa took the bottle. “Thanks.” She took a short sip. “I don’t know. It was actually kind of sad. She’s just so…”
“Pathetic?” Cameron suggested.
“Trollish?” Tyler offered.
“Just sad, I guess.” Jessa thought about it. “And pathetic. And, yes, trollish.”
Cameron leaned against Tyler, his arm circling her. “She’s a freak show,” she said. “We went to England with them last year and she totally pitched a fit and went home early. It’s her MO.” She paused. “This place is sad.”
Pompeii was a strange landscape—the ruins, the cobbled streets, the lush green of the hillsides. Jessa’s brain kept snagging on the casts of the ancient dead, their fright. “It makes me want to go home.”
Tyler slipped his other arm around her, something—Jessa noticed—Cameron didn’t seem to mind. Instead, Cameron reached over and cupped her hand over the top of Jessa’s shoe. Gave her a sweet, quick pat.
***
It was an impromptu creativity salon of sorts. Jessa, Tyler, and Cameron wandered over to where most of the group sat in a large circle on a patch of lawn outside the city walls. The bus would be picking them up in a couple of minutes for their ride to Sorrento. Jade had her guitar and was playing an old Aimee Mann song that Jessa loved. Something about “driving sideways”—Jessa felt like that most of the time.
Jessa settled on the grass next to Hillary and pulled one of Carissa’s reasons from her pocket. She told herself she was done. She didn’t really want to open any more of the envelopes, but it was just sitting there with a big #15 on the front. What was it about her that made her want to follow the rules all the time?
She ripped it open.
It read:
Friendship
And there was an old picture of them. Carissa and Jessa in seventh grade, dressed as Danny and Sandy from Grease for Halloween. Jessa was Danny. A fake cigarette in her mouth, dark hair slicked back, her black leather jacket arm slung around Carissa’s bare shoulder because Carissa had to go as slutty Sandy—the Sandy who Jessa always thought sort of sold out in the end. Underneath it, it read, “We Go Together!” And underneath that, “No Matter What (Ask Tyler).”
Jessa tossed the note in his lap. Tyler whistled a few lines of a Grease song—“like shama-shama-shama-she-bomb.”
“Shama-she-bomb?” Jessa laughed. “Those aren’t the words. OK, this one isn’t even a reason. She’s losing focus. This has nothing to do with Sean.”
His dark eyes settled on Jessa. “Doesn’t it?” She could feel them on her face like some sort of tracking device, dissolving her smile. “No matter what?”
Jessa fiddled with the hem of her shorts. Jade was handing the guitar to Dylan Thomas. “Does she mean he threatened our friendship? Is that the reason? Come on, instruct me. What is she talking about? Manual me.”
“I’m not reading the manual anymore, Jessa.”
“Right.” Jessa folded the note back up.
“Ask Cameron.”
“He’s not.” Cameron did that pity-tilt thing with her hea
d that Jessa usually hated, but somehow Cameron’s version held all the intended sympathy in its tilt without the condescension. How did she do that?
“Carissa told me you already knew.” Tyler pulled blades of grass up, twirled them in his fingers.
His words seemed layered with something shadowed, something slick and razor edged. Her mouth went dry. “Knew about the Hamlet kiss? Is that what she’s talking about?”
Tyler shook his half-filled water bottle slowly back and forth, the water sloshing inside. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “The other one.”
“What!” Her screech stopped Dylan Thomas mid-strum. Jade looked alarmed. Actually, everyone did. No one wanted a repeat of the first creativity salon. Jessa tried to smile, leaned back on her hands—totally relaxed. “Nothing to see here” she hoped her very relaxed lean showed the group.
Dylan Thomas started to play again.
Tyler brushed grass from his pants. “That’s what I thought this letter was about.”
“Tyler, seriously, what are you talking about?” Her skin rippled with icy bumps and she flashed back to the curled body of the stone boy, his hands by his ears in defense, frozen. The air seemed suddenly full of ancient Mount Vesuvius ash.
Tyler blinked at her. “You really don’t know? During Summer Festival.”
“When I was in Santa Barbara?” Jessa’s head filled with haze. She hadn’t wanted to go to her cousin’s wedding in Santa Barbara. She’d wanted to go to the Williams Peak Summer Festival for the Arts. She didn’t even know her cousin, had only a floating image of an older girl who ate Wheat Thins out of the box with a jar of Nutella and used the word swellio a lot when you told her something, but her mom had gone through one of her whole we-have-to-keep-the-family-together things, and before she knew it Jessa found herself monitoring a purple satin guest book that was shaped like a heart and staring out at the Pacific Ocean next to a woman who was about a thousand years old playing Pachelbel on a harp. She had written “have a swellio life” in the guest book and not signed her name.
Instructions for a Broken Heart Page 16
