Instructions For A Broken Heart Part 2

Jessa pushed back away from the table and found her two teachers sitting a few tables away. "Ms. Jackson?"

"Yeah?" Ms. Jackson placed her hand on Jessa's arm, almost instinctively, to keep her from fleeing. She must have that look in her eyes. Like prey.

Jessa cleared her throat, tried for a light, clear voice. "Can I go back to the hotel, please?"

Mr. Campbell sighed, his face slipping a bit. He glanced at Ms. Jackson and then back to Jessa. "I'm sorry, Jess. We all need to stick together."

Tears welled in Jessa's eyes.

"You know what?" Ms. Jackson stood. "I'll walk you back to the hotel." She pointed to her menu. "Ben, order me anything that doesn't have lamb."

The air had grown cool and a light wind rustled the leaves in the trees lining the narrow street. Jessa pulled her denim jacket close to her and glanced sideways at Ms. Jackson. She'd had Ms. Jackson for English for the past two years and couldn't actually remember standing this close to her before. She was a terrific teacher, maybe thirty, knife-blade sharp, always calm, and she came up with interesting projects for the English section of their drama academy, always talking about feminist theory or literary symbolism, and totally into the students' insights about what they read. She was polished-bohemian meets Banana Republic clothes-and her short blonde hair seemed always in place, her black-rimmed reading gla.s.ses perched on her head or dangling from a beaded chain. Still, there was a coolness to her, something distant in her, not at all like the warm big-brother light Mr. Campbell pooled onto them. The air between them now seemed tight and strange.

"Thank you for walking me, Ms. Jackson." Jessa wiped at a stray tear.

Ms. Jackson seemed to be weighing something, hesitating. Finally, she said, "It was brave of you to come, Jessa. No one imagines for a moment that this is easy for you."

Jessa started to tell her it was fine, that she had saved for ten months for the trip and that no stupid, cheating boy was going to keep her from the experience of a lifetime-and besides this was going to look really good on her college applications-but she stopped. She stopped on the street and looked at her teacher, felt a melting in the air between them. "I don't think I can do this."

Ms. Jackson's smooth brow furrowed, and Jessa immediately regretted her words, wished she could just stuff them right back into her mouth like a big chunk of bread.

"Yes, you can." Ms. Jackson's usually muted eyes glittered. "You can. But you can't half a.s.s it."

"What?" Jessa took a step back, her eyes finding the hem of her jacket.

"Jessa. You know how Mr. Campbell talks to you guys about auditioning?"

"Yeah?"

"How you start your audition the second you walk in the door, the second you take your seat. Not just when you get on stage?"

Jessa nodded.

"Think of this like that."

This was one of those things English teachers did when they wanted you to find the deeper meaning, when they wanted you to seek out the metaphor. Jessa was missing the metaphor.

"I think I'm missing the metaphor."

Ms. Jackson laughed, a deep, surprised laugh she sometimes got when one of her students said something unexpectedly funny in cla.s.s. "No, honey, you're not. This is about impressions. How you're seen. You don't want him to see you moping around, leaving restaurants and sulking. You want him to see you having a blast, living it up, not needing him. Don't come all this way and then blow your monologue. Now there's a metaphor."

Jessa thought about Carissa's audition for Hamlet, her meltdown when Sean switched their lineup tickets and then marched on stage with his "O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!" What a rogue? For sure. But Carissa had flipped and then sulked her way through the rest of auditions. She had blown her audition before she got on stage.

The street darkened, tiny bits of lamplight pooling from the windows of restaurants and bars, the haze of evening settling over the city, this city she had come so far to see.

"You know what, Ms. Jackson? They had some pretty good-looking pasta on that menu."

"Good girl."

The next morning, Jessa sat cross-legged on the smooth floor inside the belly of the Pantheon. She still couldn't believe she'd walked through those ma.s.sive gray columns and into the heart of this ancient temple, the huge dome above her head with its bright, light-spilling eye. She breathed in the cool air, tried to close up her ears as if they had eyelids. For a quick moment, she thought about her iPod-she craved Rent. How perfect would "Seasons of Love" sound right now? But she didn't want to drown out the sounds of Rome around her completely. She was sitting in the temple of the G.o.ds, this great sweeping place where all the people in their tourist shorts and swinging cameras seemed out of place, seemed like they should be wearing togas or draping gowns laced with ivy. No, an iPod would just be tacky. Looking up, she followed the smooth marble walls peppered with Latin rising around her, her eyes sliding across the high ceiling, the dome lit with sky. She willed away the sounds of all the tourists around her. She began to sing under her breath about all those thousands of minutes that made up a year. The G.o.ds probably sang, right? Even if they didn't sing Jonathan Larson.

She rubbed her eyes-so tired. Stupid Tyler and his stupid rock-paper-scissors he made her play to see whether or not she'd write Carissa's character description. He knew Jessa had made a personal commitment to never turn down a legitimate RPS request. No fair. And she had lost-paper to Tyler's scissors. So she'd stayed up and written it, surprised it had taken so long. The first draft was just too mean; the next rewrite wasn't mean enough, wasn't close to accurate. But Jessa had spent a good deal of her relationship with Sean defending him. It was a hard habit to break. Finally, she'd landed on it. She sent it to Carissa at breakfast after a pretty lengthy argument with Tyler to include "dresses like an Aberzombie": Audition for World's Suckiest Boyfriend Name: Sean Myers, age 16. Tall, good at sports, good looking but not in an obvious sort of way Character traits: Charming, big ego that he covers with aforementioned charm, CHEATER, only half listens when someone talks, selfish, eats too fast, gets what he wants, likes pizza a little too much, average student, great soccer player, decent writer when he tries, demanding, flashes of romantic behavior (can make up for all bad behavior above), dresses like an Aberzombie (Tyler's contribution) Now, watching Sean and Natalie holding hands several yards away, both peering up at that great eye in the ceiling, she wished she had sent the meaner one-the one that called him an a.s.s-kissing mediocre b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Her eyes welling up, she sang softly to herself, something Sean used to love about her, her Julie Andrews instinct he'd called it. "Seasons of Love"-all those minutes that made up a year, all those moments.

A year-almost a year ago, she was kissing Sean in the faint backstage lights of Hamlet, swathed in her Ophelia costume, that incandescent, cascading dress she had thought about borrowing to wear to prom. Now she was sitting in the temple of the G.o.ds watching Sean nuzzle Natalie's ear, rubbing his hand up and down her narrow back. She jerked her eyes away. It would suck to puke in the temple of the G.o.ds.

She searched the room for Tyler. No sign of him. Mr. Campbell stood near the entrance, checking his watch. They were waiting for the other school to arrive with the tour guide. Because Williams Peak had such a small group, only eighteen including Mr. Campbell and Ms. Jackson, they had to partner with another school for the trip to share all the tours, bus trips, and hotels.

"Don't worry," Mr. Campbell had a.s.sured them the night before, right before lights out. "We told them we're a theater program. I'm sure they'll find us a good match."

There was commotion at the entrance. A pack of teenagers stomped their way in, talking loudly, pushing and jostling one another. Jessa counted the swarm, twenty or so students. Two men, probably teachers, were with them, both wearing versions of the kind of shirts you buy in travel magazines, the kind that say they don't wrinkle.

"Oh my G.o.d," Jessa heard a girl in huge black sungla.s.ses say. "It's so filthy." The girl planted her hands squarely on the hips of her designer jeans. She was very blonde, a polished chrome-b.u.mper of a girl-all gleaming and photo-shoot ready. "Gross." Sniffing, she checked her pink BlackBerry.

A shorter redhead in skinny ankle jeans next to her nodded and snapped a picture with an expensive-looking digital camera. "Twenty bucks." She snapped another picture. The heels of her shoes looked like ice picks.

"Your dad is such an idiot." The blonde was now checking the skin beneath her eyes in a sleek, glittery compact. "I can't believe you get twenty bucks a picture."

"I know, right?" The redhead had a laugh like a howler monkey. "But only if it's 'culturally relevant'-whatever the h.e.l.l that means."

"It means 'old.'" The boy who had sidled up suddenly, winding his arm around the blonde, was over six feet, with dark creamy skin. He put his free hand in the low pocket of his baggy pants. "And he's only doing it to make sure you actually look at some of this junk and not just abuse the discos." The redhead swatted at him, then stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his mouth.

"Oh my G.o.d, Madison. You're such a s.l.u.t!" The blonde snapped the compact shut and tucked it away in a small gold bag.

Jessa frowned at Tyler as he settled in next to her. "Oh goody," he said, pulling the hood of his black sweatshirt over his head. "Our traveling partners."

Then the frog appeared.

At first, Jessa thought she was imagining something or that she saw someone's silly hat, or maybe even some sort of sign for a nearby restaurant. Then, as it closed in on them, bobbing over the heads of tourists, she realized it was a plastic frog on a stick.

#3: dead dog.

"Buongiorno, I miei amici!" Their tour guide, Francesca, blinked out at them with bright eyes much like the frog's she was toting on the stick they were supposed to follow. Standing outside on the shallow steps of the Pantheon, dwarfed by a ma.s.sive column behind her, she a.s.sembled the group. Jessa studied Francesca's wide, cropped linen trousers and the charcoal cape that seemed a nod to the togas on so many of the statues that dotted the city landscape like secret service agents. Her outfit had no right angles, all sweeps and folds. Her hair seemed its own creature, something wild and reddish brown and curly; its tendrils down her back, draping her shoulders, swept back away from her wide O of a face. Her looks were exaggerated and windswept, strikingly beautiful.

The two men from the other group had noticed immediately.

The taller man quickly positioned himself close to her, watching her, her every word the key to something he couldn't quite open. He was six feet tall but shorter somehow, as if the world's hands constantly pressed his shoulders into downward slopes. Close-cut hair, not blond or brown, a travel shirt with flaps and pockets and on the sleeve some sort of buckle. Probably a history teacher, or earth science.

Francesca surveyed the group. "Are we missing some?"

"Um, Francesca?" The man with sloping shoulders laughed nervously. "My wife and a couple of our students went to do a bit of shopping. Hope that's OK. Not holding us up?" He had a mustache that Jessa hadn't noticed at first, a mess of straw beneath his nose that looked like something Carissa might feed Jumper for a snack.

Francesca frowned, adjusted her cape. "Certainly, certainly." She checked some papers she had fastened to a clipboard with a large jeweled clip. "Actually, no. You must fetch them. We have to meet the bus."

The shoulders slouched off in the direction of the boutique shops across the way.

A low murmur arose from the group, side whispers that were suddenly allowed to grow and shift. Jessa spotted the blonde girl with the BlackBerry snapping her gum. The redhead snapped a picture of her snapping her gum and got a manicured middle finger as a reply.

Francesca spoke suddenly into a cell phone in fast Italian. Mr. Campbell and Ms. Jackson pulled the Williams Peak group over to a nearby fountain to wait for the wayward members of the other school.

Tyler sat on the ground next to Mr. Campbell, reading a packet of what looked like stapled-together index cards. As Jessa crouched down next to him, he shoved them into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Travel stuff." Tyler cleared his throat and nudged Mr. Campbell. "OK, so this is dubious." Tyler's new favorite word-lately, everything mildly annoying or suspicious was dubious.

Mr. Campbell slipped on a pair of sungla.s.ses. "Come on, it's not that bad."

Tyler flipped his hood off. "Correction. It wasn't that bad until the whole cast of The Hills showed up."

"Be nice." But Mr. Campbell was smiling.

Jessa longed to go park herself at one of the small cafe tables lining the plaza, sip an espresso, and read a book. But instead, they waited. Tim attempted handstands and Devon tried to knock him over without stepping on the pigeons. Jade sang quietly, strumming her travel guitar.

"How do you say 'bored' in Italian?" Tyler asked.

Jessa brushed some hair from her eyes.

Mr. Campbell motioned to the inside of her left wrist, the long iridescent skinny trail of a scar. "Where'd you get that?"

Jessa laughed, pulled her cuff up. "Didn't you know? I'm Harry Potter's crazy half sister."

Chuckling, Mr. Campbell pushed on the nose of his sungla.s.ses as if they didn't quite fit and went back to studying the whole group. Jessa used the tiny pocket of time to fish her iPod out of her sweatshirt pocket and plug herself in. She found Les Mis and started from the beginning.

Tyler peeked at her screen, reached over, and clicked it off.

"Hey!"

"Carissa's orders." He handed Jessa a white gummy bear, her favorite.

A moment later, Francesca ushered them back into a pack, the frog a bobbing, floating thing.

"Come on, eponine," Tyler said, pulling her to her feet.

The shoppers returned, their arms full of shiny bags. They wore cropped jackets and strappy heeled sandals, designer denim, and round, smoky sungla.s.ses. Jessa frowned. The whole lot of them looked lacquered, shiny, and windproof. Jessa stared down at her Chaco sandals and tan shorts that might as well have a neon sign reading "Tourist" on them.

Francesca snapped her phone shut. "Yes, yes-we are all here? Follow the frog!"

Reason #3: Remember when we found that dead dog? Someone had hit it on your road, and Sean was all p.i.s.sed that you wanted to wait until animal control got there. Told you we'd waited long enough, that we had to get going. I know you hate it when I bring up the dead-dog story. But it's a solid reason. Had to bring it up.

Jessa showed Tyler Reason #3 as they made their way toward the Roman Forum. She shivered. Every once in a while, she'd still dream about that dog. He wasn't too old, no gray in his muzzle, black and mutt looking in a little crumple by the side of the road. At first, they thought he was sleeping there in the dirt shoulder, the sky above them aglow in sunset wash. But he wasn't sleeping.

Tyler popped open another bag of gummy bears he'd picked up at a kiosk and ate a handful. "I don't know the dead-dog story."

"It's so gross that you eat them all together. They're different flavors."

"Grosser than a dead dog?" He shrugged, holding the bag out to her.

Jessa frowned at him but selected a white gummy bear. She told him the story. They'd been walking to get ice cream from the market at the bottom of Jessa's long road. Found the dog there. Carissa called animal control immediately. Bless the iPhone of all knowledge. Jessa stood there, tears wetting her face. Somehow, she couldn't peel her eyes from his strange parenthesis of a body, its little arc, his head tucked beneath one leg. There wasn't even any blood. Sean had kept tugging at her sleeve. "Let's go," he'd said. "The store closes at six. We've been here long enough." But Jessa hadn't wanted ice cream anymore.

"Did you read the instruction?" Tyler asked.

Instruction: "Long enough." I personally think you put up with his c.r.a.p for long enough. But what does "long enough" mean to you? Write a poem and read it out loud. Not just to Tyler.

"She wants me to write about what it means?"

"Like your interpretation of that phrase." Tyler chewed another handful of bears.

"Helpful."

"You know, that kind of self-reflection, self-aware stuff you're always trying to avoid doing unless it's for some scholarship you're applying for." He rattled the bag to dislodge the ones clinging for their lives to the sides.

"I don't try to avoid self-reflection."

"OK."

Jessa watched people hurrying by her on the street. She made her face all dreamy. "Long. Enough. What does it mean? See, this is me...reflecting."

"Impressive."

"What does it mean to me?" she mumbled again. But the landscape around her took over, invaded her mind. All the color and age of the place. What must it be like to have all this history around all the time? To wake up to a view of the Pantheon outside your apartment window each morning, to walk by St. Peter's on the way to work? Jessa stared at the McDonald's sign looming next to a crumbling column. Weird. Tyler stayed silent beside her.

When they came to a stop outside the Forum, Francesca dove into a discussion about Julius Caesar, his orations, his betrayal, his cremation. Jessa couldn't believe the crazy, open beauty of the Forum, its deteriorating sprawl-the columns shooting up from green ground, the crumbled stone, the way the remaining skeleton of the place stood out against the cloudy sky. Francesca walked them down into the ruins, and Jessa felt herself descending into history. They stood silently near the place where Mark Antony held Caesar before he was cremated.

"Interestingly," Francesca told them, her arms poised like a conductor, "the group of senators who a.s.sa.s.sinated Caesar on the Ides of March wanted to bring a sense of normalcy back to the republic, but their betrayal really lead to another Roman civil war." She clucked her tongue and stared out at them, dropped her arms to her sides. "Any questions?"

No one had questions. A girl from the other group in a Stanford sweatshirt yawned loudly.

Holding back what appeared to be a sigh but could have been a yawn of her own, Francesca released them. The frog on a stick took a break, propped against stone and gra.s.s. The group spread out to wander the Forum, to run their hands over its ancient remains. Jessa pressed her face into a slab of white, breathing in the cold dirt smell of it. She pulled her earbuds out of her jacket and started to put them in her ears.

"Et tu, Brute?" Mr. Campbell motioned at her ears.

She stuffed them back in her pocket. "What?"

"I'm just teasing you. It's not like my generation's any better with our constant need for a soundtrack."

Jessa felt her face grow hot. "I don't need it."

"OK, I'm just teasing you." Mr. Campbell motioned to the grounds. "So what do you think?"