Getting the Boot (14 page)

Andrea laughed. “People have been walking on these floors for hundreds of years, Kelly.”

Andrea and Steve walked back and forth among the groups, pointing out an important stained-glass window or a particularly beautiful panel of inlaid wood. “I know there's a lot to absorb here, but don't forget to look at the sculptures. Whoever can show me a Bernini or a Michelangelo gets a gelato later,” Andrea told them.

They emerged from the cathedral over an hour later to find that the day had turned hot and sunny. Steve surveyed the bright sky and glanced at his watch. “How about some lunch, guys?” Steve could always be counted on to make sure nobody missed a meal. They trekked back through a warren of sloping little streets to a bustling outdoor café back in the Piazza del Campo.

Kelly sat down next to Sheela at the long table and ordered a
té freddo
. Who knew that Italians loved iced tea so much? “Can you believe that place? I could have spent three more hours in there, at least.”

Sheela looked up from her
insalata
, surprised. “Three hours? I didn't think you could concentrate on anything except shopping or boys for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Well, nothing prepared me for how beautiful it was inside. The tour books didn't make a very big deal about it at all.” She blushed slightly. “I bought the photo guide in the gift shop so I won't forget all the details.”

Sheela smiled. “That's great. Maybe you'll loan it to me sometime.” She turned to Jarvis, who was offering her a bite of his panino. “Yum, that's good. What's in it? Eggplant and ricotta?”

Kelly watched them talking, their smiling faces pressed close to each other, and felt like an intruder. They were so cute together—not mushy, not show-offy, just nice. Jarvis genuinely seemed to care about Sheela, and it was obvious she was crazy about him.

Kelly glanced down toward Joe, who was smirking at Minnie and saying something Kelly couldn't hear. Minnie was ignoring him, but her shoulders were hunched and her eyes blinked rapidly; Joe knew exactly how to get under the poor girl's skin. When they were dating, Kelly had listened to Joe make fun of her roommates and never said a word in their defense. Now she felt her hackles rising. Minnie wasn't strong enough to laugh off his abuse, and Joe wouldn't stop until he got her to cry.

Casually, Kelly walked the length of the table and touched Minnie's shoulder like they were best friends. “There's an empty seat on our end. Come sit with us.” Stunned, Minnie nodded, and fixing Joe with a look of pure hatred, followed Kelly to safety.

“Your ex-boyfriend is such an asshole,” she hissed, her voice shaking. Kelly was surprised; she didn't know Minnie ever used that kind of language.

“I know. Sorry.”

“Well.” Minnie sniffed. “I'm just glad you dumped his rear end.”

As Kelly returned to her seat and her salad, Sheela nodded and smiled at her.

Kelly grinned back and looked across the cobblestoned piazza at the graceful curve of red brick buildings that surrounded them. She really liked this little place—it was so different from anywhere she had ever been. And Siena seemed to be bringing out the best in her. Standing up for Minnie had made her feel great, much better than sticking it to Joe would have been on its own.

Kelly had been interested in style for her entire life. Now, even though it went against all of her natural instincts, she knew it was time for her to start concentrating a whole lot more on substance.

 

 

Dr. Wainwright was absolutely right—two days in Siena wasn't enough; it was a place straight out of a fairy tale. After six weeks in a big, noisy metropolis, Kelly found Siena safe, small, and easy to navigate. Getting lost wasn't even an option: There were street signs everywhere pointing out all the tourist attractions, and almost every street eventually led to the Piazza del Campo. Best of all, Siena was a city designed for walkers; its narrow streets and twisting alleyways couldn't handle heavy traffic, so Kelly had been able to explore without her usual worries of getting squashed.

She walked until her feet were burning. Andrea had given everyone a crash course in Gothic architecture, and one of their assignments was to identify as many examples of flying buttresses, mullions, parapets, and vaulted ceilings as they could. It was ridiculously easy; you couldn't turn a corner without discovering a tiny stone gargoyle or a gracefully arched window. But Kelly had kept exploring, long after she'd gotten bored with the assignment. Wandering the winding medieval streets with a bag of lemon cookies in one hand and her worksheets in the other, she felt like she had stepped back in time hundreds of years. She found herself slipping into a fantasy involving a medieval princess who looked a lot like herself and a young nobleman who bore an astonishing resemblance to Brad Pitt.

Now she was back on a bus heading for Florence, watching her little kingdom grow even tinier out the window. Outside the city, they passed by field after field of tidy rows of grapevines, which, according to Steve, would be made into Tuscany's famous wines. Green farmland, dotted with enormous rolled cylinders of hay and grazing animals, stretched for miles.

She glanced over at Marina, in the seat next to her. She had her head down, and her pencil scratched across the pages of her sketchbook with even more urgency than usual. Kelly tried peeking over the edge. “Can I see?”

Marina hugged the pad tightly to her chest. “Back off, Brandt!” She grinned, seeing Kelly's stung expression. “Relax. I'll show you when I'm good and ready. Might even ask you for a little help on it.”

Kelly turned back to the window. She wasn't going to get any information from Marina right now; they were already following the huge painted “Firenze” sign painted on the highway lanes. The faint outline of the city loomed in the distance. As far as Kelly could tell from the outskirts, Florence was a big, modern city—not the Renaissance wonderland Dr. W had described.

As they pulled off the
autostrada,
Steve pointed out the window at the river running alongside the road. “This is the Arno, which divides Florence into two halves. We'll be spending a lot of time on this side of the river, in the Centro Storico. But the other side of the river has two spots we can't miss—the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens.”

Eventually, the bus pulled in front of a modest-looking little hotel. The kids gathered in the threadbare lobby while Andrea checked everybody in. Marina looked around dubiously, refusing to put her backpack down on the rug. “Kind of a dump, huh?”

“Who cares?” Kelly answered. “They have AC! At this point, I'd sleep in a litter box if it had air-conditioning.” Their pensione in Siena had been cute, but it had been hot as hell.

Andrea held up her hands for silence. “Listen, everybody, this city is completely crammed with tourists this time of year. We've booked everything in advance, so it's essential that you get down here on time every morning.” Kelly felt several kids' eyes on her and willed her cheeks not to go red.

“Let's go freshen up and meet back down here in half an hour to check out some of the sights in the Centro Storico.”

Kelly shouldered her bag and headed upstairs to unpack.

 

 

That night, after trekking through the Duomo and touring two Renaissance palazzos, Kelly could barely keep her eyes open long enough to brush her teeth. She finished in the bathroom and crawled into bed.

“It's all yours, Marina,” she said.

“Already?” Marina deadpanned. “I figured you'd be in there at least another hour. Don't beauty-queen rituals last all night?”

“They certainly can,” Kelly acknowledged. “But tonight I need my beauty sleep even more.”

Marina climbed off her bed, knocking her sketch pad on the floor. Kelly caught a brief glimpse of pages filled with drawings of angels in all different styles, each with a face that looked strangely familiar to her. Kelly had seen that same face in several old photos clipped inside the cover of Marina's pad. The photos showed a woman sitting on a motorcycle. She was small and a little stocky, with a wide, carefree smile and dark, laughing eyes.

“Is that your mom?” Kelly asked, grabbing another quick look before Marina snatched the sketchbook.

“Was.” Marina said. “She died last year.”

Kelly's hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I'm—”

“Don't say it! Do
not
say you're sorry. I can't stand the pity thing.” Marina's look was threatening, “And don't think you're going to get me to spill the whole sob story.”

“Okay,” Kelly said quietly. “It's just that I remember you looking at that book of angel paintings the day we went to the art store for supplies.”

“They're for my next tattoo. I want something special to remember her by that I can carry with me all the time.”

Kelly nodded. “I had something like that of my grandmother's. She died last year, too. It was a locket.” Her hand moved up to her collarbone. “But I lost it.”

“That's rough. At least I know once it's on me, the tat's not going anywhere.” Marina headed for the bathroom, but abruptly stopped in the doorway.

“My mom had a rare heart defect, a total fluke. When she was in her thirties, she got a heart transplant, which worked great, until just over a year ago. The new heart gave out and she died before the doctors could find a new donor heart.” Marina looked at the carpet, her voice tight. “I want to do something in her honor, you know? But it has to be absolutely perfect, 'cause she was perfect.”

“It will be,” Kelly said, just before Marina shut the bathroom door.

“This woman needs a serious makeover,” Kelly said, staring at the painting. A desperate, wide-eyed face, framed by a crown of slithery snakes, grimaced back at her from the wall.

Marina's eyes lit up. “Medusa—totally freakin' cool, man. That's what I'm talking about!”

Kelly and Marina were deep into their exploration of the Uffizi Gallery with the rest of the group on their second afternoon in Florence.

Looking at the mythical monster was supposed to turn you to stone, and Kelly could see why. “No wonder you like it—that's exactly what you looked like when you woke up this morning. Who's the artist?”

“My perfect man, Caravaggio. Did you know that he got thrown out of Rome for killing a guy during a tennis match? How's that for a temper? He lived fast, died young, and totally rocked the art world. Just my luck; he died four hundred years ago.” Marina held her arms straight out, looking for an empty patch of skin. “Would this make a killer tattoo, or what?”

Kelly shrugged. “I thought your next tattoo was gonna be for your mom.”

“That's my
next
tattoo—it's not gonna be my last.” Marina grinned. “You can never have too many.”

Kelly grabbed Marina's elbow and steered her away from Medusa. “Let's go check out the Botticelli room—he knew how to paint
beautiful
faces. I want to see
The Birth of Venus
—at least she won't give me nightmares.”

Marina snorted. “This from the girl who looked upon the face of Joe Leahy and survived. Fine, let's go look at the pretty pictures, you big wuss.”

 

 

As the group made their way from the Uffizi to the Accademia del' Arte, Kelly found herself feeling claustrophobic in the tourist-choked streets. Australians, Germans, Brits, and Americans were everywhere, lining up to see the Duomo, filling the piazzas, and milling around the leather stalls at the Mercato di San Lorenzo.

The more American tourists Kelly saw, the more embarrassed she felt. They were often slow, they were usually rude, and they automatically expected everyone to speak English. She realized that she probably looked just the same way to the locals. Kelly decided, right in the middle of Piazza San Lorenzo, that she was going to work much harder on her Italian. The next time she came to Italy, she at least wanted to be able to carry on a polite conversation.
The next time she came to Italy?
How had that thought popped into her head? Somehow, despite all the mistakes she'd made here, Italy had begun to grow on her.

The group slowly made its way into the Accademia del' Arte to see Michelangelo's
David
.

“The statue was recently cleaned—call it his five-hundredth birthday present,” Andrea explained. “You're getting to see him in better shape than he's been in hundreds of years. In this sculpture, Michelangelo portrayed muscles and bones far more accurately than any other artist of his time.”

Kelly walked around the statue, admiring the details Michelangelo had managed to coax from solid marble. She could even see the tiny veins in David's hands. She opened up her sketch pad and flipped back to the drawing she'd made in Andrea's class weeks ago. She compared it to the sculpture. Her version was okay, but it was nothing in comparison to the real deal.