Page 30 of One True Loves

I turn to look back out the window.

Our next stop is the Teatro Massimo, the biggest opera house in Italy and the third largest in all of Europe, Etta informs us, reading again from her big book.

“While the Palazzo demonstrates the Arab-Normal style of architecture that was prevalent in Sicily in the twelfth century, the Teatro Massimo is a combination of neoclassical and Renaissance styles,” she explains as we walk up stone steps and past giant columns. “Also, did you know that the opera house was famously used in the closing scene ofThe Godfather: PartIII? Never seen it, but it appears as if a lot of people died in it.”

Angelo looks like he’s reconsidering all his life choices that led to him being here, with our tour group.

A rush of cool air greets us as we enter the marble-floored lobby, even though it’s crowded with passengers from our cruise ship and the others who were docked at the port this morning. Angelo gathers everyone in a corner, giving us an overview of what we’ll see on this tour. And as much as Dr. Lee promised we wouldn’t be doing the boring thing, this sure seems like it.

“Can I just... wander?” I ask my parents, holding up my camera.

My mom looks around, surveying for possible dangers, I guess, before turning to Dad with raised eyebrows and a shrug.

“Yes, that should be all right....” Dad starts, but then he turns to Alex. “Would you mind hanging out with her, son?” When he sees my outraged face, he quickly adds. “Hey, the buddy system can’t hurt, right? We are in a foreign country, Lenore, and I want to make sure you’re safe.”

Okay, and what is this skinny boy going to do about that? He ain’t no Keanu Reeves.

But instead I just grimace and make my escape. “Well, come on then.”

I weave through the groups of tourists quickly, heading toward the double doors leading out of the lobby. The plan is not to lose him, like,intentionally, but I mean, if he can’t keep up, then maybe my dad should have selected a better chaperone to protect his precious daughter.

The next room has high ceilings that seem to stretch an extra two stories and intricate carvings on almost every surface. I want to stop and appreciate the extra-ness of it all, how even the floor being scuffed up by all these ugly tennis shoes has a beautiful pattern of inlaid marble—there’s some meaning, some important philosophy of life in that. But if I stop to consider all that, I’ll be trapped making conversation with Alex. So, I keep it moving. I don’t even turn to look back. Through two more doorways and past a particularly large tour group in matching lavender shirts, and then I’ve made it inside the theater.

All of my snarky thoughts about this being a boring stop today fizzle out as I enter the grand space. Rows of crimson velvet chairs stretch out before me and up toward the ceiling in gilded boxes, with matching lush curtains draping over every opening and framing the stage. Bright lights make the gold walls sparkle even more brilliantly, all the way up to the domed ceiling, where giant paintings of half-naked musicians across a blue sky are arranged into the shape of a flower. The whole place is dripping in wealth and opulence, like I’m in some goddess’s jewelry box. I want to photograph everything, even though I already know that no camera, especially not my Polaroid, can truly capture all this beauty.

I walk down the aisle, and turn into one of the rows of chairs, half expecting someone to stop me because they can sense that I don’t have a trust fund or own a ball gown or whatever. Thankfully, though, I go unnoticed among all the other people drifting wide-eyed through the auditorium. I pull mycamera up, centering the grand stage in the viewfinder, but then change my mind. I can already find a much better photo of that on their website. Instead, I tilt my camera downward, so it’s framing the rows of chairs in front of me. The flash goes off, somehow so bright and loud even in this space, and I get a warning look from an official-looking man a few rows up.

“Oh, so that’s not just an accessory?” a voice asks, and I feel the chair next to me move under the weight of someone. I don’t need to turn to know who it is.

“Why would I be carrying around this big-ass thing just for a look?”

“I don’t know.” Alex shrugs. “Itdoeslook cool.”

When I don’t say anything else, he adds, “Sorry, you didn’t lose me. But don’t worry, it’s for purely selfish reasons. I’m under no illusions here that anyone but you would be the one to do the protecting if shit went down.” He pinches his arm as if to show off that it’s wimpy, but it looks fine to me. I feel my mouth wanting to curve into a smile, but I hold on to that resting bitch face with a vengeance.

“So you really don’t have a major?” he tries again, obviously trying to keep this conversation going. And of course, he picks the literal worst topic ever.

“I do. Like I said last night, it’s art history. I’m just... probably going to change it.”

“I didn’t realize that people actually did that,” he says, talking easier now that I’ve encouraged him with a few words. “Started school not knowing what they’re going to do, I mean.I know, of course, that the undeclared option was there. But I thought it was for show, like it wasn’t arealoption.”

I switch from my resting bitch face to my active bitch face, and his eyes go wide like a cartoon woodland creature caught in a hunter’s crosshairs.

“I only meant I didn’t think those people got in,” he rushes to explain. “Because it’s so hard to get into good schools without having your angle, you know, setting yourself apart. That’s what my school’s counselor drilled into us. But I guess you weren’t undeclared. Like, not on paper, even though you kind of are in practice.” His eyes meet my cold stare, and for some reason he keeps going instead of, I don’t know, running away or bursting into flames. “But you obviously did set yourself apart somehow. You must have had really good grades to get into NYU... hey, why are you making that face?”

I side-eye him.

“Not the face like you’re thinking up ways to murder me, because I’ve gotten used to that. But the face like you smelled something bad. When I said NYU.”

Just like Grandma Lenore said. Lord, my face needs to chill.

“No. Face. Is. Being. Made.”

“Whoa, okay,” he says, holding his hands up. “I take it back.”

We sit in blessed silence for a while. He studies the ceiling, and I watch my picture as it slowly develops. I’m plotting a polite way to get up and find my family, because even a boring tour is better than this. And right when I’ve decided to say fuckit to politeness and make my escape, he starts back up again.

“I was surprised, anyway. I don’t know you, obviously, but I can see that art history doesn’t seem right.”

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