Instructions for a Broken Heart (12 page)

Clearly, he’d lost his mind.

“Put them away,” he finished, his face beading with sweat. “Away. Text your parents, friends, whatever. And tell them you’re offline, unplugged, deactivated—for the next twenty-four hours. You’re done.”

“Ben…” Ms. Jackson started, quietly, her eyes down.

“No way, Amy. No way. We’re done. Turn them in.” He zipped open his backpack, held it open.

One by one, they each dropped their electronics into Mr. Campbell’s bag. Hillary went three rounds with him over whether her Kindle really counted since all she did on it was read books and was he taking books away? With a sigh, he let her keep the Kindle.

Soon, though, his bag was bulging, so Ms. Jackson bit her lip, unsnapped her bag, and held it out away from her as if someone might puke in it.

Jessa sent a text to her parents:

Doing experiment. Offline 24 hours. No worry. Fun. Talk tomorrow. Luv U. Text Mr. C if you need me.

She dropped her phone and iPod into Ms. Jackson’s bag, who sighed and widened her eyes a bit at Jessa. “You’ll get them back tomorrow. Or when Ralph Waldo Emerson over there cools off a bit.”

Mr. Campbell stood in a clench, arms knotted across his chest. When all devices had been surrendered, he took a long, steady breath. “You have one hour. I don’t want you with anyone or talking to anyone. Just walk around. Listen to this place. Smell it. Hear it. Then we’ll meet back at the bus.”

***

This part of the world had been quilted, patchworked in swatches of olive trees and stone, green and earth and sky knitted together. The layers of hills, the bleached pastels of the little houses. The world smelling of sunlight, Jessa found a shady hollow of ground beneath a tree and instinctively reached for her iPod.

Maybe Mr. Campbell had a point.

She rubbed her eyes, leaned her head against the tree trunk, felt her body settle into the air. “Listen,” he had told them. Nothing. So quiet she could hear the air dreaming through the leaves above her.

Jessa took stock of her body, something the yoga teacher made them do when she and her mom went to class on Wednesdays together. Aware of feet, of legs, of stomach, of shoulders—aware of the tight skin around her eyes, aware of the way her eyes felt slightly dusted with sand.

Aware that here it was earth that flooded her veins, not water, like in Venice. Earth. Sky. Clouds. She opened
Portrait
and started to read where she left off last night, when her eyes where too blurry to read the already shifting and looping words of Joyce. Talk about Café Dumbass. She could open a cafe of her own right here in Assisi. She was pretty sure she didn’t understand the book at all, so much of it blurred on the page before her eyes. Still, something about his language, something about the way he put words next to each other, made her breath catch, made her feel like Joyce could see deep into the dark parts of her. Even if she didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

She sighed.

“Such a sad sound.”

She started, sat up. Francesca’s mystery companion, Giacomo, stood a few feet away, dressed in denim, a snug black T-shirt, those funny shoes all the Italian men seemed to wear, his sunglasses fixed into the curls atop his head. Edged in sky, the Assisi landscape behind him, all castles and towers and stone, he was a god—or a prince. He should have a white horse. Maybe a cape of some sort. Jessa laughed out loud.

“What is funny?” He squinted his dark eyes at her, tipped his head the way her dog Taco would while she watched Jessa do her homework.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just…you standing there. You look a bit like something out of a fairy tale.” Juvenile! She could
not
believe she had just said that to him. She blamed Joyce, all that language on the page.

It was his turn to laugh. “Why do you sit here? All alone?”

“Our teacher kind of freaked out. Sort of gave us a teenage time-out.”

“What is this ‘time-out’?”

“Like a break. Time to ourselves.” She wished she were standing, not slumped up against a tree. But her legs didn’t seem to be working.

He sat down next to her. “Sounds like a nice thing—this time-out.”

Up close, his beauty was even more disarming, the olive smoothness of his skin, the dark eyes flecked with a deep green. Jessa’s whole body shivered, like being close to a famous piece of art. He was one big, walking, talking Italian cliché—the dashing, handsome stranger with an accent like rich, dark chocolate. She would have rolled her eyes if they were working. Which they weren’t. They couldn’t seem to focus on anything but his face.

He leaned over and Jessa thought for a fluttery moment he might kiss her, but he was offering his hand. “Giacomo.”

“Jessa,” she said, shaking it, and realizing she was, ridiculously, disappointed.

He kept her hand in his, turned her arm, took in her scar. He traced a finger along it.

Jessa thought she might faint, which would be super embarrassing, so she really, really willed herself to not.
No fainting
.
No fainting
, she repeated over and over in her head. So far so good.

“What is this?”

She cleared her throat. “Oh, that? I was in a Sea-Doo accident. When I was eight.”

“Sea-Doo?” He laughed again, the funny American word like rocks in his mouth.

“A thing you ride across water. Like a jet-ski. Like a little motorized boat that you sit on.” Jessa swallowed, her throat full of what felt like sponges. Wet ones. He was still holding her hand, his finger still resting on her scar.

“I know jet-ski.” He let go, sat back, and rested his arms on his bent knees. His eyes swept over the groove of trees they were sitting in. “Assisi hasn’t changed so much in a hundred years. It is nice here, no?”

“I love it here.” Jessa blinked into the yellow light. Somehow, even the light here seemed settled, slower. “Being here makes me feel like my whole life somewhere else is just a huge fraud.”

His smile let her know that she hadn’t said something stupid, and Jessa noticed something almost sad in the curve of it. There seemed a weight on his body, the way his shoulders sagged at the edges—and it wasn’t from wearing a cape.

Without thinking, Jessa rushed on, “I feel like crying here. All the time.”

He stretched out on his back, lying flat on the ground, his hands tucked under his head like a pillow, and closed his eyes. “That is Italia.”

Outside the church entrance, Jessa could still see the muzzle of the sleeping dog lying in the pool of late afternoon sun. She had stepped over him to get into the church, and he hadn’t blinked. Two women called to each other, one from the street, one from a high, out-of-sight window. The Spoleto streets hummed with Italian, with machines rebuilding, reconstructing all the beauty of this terra-cotta town, competing with the birds in trees twittering, rustling their wings.

Jessa lit a candle and gazed at the Virgin Mary. The virgin gazed back. The church was both warm and cool, the air smelling of ancient dust, of candles. Her body seemed to drain of all its tension, becoming part of the flickering light, the primordial air. It struck her that this feeling was a lot like she felt in the costume barn, the peaceful emptying of her mind, or at least the way she
used
to feel in the costume barn—before. Jessa was starting to separate her life in this way: B.C.B. (before costume barn) and A.C.B. (after costume barn). Never before had her life been so cleanly divided into a before and after, not even when she moved out of the city. For better or worse, that day she threw open the door of the costume barn, she found herself on a distinctly different path, without a map.

Here, in the matte light of the church, it seemed for the better. In the candlelight, she traced the scar along her arm, the ghost line of Giacomo’s fingers. Smiling, she checked her watch. Ten minutes until she needed to be back for dinner.

After their time-out, they’d boarded the bus in silence, penitent, under Mr. Campbell’s watchful eye. She’d watched the landscape slide past the bus windows, the olive trees, the watercolor sky, on the short drive from Assisi to Spoleto, where they would spend the night in a converted church.

“
That is Italia,” Giacomo had said.

She sat on a little wood bench in the church and peeled open Carissa’s latest envelope. She hadn’t done the last one, hadn’t shouted “Hey, Café Dumbass” into the still air of the bus. Mostly, it just seemed really, really stupid. Not to mention that none of Carissa’s other shouting instructions had done much to help with anything. And Sean’s phantom smile when she walked past his seat had been too sad. Maybe Italy had gotten to him too. All that air and sky, that melted-candy palette.

Or maybe it was just that Natalie and Jamal had taken their two-act show on the road. Act 1: break hearts. Act 2: make out. No intermission.

The paper crinkled, echoed in the dim of the church. Her candle flickered and shifted next to the others, casting the room in dappled yellow light.

Dictionary Definition—they’d been playing the game since sixth grade. Well, forcing people to play it. No one liked it quite as much as Carissa and Jessa did. She’d been waiting for Carissa to bring it up as a reason Sean’s a jerk, was actually kind of surprised it hadn’t come up until Reason #12.

One of her most uncomfortable moments with Sean had been during a game of Dictionary Definition. They’d been backstage at the end of the
Hamlet
run, their relationship not even fully formed, like a bubble emerging from a wand, not even caught on the air yet. The word had been
amorous
, and they were playing in teams. Jessa had defined the word as “feelings of love,” and it was Sean’s turn to use it in a sentence. Without pause, he’d said, “Jade makes me feel amorous.”

Jerk. Carissa had thought that Jessa should break up with Sean then and there, but he’d said he was sorry, just blurted it out, didn’t mean it. Jessa hadn’t much wanted to play team DD since.

But Carissa’s instruction wasn’t for a team game. It was the individual rules.

OK, you have three definitions to write:

Boyfriend

Love

Jessa

For individual DD, the game worked like this. You made up a fake definition and a real definition. The other person playing had to guess which one was fake and which one was real. Usually the words were a little harder, like
contrition
or
aromatic
: SAT words.

Or maybe these words were harder.

Tyler slid into the seat next to her, smelling of perfume. “Holy candles, Batman.”

Jessa passed him the envelope. “You smell like a girl.”

He flushed, a totally un-Tyler thing to do. “Yeah, I was hanging out with Cameron.” The girl from the disco in Venice.

Jessa shot him an amused look. “Hanging out?”

“She’s really cool actually. She totally hates her school. How all those girls are so materialistic. And she can’t help it that she’s super rich or whatever.” He cleared his throat, kicked a black shoe onto his knee, motioned to the envelope. “So, Dictionary Definition.”

“Yeah, no surprises for you, I guess.” Jessa gathered up her things, trying to keep the knife edge out of her voice.

Tyler ducked under its blade. “For the record, I think it’s one worth doing.” He stood up, dug his hands into his pockets. His hair seemed especially shiny and black in all the candlelight, his dark skin warm.

“Thanks for not pushing the last one.” Jessa slung her bag over her shoulder.

He shrugged. “Hey, didn’t want to
manage
you and all that.”

“Even if sometimes I really, really need it?”

“No comment.”

Jessa looped her arm through his, and, with the candles dying behind them, they exited the church into the pink Spoleto evening, the air smelling of roses.

***

Ms. Jackson collected them after dinner for an attempt at another creativity salon. She looked at little skeptical, considering the disaster of the last one, but there they were, all huddled into a nook of the converted church they were sleeping in that night. They sat on wooden benches, the walls lined with candles. At least it gave them a break from the other group.

Jade took her guitar to the front of the room, hooked the braided strap across her back. She sang in that coffee-ice-cream voice of hers, a sweet song she had written on the bus:

Why can’t Pluto be a planet anymore

If he’s still up there in the stars?

Why can’t Pluto be a planet anymore

While Neptune parties with Venus and Mars?

Jessa closed her eyes, her body rocking back and forth.

Someone was staring at her.

Her eyes blinked open. Giacomo stood in the doorway, his eyes on her. When he saw her see him, he smiled. Jessa nodded and fixed her eyes on Jade.

Pluto, you were promised an atmosphere,

You circled the sun, a rogue moon masquerade,

Pluto, we’re all promised constellations,

We’re all orbiting alone, don’t trade

Your planet dreams…you’ll always be a planet

To me. You’ll always be a planet to me.

Jade finished singing, nodding to the applause and whistles.

“Fabulous, Jade.” Ms. Jackson beamed. Her eyes searched the room. “Who’s next?”

“I’ll go.” Jessa surprised herself, her body standing before she’d registered it. She knew the room was nervous. What nut-bar thing would crazy-heartbreak-drink-throwing-limerick-spewing girl do this time? “I promise I won’t be a jerk this time.”

“OK.” Ms. Jackson motioned toward the seat Jade had just left.

Jessa unfolded the sheet of paper from her pocket, her instruction from Carissa written on the back of the note itself. “So you guys know about that game Carissa and I play, Dictionary Definition?”

Nods all around. They’d been going to school together for a while. Jessa was pretty sure she’d made them all play it at some point or another.

Tim raised his hand. “Will this make me feel amorous?” Sean flipped him off.

“OK, so Carissa’s making me give the definition of my name.” Jessa licked her lips, focused on her own handwriting. “So I wrote this. It’s called ‘Middle Name.’”

It might help to start with my middle name. Ray. Not the girl way of spelling it. The boy way. R-A-Y. It was my grandfather’s name. He lived in San Diego where my mom grew up—out in El Cajon which means “the box,” which is a little like what you feel pressed into when you’re there in the summer but where I used to swim in this huge blue pool and so it will always feel like water—that place. Like floating.

When I was four, my grandpa would play Scrabble with me on the little balcony of his mobile home which always felt like walking on the moon, all foamy and flexible. Of course, I couldn’t really spell very well. I was four. But he’d let me make words up with my jumbled string of letters. Then he’d pronounce them to me and declare the points. KLQGT—fifty points! RUSBD—thirty-five points! And he’d tell me, his calloused hand like a butterfly on my arm, when maybe I accidentally put them into some sort of order that actually made sense.

Once, I spelled
slick
—and he brought out a shiny piece of white paper from his pocket, a receipt or something, and smoothed my little finger along it. “Slick,” he told me, the skin wrinkling like tissue around his eyes the way it always did when he smiled at me. A real word entirely by chance. Each tile clicked up against each other, unknowingly making sense. At least to my grandpa.

That’s Italy so far. To me. All those tiles suddenly making sense.

Folding the paper into tiny squares, Jessa sat down again next to Dylan Thomas, who had come in from the meeting with his group and sat on the end of a wooden bench. The clapping happened slowly, then some whistles. She tried not to notice Sean’s face, the way he watched her like he smelled roses all around, like the candles weren’t the only light in the room.

***

The girls all had to sleep in one big room. It was sort of like that
Madeline
book Maisy had been obsessed with when she was four and made Jessa read about five thousand times a week. Sleeping in
two straight lines
…Which meant she had to sleep in the same room as Natalie, watch her shimmy out of a pink shirt over a black-lace bra, slip into silky red pajamas Jessa’s mom would never in a million years let her try on much less own. Watch her brush her white-blonde hair with a glossy pink brush over and over and over as if the brush transferred shimmering rays into that hair with each stroke. No one’s hair should be that shiny when it wasn’t under hot stage lights. Seriously, there should be some sort of law.

Maybe she could get appendicitis just like Madeline did in Maisy’s book. Men in white shirts would wheel her away to a hospital bed lined with flowers and a dreamy rabbit picture on the ceiling and a distant papa would buy her a dollhouse. It would be so great to get appendicitis right now.

Jessa pulled on her own cotton pajamas that made her look five. Natalie was applying some sort of mint-scented lotion to her feet and it wafted across the room. She caught Jessa staring, held out the green tube. “Want some?”

Jessa shook her head, made a big show of tugging on some socks. She had to get out of this room.

***

After a maze of hallways, Jessa found a courtyard outside lit with small torches. Ms. Jackson had said to take twenty minutes, get some air. She curled up against a stone wall of the church in her sock feet and a jacket over her pajamas. The air had turned cool, coppery, like pennies tinged faintly with smoke.

Someone was playing the guitar. It drifted like snow across the courtyard, a low tune she didn’t recognize—a sad, gorgeous melody that made Jessa think of blank, starless skies over a dark sea. It made her want to swim in that sea, let it cover her.

Then she saw her. Red-haired Madison from the other group, caught up in shadow only a couple of yards from where Jessa sat, a guitar across her lap.

Madison played the guitar—like that?

Madison’s hands fell away and her face tipped toward the torch light, clouded, tired. Scrubbed clean
of makeup. She wore a pair of jeans, the knees ripped out, and a black hoodie. Her feet were bare, the nails manicured a deep shade of purple.

She noticed Jessa and stubbed out a cigarette that was burning in a little dish next to her. “Hey.” Setting the guitar to the side, she tucked her legs up close to her chest. “I didn’t know anyone was out here.”

Jessa inched toward her. “That was beautiful.”

Madison shrugged. “For a hundred bucks an hour, the guy better teach me how to play.” She ran her hands through her hair, the red like blood in the torchlight. Her gaze fell on Jessa. Her eyes widened. “You OK?”

The question caught Jessa off guard, realizing that it must visibly show that she wasn’t—OK. “Not really.”

“Tell me about it.” Madison traced a groove in the stone courtyard with her finger. “This vacation blows. I should have gone to Vail with my parents.”

Nodding, Jessa breathed in the clean, wet air. Had it rained? Lights dotted the layered, charcoal line of hills all around, all the small houses, hundreds of small lives gathering their night together.

“But I don’t need to tell you that, huh? I heard she got to your guy first.” Madison laughed a little, a real laugh—no glass cracking, just dry and low and sad.

Jessa flashed to the image of Madison kissing Jamal in the Pantheon, on tiptoe, laughing. She realized Madison had been crying just now. “I’m sorry about Jamal.”

Shrugging, Madison ran her hand over the strings of the guitar emitting a sound like a ghost. “Guess I should return this to the guy I borrowed her from.” But she didn’t make a move to leave.

Madison didn’t say anything for a long time, and Jessa thought that was it for their conversation. What else could she possibly say to this girl? Not much in common but Natalie’s taste in boys. But then Madison said, “I guess I should have just done it. He wanted to. People think I’m such a slut but I’m not.” She strummed another ghost note. “What’s the big deal, right? You do it sometime or another. So he found option two.”

Jessa’s whole body grew warm. She and Sean hadn’t done it either. Had talked endlessly about it. She had wanted to wait—had felt like she
should
wait, even when being pressed against his warm skin made her skin feel like it was taking root there, finding its home. Actually, she had been planning Italy in her brain. Had thought that maybe Italy would be the right place. She caught Madison’s eye then. The girl held her gaze.