Racing the Sun(18)

There’s not much else for me to do, so I take off my pants and climb into the soft covers of the bed. I leave the lantern on, even though it creates creepy shadows on my wall. If I’m this annoyed by him already, there’s no telling how I’m going to survive the next two months.

This is your ticket home, I tell myself.

I repeat it again and again.





CHAPTER FOUR


I wake up slowly, blinking my eyes at the sun streaming through the windows. I already know where I am, even half asleep. When you travel all the time, spending nearly every night in a different bed, you adjust quickly.

I’m in my new room at the Villa dei Limoni Tristi. For the first time in a very, very long time, I realize what this means: my own room. I have privacy. It was just me, alone in the room. No snoring Canadians or smelly Swiss boys. I smile to myself and settle into the bed even further. Normally¸ when I wake up I get up and get ready. Sleeping in doesn’t really exist in a hostel. But it can exist here.

Then I hear the muffled yells of the children from downstairs and I realize that I probably can’t sleep in here either. I have to get back to Positano and then I’m on the job.

I slip on my wrinkled clothes from yesterday, even though they smell kind of rank, then head into the bathroom to try and make myself look presentable. It’s not easy to do with a small cosmetics case and no toothbrush, but I manage to find a spare toothbrush and toothpaste still in the wrapper in one of the many drawers and douse myself in a lemon-smelling perfume that livens me right up.

My hair is a disaster and only Carrie Bradshaw can get away with the crazy curly bedhead I have going on right now, so I pull it back into a low braid and slick on some anti-frizz serum that I carry in my purse at all times. My face is looking a bit puffy—I’m probably not drinking enough water—but there’s not much I can do about that. I know I can look quite pretty when I put some effort into it, but today I don’t have any ammo. Plus there’s no one to impress.

Who am I kidding. There is someone to impress. It’s just that I doubt Mr. Larosa would notice even if, I don’t know, Beyoncé was standing in his house, naked in front of him.

Once I am somewhat satisfied I head out the room and walk down the hall, peeking over the railing at the open living area below. The voices are much louder now, drifting up from the kitchen. Alfonso is protesting something or other and Annabella is making whining noises. Felisa is chastising both of them. I can see how I will need to walk a fine line with those two. On the one hand I feel so terribly sorry for them because of all they’ve been through. On the other, they can’t go through life acting like delinquents.

When I round the staircase I glance out the windows and doors to the patio and backyard. The day is bright and sparkling, so beautifully alive. It’s amazing how sunshine can clear away the doubts that night bring.

I try to keep that thought in mind as I approach the kitchen. Alfonso and Annabella are at the round table in the breakfast nook, picking at their food. On the kitchen island is a lavish spread of cold cuts, cheese, and bread—a typical Italian breakfast.

“Espresso?” Felisa asks me, already reaching for the tiny cup. Coffee—dark and so strong it’s nearly painful—is a way of life here, so I don’t dare refuse. Plus, I need it. My head is still a bit in a fog.

She starts making the espresso from a fancy, gold-toned machine and eyes me over her shoulder. “Do you know how to use this?”

I nod. Luckily I do since I worked at Starbucks part-time during my first two years of college.

“Good,” she says. “Help yourself to the breakfast.”

I grab a plate and pile meat and cheeses on it and pour myself a cup of orange juice, sneaking a glance over at the table. Do I sit here at the kitchen island or do I go and sit with the children? Part of me wants to just drink my coffee and try to wake up, but the other part realizes that if I am to teach these kids I should start making an effort to befriend them right now.

I wait until Felisa hands me my espresso cup. I shoot it back in the customary fashion, wincing as it burns down my throat. This stuff isn’t to be sipped; it’s something to get over with, like hard liquor. Then I take the juice and the plate to the table. I draw a deep breath, smiling at the children, who aren’t looking at me, and sit down. Annabella shoots me a furtive glance and concentrates on spreading honey on her bread. Alfonso takes a messy sip of his juice and then spits it right back into the glass. He looks at me defiantly, waiting for me to get angry with him.

Instead, I smile even wider, gulp back most of my juice, then spit a little back into the glass. Yeah, it’s gross, but at least it makes him giggle. Felisa turns around at that, staring at us with hostile curiosity. I look down and busy myself with my prosciutto.