That’s exactly where I head once I have my toiletries and a change of clothes.
The communal bathroom is much nicer than I was expecting. No grungy sludge-lined tile, no crusty toilets. Along one wall, there’s a row of shower stalls with brand new opaque plastic curtains. Along another, there are sinks and mirrors. The toilets are separated into three private rooms with actual doors. A bank of windows with frosted glass lets in warm afternoon sunlight.
I read in the information packet that a laundry service comes to the school once a week, so there are fresh folded towels near the showers. I’m headed toward them—anxious to wash off the street germs that have been marinating on my knee for the last half hour—when I catch sight of my own reflection in one of the mirrors and freeze.
Oof.
I’m a mess. My hair has come undone from its neat ponytail. The baby hairs near my face have curled into frizzy ringlets. My mascara has smudged and my cheeks are still red from the trek from the subway. A quick smell check confirms that yes, that nostril-searing odor is wafting off of me.
Dear god how could anyone stand to be near me?!
Just then, the bathroom door opens and a fellow chaperone leans in, her eyes wide with wonder.
I expect her to introduce herself, but the first words out of her mouth are, “Jesus! Who’s the hunk?”
And unfortunately for me…I don’t think she’s talking about Lorenzo.
Chapter Five
I soap off the last twenty-four hours, tend to my knee, and change into a simple sky-blue sundress. It has a smattering of little white daisies all over it, and it’s lovely and thin. The fabric isn’t too tight and the hem falls to my knees, which means it meets the chaperone dress code I’ve established for myself. It was hard picking a wardrobe for the trip. With scorching temperatures in Rome, I couldn’t make myself pack a single pair of jeans or, god forbid, slacks. I chose breathable fabrics and lots of dresses. The students will have to endure the sight of my shoulders and knees and try not to be scarred for life.
In the last half hour, I’ve unpacked quickly and arranged my things so that everything looks neat and tidy. A sweater is folded over the back of my desk chair in case I get chilly at night. My half-finished copy of The Dutch House by Ann Patchett waits for me on my bedside table alongside Where the Red Fern Grows, which is one of the books we’ll discuss in my class next year.
I haven’t had a chance to open the window and smell the jasmine like Lorenzo suggested, but I will. For now, I have to get back to my students. It’s time to meet for lunch.
I slip on my white Veja sneakers and grab my money pouch and tote bag.
I’m almost out the door when I cave and backtrack, grabbing a compact mirror from my makeup bag and checking my reflection one more time. It’s silly that I’ve taken this much care with my appearance. With an even complexion and dark lashes, I usually just let it ride, especially at school. A hint of blush and a dab of pink gloss on my lips isn’t much though, right?
“Oh my god! Ms. Cohen! WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR FACE?!”
“You look so different!”
“She’s just wearing makeup,” Lizzy tells the boys, rolling her eyes for emphasis when I join the others.
“Ms. Cohen, you look pretty, but let me know if you want me to help you next time. I’m really good with eyeliner,” Alice says, barely masking her insult with a compliment.
I’m one step out into the courtyard and all eyes are on me thanks to my students.
Noah and Lorenzo are chatting with a few other chaperones in a group, and I’m annoyed to find that Noah understood the assignment: Rome tourist, but make it fashionable.
He’s a walking J. Crew ad: navy shorts, cool sneakers, and a slightly fitted white shirt.
He took the time to freshen up too, and his wavy chestnut brown hair is simply *chef’s kiss*, but I’d never tell him that.
Two women crowd in, hanging on his every word, but he’s paused whatever he was saying to look over at me.
I’m on a NYFW catwalk as I move to join the other chaperones. Don’t trip. Don’t stumble. Chin high. Pretend no one is watching.
I stop next to Noah because the enemy you know and all that.
“You’ve freshened up so nicely, Audrey,” Lorenzo tells me, smiling kindly.
I thank him before Noah flicks my money belt in a silent jab, and I shoot him a death glare.
“Audrey, this is Gabriella and Ashley,” Lorenzo explains. “They’re the chaperones from Trinity and they arrived just yesterday. They’ll be here for most of July as well.”
I recognize Gabriella as the woman who poked her head into the restroom earlier to give her commentary on Noah. She’s tall and lithe with a mass of soft curls and a delicate navy uniform skirt and blazer. Ashley is smaller, softer, blonde. She’s wearing the same uniform as Gabriella, only in a shade of blood red. They both wear coordinating cross ties beneath the collars of their crisp white shirts.