All Roads Lead to Rome

Chapter One

Rome is sweltering as it waits patiently for the sun to set over the Spanish Steps. It’s the kind of vapid heat that makes me wonder how the lions had the energy to leave their cages, let alone maul anyone.

I’m in John Keats’s bedroom, the room he died in, overlooking the sprawling steps below. Horses sweat in the middle of Piazza di Spagna as they wait to give carriage rides, immovable in the small throng of late-May tourists. Most of the passersby don’t even know this was Keats’s house, despite the enormous crimson plaque on the side of it. They come here for selfies on the famous steps and never give John’s shrine more than a careless glance. For me, the Keats-Shelley House is the best part of the neighborhood. I wonder if he stood exactly here, watching the people outside the way I do.

Anna Maria comes and stands beside me. “It’s closing time, Story,” she says in Italian. “No more people-watching today.”

“Mmmm.”

She follows my gaze to a cluster of kids my age, dressed like conspicuous American teenagers. They’ve stopped at the bottom of the steps. A group of tourists in matching red T-shirts flows around them like a school of minnows sliced apart.

“Wait,” she says, “is that the infamous Dip Squad?”

I purse my lips and nod. They’re all there: Kelsey, Guin, Alicia, and the twins, Patrick and Jack. We’re the kids of the American diplomatic corps stationed in Rome, but I’ve called them the Dip Squad since last fall when they welcomed me with one prank after another to show me how things work here. They thought I was stuck-up because I keep to myself so much. The worst was when they convinced me a stray cat near the embassy belonged to a cute Marine assigned to guard duty. They told me the cat had been lost for days, so I brought it to him. He thinks I made the whole thing up to hit on him. He still smirks every time I visit my mom at work.

“Which one is the dark-haired boy?”

“That’s Jack.”

“But Patrick is the mean one, sì?”

“Sì.”

“Jack is pretty cute.” She elbows me.

I scrunch my nose, and she laughs.

“You should stand up to them. They don’t seem worth being miserable over.”

“They’re not. But I’ll be out of here soon. Jack is the only one I’ll ever have to see again.”

“He’s the one going to Princeton with you?”

“Sì.”

“Story, don’t let other people keep you from living the life you want,” she says, poking my arm. “Come on, I have to get home. I have an exam tomorrow.” Anna Maria is in her second year at Università di Roma. She works two afternoons a week at the Keats-Shelley House, where I spend more time than is normal for a seventeen-year-old girl, even one as nerdy as me.

We say ciao as she locks the door, and she heads to the metro. The Dip Squad has, blessedly, disappeared. I’ve promised my mom I’d go to the Gucci store on Via Condotti to buy a ridiculously overpriced necklace the ambassador wants to give to a visiting dignitary. I don’t understand why people flock to designer stores to buy ugly things for thousands of dollars when they could find vintage treasures on the Via delGoverno Vecchio for a few euros, but I don’t get most things about people.

When we moved here last August, I found my way around by using a copy of Fodor’s Italy in 1951 that I bought in a used bookstore. “Never out of date” it says on the cover, which makes me laugh, but the Eternal City is pretty eternal. There’s something obscenely unromantic about a smartphone map.

As I reach the edge of the piazza, I spot Patrick’s blond buzz cut leading the Dips back in my direction. I duck into a gelateria.

“Buonasera,” says the middle-aged man behind the counter.

“Buonasera.”

He looks at me expectantly, because most people come into an ice cream shop to actually get ice cream. My mom will have takeout waiting at home, but I might as well have dessert now, since I need to give the Dips time to go past. I look over my choices.

“Un gelato alla stracciatella vegana, per favore.”

People burst through the door, and I turn my head, thinking it must be the Dips coming to harass me. But it’s a guy and girl about my age, both of them looking like wealthy tourists. The girl looks a lot like the American singer Jasmine. But celebrities and celebrity look-alikes are as common as good pizza in this part of Rome. She has her dark hair in a ponytail like me, and we both have on yellow, though I’m wearing a vintage summer dress that Audrey Hepburn might have worn, and she’s wearing a romper some stylist probably thought was retrochic.

The man behind the counter asks me in Italian what size gelato and whether I want a cone or cup, but he’s watching her.

“Una piccola coppetta, per favore.”

“Sì, signorina.”

The girl’s voice is almost hysterical. “Do you think they saw us?”

Maybe they’re hiding out from the Dip Squad, too. The bad part about being a loner is there’s no one to share your jokes with.

“I’m sure they didn’t.” The boy has a Scottish accent. He cranes his neck to look over her head without getting too close to the window.

“They can’t see me with you.”

“They won’t, keep the heid,” he replies, but then he changes course. “Ah no, I think they’re coming.”

I’m paying the man while they make this exchange, and he’s listening intently.

“You are Jasmine, no?” he asks her in heavily accented English.

“Yes! Is there a back way I could go out?”

The man nods, and Jasmine slips behind the counter. He ushers her to the back as if he suddenly thinks he’s working for the CIA. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” she calls to the boy while she slips the gelateria guy a fistful of euros.

I walk past the Scot and step outside. A quick scan for the Dips only shows me a group of people with cameras rushing toward the shop, ready to run me over. My gelato is already sweating, so I take a bite. The boy comes out of the gelateria, and they snap his photo.

“Where’s Jasmine?” they all yell at him as if he isn’t close enough to hear them. The flashes are so bright, I squint even though their lenses aren’t pointed at me.

“Who?” the boy says.

“We all saw you go in with her!” one shouts as the rest clamor about where Jasmine is and click their cameras.

“Where is she, Luca? Where’s Jasmine?”

“You’re mistaken,” this Luca kid says as the whir of cameras almost drowns him out. He steps toward me and grabs my elbow as if it’s a beer mug. Melting gelato flies off my spoon. “This is the girl you saw.”

And that’s the moment I envision going down in history with the Dip Squad if they ever saw these photos: my mouth open, filled with stracciatella, surrounded by paparazzi blinding me with flashes as I’m held up like a prize marlin by some guy named Luca while he covers for the reigning Queen of Pop, whose music I don’t even like.

The paparazzi seem to be thrown. Several of them lower their cameras to examine me.

“I could have sworn it was Jasmine!”

“She has a ponytail! And she’s wearing yellow.”

“You said it was Jasmine,” one says in Italian. The rest are using English but with accents from all over Europe.

“Damn, I thought it was!”

“Who’s this girl?”

“Nobody!”

While I’m perfectly aware of my nobody status, this seems pretty harsh, and the Scot hasn’t even given me so much as a “please play along” look. It’s like he just assumes I’d be thrilled to have these people insult me just so I could be in a photo withhim.

“Well, this nobody is going to head out now.” I say it in the language of Rome, because there’s something about Italian that makes it sound a lot more serious than saying it in English.

“Who are you?”

“Who is she, Luca?”

“Is this your latest, Luca?”

“Where’d you find her? She doesn’t seem like your type.”

I stare at this Luca kid to let go of my arm, but he doesn’t. He’s looking between them and me, clearly calculating how much risk to benefit there is in throwing me to the lions. I shake my head at him.

“She’s a tour guide,” he says. “Obviously.”

I just look at him. I don’t think I look like a tour guide. I also don’t think my Italian is fooling anyone that I’m a native, including him. Maybe it’s the quickest way to get these people away from me, though. Luca is clearly somebody they consider worth taking pictures of. If I’m nothing more than a tour guide, then there’s no chance those open-mouthed-bass pictures of me are getting published in any of the celebrity magazines Guin and Kelsey love.

“Sì, sì,” I say, and stop speaking Italian before they realize I’m not actually a local. I do my best to impersonate Anna Maria’s accent when she speaks English. “I was hired for the day, that is all.” This is nothing like Roman Holiday.

“You lot need to back off,” Luca says. “She isn’t used to this kind of attention. She’s just a local girl my butler hired to show me the sights.”

His butler? Hoo boy, as my grandfather from Maine says. I nod at them, and I don’t even need to pretend I’m annoyed. But it’s still better than getting into any of these online magazines.

“See, nobody!” I say in my Italian-accented English. “Now, please let us alone, as I want to bring my client to Fontana di Trevi before the after-dinner crowds! Vieni!”

The paparazzi lower their cameras and mumble to each other. I turn toward the street that will take us to the fountain and pull Luca along by the rolled-up sleeve of his expensive button-down. I’m practically on Gucci’s doorstep, and now I need to take a thirty-minute detour, but it was the first monument I could think of that would be pretty close but still lead us out of their circle.

“That was pure dead brilliant,” Luca says as we leave them behind, looking back at the paparazzi, who seem unsure of whether they should follow us. One or two do.

“You’re welcome.” I drop my wilted stracciatella in a trash bin along the bricked pedestrian street.

“Oh, right, of course, my manners. Thank you, Miss—?”

He looks at me expectantly.

“Herriot. Astoria Herriot. But most people call me Story.”

“Charming,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.

“Look, I need to go to Gucci for my mom. So I’ll take you to the Trevi, we’ll pretend we’re talking about it for a few minutes in case they’re watching, and then we’ll separate, okay? That should be enough to get rid of your entourage. And if they ask, you can tell them my clock ran out.”

He pulls his head back as if he’s a little shocked by my brusqueness, so I add, “No offense or anything.” Sometimes I feel like introverts should wear T-shirts that warn people we don’t know how to interact.

“None taken.” He strides along beside me, a little more slowly than I’d like. “So, where did you learn to speak Italian like that? Do you live here?”

“Just for the past year. I’m a Dip kid.”

He looks at me like maybe I’m a little unhinged.

“My mom’s in the diplomatic corps,” I add.

“Ah!” he says. “So that’s why you knew exactly where to go for the Trevi.”

I shrug. “Roma is classic.”

He laughs. “Well, yes, the ancient Romans and all.”

“No, like Audrey Hepburn classic. Rome is one of a kind.”

He puts his lips together like he might whistle, I guess to keep from laughing at me. “I stand corrected,” he says. “It must be right barry to live here for a wee bit.”

“Barry?”

“You know, great, fantastic.”

“Oh, yes. It is.”

“Where else have you lived?”

“Well, home is technically Washington, DC, but we’re hardly ever there. Let’s see, Tokyo, Rio, Lisbon, Zagreb, and now here.” We’ve reached the fountain. People scatter along the perimeter, trying to get selfies with it, but it’s not so thick with tourists that you can’t see well.

“So, tour guide, tell me about the Trevi.”

My mouth twitches into an automatic frown, and he laughs. “Seriously, I bet you know all about it. Please?”

A paparazzo who followed us stands across the street casually keeping watch. “Well, you could spend hours talking about the Trevi, but I’ll give you some highlights. The Trevi, named for the tre vie, or three streets here, is one of the oldest water sources in Rome, dating originally to about 19 BC. Then, in 1730, I think, Pope Clemens of some number, because I can never remember the numbers, held a contest to rebuild it.”

Luca smiles at my loose grasp of the facts, and I sweep a strand of hair behind my ear.

“A relative of Galileo was awarded the commission, but he was from Firenze, and the locals pitched a fit, so they gave it to a Roman architect named Salvi. The fountain wasn’t completed until after Salvi’s death, about forty years later, but most of it’s his vision.”

“I knew you’d make an excellent guide,” he says. His smile is dangerous, or maybe it’s the way his grayish-blue eyes look at you.

“I’m not a tour guide.”

I look around, afraid someone has heard how ridiculously defensive I sound of my nerd expertise.

“Of course. And who is around Neptune?” He points to the center statue.

“That’s Oceanus, not Neptune. You can tell because he’s supported by seahorses and tritons, who are half men and half mermen. Neptune would have a trifork and dolphins. Didn’t you ever watch The Little Mermaid?” I point to the left of Oceanus, making a big show of it for the paparazzo. “See, the triton on the left is struggling with his horse, representing rough seas, while the one on the right represents calm seas.” I glance behind us. The guy seems to believe I’m giving a tour. He’s started to scan the crowd, probably for other celebrities. Rome is littered with them.

“I have seen The Little Mermaid, and wasn’t the trifork called a triton in it?”

“No, Ariel’s father is King Triton, that’s what you’re thinking of.”

“Oh, I should have studied my Disney classics more,” he says, so deadpan that I smile in spite of myself.

In front of us, a little boy throws a coin into the fountain, over his shoulder.

“And is that for love?” Luca asks. “He seems a bit young.”

I laugh. “No, one coin over your shoulder ensures a return trip to Rome. Two will bring you love. Three and you’re getting married.”

“Got it, don’t throw three.”

“Definitely not. I should get going.”

He drops his smile. “Aye, and I should get back to my hotel. Can you point me in the right direction? It’s on the Via dei Condotti.”

Of course it is. All the hotels there are for the uber wealthy. “So is the Gucci store. Come on.” The paparazzo has disappeared. “I think we’ve lost your friends.”

Luca looks around and seems to relax. I take him north toward Condotti by a different route in case there are still paparazzi waiting for him the way we came.

“So, why are you so popular?” I ask. “Are you a musician, like Jasmine?”

Luca looks at me with raised eyebrows and a bit of a smirk. “No, I’m not. I just hang around people like Jasmine.”

“And why can’t she be seen with you?”

He glances around as if making sure no one is listening. “Her EP with Rowdy Funkmaster is about to drop. The label has her under strict orders not to do anything that might give it bad publicity.” He puts his finger to his lips and whispers, “Shhhh!” even though I haven’t said anything. Rowdy is Jasmine’s longtime boyfriend—everyone knows that, includingme.

I want to tell him that maybe she shouldn’t be cheating on the guy, then, but it’s not my business.

“You won’t say anything, right?”

I just look at him, because who would I have to tell and why would I brag about being this guy’s cover?

“I’ll pay you.”

I shake my head. “I’d rather you didn’t and we just forget this whole episode ever happened.” Although, I’m still mad about my stracciatella.

He seems almost offended. But he’s got the confidence of someone who is used to girls fawning all over him.

“So, what else should I see while I’m here?” he asks. “I mean besides the Colosseum?”

“So much. There’s a street going up to the Villa Borghese if you walk to it from Piazza di Spagna that will give you a breathtaking view of the whole city, about halfway up. And the villa is a pretty cool place on a rainy day. No tourists, and it feels like you’re in some golden-age-of-Hollywood movie. My absolute favorite places, though, are just little side streets and back stairways where you feel like you could be in any century you choose.”

He’s staring at me, and I feel the burn rush up my face. Honestly, I sound like a twelve-year-old who only leaves her house for cosplay. I need to not get carried away over talking history to strangers. As if I ever talk to strangers.

“How long are you here for? There are lots of day trips from the city that are pretty cool,” I add to cover my awkwardness. I don’t know why I bother, though. It’s not like you can explain the essence of Rome to someone breezing through with a popstar.

“For the summer, I think. Although my plans aren’t totally fixed. Friends, you know.” He ticks his head to let me know he’s really here for Jasmine.

I nod, like, yeah, of course, whose plans don’t depend on friends? But I’ve never lived anyplace long enough to have real friends. A few pen pals and an occasional local friend like Anna Maria, but I’m not like the other Dips. They all clique together and become lifelong besties, splashing social accounts with photos of them looking amazing with comments like omggg and ur unreal and stunning.

We’ve reached the Condotti, and I point out the direction of his hotel.

“Well, thank you, Miss Astoria Herriot,” he says in full Scottish gallantry. “Are you sure I can’t do something for you? I could go with you to Gucci and buy you something. You could pick out whatever you like.”

“That’s okay,” I tell him with a smile. “There’s nothing at Gucci I want. But thanks, anyway.” I almost wish my mom had said to buy something at Tiffany’s. I’ve always wanted something in one of their robin’s-egg-blue boxes. Not that I’d actually take a gift from him.

He hesitates, and I knit my face into a question mark. I’m pretty sure we’ve successfully covered up his clandestine shenanigans.

“Well, right. Thanks again. You were brilliant. Pure dead brilliant with that Italian accent.” He smiles.

“Anytime,” I say, and he steps back to let me cross in front of him in the opposite direction toward Gucci. I get an awkward feeling when he’s behind me, as if he’s watching me walk away. Suddenly all I can think about is how I’m walking, as if it matters, and I could swear I’m not walking normally. But at least I have enough self-respect not to look back. The bigger problem is that I almost want to.