Chapter Five Cammie #2
“Sì, it is perfect timing for us, if it is also for Cammie,” she says, at least acknowledging that I might have other stuff to do, even if no one expects me to.
I pull a disappointed face that I hope looks more sincere than it feels.
“Ooh, I wish I could, but I actually have somewhere to be.” To Mom, I add, “I thought I’d kick things off by going to tour Pompeii today.
My ticket has a reserved time frame for entry, so I need to catch the train soon if I’m going to make it. ”
I expected her to be excited about this (fake) plan; Pompeii isn’t far, and I’ll still be soaking up some archaeology goodness, even if I’m not in field school. At least, I would if that were actually where I was headed. But her lips turn down and worry wrinkles her brow.
“By yourself ?” she asks.
“Yep!” I give her a calm, easy smile, pretending I’m not picking up on any of the concern in her question. Just a self-sufficient girl, excited for her day exploring the ancient world.
Mom shifts her weight to her other hip, and I glance at Ilaria, who appears to share the motherly worry for my safety.
“Cam, I don’t think that’s a good idea, honey.
I don’t want you making the trip alone. Sundays are off days for the film crew and field school—why don’t you wait and I’ll go with you then? ”
I forcefully hold my smile in place. “I’ll be fine, Mom—I’ve gone plenty of places on my own when I’m at school and you haven’t even known about it. I haven’t been kidnapped yet.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have started off with that argument, especially the “yet” part.
She’s always been all for my independence, and female empowerment, and girls can do anything they put their minds to.
But she’s also seen every movie in the Taken franchise and reads too many thrillers.
Should anything happen to me, we both know I don’t have a Liam Neeson–type dad to run around the world doing vigilante shit to find me.
That’s kind of the whole reason I’m in this situation, isn’t it?
“Yes, I know that,” she says. “And I know you’re a grown woman.” It looks like it pains her to say those last two words. I’m not sure she believes them. “But this is another country and you don’t speak the language.”
I’m about to jump in with some stats about my LingoLegend streak, maybe a little anecdotal evidence of me communicating just fine with Luigi on my way here from the airport, when I’m saved from myself.
Dr. Danny appears at Mom’s side, wiping some sweat from his forehead underneath one of his many nerd-tastic bucket hats.
“What’s going on here?” he asks.
Ilaria answers, like she isn’t the C to this A-B conversation. “Camilla wants to go to Pompeii by herself. Alex is unsure if she will permit it to happen.”
Is this how it feels to be a reality TV star? Strangers with cameras, perpetually all up in your business?
“I’m not trying to helicopter you,” Mom says. “There are just safety risks to a young woman traveling alone. I think it’s a valid concern.”
“Of course,” Dr. Danny agrees. Did I say he was saving me? I spoke too soon. “But West could go with her.”
Just when I thought this couldn’t get more needlessly difficult.
“That’s really not necessary,” I say, emphasis on the really. “I’m sure he’s very busy doing…whatever West does nowadays.”
As if to prove me wrong, West appears. What happened to all those interests that keep him from ever knowing boredom?
“What am I too busy to do?” West asks. Or grumbles, more like.
I don’t know what his problem is; he’s not the one facing down the Three Musketeers of Wrecking Plans.
But I also don’t know what he’s doing in Villa di Bronzo, assuming I didn’t summon him like some kind of demon.
West never had much interest in archaeology, no matter how hard I tried to convince him that it was endlessly fascinating and exciting.
He would retort that he had enough excitement in his life just trying to keep up with me.
West was the stereotypical “old soul” of young children, always more thoughtful and measured in his words and actions than anyone else our age.
He could still be adventurous and playful, but with a caution I never really had.
He also overthought everything to a point that sometimes saved us from harm, but more often just kept him from having a good time.
“Nothing,” West’s dad answers his question gleefully.
A little too gleefully, if you ask me, or West, judging by his face.
Dr. Danny isn’t even hiding his hope for some forced former bestie bonding.
“I was just telling Alex and Cammie that you don’t have any plans for the day and can absolutely accompany Cammie on her trip to Pompeii.
You’ve never been either—not that you can remember, anyway. Sounds fun, doesn’t it?”
“Again, completely unnecessary,” I try, my panic growing. “I like to do these things by myself. I can go at my own pace, get sidetracked, see all the things that I really want to see but no one else cares about. And it’s hot out today, and we know West doesn’t do well in extreme temperatures, so—”
“Yeah, I’ll go,” West says, his face clear of any displeasure. Whatever was bothering him before, it’s been made better by the opportunity to rain on my parade.
“Oh, that would be wonderful, Weston. Thank you so much,” says my traitorous mother.
I really wonder what she thinks West Jacobs would do if a hypothetical human trafficker tried to snatch me while we were walking down the Via dell’Abbondanza.
Sure, West has put on some muscle mass in the last three years.
But unless he’s changed every other thing about his personality, he’s not about to step in and throw hands, like some kind of bodyguard.
He’s more likely to immediately run in the opposite direction, calling on the relevant authorities for help while ducking and covering, saving his own ass.
He’d be the most hated side character in Taken 12: The Bad Guys Win in This One.
But at least this puts an end to Mom’s protests, and I don’t have to do the awkward dance of reminding her that I am nineteen, technically an adult, and don’t actually need her permission to do anything at any time.
I’d rather not play that card when I’m trying to avoid raising any red flags over my head.
Besides, it shouldn’t be hard, once we’re out of the helicopter parent fleet’s sight line, to send West on his less-than-merry way and relieve him of travel companion duties. As we both know, it’s a role he doesn’t want to fill.
Or so I believe, until he sticks by my side all the way to the train station.
“Wait, I think this is the wrong one,” he says as he follows me on board the exact train I want to be on, looking from his phone to the digital sign on the train platform behind us to me and back. “Don’t we need to go the other direction to get to Pompeii? This goes toward Naples.”
I ignore him and continue walking deeper into the car.
I find one empty seat in a set of four—the other three thankfully occupied—and slide into it.
I hear him grumble something about me having lost my manners in the last few years when, unfortunately, the person in the seat behind mine stands and moves toward the door.
West claims the spot and turns to speak through the narrow gap between our seats and the windows.
“Did you hear me? I think this train is going the wrong way. We’ll have to get off at the next stop and switch.”
I wait until the doors have all shut and the train is moving again—in the direction I planned to go all along—before I finally answer.
“No, this is the right train.”
I swear I can hear the scrunched expression on his face. “What? I thought you said we were going to Pompeii. Here, look, this sign shows the route.”
Instead of looking at anything, I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the seat. West’s voice has risen with his alarm, and I can’t bear to see whatever reactions he’s getting from the Italians or other tourists in my little quad.
I deliberately lower my own volume when I answer. “We’re not going to Pompeii. I was never going to Pompeii. We were never supposed to be going anywhere. If you don’t want to join me, you can get off at the next station and take the train back to Villa Russo. Or to Pompeii—hell, I don’t care.”
West huffs out an exasperated breath. “Join you where, Cammie? I don’t even know where we’re going.”
I am just as exasperated when I answer, “You said it yourself—this train is going to Naples. We go where it goes.”
“Is it worth even trying to get more information out of you?” he asks.
He’s learning—this isn’t like old times, when I’d fill him in on all my plans and scheming, even when I knew he’d be less than thrilled or try to talk me out of things. We’re not in this together.
I don’t offer a response, which is a response on its own.
I should be satisfied when he turns around and stops trying to speak to me.
I should feel content. I’m getting to go where I want, so I shouldn’t care what West does with his day.
But his anxiety is palpable, even through the barrier of sturdy-fabric-upholstered public transit furniture.
It almost makes me feel anxious for the first time about today’s mission, which in turn makes me resent West’s presence even more.
Why couldn’t he let me bluster on into this possibly absurd, somewhat half-baked plan without thinking it through any further? One thing is clear—I can’t let him in on the truth of what I’m up to. Not unless I want him to bring it all crashing down before it even really begins.