Chapter 8
I found myself enveloped in an unsettling solitude, and the dreary weather mirrored my feelings: overcast, somber, rainy, and cold.
Emily still wasn't speaking to me. Jessica hadn't called once since our movie outing over a week ago.
Marco despite us being together, felt more distant than ever.
We had only met after school once, and the air was thick with tension.
Even our attempts at making out on the bus hadn't eased the distance.
As for Mom, she hadn't returned home in nine days. She'd called twice, claiming her workload had doubled because her colleague had fallen ill, leaving her to pick up the slack. I couldn't help but harbor doubts about her explanation. The bell rang, signaling the end of my last class for the day.
“Ms. Bernardi,” Professor Baldi called out, beckoning me to his desk as we waited for the classroom to empty.
“Yes,” I replied, managing a faint smile.
“Ms. Bernardi, I can't help but notice your fascination with the rain, as you seem lost in thought gazing out the window during my class. However, you really need to focus a bit more. This is your final year: exams, graduation, and the transition to a new chapter in your life.” He paused, studying me closely.
“I know, I'm truly sorry. It's just… I'm dealing with some family issues, and my mind has been preoccupied,” I attempted to explain.
“It's not just today. I meant to hand back your test results from last week, but I forgot.
I'll hand them out tomorrow. I have to say, your grade is lower than I've ever seen from you.
It's concerning; I've known you for four years, and even though math isn't your best subject, you've always managed to get more than a passing grade,” he continued, his eyes revealing disappointment—an expression I've come to recognize all too well lately.
I felt my heart sink. I had taken my performance for granted, assuming I could coast through without studying, even though I was never good at math. But the truth was, I hadn't put in the effort. That wasn't who I was.
“If you need some notes or extra assistance, I'm available after class. I understand math may not seem crucial for someone pursuing a career in fashion design, but it will undoubtedly impact your final grade,” he said, trying to encourage me.
“I'll do better. I admit I didn't study for this test, but I have all my notes,” I assured him, hoping to convince both him and myself.
“Alright then. I'm glad we're on the same page. You can go now,” he said, dismissing me.
Two days passed, yet the rain continued to fall relentlessly. I found myself standing alone in the hallway after spending too much time waiting in line for the restroom. Time was running short, so I picked up my pace to ensure I wouldn't be late for class.
When I passed the common room, I caught sight of a boy crying.
He looked to be in his first or second year, with glasses, braces, and disheveled hair.
To my horror, he was bound to a column, his wrists taped together, completely naked.
His frail, pale frame trembled—not from the cold, but from sheer terror and shame.
I approached him, stunned by the sight, and he instinctively huddled closer to the column, attempting to shield his face and crossed his legs in embarrassment. Without thinking, I reached out to tear the tape, but it was futile; I needed scissors or something sharp.
Quietly, I rummaged through my backpack and grabbed my keys, using them to slice through the tape and set his hands free. He remained still, too ashamed of his nudity to move.
I quickly took off my hoodie and handed it to him. After a moment of hesitation, he accepted it, and I turned my back to give him some privacy as he hurriedly put it on.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice cracking.
“It's lucky I prefer oversized hoodies,” I replied with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood, but he remained silent.
“Who did this to you?” I asked softly, turning back to face him, but he kept his gaze downcast. “Please, can you tell me?” I urged gently.
“I can't. She said if I do, she'll make it worse,” he whispered, barely audible. It wasn't difficult to guess who he meant.
“May I help you in any way?” I asked, knowing he would need pants, but I couldn't offer him mine.
“I just want to go home,” he sobbed, looking every bit like a scared child. I couldn't help but wonder what could have led to this moment—if he had done something to deserve it or if it was simply an act of senseless cruelty.
“Can you call someone to pick you up?” I inquired, but he merely shook his head. “Okay, wait for me in the restroom. Let me see what I can do,” I instructed him, and he nodded, the restroom just a short distance across the hall.
I hurried to the art lab wing, where we usually sewed dresses, but I was on the lookout for a pair of pants. If I couldn't find any, I was prepared to settle for a piece of fabric to whip up a makeshift skirt—anything was better than going empty-handed.
I tried to be quiet as I navigated through the open classrooms, but as I peeked into one, I realized someone had seen me, though they remained silent.
When I got there, the art lab classroom was empty. While rummaging through the fabrics and examining the draped garments on the mannequins, I found nothing.
“Looking for something?” a deep voice whispered from behind me.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, startled.
“Shhh.” Zane put a finger to his lips, his curious gaze fixed on me. He wore light blue jeans and a hunter green hoodie that made his golden-hued eyes stand out.
“You scared me,” I muttered, turning back to my search.
“What are you doing?” he asked softly.
“I need a pair of pants,” I replied, still digging through the discarded materials.
“Looks like you've already got some on,” he said with a smirk.
“It's not for me; it's for that boy you tied up in the common room,” I shot back, trying to pierce him with a glare.
“Can you quit accusing me of things I didn't do?” he gritted his teeth.
“Oh, my bad. That was your gang's doing, and since you're part of it…” I let my words hang in the air. He snorted in frustration and walked off without saying anything more.
After a few more minutes of searching without luck, I settled on a piece of black jersey fabric. I tried to fold it discreetly, hoping to avoid any encounters with a janitor or teacher. Just as I was about to leave, I spotted Zane approaching, his jaw tight and his eyes narrowed with anger.
“Here,” he snapped, tossing me a pair of sweatpants.
“Are these his?” I asked, my voice laced with annoyance.
“No, they're mine. He can keep them. Don't bother thanking me,” he said, turning away briskly before I could respond. I stood there for a moment, shocked, then quickly made my way to the boys' restroom. He was waiting for me inside, sticking his head out and searching for me.
“Here, take these. No need to give them back,” I said, smiling as I handed him the pants.
“Thanks!” he grinned back, genuinely appreciative.
“You're welcome,” I replied. He turned to go change, and I called after him, “I have to go. Will you be okay?” He nodded.
Naturally, I had already missed half of the class—me, missing a class? That seemed impossible, but I did so for a noble reason. Surely that counted for something. I headed to the classroom, attempting to come up with a plausible excuse.
However, when I arrived, all I found was silence and an empty room. The only person present was a janitor mopping the floor.
“Excuse me, where is the class?” I asked, feeling a bit bewildered.
“Oh, the class was dismissed; the teacher had an emergency, and there wasn't a last-minute substitute for the last three hours. Everyone went home,” a woman in her fifties replied.
“Thank you!” I said, leaving. As it turned out, I hadn't missed any class after all, and it was still only 11:30 AM.
The bus station was eerily quiet when I arrived; there was no sign of anyone else.
Emily, I figured, had already hopped on the 11:20 AM bus, so I had to wait for the next one at noon.
I settled onto a bench inside the station, watching the blue buses glide in and out.
Just then, a bus pulled up with a sign reading “Rome.”
Mom had told me I was welcome to visit anytime, and since it was just an hour away, I figured now might be a good time.
I could catch the evening bus back home and still be at the dinner table, or I could convince my mom to come back with me.
With nothing else planned for the day, it seemed like a perfect opportunity.
I hurried to buy a ticket, not knowing when the bus might leave.
As luck would have it, it departed just five minutes later, and I was on it—a thrill coursed through me.
I had her address—only a 15-minute walk from the bus stop.
Maybe we could grab lunch together and catch up.
There were so many things left unsaid, especially things she might have held back in front of Dad.
When I was younger, she would talk to me endlessly, but as I grew older, those conversations became less frequent.
Perhaps she felt it was her duty to guide me through my childhood, and now that I had become the person she envisioned, that guidance was no longer necessary.
Still, I missed those moments with her. I missed my mom.
I reminisced about the days when she would brush my hair for at least fifteen minutes, wrapping me in warm hugs and showering me with kisses. It was a ritual I cherished, and even when my hair became tangled, she would patiently brush through it again.
She would say, “You're going to grow into a beautiful woman, but remember that true beauty lies within. Take care not to lose that.”
As I neared my stop, I stood up, ready to step outside.
When the doors slid open, a wave of warm air hit me, a stark contrast to the chill of home.
The streets were a frenzy of Vespas and scooters darting past in every direction, weaving between cars with reckless abandon, almost flying around. It was pure chaos.
Tourists snapped photos and shopped despite the off-season, while others shouted and cursed in the bustling crowd. Litter was strewn about, making me wonder how anyone could choose to live in such a disorderly place.
With wide eyes, I took in my surroundings. I had visited Rome several times before, but usually from the confines of a car or in a familiar crowd with school groups.
When I turned a corner, my heart nearly stopped. I gasped for breath, my eyes widened, and my mouth fell open as I slowly approached the Trevi Fountain. It felt surreal, like this had been my very first visit.
The fountain was monumental, its beauty overwhelming. Despite the throngs of people, I maneuvered my way closer, each step pulled me further into its allure. It was the most stunning thing I had ever laid eyes on. I studied its intricate details, trying to commit every feature to memory.
Time slipped away, and I realized I needed to keep moving; I was only five minutes away. Still caught up in a whirlwind of
emotions, I suddenly spotted a familiar face. It was my mother, her long dark curls cascaded flawlessly, always managing to look stunning with little effort.
Unlike her, I inherited my father's blond hair and blue eyes, but her deep onyx eyes had captivated me as a child, drawing me in completely.
She was elegantly dressed in high black heels, tailored trousers, a chic blouse, and a beige trench coat—she always had an impeccable fashion sense, something I had always admired.
Originally from Rome, she met my dad while still in college, and they fell in love; she left everything behind to move to a quiet suburb for him. Shortly after, I came into the picture.
She sacrificed her ambitions and dreams to prioritize our family, always putting us first. At least, that was how it had always seemed—until then.
As she was about to step onto the street, I instinctively opened my mouth to call her name, but then I noticed her waving at someone else, who approached her quickly. I stood there, frozen in disbelief. My mother was kissing another man…