“There! That’s the school!” Lizzy shouts, and I whip around to see where she’s pointing. Sure enough, there’s a small placard half hidden behind overgrown purple bougainvillea that reads: St. Cecilia’s International School.
I could weep.
The small boarding school is straight out of a Renaissance painting. When we pass through a small gate off the street, we enter a square cobblestone courtyard. On three sides, the three-story marble building surrounds us with all the hallmarks of classic Roman architecture: symmetrical design, arches, columns, and ornamental details carved right into the stone. On the second story, a deep balcony runs along the length of the courtyard with potted trees and flowering vines, and already I’m imagining myself sipping coffee and reading there in the mornings before the heat creeps into the city. I might be able to trick myself into thinking I’m in Rome on a fancy holiday. Noah, meanwhile, is imprisoned for some heinous crime.
St. Cecilia’s International School is in the historic center of Rome, and though I imagine it’s normally packed to the gills with faculty and students, now that it’s summer time, the school has emptied and opened its doors for small study abroad programs like ours.
We’ll have free use of the school’s facilities along with one other school, and from the looks of it, they’ve beat us here.
At my age, I like to think I’ve cultivated a healthy amount of confidence, but when I look over at the students from Trinity Prep who’ve gathered near the fountain in the courtyard, I have a weird guttural fear that I’m about to get shoved into a locker.
Damn they’re cool.
They can’t be older than fourteen, yet they could all easily pass for the cast of Gossip Girl. They’re wearing their school’s uniform—Trinity’s logo embroidered on their breast pockets—but they’ve adapted it, of course. A few undone buttons, a pair of chunky boots, and is that…a cigarette?! No. Just a pen.
My students are in awe of them as we pass by.
I hear Isaiah whisper to Zach, “That girl is so hot.”
The Trinity girls see Noah and immediately perk up. One nudges her friend to get her attention so she doesn’t miss him.
He’s none the wiser. His arms are so overloaded with luggage. Sweat has his shirt sticking to his chest. I want to be repulsed, but I can’t quite force the feeling.
I can feel when the Trinity students turn their attention to me. I’m their worst nightmare come to life: a boring adult. It must be terrifying to see me in my non-designer shorts and white t-shirt. My sneakers—though trendy—were picked because of their arch support. I’m still wearing my lanyard with my itinerary. And oh yeah, I’m bleeding.
We make it to the entrance of the school, and Noah ushers the students inside.
They don’t fight to stay out in the courtyard with the cool kids because the lobby is a wonderfully cold refrigerator compared to the streets of Rome. Every student sighs in relief as they shuffle past me, wiping sweat from their brows.
Unlike the students outside who seem extremely wealthy and privileged and probably bored by everything, my students are in awe of this place.
It’s fancy with a capital F. Nothing like schools in America.
The front foyer is made up entirely of black and white marble, and in the center of the room, there’s a cluster of three statues that I suspect are copies of Greek originals. They’re amazingly detailed.
“This place is like a museum,” Lizzy says, stepping closer to the statues.
“That’s because it used to be one,” I tell her, explaining how the school was originally home to a cardinal before being turned into a museum for a few years in the early ’90s.
“Cardinals…like the baseball team?” Zach asks, frowning in confusion.
“No, like the bird, you idiot,” Brandon says with a Get a Load of This Kid eyeroll. “Yes, of course the baseball team. How do you think the guy could afford this place?”
I grin.
“Actually, neither. A cardinal is the most senior member of the clergy of the Catholic Church, second only to the pope. After the cardinal passed away, this building was used as a museum for a brief period, then it was gifted to the school, and now, here we stand, a part of Roman history.”
I think I have them on the edge of their proverbial seats—a regular Ms. Frizzle—and then Isaiah nudges Brandon, points to the statue closest to him, and loudly whispers, “I can see his butt.”
The students erupt into laughter.
Right, well, Rome wasn’t built in a day.
“All right,” Noah says, stepping up and grabbing everyone’s attention. “No offense, but there’s some major body odor coming from this group. Let’s find our rooms so everyone can unpack and rinse off.”
For once, I think Noah is brilliant.
We trek up the central staircase with our luggage, and the children follow closely behind.
“Do you guys think this place is haunted?” Lizzy asks, looking up at the dark corners of the hallway as if to confirm there’s nothing about to jump out and scare her.
“Oh definitely. I bet the cardinal’s dead corpse wanders the halls at night,” Brandon says, his eyes alight with possibilities.
Lee rolls his eyes. “Let’s show some respect toward the dead.”
“Why? The cardinal can’t hear us,” Brandon says, turning back to Lizzy. “Or can he?” His voice has taken on the classic ghoulish “oOoOo” lilt.
Then Isaiah, capitalizing on Lizzy’s fear, jumps out from behind a column and shouts, “Boo!” at the top of his lungs.
Lizzy, poor thing, jumps out of her skin and scoots closer to Kylie, linking their arms.
“Lizzy, there’s nothing to fear here,” Noah tells her. “If you want to visit the dead, you’ll have to go to the Capuchin Crypt.”
As expected, the students immediately stop and spin around to face Noah, their eyes wide with curiosity. I, reluctantly, pause to hear him too.
“What’s that?” Isaiah asks, edging closer.
“A group of tiny chapels located beneath a Roman church. It contains the skeletal remains of 3,700 friars.”
“Are you serious?” Zach asks.
“Dead serious.”
His little joke goes over their head, but I smirk at the floor.
“Capuchin monks had a long tradition of hanging their dead brothers to dry. Their crypt, now open to the public, is filled with still-clothed skeletons. The monks describe it as a space in which to reflect on the visitor’s own mortality and thus atone for their sins.”
“Wicked,” Zach says.
“Gross!” Kylie protests.
“‘What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.’”
The quote is spoken by an Italian-accented voice behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see a man approaching from down the hall.
He’s well-dressed in slacks, brown leather oxfords, and a button-down shirt with rolled sleeves. He’s extremely handsome. His wide-set jaw balances perfectly against his sharp cheekbones and thick dark brows. His brown eyes complement his olive skin.
He reaches our group and his gaze lands on me, narrowing only slightly, possibly with intrigue before he smiles at everyone.
“That quote is from the Capuchin Crypt,” he explains with a clap of his hands. “I’m so happy you’ve already begun to take an interest in my city. I’m Lorenzo Ricci, a teacher here at St. Cecilia’s International School, and I’m also the head of our summer study abroad programs.”