blazing into fear.
Cairo had always been my other half. The second part of my soul.
If he was going crazy, I was being cut in two.
Terror made me angry, made me stupid. I pushed myself up to my feet, hands balled in fists by my side. “Stop it. Just stop it. You’re not even trying to get a handle on yourself. You’re making yourself crazy and you don’t care what it does to you or to me. So spare me the guilt trip, okay? Get the hell over it and start acting like my brother again.”
The look on Cairo’s face—the total sense of betrayal there—I couldn’t stand it. I ran out the door of his room and back toward my own. As I ran past, Jon whispered, “Freak,” again, but I pretended I didn’t hear.
“I wish your brother wasn’t such a weirdo,” Audrey said the next day. We stood, with the rest of our school group, in the gardens in front of the Catacombs of Saint Cecilia. Though it was still morning, the Italian sun beat down, sweat beading between my breasts so that I could feel my cotton sundress sticking to my skin. Tendrils of my hair that had escaped from their high, sloppy bun clung damply to my neck. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean, he’s different, right? But so hot.”
That was another of the ways in which my twin and I were not alike. No matter how much Cairo stood out from the crowd, girls always raved about how gorgeous he was. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, guys never seemed to agree with my mother that I was “growing into my looks.”
At that moment, I was doing my best to be just one of the twenty schoolkids from Virginia—standing around, giggling at Jon’s handstands on the grass, eating a lemon gelato from the stand across the road, and trying to catch the eye of one of the hot guys with the Italian school group also waiting for the tour.
Cairo, on the other hand, stood off to one side reading the 2,000-year-old Latin carvings in an ancient salvaged stone.
Of course, I could read Latin too—Mom and Dad made sure of that early on—but I had the sense not to flaunt it.
Cairo’s shoulders were hunched over. His oversized black T-shirt hung off his slim frame. Though he was steady again, himself again—at least for the moment—I could see how alone he felt.
If I went to stand with him, let him borrow some of my “normal” for a little while, it would help. That was what I usually did. But Cairo had become . . . unstable. I couldn’t say whether it frightened me more for his sake or for my own. I couldn’t deal with that. Couldn’t face it. Easier to remain there, to keep giggling even if I didn’t pay attention to the jokes, keep flirting with guys who didn’t notice me.
Except that one of them did.
“Where are you from?” The Italian guy closest to me gave me a bashful smile. He was probably the cutest boy there— curly hair, nice build, the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen on a guy. His clothes were unfortunate, a plaid shirt and stiff jeans that screamed 1970s, but maybe there was a retro craze in Italian high schools.
“DC.” I wasn’t sure that would translate. “America. Right outside Washington, DC.”
“You are enjoying your trip?”
“Uh-huh.” I wanted to ask him the same thing, but maybe he lived close by. So I kept it simple. “I’m Ravenna.”
“Like the city in Italy? Very beautiful.” This guy had an amazing grin. “I am Giovanni.”
His accent was so warm, so sexy. JhoVAHNny. The name seemed to melt in his mouth. I felt a smile spreading across my face. “What about you, Giovanni? Are you from Rome?”
“Not living here now—”
“Come on, you guys,” Michael interrupted, stepping between me and Giovanni. “Mrs. Weaver’s calling the group.” It was rude of him to do that, and I meant to apologize to Giovanni immediately, but something stopped me: I noticed that Michael was staring at Audrey’s feet, and her painted toenails.
Coincidence. Had to be. She had just changed the polish color, after all. What if Michael had noticed that? Didn’t we want guys to notice?
By the time I turned back to Giovanni, he was gone. His group must have been called too.
Scowling at Michael’s back, I followed him to the gathering spot. A weary tour guide, going through his spiel by rote, explained what the catacombs were, the theories about why they existed, the need to be careful because these were built before modern safety standards, and how if anybody was scared of enclosed spaces or graves, they should speak up immediately instead of having a panic attack underground.
Cairo and I had been visiting tombs with our parents since we were old enough to walk. If he were next to me, we’d share a look and a laugh at the thought of anybody panicking down there.
But we weren’t next to each other. The divide between us was still so new and so small, but if what I feared was true—if Cairo was losing his grip on sanity—it would only get wider. And it might last forever.
I couldn’t think about it.
The blazing summer heat evaporated as soon as our group had filed only a few feet down into the catacombs. The underground chill always turned the day to winter. My friends began shivering; I had known to bring my embroidered shawl in my bag. Several steps ahead, I saw Cairo shrug on a hoodie.
Crudely carved fish and lambs dotted the bleak stone walls as we went farther and farther down. Since the tour guide was rattling off a lot of history my parents had already taught me, I fell toward the back, making room for my friends to hear better.
And, as it turned out, for someone else to fall in beside me.
“Hey.” I felt that smile tugging at my lips again as I glanced over to see Giovanni walking downstairs by my side. “I thought you’d wait for the Italian-language tour.”
“I have been here before many times.” Giovanni’s hands were tucked into his jeans pockets so that his elbows splayed out a little, revealing what broad shoulders he had. “I do not need to hear the tour guide again.”
“Why come at all?”
“Have to.”
“School trips suck.” I sighed. Though this one was looking up all of a sudden. I wondered if Giovanni and I could meet up after—Mrs. Weaver would never have let me go on a date, but an espresso at the hotel café seemed possible.
“One thing is better this time.” Giovanni’s shy smile made this cold, dark, dead place feel warm and alive. “You are here.”
I ducked my head, unable to meet his eyes any longer but unable to quit smiling. No guy had ever flirted with me before. Maybe it was something about Italian guys. Maybe it was something about Giovanni himself. But I felt totally sure he wasn’t just playing me—that he’d never done anything like this in his life.
That made two of us.
We reached the very bottom level of the catacombs, catching up with the rest of the group—my friends were silhouetted by the naked bulbs that served as lighting down here. They stood just through a stone archway. Carved-out graves surrounded us, and I saw Giovanni glancing their way.
“No
