Again, But Better

What an idiot. I’m such an idiot!
I emerge from the bathroom two minutes later, and position myself in front of the full-length
mirror outside it to frantically throw on some makeup.
“Shane … why are you running around?”
I freeze and look down to my left, eye pencil held aloft. Pilot’s propped up on his bed, squinting
at me with sleepy eyes. His brown hair’s all mussed up.
My answer comes out in a hushed rush of words. “I can’t find my purse. It has my passport. I
think I left it at the restaurant, so I have to go back and get it.”
As I say it out loud, a string of frantic images run through my mind: me detained at the airport,
me stuck in Rome by myself, my flatmates heading back to London without me, me on the phone
with my parents, my parents having to make all the calls to get me out of this, finding out there is no
premed program in London, my father disowning me—
Pilot’s voice snaps me back. “Okay, I’ll come with you,” he returns simply.
I bob my chin up and down a zillion times. “Okay, okay, thank you.”
He heads past me into the bathroom with his own bag. Ten minutes later, we’re ready to go. It’s
almost 8:00 a.m. Babe and Sahra stir as we head for the door.
“Hey,” Babe croaks, sitting up abruptly.
“Hey.” I speed through an explanation. “I lost my purse—I think I left it at the restaurant, so
we’re gonna go see if we can get it back.”
“Wait, we can get dressed…”
“No it’s fine,” I start, but Pilot jumps in.

---

“We’ll go, and we can meet you at the Colosseum. I have my phone, so just let me know when
you’re heading over.”
I nod in agreement and shoot Pilot a grateful look. I can’t sit and wait for them to get ready
while my purse, laden with passport and money, is indisposed.
“Okay,” Babe mutters. She rises and heads toward the bathroom.
I turn for the door, feeling naked without my cross-body. How did I leave the restaurant like
this? It feels so wrong!
This is your fault, wine.
Pilot and I walk in silence toward the restaurant. I’m so strung out about the purse that I barely
appreciate the fact that Pilot volunteered to come with me—and not regular me: silent, sweaty,
slightly angry, panicky me. She’s no fun. 
What was I thinking letting him come?
As the trattoria comes into view, I speed up, power walking until I’m face-to-face with its closed
door. My eyes lock on the tiny paper in the window displaying the hours. It’s closed. I didn’t even
think about the fact that it’s 8:00 a.m. It doesn’t open till 3:00 p.m.
I whirl around, throwing my hands up in the air. “It’s closed!” I yelp hopelessly.
Pilot comes up next to me to read what the sign says.
“Pies, it’s closed,” I repeat. I pace a few feet away from the door and pivot, turning back. “It’s
closed, and I have no money and no passport and no purse, and we’re in a foreign country, and it
might not even be in there, and it’s closed!” My palms seize the sides of my head, and I focus my
eyes on the ground.
What now? I have to stay here and wait for someone to open the restaurant so I can get my
purse. It’s too important.
I shouldn’t have had that wine. Why did I leave London? I haven’t even started my internship! If
I’ve lost my passport, I’ve already blown everything to pieces. I didn’t think this through. This
whole experience hinges on my parents never having to look further into this program. What was I
thinking taking a risk like leaving the country!
I feel a cool hand close around my forearm and look up.
“Hey.” Pilot gently pulls my arm away from my face. “Shane, you’re spinning in circles. Maybe
sit down for a sec.”
His hand slides away as he lowers himself onto the curb in front of the closed restaurant. I shake
out my arms, trying to throw off the fidgety feeling crawling over my skin, and collapse next to him.
My heels dance up and down. We’re silent for a whole minute before Pilot speaks again.
“Hey,” he starts, “it’s stressful now, but think about it this way: However today goes, you’re
going to have a great story for the blog.” He grins.
I shoot him an unamused look and shake my head. “I shouldn’t have trusted myself to leave the
country.” I drop my head into my hands and ramble to the cobblestones, “I’m sorry. You should go
meet up with everyone else. I’m gonna wait here. I have to wait for them to open ’cause this is too
important; my passport’s in there—I’m sorry I made you come with me. You can go back. I just
have to stay. My parents are gonna kill me if I … if all my stuff gets lost.” Stress curdles in my gut.
“Shane.”
I stare at the ground. “What?”
“You didn’t make me come with you. I volunteered.”
I snort, thinking of