Burning the Map Read Free

over her shoulders.
    I glance at Lindsey, ready to say, “It’ll be fine,” or some other platitude that she usually looks to me to provide when Kat is on the prowl and we’re dragged along, but she doesn’t turn to me this time. Instead, she mutters, “Jesus Christ,” and heads down the stairs.
    We learn that Alesandro, the poster boy, had attended boarding school in London, hence his perfect English. His friends, Massimo and Francesco (of the lame moped), have quite good English, too, making it easy enough to talk. The fourth, Paulo, speaks no Inglese whatsoever, and he stands there kicking a foot back and forth while he watches the group. I make an effort to have a brief conversation with himusing the minimal Italian I’ve retained. Unfortunately I can’t get past the, “How old are you?” “Where do you live?” stage.
    â€œWhy don’t you ladies join us for a cappuccino? I know a very good coffee bar near the Pantheon,” Poster Boy says.
    â€œAs long as we can get food and beer there,” Kat says without a glance at Sin or me.
    I smile at Sin, geared to reassure her, to tell her that they’re just a bunch of harmless pretty boys as far as I can see, that we’ll be perfectly safe. Again, her eyes don’t seek mine. No conspiratorial grin comes my way.
    Poster Boy makes room for Kat on his scooter, and Massimo, a tall, lean guy with an angular face who’d been making eyes at Sin, does the same for her. But she just stands there with a hand on her hip.
    â€œCan we talk about this?” she asks Kat, who’s already climbed behind Poster Boy. I take a step toward them, but neither seems to notice.
    â€œPlease,” Kat says, practically bouncing up and down on the seat. “We need to eat, so we might as well have them take us somewhere.”
    â€œAny of them could be Italy’s version of Ted Bundy,” Sin says.
    Kat responds with a shout of laughter.
    â€œOh, all right.” Sin climbs cautiously on Massimo’s scooter.
    Poster Boy’s machine roars to life, and he takes off with Kat, while Massimo and Sin follow closely behind. I watch them pull away, two trails of blue-gray smoke shooting from the scooters, Kat’s hair flying in the wind.
    I turn around and realize that I’m left there with Paulo and Francesco. I prefer to ride with Paulo, who has a state-of-the-art scooter that could fit a family of five, but he’s facing in a different direction.
    â€œHe does not feel comfortable because of his English,” Francesco explains to me. He’s a shorter, solid guy with inky-black, wavy hair and kind eyes.
    Paulo and Francesco exchange a few words, and then Paulo is off. Francesco straddles his tiny pink moped, gives me a smile and waves his hand toward the two inches of space behind him as if he’s inviting me into a palatial villa. I suck in my stomach, perch on the minuscule seat and hang on like hell.
    Â 
    I’ve always been the sane middle between Kat’s desires run amok and Sin’s inability to let hers run enough. The first time I knew I’d found my place was freshman year in college. I hadn’t known them long, so I was more the type of friend who passes you a beer rather than one who holds your hair back when you throw up after too many. But they were tight. They’d known each other only six months longer, yet they gave the impression of having been friends since biblical times.
    One night, though, something was off-kilter. They’d brought me along to a party given by some senior guys I thought were godlike at the time. The apartment was chock-full of smoke and people and Zeppelin music so loud you could feel the bass in your stomach. I walked into the kitchen to find Kat sitting at the table with two guys, a bottle of Jaegermeister between them. Though easily fifty pounds lighter, Kat was matching both guys shot for shot in some kind of contest. About eight