What Happens Abroad Read Free Page A

“Let’s get inside.”
    It took three tries to get the key to turn in the lock, but finally, we stepped into our apartment. It was like walking into an oven. “
Gah!
Why is it so hot in here?”
    Sarah set the bag down on the table. “I have no idea. The windows are open; why isn’t the breeze helping?”
    I stopped and stared at the windows. “God, Sarah, you don’t think that’s it, do you?”
    She looked around, confused. “What?”
    â€œAll those shutters; I thought it was just quaint. What if we’re supposed to keep the place closed up during the day as some sort of air-conditioning?”
    Sarah considered my idea. “It
was
nice and cool when we got here,” she finally admitted.
    â€œDo you think it’ll do any good if we close the windows now?”
    She shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt. I’ll close up if you want to start dinner.”
    Right. Dinner
. I sighed heavily.
    â€œBut still, this is so much better than staying in a hostel, right?”
    I shrugged. “I guess.”
    Rooting around in the kitchen, I found a pot to cook the pasta in, but there didn’t seem to be any kind of saucepan, so I decided I’d just simmer the sauce in the same pot after I’d strained the water.
    I managed to burn my wrist when I dropped the spaghetti into the boiling water, and some of the sauce got stuck to the bottom of the pan in a nasty, gloppy mess, but at least we had food. Sarah offered to slice the bread, and she dug around in the cupboards until she came up with a box of salt and a bottle of olive oil.
    â€œFor dipping,” she assured me, carrying the bread and oil into the next room. She grabbed a stack of plates and set the table without waiting for me to ask her, and her quiet efficiency started soothing my ridiculous mood. At least I was in Italy, not moping around back at home or something. I shuddered; if I were home and Mom found out about my lies about the scholarship and this trip, she probably would have insisted I start working full-time at the salon immediately. I so wasn’t ready to spend my life like that.
    Joelle came back in, grinning and carrying a big brown paper bag. “For dessert!” she called triumphantly, carrying it into the dining room. I waved at her from the kitchen; the pasta was almost ready. Finally, I found a big ceramic serving dish and dumped the noodles and sauce into it.
    Grabbing a pair of salad forks from the drawer beside the stove, I carried it triumphantly into the dining room.
    It almost looked like a scene from a movie; Sarah had left two windows open, and the pink-tinged skyline winked at us as the lights of Florence started to come to life. The table was set with pretty pottery, and Sarah had arranged the bread almost artfully on the cutting board. Joelle’s contribution turned out to be a plate of delicate custard and chocolate pastries and a huge bottle of Chianti.
    They applauded when I set the spaghetti down, and I laughed, my bad mood forgotten. “Sorry it’s not fancier!”
    Joelle scooped herself a big portion of spaghetti. “Are you kidding? It’s our first dinner in Florence. That’s fancy enough!”
    Sarah grinned. “It’s perfect.”
    When Joelle uncorked the wine bottle, I started to shake my head, but then I shrugged. “Only a little.”
    She nodded. “Much better to drink at home than out in a club.”
    Sarah flushed, and I looked at my two companions. “That sounds like a story,” I began slowly.
    Joelle chuckled. “Probably more than one!” She lifted her glass into the air. “Here’s to Florence!”
    We all clinked, giggling a little at the serious gesture.
    â€œSo,” I began, winding pasta around my fork, “what did you guys end up doing today?”
    â€œWe went shopping,” Sarah spoke around a mouthful of bread. “There’s a pretty cool market