Enemies Abroad(7)

“The bunny is off limits,” I say harshly.

“I think it’s cute.”

“Right, well, why don’t you open up your suitcase so I can see all the weird little things you packed too? With how perverse you are, there’s no telling what you’re hiding. I bet your toothbrush is just out…loose. Dry bristles brushing up against your ancient yellowed tighty-whities.”

“Boxer briefs,” he corrects.

I plug my ears. “Ugh. More things I don’t want to know. I don’t care where you keep your skid marks.”

A laugh bubbles up inside of us, and we both turn away to compose ourselves. This conversation has gone off the rails.

“Just hand me something already. The students will be here any minute.”

I grab a dress and a pair of flip-flops. That should do it.

He looks toward a nearby trashcan, as if half-tempted to toss my things into it and be done. My gaze dares him to do it. Finally, with a sigh, he loads everything into his suitcase and wheels our luggage back to the check-in counter.

“You owe me.”

“Fine. I’ll buy you an airport snack.”

Let’s get one thing straight: this is not how I saw myself leaving the country for the first time. Given the choice, I would have traveled overseas on a study abroad trip in college, young and full of academic zeal. Or maybe I would have made the trek solo, after graduation, immersing myself in the culture and digging deep into everything Italy has to offer. Antipasto and wine, art and antiquities all at my fingertips. I would have done my own version of Eat, Pray, Love, only just Eat, Eat, Eat.

This…this is nothing short of torture.

“Ms. Cohen, I think I forgot my passport!”

“Ms. Cohen, how long is the flight again?”

“Ms. Cohen, I have to pee! I swear it’s an emergency this time!”

I remind Lizzy that I collected everyone’s passports back at the ticket counter for safekeeping. I inform Zach that the flight is just over eight hours. I point Isaiah toward the bathroom behind us, and just like that, the fires are put out. Just in time for ten more to ignite.

Noah and I were supposed to have ten students with us, but one girl got mono last minute (thank god) and had to drop out. Altogether, we’ve got Lizzy, Kylie, Millie, and Alice. Then, acting as if the girls don’t exist, there’s Brandon, Lee, Chris, Zach, and Isaiah. Because of Instagram, I know there are thirteen-year-olds parading around with better hair and makeup than me. These are not those kids. These are quintessential middle schoolers with oily foreheads and mouths full of braces. The girls are all a head taller than the boys, who are still soft-cheeked and mid-pubescent. There’s an unspoken uniform the kids adhere to. For the girls, it’s a pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt. The boys wear shirts for various sports teams and cargo shorts. God knows what they keep in all those pockets.

We arrive at the terminal early, and it’s my doing. I have a healthy fear of being late for flights, and I knew our group would hit roadblocks along the way. Back outside on the curb, parents lingered, cried, kissed, and hugged their children so long airport security had to come shoo everyone out of the drop-off lane. The TSA security checkpoint came with its own set of nightmares: triple-knotted Skechers that refused to come off, one kid’s overladen cargo shorts fell down when he removed his belt for the scanner, and don’t get me started on all the oversized bottles of hair gel. Not my Axe Body Spray! It’s brand new! It took nearly forty minutes to get us all through the metal detectors, and then I got suckered into letting everyone browse through a convenience store for snacks and magazines. After slapping a bag of Chex Mix against Noah’s chest to repay my debt, I kept careful track of the time on my watch, worried we were lingering too long, but now here we are, at the gate an hour before our flight.

“You did it. You managed to get us here before the plane. Feel better?” Noah asks, tilting his bag of Chex Mix toward me in invitation.

I reach in for a little brown crispy thing—arguably the best part of any snack mix—and eat it in two anxious bites. My stomach can’t handle anything more.

“I’ll feel better once we’re in Rome.”

I’m not exactly relaxed by nature. I like plans, protocols, schedules, minute-by-minute itineraries. I’ve made one for today, and I have it printed and tucked into the ID holder attached to the lanyard around my neck.

“What’s that say we’re supposed to do now?” Noah asks, pointing a pretzel at my chest.

He’s teasing, but still, I check.

In neat computer print, it reads: 6:10 to 7:10 PM - Wait quietly at the terminal.

Then, we’re supposed to board the flight, and we do, precisely on time. I count our nine students before they step onto the plane and after they take their seats, and I’ll continue to do so every hour, on the hour throughout the duration of the flight. Don’t ask me why. I’ve tried to reason with myself that children can’t get lost on an airplane, but if you’ve ever been charged with taking care of a bunch of thirteen-year-olds, you know Murphy’s law applies. Anything that can go wrong, will. “Ma’am, one of your students has climbed out onto the wing of the aircraft and we need you to go retrieve him.”

It’s not like I was going to be able to sleep much during the flight anyway. There’s a lot going on in my head right now: I’m excited to be leaving the country for the first time, anxious about how the kids will act during the flight, annoyed that Noah and I are seated right next to each other.