I scoff and wave a hand. “Not me. You’re practically my brother. But Inez may be uncomfortable.”
His posture straightens, lips drawing back into a hard line as his hand comes down to clutch the fabric of the towel slung low overhis hips. He sends a look around the apartment, his eyes settling on the closed door where Inez is getting ready, her favorite reggaeton hype playlist floating out through the crack under her door.
“Sorry about that,” he says as he rushes off to his room. “See you in a few minutes for coffee.”
“What are you talking about?” I call at his back.
He pauses in his doorway, turning to face me and leaning back against the frame in a way that makes his stomach flex like one of the models on my romance novel covers.
“Coffee with the faculty?” he asks. When I shrug, he exhales a heavy breath. “You didn’t get an invitation to coffee with the other professors this morning before orientation?”
My stomach bottoms out. No, I didn’t get an invitation. I’m torn between embarrassment and righteous indignation. On one hand, of course they didn’t invite me. They look down on me, and me taking on an academic role isn’t going to magically fix their perspective. On the other hand, Iama professor in the program. I stepped in and saved their asses when they needed someone, and the least they could do is treat me with respect.
When I shake my head, Colton mutters a low curse. “Get dressed. We’re going to get coffee.”
I smile, though it probably looks more like a grimace. “That’s okay. You go.”
“No,” he says furiously. “You’re a professor in this program, too.”
“Crashing a party I was intentionally not invited to isn’t the way to make friends and influence people, Colt. And, before you inevitably offer, you aren’t blowing them off. You need to network with them for tenure. I’m fine. Go, make a good impression, and I’ll see you in a couple hours.” He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. “Please.”
He watches me for a couple seconds and then nods, slipping into his room.
I knew they wouldn’t welcome me with open arms, but knowing something and actually experiencing it is different.
I hate feeling unwelcome, of being a part of the “out” group. I’ve spent the past decade avoiding situations where I’d experience it, but this summer’s hitting all the soft spots I’ve protected. It rubs somewhere deep inside me, the same bruise that made me create a finsta to see the family trips and holiday photos on my brothers’ pages, despite the fact that I’m absolutely, totally, completely fine with my family stuff.
Inez slips out of her room, hair and makeup pristine. “Are you ready to go?”
“Shit,” I say with a glance at the clock. “I’ll get dressed.”
As I throw on my clothes and rush out the door, I promise myself I won’t let the professors get to me. I have a job to do, and I’m going to blow it out of the water, whether they want me to or not.
The students have officially arrived.
Inez is holding a giant green flag withBillings Collegeprinted across it over her head, and it isn’t even close to the strangest thing in Piazza Navona.
As one of the most popular sites in Rome, the piazza is as crowded as always. Tour groups push against each other like they’re in a mosh pit, trying to get to the front to hear their tour guide. Dozens of living statues stand on boxes scattered through the piazza, moving only to claim their tips. Caricature artists sit by their easels, lazily watching the tourists like ambush predators, waiting for one of them to wander close enough to pounce. Behind us, Angelo—a staple of the piazza—blows through his stadium horn before calling out “We are open,” like everyone can’t see the patrons already filling the outdoor tables of his restaurant.
The students are slowly gathering on the cobblestones between two of Bernini’s greatest fountains, alternating between yawning and gawking at the world around them. Our school for the summer is retrofitted into an old apartment building, tucked back on a quiet street through a nondescript red wood door. No outward sign that it’s anything more than someone’s home. Since the students are coming from their various apartments and homestays, Inez decided to have everyone meet in the famous piazza before leading them to the school for orientation.
Inez walks through the mass of students, talking to some she knows from Boston. It’s a pre-presentation technique we came up with to help Inez remember she has friendly faces in the audience when her presentation anxiety sets in. The other professors aren’t talking with the students, so I keep myself removed, too. It’s unsettling, both being a part of something and being outside of it. On campus, I know my role. I’m the advisor, friendly and approachable. But here? I don’t have a place yet, and I don’t like it.
The professors claimed one of the few stone benches the moment they arrived, four of them barely fitting across. They apologized profusely to Colton about there not being space for him. To me, they said… nothing. In fact, no one has acknowledged my presence in the fifteen minutes we’ve been waiting for the students to arrive. Colton was immediately pulled into a conversation about theAeneidwith one of the professors, and the others have blatantly ignored me. So I stand here, torn between my natural desire to speak and my certainty that they don’t want me to.
Inez finally calls for everyone’s attention, making it through her introduction flawlessly, and I clutch my hands together to keep from clapping for her.
Before leading them to the school to tackle all the fun stuff—like culture shock and behavioral expectations, woohoo!—Inez cedes the floor to Dr. Guarino to introduce the faculty.
Dr. Guarino has been at Billings longer than I’ve been alive. He’s been teaching in this program almost as long, happy to come back to his hometown every summer. His students apparently love him as much as the professors who idolize him back in Boston, which I don’t get. He seems like a grumpy motherfucker.
The professors all stand from the bench, and I hurry into place beside Colton. Dr. Guarino runs through the introductions, going straight down the line.
Dr. Larsen, the art history professor he gleefully teases about their ongoing debate on whether Michelangelo or Bernini was the more talented sculptor.
Dr. Keck, the architecture professor he praises for her research on how neoclassical architecture has influenced public buildings across the United States.
Dr. Aguilar, the literature professor he calls a pioneer in the study of epic poetry.
