Heaven Is Paved with Oreos by Catherine Gilbert Murdock Read Free Book Online Page A

think we were the last people to board—the man next to Z had already spread his stuff out onto her seat. He was not pleased when she showed up.
    Z and I are not sitting together. I guess the tickets she bought were the right price because they’re in different rows. But I can still hear her laugh. I think she made up with the man next to her. I, on the other hand, am sitting next to a nun—a real nun! Who is dressed in black with a headdress! I feel like I’m already in Rome! I think she is from another country, because she was reading a magazine in a different language—I think maybe Spanish. It didn’t have any pictures in it. Also her English is not terribly good.
    The nun had a glass of wine with supper. I think it is okay for nuns to drink wine, though really it is none of my business. My supper was lasagna and a salad and a roll and a tiny chocolate cake, and it was extremely good. Far better than what the cafeteria serves and better than what Mom usually makes, although I will not tell Mom that. I got pop, too, which I never get with supper, but I am on vacation.
    Z and the man next to her got wine more than once.
    It is important that I sleep because we will be landing at two o’clock in the morning our time, although it will be normal morning time for the Italians. Even the nun is taking out her little travel pillow. I have said “good night,” and she said “good night” and also “God bless you,” which must have extra-special power when a nun says it. Kind of like Z reconnecting with God from Rome rather than our living room.
    I will not say who it is I wish was next to me right now. But I will say the name of someone who I’m glad isn’t: Emily. I bet Emily wouldn’t be brave enough to do this trip.
    I will not think about what Emily might be doing in Red Bend.
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Wednesday, July 10—LATER
    I think I can hear Z snoring.
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Thursday, July 11
    WE ARE IN ROME!!!
    We are sitting outside at a little table at a coffee shop that Italians call a
caffè
, which is pronounced “cah-fey,” next to people who are smoking and speaking in a different language, and we are in Rome. We called Mom to tell her we landed safely, and she said she’s pleased everything is going so well. Z did not want Mom and me to talk long. Z says we must drink in every moment, and communicating with Wisconsin will prevent us from doing that. I am glad she has that rule, because now, even though I think about Curtis, I don’t have to worry about what he and I would say. I can’t talk to him because I am drinking.
    We landed at an airport and took a train from the airport into the center of Rome. The whole experience felt like a dream because it was sunny and morning, but my body kept telling me it was 2:00 a.m. Everything looks different, even the trees. They are either extremely tall and skinny like pencils, or wide like umbrellas—they look like something from Dr. Seuss. And guess what I saw: goats! A real herd of real goats, climbing on a little hill and nibbling at things. I am guessing they were nibbling; the train was going so fast that I didn’t have time to tell for sure. But they implied nibbling.
    Those goats made me smile. They made me feel like Rome has been here forever.
    From the train station we walked to our hotel. You can usually pick out the tourists because they have shoes that look like Mom bought them. But sometimes you see a man in a suit who has shoes that are black and shiny, or a woman who is dressed up and wearing high heels even though the streets are bumpy cobblestones that would be dangerous to walk on in heels, not to mention impossible—and those people are Roman. That’s what Z says, anyway. There are almost no dogs. I guess Italians don’t like dogs. Jack Russell George would have lots to smell, but no one to wag to.
    Our hotel room is tiny and dark and foreign. The bathtub is much smaller