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“PISA? IS THAT THE PLACE with the leaning tower?” I ask.
“Yes.” Sander attaches a sigh to his answer. Am I already getting on his nerves? I admit, the tower is probably the only thing I know about Pisa, and I guess that's pretty lame.
“Cool. Hey, would it be too far to drive there? I'd really like to see some of Italy from the road.”
The mere thought of driving through Italy triggers another accidental manifestation. All of a sudden, Sander and I are standing next to a bright red Vespa. I don't know if Italians actually ride around on scooters, or if it's some kind of stereotype I have, but the Vespa looks really cute.
“Did you mean to do that?” Sander asks, pointing at the Vespa.
“Nope,” I answer with a shrug. “Like I said... I just think things, and they appear.”
“I assume that means you intend to ride this thing?” Sander's nostrils flare as he studies the materialized scooter.
“Maybe? I don't know.”
Sander asks, “Do you even know how to ride one of these?”
I answer with a bashful shake of my head. I never got my driver's license, and I've definitely never ridden a scooter before. “Do you know how to ride one?”
“I can't say I do, but... it shouldn't be too hard to figure out, right?” Sander manifests a helmet and sticks it on my head. Winking, he says, “Better safe than sorry. I wouldn't want you to crack your skull.”
“Could that happen?” I shrill.
“No. It was a joke.”
My instructor climbs onto the scooter and tells me to sit behind him. Now that I'm so close to him, I guess he doesn't smell like honey and fresh laundry, but he does have a nice scent. It's more like... vanilla, maybe? I feel like a creeper for even thinking about how he smells, but I can't help it.
Sander's first attempt at riding the Vespa is a little wobbly, but he's a quick learner. He does much better than I would've done. Our scooter is whisper quiet, unlike all the others we pass on the road.
“It should take a little over an hour to reach Pisa,” Sander says.
“Only an hour? If Sofia and Matteo live that close to each other, why haven't they visited each other in twenty years?”
“Twenty-five,” Sander corrects me. “And I don't really have a good answer for you. I guess... people drift apart?”
Twenty-five years. I can't even wrap my mind around that number. If Sofia was in love with him all that time, that seems like a lot of years to waste.
“Do you think they'll even recognize each other after so much time?” I ask.
“Maybe. Maybe not. They might need a nudge from us,” Sander says. “I might have to shout Matteo è qui into her ear. That's one of the best ways to get through to your charge, by the way. You shout at them.”
“That's good news for a loud mouth like me!” I chuckle at my reply. “Hey, thanks for driving the Vespa.”
“No problem.”
Sander goes silent for a bit, so I take some time to drink in the scenery. Once we're out of Florence, the roads look normal for awhile, but we eventually drive through the sun-baked hillsides and seas of poppies that I was expecting. Italy is as amazing as I hoped it would be.
After about ten minutes of silence, I attempt another conversation. “So... I have a question.”
Sander replies, “Oh no.”
“Oh no? Why the oh no?” I ask. “I'm not going to ask anything bad. I just wanted to know more about you.”
“What would you like to know?”
Is your hair color even real? How does such a bright color actually grow out of someone's head? Those are the first two questions that pop into my mind, but they stay in my head where they belong. “When Amber passed out the papers with information about our instructors, mine was weirdly blank. Did you not have an occupation or something?”
“I do have an occupation,” Sander says. “I'm a spirit guide instructor.”
“You know what I mean. Did you have a job when you were alive?” I ask. “Or... maybe you were a student? You look really young. Did you die young?”
He answers with a frustratingly vague, “No.”
“You weren't a murderer or anything like that, were you?”
His second “No!” is a lot more emphatic. “Do I look like a murderer to you, Miss Frost?”
“Not really, but... you never know.” I don't want to aggravate him or pry too much, so I change the subject. “Okay, forget about occupations. What do you do for fun?”
“To be honest, I don't allow myself a lot of down time,” Sander confesses. “When I do, I usually start thinking about all the work I need to do.”
“That stinks.” I hope I don't sound too critical. To be honest, I could probably benefit from a workaholic attitude. In school, I was pretty smart, but I never worked too hard. Nevertheless, I always ended up with A minuses or B pluses. “When I was sick, down time was all I had. I played video games, slept, watched Netflix, wrote stories...” He doesn't reply, so I prompt him with a question. “Do you ever play video games?”
“I can't say I do, Miss Frost.”
The way he says Miss Frost is rigid and formal, so I decide to stop bugging him with inane questions.
Sander suddenly says, “You're not bugging me.”
“What?” I feel bad about screeching that into his ear, but if I didn't know any better, I would think he read my mind just now.
“I did read your mind,” Sander admits. “Sorry. Some spirits have mastered the technique, including myself. And it's not like I'm trying to do it. Your thoughts can suddenly pop into my head.”
Wow. I didn't know telepathy was a thing. I'm going to have to be more careful from now on—to begin with, I should immediately stop thinking about how good he smells.
Oh god, what if he heard that? If he did, how would I even know?
I try to clear my mind and stop talking. In fact, I'm dead silent until we reach our destination. Sander drives past the Leaning Tower of Pisa, giving me a chance to sightsee.
“How the heck does it not fall over?” I ask, breaking a long silence.
“I believe it has something to do with the tower's center of gravity?” Sander guesses. “However, I wouldn't be surprised if it toppled over one day.”
“Nooo! Don't say that!” I try to snap a picture with my LightTab as we drive by, but it's blurry and weird. “Hey... do you know where Matteo lives?”
“Indeed I do. I have access to all sorts of information that isn't available to students and nascent spirits. We're about five minutes from his residence.”
“Cool.” I wait a minute or two, then I ask, “Is there anything I should know about his living situation? Like... does he live with anyone? Is he disabled?”
“He's not disabled. He is a very spry eight and seventy.”
Eight and seventy. It sounds hoity toity when he says it like that, especially in his posh accent. I almost tease him for it, but I think I've probably annoyed him enough for one day.
“He lives alone,” Sander continues. “He used to have a Rottweiler named Congo, but he passed away six months ago.”
“Aww. That's sad. He should get a new dog.”
I'm blown away by how much random information he knows about Matteo. Does that mean spirits had all sorts of information on me? That's kind of a scary thought.
We arrive at Matteo's apartment and find him sitting in an armchair, staring at a blank tv. It looks like he's just had dinner, if his half-eaten garlic toast is any indication.
“We need to get him thinking about Sofia,” Sander says. “We need to plant her in his mind and inspire him to visit her.”
“That sounds hard.”
“It might be. It will probably depend on Matteo's attachment to Sofia. She's still smitten with him, but we don't know if he returns her feelings.”
I don't want to be a downer, but I bet love can probably get pretty cold after a whomping twenty-five years. Still, I want to be optimistic.
Sander's next remark makes me wonder if he's reading my mind again. “Sofia was his last great love. Even though twenty-five years sounds like a long time, I have every reason to believe she also made a lasting impression on him. If you'd like, you can try shouting her name at him. That might work.”
Weird as it seems, I lean toward Matteo and shout, “Sofia Rossi!”
Matteo immediately raises a gray eyebrow. Did he actually hear me? If so, that's pretty crazy!
“Sofia Rossi!” I try again. “You need to visit Sofia!”
Sander says, “I would translate that into Italian for you, but it appears that Matteo is familiar with the English language.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Because I know many things, Miss Frost.” Grinning cheekily, he adds, “Get used to it.”
I yell “Sofia Rossi” into the poor guy's ear about a half-dozen times. All of a sudden, he pops out of his chair and shuffles into the adjacent room.
“Let's follow him,” Sander suggests. “We should see what he's up to.”
Of course, the weirdest possible question pops into my head. What if he's going to the bathroom? We're not supposed to follow him in there, are we? I glance at Sander and wonder if he's reading my mind at this very moment. I hope not. A lot of my thoughts are not meant to be heard!
Matteo is not, in fact, visiting the toilet. He dodders into his bedroom and grabs a shoebox from his closet. In it, he has a bunch of mementos—including a stack of love letters from none other than Sofia Rossi.
As soon as I see Sofia's name at the bottom of his letter, I squeal, “I did it! I got him thinking about Sofia!”
“Indeed you did, Miss Frost. Well done.”
I wish he would stop calling me Miss Frost. It sounds icy—no pun intended.
The lighting in Matteo's apartment is poor, but even in the dark, I can see tears glistening in the old man's eyes. At this point, I think we can confirm that he misses Sofia as much as she misses him.
Now... how do we get him to visit her?