CHAPTER SIX
Tourist Traps

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NEVER HAD NINE HOURS felt longer. By the time the plane touched down in Venice, Italy, Cecelia felt as if she'd already completed the week-long trip. Being in a confined space with Brad for such a long time had worn her down as thoroughly as a marathon would, and honestly, she had half the mind to just tell her teachers that she was sick and needed to rest.

But when she left the plane—her legs shaking from lack of use and the straps of her carry-on bag cutting into her shoulders—and took the first breath of air that wasn't contaminated by Brad, she felt a lot better. Her chest was no longer as tight as it had been, and the itch that had plagued her skin for the entirety of the plane ride was gone. Suddenly, she was wide awake again, and the world had a fresh sparkle to it that it hadn't had on the plane. She hadn't even left Venice's airport yet, and everything already seemed beautiful.

Of course, there was still one loose end.

Christine and Alex met her near the baggage carousel, their own suitcases trailing behind them. Christine's face was taut, her lips pinched together, and Alex kept sneaking concerned glances over at her. His hair was slightly rumpled from the flight, but Cecelia resisted the urge to give him a noogie. There were definitely more important things to focus on.

"Cee," Christine said, her voice wobbly. "Hey."

"Hi, Chris," Cecelia responded. "Are you—are you okay?"

"She says she is," said Alex, scoffing. "But anyone with half a brain and two eyes can see that's obviously not the case."

Christine glared at him. "Don't speak for me. I really am fine."

"You look like you're about to cry," Cecelia said. "Is this—is this about Ned and Betty?"

Both Christine and Alex stiffened. "You already know about that?" Alex asked.

"I saw them on the plane. They were a little too cuddly for my personal taste. Or anyone's."

Christine wiped her eyes. "They started talking an hour in. I didn't think anything of it at first, but then they wouldn't stop. It turns out that they have a lot in common, or something. I mean, I don't really get it. He's, like, so... Ned, and she's..."

"Not that?" Alex prompted.

"Um. Yeah. But they're together now. Which I really don't care about. It means nothing to me. Ned and I—we weren't even a couple. We literally didn't have time to make it that far. I'm just—I'm just a little hurt, that's all. And a little worried for Betty. I mean, after what he did to me..."

Cecelia shifted her weight from foot to foot, feeling that familiar guilt. "Chris—"

"I know it's been a long time." Christine lifted her chin defensively. "I mean, it's, like, seven years now, if we count the Blip. And I have no real bad feelings toward him. It's just—I don't know. Sometimes I look at him and..."

"Your feelings are completely valid," Alex said. "I mean, your situation kind of sounds like a nightmare. Stuck for nine hours beside your ex and the new girl he likes? I'm really sorry, Chris."

"He's not my ex. But yeah, it was a nightmare."

Mr. Harrington called out for the group to gather together again. The three of them obliged, rolling their suitcases behind them. As they walked, Christine said, "Let's stop talking about me and Ned. How are you guys? How was the flight?"

Cecelia said, "Shit," just as Alex said, "It was pretty good!"

They both cut themselves off, staring at the other. Alex winced sympathetically. "Oh, yeah," he said. "You were with Brad, right?"

"Yes," Cecelia said. "And it was awful. It was literally worse than that trip to Disneyland when Jules threw up everywhere."

"Oh, shit. That's bad, bad. What happened? Did Brad... you know, try anything?"

"No. Well, he wanted to watch a movie. He had a dual headphone adapter. I told him to shut up."

"You did?" Christine asked, eyes going wide.

"Not really. But I asked him why the hell he'd think I'd want to do that. He didn't actually speak to me for the rest of the flight."

Alex laughed. "Jesus," he said. "You really don't hold back, do you?"

"Why should I?"

"She's right, Al," Christine said. "Brad's been bothering us for ages now, and clearly, turning him down politely isn't working. Maybe this time he'll get the hint and back off."

"Yeah, and realize that he has a whole boatload of options. I know he thinks he's some broody love interest in a YA novel, but in real life, only chasing the girls that aren't interested just makes him a creepy asshole. He's not going to magically change our minds about him."

"Okay, amen to that," said Alex. "He really does have, like, everyone else in the school to date. Myself included. Well, if he wasn't such an asshole. But his bone structure... God damn."

Cecelia slapped a palm to her forehead.

When they caught up with the rest of the class, they could no longer talk freely about Brad, because he was right there. He was walking beside MJ, who was smiling at him uncomfortably. A few feet away, Ned and Betty giggled and swung their clasped hands to and fro.

Cecelia searched for Peter, but she didn't see him. Just Flash, live-streaming on Instagram (for whatever reason, his username remained spideyno1fan_. He had built up his account, though, christening his followers the 'Flash Mob' and going live for them almost every day), Yasmin and Zoha taking selfies, and the other members of the group. Mr. Harrington didn't seem to have noticed yet, and neither did Mr. Dell. They kept on walking, none the wiser.

"Hey," she called out. "Where's Peter?"

"Huh?" Mr. Harrington turned around. "What?"

"Peter's not here."

"Oh, as per usual," Flash said. He blew raspberries into his camera. Charming.

"Okay, wait up, wait up, everyone." Mr. Harrington drew to a grinding halt. "We can't lose a student so early on. Ned, do you want to call him, or—"

Ned nodded, but he'd only just begun to dig his phone out of his pocket when Peter's voice cut across the airport. "I'm here! Mr. Harrington—"

"Wait, wait, wait." Mr. Harrington turned, then spotted Peter bolting toward them. "Oh, thank goodness. I was really worried about you, Peter. What happened?"

"Uh, random bag check," Peter said. "I'm sorry."

"Ah, no worries. As long as you're with us now. Though, before we really set out, maybe we should do a head count? Mr. Dell?"

Mr. Dell looked up, then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. Okay. All right, I'll call out your name, and if you're here, uh, raise your hand."

Of course, no one else was missing from their entourage. Once this had been confirmed, the group set off again. This time, they actually made it out of the airport.

The school had rented a boat to take them to the heart of Venice and their hotel. But when Cecelia stepped outside—and was almost immediately blinded by the glimmers of light reflecting off the endless water—and took her first glance at it, she could tell that it probably wasn't up to safety standards. Not only was it too small to fit everyone in comfortably, but it rocked precariously even in the calm current. It was also rusted, too, so much so that the boat's name was obscured. Cecelia only managed to catch the letters E and I.

(The sponsorship on the other side, though—some Italian radio station—was clear as day. Of course.)

It wasn't like she had another option, though. So, reluctantly, holding her suitcase aloft, she stepped into the boat. She was joined by Alex, Christine, and Peter. Betty and Ned took the other side, snuggling in with each other.

The driver started the boat with a roar, and Cecelia couldn't help the flinch that ran through her as it took off. She'd never been on a boat, either, and she was finding it to be a lot more violent than she'd expected. Each wave hit like a pothole, nearly jolting her out of her seat. And it wasn't like she could just buckle her seatbelt.

Somehow, everyone else was unfazed. Flash continued to stream, and the rest of Cecelia's classmates took photos with their phones, marvelling at the other boats in the water and the far-off islands of European architecture. Even Alex was practically hanging over the edge, letting his hand trail through the frothy currents.

Cecelia wasn't afraid of water—she'd known how to swim since she was practically a baby, paddling through West River before it had been deemed too polluted, and she was pretty sure her intangibility would make her lighter in a pinch—but she doubted that everything would be A-okay if the boat suddenly capsized. Maybe she'd be trapped under the boat and unable to reach the surface. Maybe she'd be knocked out and end up drowning. Maybe she'd get stuck in the water, with no land in sight, and be unable to swim all the way back. Maybe—

Just before she could fall into a full-blown panic, Peter caught her arm. "Hey, are you okay?"

Cecelia turned to him, nausea clawing in her stomach. "I've just discovered that I don't like boats."

"Oh. Are you seasick?"

"Nope. Just a little... maybe a little anxious." She took in a deep breath through her nose. Her nostrils filled with the bitter, salty tang of fish. That didn't really do much to help her queasiness.

"Of what? Falling out?"

"Yeah." Cecelia buried her head between her knees. "That's probably a stupid fear to have, but—"

"No, no, I get it. I get it. It's okay. Look. Look." Peter wrapped an arm around her, then leaned in close. His lips nearly brushed her ear, sending a current running down her spine. He whispered, so soft even Cecelia nearly missed it, "I'm sticky, remember? You won't go anywhere."

He pulled his head away, and Cecelia's face warmed. "Um," she said. "Um. Thanks."

Her body was screaming at her, but she couldn't decipher what it wanted. It was as if it was speaking a different language, or blinking at her in Morse Code. Simultaneously, she wanted to both lean into Peter's touch and shove away from him.

She did neither. Instead, she just froze, and remained that way until the boat pulled up to the hotel.

...The hotel that seemed to be holding itself up with nothing more than a roll of twine and a few prayers.

The paint on the front was peeling, revealing peeks of ragged brick. There was a giant hole in the wall of the second floor, only covered by a dirty tablecloth pinned in place with browning metal pipes. The second-floor balcony appeared to have been constructed with literal sticks, fit to collapse in on itself at any moment. Half of the windows were boarded up, and miscellaneous paint cans speckled the ground by the front door. The sign proclaiming this a hotel was made of fading wooden blocks. The dock was nothing more than a gap in the rusting fences.

"Looks like we're here," Mr. Harrington announced, far too cheery for such a situation. The boat slowed with a cough of the engine. "They're doing some renovations to the place. Getting some upgrades."

"Oh, this is trash," Josh said.

"Yeah, it really is," Alex agreed. "Can we go back to the nice place we stayed at in Washington?"

"You forget that was free for all AcaDec participants," Christine said. "This is more of what Midtown Tech's budget provides."

A man waved at them in greeting, then began speaking in Italian. "Oh, that must be the concierge," Mr. Harrington said.

"Okay," Mr. Dell said. "Let's go, guys."

Peter quickly withdrew his arm from Cecelia's shoulder, and she relaxed. She hadn't even realized all of her muscles were tensed up. Gratefully, she exited the boat. It felt good to be back on solid land again. Or somewhat solid. The dock was rocking a little, too.

The interior of the hotel was an eclectic tornado. A gaudy red chandelier hung from the ceiling, tinkling a little in the breeze. A collection of postcards was tucked into the corner of the room beside a small painting of a Roman warrior. Two rickety tables sat in the room's center, both covered in tablecloths. But while one had a napkin dispenser, the other boasted an overly loud orange cat, which meowed at them as they piled inside. The buffet counter was near the back wall, covered in dirty glasses. A foosball table lay wedged between a rack of magazines and a third table. Finally, planks of wood were laid across the ground, providing tiny, makeshift bridges across the floor.

Cecelia would've questioned this if not for the water. A shallow puddle had spread itself along the hotel's interior, dampening everything it touched. This was likely why the foosball table had buckets capping its legs. And why the cat was on the table.

"Everyone, here we are," Mr. Harrington said. Then proceeded to step right into the puddle.

"Tell me we're not staying here," Yasmin groaned.

Mr. Dell just gestured them inside. "Come on in."

Flash looked down at the wet floor with disgust. "This place is sinking."

"I think you mean, 'charming'," Mr. Harrington corrected.

"Nope, he meant sinking," said Alex.

"It stinks," Betty said, wrinkling her nose. It really did. Almost like sewage. That and wet dog, for some reason.

This wasn't looking very comfortable, but honestly, Cecelia had stayed in worse places. When one of her foster families had kicked her out, she'd spent a night in a bus shelter in the dead of winter, shivering her ass off. Her fingers and toes had practically been blue by morning. She'd been told she'd been lucky they didn't need to be amputated.

She winced. Dr. Patel probably wouldn't want her to bring up such bad memories. But the truth was, everything that had happened in foster care—from the good to the decent to the bad—had been overshadowed by her five years with Richard. She probably was still traumatized from it all, but it didn't seem to matter as much, now. Especially since she'd been so young when it had all happened.

Fortunately, she was brought back into the present by Mr. Dell. "Okay, everybody, drop your bags off. We're gonna meet at the da Vinci Museum at three. Let's go!"

"¡Vámonos!" Mr. Harrington added.

"It's 'Andiamo'," MJ corrected.

"Andiamo!" he repeated.

As Cecelia and her classmates began to make their way upstairs, Mr. Dell announced, "When in Rome, you do as the Romans do. When you're in Venice, your socks get wet."

"Ugh," Christine said, lifting her foot. "They sure do."

She and Cecelia split up from Alex and Peter, who headed to their own respective rooms. Christine took out their room keys and let them inside their own.

It was about what Cecelia expected. Two small, rickety beds cloaked in plaid comforters and a damp carpet. The air was thick with mildew—the smell was almost unbearable. Cecelia immediately opened the windows. Even the reek of fish would be better than this.

"Charming is right," Christine grumbled, claiming the bed to the right and placing her suitcase atop it. "At least we're not here long."

"Yeah, but I bet the other hotels are gonna be just as... unique," Cecelia pointed out. She waded her way over the carpet, trying to touch as little of it as possible, until she reached her own bed. It nearly folded in on itself when she sat down.

Christine sighed.

"Yeah, we're not staying here," she said. "Let's go out. Maybe we can explore Saint Mark's Square before we go to the museum."

"Ooh, yes, please. I really want to see Doge's Palace."

"Well, of course!"

Cecelia nodded, glad to have a friend who was nearly always on her wavelength. She gathered what she thought she might need for an afternoon of exploring—sunglasses, sunscreen, her wallet, a water bottle, and her cellphone (she'd promised to send Mom and Dad pictures)—and stuffed it all into her backpack. Then she swung it over her shoulders and followed Christine out.

In the hallway, she met Yasmin and Zoha, who seemed to have the same idea. "Oh, hey," Christine greeted, surprised. "You guys heading out, too?"

"Duh," Zoha said, adjusting her hijab. "There's no way we're sitting around in a place like this when we can be touring one of the prettiest places in Europe."

"Exactly," said Cecelia.

To her left, another door opened, and Alex and Zach joined them. Then Flash and Brad. Then Peter and Ned. Then MJ and Betty. Even Mr. Harrington and Mr. Dell exited their rooms, then stopped in their tracks.

Mr. Harrington took them all in. "Huh," he said. "I guess everyone's raring for the Venice tour. Don't want to stay cooped up in your rooms any longer than you have to, huh? Well, I guess we can head out early."

Everyone cheered at that, and he smiled. Christine linked arms with Cecelia and pulled her along with her, and as they headed downstairs and sloshed their socks with another wave of water, Cecelia realized that she was smiling, too.

IT WAS THE PERFECT DAY to explore Venice. The sky was a clear blue, unmarred by clouds, and this was reflected in the water that ran through Venice's channels. Now that she was no longer on the boat, Cecelia could appreciate its beauty; from the way it sparkled in the sunlight like a jewel to the sleek gondolas and sturdy boats cutting through it. She walked along the edge, Christine still on her arm, as her class made their way into Saint Mark's Square.

Predictably, it was packed. Thousands of other tourists swarmed the area like gnats, taking photos of the domed Saint Mark's Basilica and the pillared architecture that surrounded it. They spoke a cacophony of languages—not just Italian or English; Cecelia heard fragments of Mandarin, Czech, Spanish, and even Navajo from a Native couple nearby—and their words settled over the area like a hum, the background rhythm to the loud music that piped through the area. It was a little claustrophobic, and Cecelia couldn't even turn intangible, but a part of her didn't mind. This was life, pure and simple. This was people coming together to marvel at the wonders of the world.

Once they were near the center of the square, Mr. Harrington allowed their group to split up, though he reminded them to meet at the museum at three. Flash immediately set off to ask a pair of women in long, old-fashioned dresses to film with him. Ned and Betty got in line for a caricature artist, something Cecelia would rather stab herself in the eye than do (she was far too self-conscious for that, thank you very much). Alex bobbed his way over to her and Christine, his eyes shining, and told them that he was going to hang out with Zach and Josh near the edge of the square.

After bidding him adieu, Christine turned to Cecelia. "Well, what should we do, first, then?"

Cecelia glanced around at the multiple tourist traps that were spread around the square. "That depends on how annoying of a tourist you want to be."

Christine blew raspberries. "Oh, whatever. Let's just have fun, okay? Who cares if we do stereotypical tourist things! They're popular for a reason!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"Let's check out those street musicians!" Christine said, gesturing to the people playing various instruments by the Ala Napoleonica. A crowd had already gathered around them, signalling that their music was one of the better ones in the square. Cecelia shrugged.

"Why the hell not?"

Christine beamed, showing her teeth, and started to head over, practically skipping. Cecelia followed her—albeit with a more normal walk—until violins, cellos, and harmonicas swelled in her ears. A man sang in Italian in a low, sultry voice, and even though Cecelia couldn't understand the lyrics, her breath caught regardless.

Christine's phone was already aloft, recording the whole thing. Cecelia could bet money that she'd see a whole slideshow of Instagram stories from her friends later. This wasn't really her thing—she still only had a single post on any of her social media platforms—but she took several photos and video clips for her own sake.

An open guitar case with a sign in Italian sat by one of the violinists' feet, accepting donations. Cecelia fished a crumpled bill from her wallet—her parents had helped her convert some of her savings into Euros before the trip—and added it to the pile within the case. When she straightened back up, the singer winked at her.

"Grazie, bella ragazza!" he said, then launched into another song.

Warmth rushed to Cecelia's cheeks, and she quickly scurried back over to Christine, who had witnessed the whole exchange. As had her still recording phone.

"Holy shit!" she cried. "The singer just called you beautiful!"

"Okay, okay, don't make a big deal out of it," said Cecelia, crossing her arms.

"And why not? He's—he's cute!"

Well, yeah. Cecelia did, in fact, have eyes (contrary to popular belief, just because she wasn't sexually attracted to anyone didn't mean she wasn't physically attracted, either). The man must have only been a few years older than her at most, with shoulder-length brown hair, sun-kissed skin, and a mustache. But though she appreciated the genes he'd been blessed with, she wasn't going to suddenly start throwing herself in his lap. Ew.

"I'm not interested in pursuing a relationship with locals," Cecelia said. "I'm not Peter and Ned. They seem convinced that they'll come out of this trip with a hot European girl on each arm."

Christine twitched at that, and Cecelia immediately regretted mentioning Ned, but she didn't bring it up. Instead, she said, "Okay, fair. But I'm just saying, Cee, if that man looked at me like that... oh boy. I don't even want to say out loud what I'd do."

Cecelia scoffed. "Heterosexual people are disgusting."

Christine shoved her playfully. "Hey!"

"I think I'm heterophobic now."

"You're literally heteroromantic."

"Technicalities."

The musicians switched up their song to one of a faster pace, and Christine finally put her phone down. She held out a hand to Cecelia, grinning. "Wanna dance?"

"Oh, no."

"Come on, Cee! Come on! It'll be fun!"

"I don't dance."

"Well, you can today."

Cecelia rolled her eyes, but it was all an act. Of course she would go dancing with Christine. Of course she would swallow her pride and make herself a fool in front of everyone. Because Christine was her best friend, and she would do anything in the world to make her happy.

Keeping up her fake reluctance, Cecelia took Christine's hands. Christine shrieked with delight and pulled her in, guiding her along to the beat. The two of them twirled around each other, clapped their hands, and kicked their feet into the air. And it didn't even look stupid, because everyone around them was doing the same thing.

Cecelia couldn't help it. She smiled until her face hurt.

After the song finished, she and Christine decided to move on. They went over to admire Doge's Palace for a few minutes—and take what seemed like a hundred pictures. Most of them were selfies (or just ordinary photos of its exterior), but Christine did manage to ask an old couple to take a few more of the two of them. Cecelia kept smiling, and it didn't even feel forced.

"It's too bad we can't go into the palace," Christine said wistfully afterwards, pocketing her phone once more. Neither of them had thought to buy tickets, and the line was crazy long, anyway. Plus, they didn't have nearly enough time to go on the full tour. "I've seen so many photos of the interior. It's gorgeous."

"Well, we have plenty of other monuments to tour this week," Cecelia reminded. "At least we're going to the Eiffel Tower."

"That's true! I'm probably the most excited for Paris, to be honest."

"Hey, guys!"

Alex was hustling his way back over to them, accompanied by Zach, Josh, Yasmin, and Zoha. They all seemed abuzz with energy, practically vibrating where they stood. It was clear that they were having as good of a time as Christine and Cecelia.

"Hey, dork," Cecelia greeted, punching her brother lightly on the shoulder. "What have you been up to?"

"He bought, like, a thirty-dollar coffee," Zach said accusingly. His nose ring winked in the sunlight as he spoke. "It was supposed to be 'authentic' or something. I don't know. I'm just thinking that he wasted thirty American dollars."

Cecelia barked out a laugh. "Oh, you definitely did. Normal Italians aren't just casually dropping three paychecks on one coffee, Al."

Alex's nostrils flared. "I didn't come here to have you judge my purchase. I've been heckled since I got the damn coffee. Especially by this asshole." He glared at Zach, who flashed him a shit-eating grin.

"Anyway," Yasmin said, "we're going to take some photos with those stupid masks over there. You wanna join us? I want you guys in my pics for Instagram."

"Sure!" Christine said. "We were just finished here, anyway."

"I'm in, I guess," added Cecelia. "But you have to promise to check with me before posting anything."

"Yeah, yeah, of course," said Yasmin. "Obviously. I was gonna make a group chat and send all the pictures there. You can veto any you don't like, and I'll respect it."

Cecelia's chest warmed at the casualty of it all, the regard that was given so easily to her. She hadn't had that for such a long time. Even now, even years after the fact, it was still hard to get used to. "Thanks."

"All right, let's go be annoying tourists!" Josh said. Everyone laughed.

Sure enough, the masks were stupid. They were on a rack along with sailor's hats, clip-on earrings, and Venetian-themed tote bags. They were meant to resemble traditional Venetian carnival masks, with bright colours and an abundance of feathers, though Cecelia could tell they were just cheap plastic. Nevertheless, she extracted a droopy blue face with red feathers from the rack and placed it over her face.

She huddled in with the others—Alex's mask was gold and red, and Christine's was pink with purple feathers—and prepared for the photo. Yasmin, in a pink mask of her own, held her phone aloft, trying to fit them all into the frame. "Three, two, one..."

"Say 'pizza'!" Zoha said.

"Pizza!" everyone cried, and wow, they really were annoying tourists now.

Yasmin took multiple pictures before finally putting her phone away. "Oh, wow, my arm's tired after that," she said. "I'll send the photos when I get Wi-Fi again."

"Awesome," Josh said. "That was sick."

"Wait, holy shit," Alex suddenly blurted. "Look at MJ."

Cecelia followed his gaze. MJ was standing a little way away from them, her arms outstretched. Four pigeons were perched on her arms, and a swarm of at least fifty more were by her feet. Brad was in front of her, taking pictures.

"Woah, that's awesome!" Christine said. "I mean, for her. I could totally not do that. I don't like birds. Ugh."

"I do," Cecelia said, because she did. She didn't remember much of her life before the reservation had exploded—she'd been so young when it had happened, after all—but she did remember feeding the birds that lived in her backyard. They were all small birds, woodpeckers and chickadees and, occasionally, roadrunners, and they'd flock to her like she was their mother. Her family always joked about it. Called her a Disney Princess. The truth was, Cecelia was just patient. "I'm gonna go over there."

"Just to say hi or to try out the weird bird thing, too?" Alex asked.

"I don't know yet."

Cecelia crossed the square and stepped pointedly in front of Brad, blocking his shot of MJ. "Hey," she said.

MJ squinted at her. "Oh, hey, Cecelia. How's it going?"

"Good. I'm sure I've been reinforcing every stereotype about Americans for the last hour. How about you?"

"I'm great. I just drank, like, three cups of espresso, and then all of these pigeons started flocking to me and now I'm afraid to move. Also, I discovered the greatest word of all time, which is boh, and I got to see Flash get hit in the nuts. All signs of a good day."

Cecelia laughed. MJ seemed more talkative than usual—likely due to the espressos. Her hair had been pulled back into a messy ponytail, and she was wearing a Vote for Women shirt. Her brown skin glowed warmly in the sun. "When did Flash get hit in the nuts?"

"While he was vlogging. I dunno. It was hilarious, though. Hey, do you want to try this pigeon thing?"

From behind Cecelia, Brad cleared his throat. "Hey, Cecelia," he said. Cecelia ignored him.

"Sure," she said.

She waded through the pigeons until she stood beside MJ, then didn't move. Immediately, the pigeons began pecking at her feet, curious about her Converse. They were almost as friendly as pigeons in New York, which literally wouldn't move out of the way when a moving vehicle approached.

Sure enough, it didn't take long before some were landing on her shoulders and arms. One particularly curious one dropped down on the top of her head. Hopefully it wouldn't shit on her. That wouldn't be fun.

Brad, left in the dust, huffed and lifted his camera. "You want me to take your photo?" he asked.

"Nope," Cecelia said. "Thanks."

"I'll do it," said Alex, making his way over. "I mean, come on. I've got to capture this memory. My big sister, taming Venetian pigeons. I think the New York ones will get jealous."

Cecelia stuck up her middle finger at him. Alex just grinned and took a photo, immortalizing the gesture.

MJ smiled. "I bet that's a great one," she said.

"Oh, it's going in the photo album for sure," Alex responded.

After a few more minutes, Cecelia moved, sending the pigeons flying off her arms. She ran a hand through her hair, making a mental note to wash it, but she couldn't find it in herself to regret joining in with MJ. Or dancing with Christine. Or taking those pictures with the cheap masks.

It had all been... fun. Lots of it. And Cecelia was beginning to think that she'd been right. A vacation was exactly what she needed.

Because although that constant, almost paralyzing guilt and sorrow was still there, today it had been buried under layers of happiness. Real, authentic happiness, too.

It seemed she'd been wrong on the plane. Maybe the trip would be a blast.

...Or maybe everything would go to shit less than an hour later.

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HAVEN: this chapter was SO FUN to write, even though it did require like an hour of research about venice (and about birds in new mexico for that one paragraph lmao). just cecelia getting to have a good time with her friends in venice :')

...of course, that's all gonna end next chapter, but it was nice while it lasted, right??? right????

thanks for reading!! <333