Read Instructions for a Broken Heart for Free Online Page B

group, but seriously, could one person really ask so many stupid questions in one hour? Earlier, they had climbed their way out of the Forum and headed to the Piazza Navona for lunch. Over cannelloni with spinach and ricotta, they watched a mime perform near Bernini’s sculpted fountain, where the light and water played like imps. The woman had wondered loudly, waving her arm for Francesca’s attention, why there was a clown. Why was he dressed like that? Why were there so many pigeons? Jessa had tried to tune her out, but her voice had that high, nasal quality, like her Aunt Sally’s, that could somehow break through all other sound to become the only noise in the room.
    At the café table next to Jessa, an Italian couple had shared a cigarette over tiny cups of espresso, kissing and laughing, their ankles laced together beneath the table. It pressed in on her senses, picked at her eyelids, stuffed itself in her ears—the whole damn country in love. She couldn’t look anywhere without seeing some couple kissing or groping or pressed in a desperate embrace. Even a huge straciatella gelato did nothing to help, and now she just had a stomachache.
    Finally, she’d written Carissa’s poem. Not because she thought it would help or because she had any idea what “long enough” could possibly mean, but because at least it would distract her from the love fest all around her. She’d written it quickly—without rereading, pressing the ink onto the pages—before burying the journal deep in the bottom of her bag.
    Now she forced her attention back to Francesca, her lecture on the history of St. Peter’s, and the absurd woman from the other group, who Jessa suddenly realized looked an awful lot like a trendy, modernized version of Cruella De Vil, without the white streak in her hair.
    “Why are they all so busy? Why are there so many people?” Cruella waved a manicured hand toward where the men reorganized palm fronds and candles.
    “It is Good Friday,” Francesca patiently explained. Again.
    Jessa leaned into Tyler. “That woman could provide all the content for your stupid-question book. Seriously, you need no other sources.”
    Tyler shook his head, his eyes never leaving Cruella. “Dubious. I mean, do you think she knows she sounds like that?”
    Shrugging, Jessa stifled a yawn, her eyes scanning the group. Everyone was starting to wilt around the edges, sag like flowers left too long without water. Christina and Rachel were texting on their phones. Maya’s head bobbed along to the unheard music on her iPod. Erika whispered to Blake quietly behind her hand, probably filling him in on all the details Francesca was leaving out, all the gory history details, probably secret beheadings and such. Erika was always grossing them all out with all her horror-history trivia. Jessa yawned again, resisting the urge to plug herself into Spring Awakening and drown out all else. Then she suddenly realized how inappropriate it would be to listen to Spring Awakening on sacred ground—she’d probably be struck by a bolt of lightning. She tuned back into the guide. Francesca was managing to work in some interesting stuff around all of Cruella’s stupid questions.
    One boy from the other group, dressed in a Tim Burton sweatshirt and standing a bit off by himself, caught Jessa’s eye and raised his eyebrows. He made a little talk-talk-talk sign with his hands, a little Cruella shadow puppet, and then pretended to strangle it. Jessa suppressed a giggle.
    Fifteen minutes later, they waited on the cusp of the chapel’s entrance. Ms. Jackson made sure the girls had their shoulders covered and that all hats were stashed in back pockets and bags.
    “No pictures, guys.” Ms. Jackson motioned at Devon and Tim. “That means your camera phones too. And no talking.” She shot a look at a giggling Rachel and Lizzie, and the girls clapped hands over their mouths. “This is a pretty special thing, to view this place on a holiday like this