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AMY BEARCE
AMY BEARCE

had slipped into this weirdly nomadic life like they were born
into it.
I said, “How about when we get back to the bed and
breakfast?”
“Can we go back now? Mom and Dad’ll be here for hours,”

Robby said.
Probably true. My parents were busy interviewing tourists
and locals throughout Europe to write some thick college book

on the histories of big cities around the world.
My mom told us the story a million times of how she’d fallen
in love with Rome during a high school trip but believed she’d
never get to come back—her dad felt people should bloom where
they were planted (sensible guy). But then some kid told her

to wish on the Trevi Fountain with a coin and she knew she’d
come back one day, somehow. Sounds nuts, but the story made
her smile every time.

So when she and my dad finally got their book deal, of course
they saved Rome for the last and longest stop on their six-month
research trip. And it was research, not just fun. They took their
writing very seriously. Actually, they took everything seriously.
They must wonder every day where I came from.

“Five more minutes,” I told my brothers. “I need a few more
pictures. Don’t run away or anything.”
“I’m not a baby,” Robby snapped. “I’m not going to take off.”

“No, but Trevor’s only six,” I said. Trevor was spinning in
circles. “Keep an eye on him.” Watching Trevor had pretty much

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