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AMY BEARCE
AMY BEARCE

already lost the second half of my eighth-grade year to this trip,
including my last soccer season in middle school. At least I’d have
the summer to get back in shape before high school tryouts. I’d
been waiting to be on the high school’s soccer team since I was
nine. But first, I had to get through my last big assignment for

my art, history, and English teachers and turn it in before we left.
Did I have any good photos for today yet? I forgot to pay
attention half the time during our tours. I scrolled past the Trevi

images, a few bronze statues, and eight selfies looking up my
nose, before pausing on the close-up of the square toilet seat from
yet another café. Yeah, that might be my best shot all week. Kei
was going to love that one—for what we called our “European
fine art collection.”

“Hey, Lucas, who are those guys holding the horses?” my
younger brother Robby asked.
I looked up from my photos. Below the sea god boss, two

water-horses were plunging through the waves on either side
of him, with two helpers holding their reins. One of the horses
looked chill, but the one on the right seemed to be freaking out
pretty hard.
Robby continued, “The two horses represent the ocean’s

calm and wild states, but I don’t remember the names of the
guys holding their reins.”
I snorted. “And you think I do?”

Robby always knew stuff like that. He was smarter than most
ten-year-olds—and most fourteen-year-olds for that matter—and
was always curious.

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