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ROME REFRAMED
ROME REFRAMED

“They’re helping control the god’s chariot,” I guessed.
Robby did not look convinced. Like I said, he was smart.
He’d probably look it up later.
Our little brother Trevor reared back, pawing at the air, and
made a sound that was a cross between shrieking and gurgling.

“I’m a horse! Like those!”
I gestured at the freaking-out horse and told Trevor, “You
look just like him. Good job.”

He galloped off to show our parents. Blessed with a mo-
ment of quiet, I studied my phone again. Yeah, I’d need some
more photos to go with my journal entries. The goofy shot of
the bronzed horse butt from this morning would definitely not
earn me any points.

My travel journal was supposed to “bring this trip to life.”
I was writing it old-school in a little notebook and typing ev-
erything later on our family laptop, then uploading it with my

photos for three of my classes. Not that anyone really cared what
I thought about Rome. Or Florence. Or Venice. I wasn’t anything
like my professor parents, getting paid to share their supersmart
opinions with other supersmart people.
I’d much rather be playing soccer and eating Texas barbe-

que at home, but I tried not to think about it too much. Soon
everything would go back to the way it used to be.
Robby tugged on my sleeve. “Can we get some gelato now?”

It took my brain a moment to process “gelato” as “ice cream.”
They weren’t the same thing, exactly, but gelato was the Italian
word for ice cream . . . close enough. My two younger brothers

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