My gaze took in the richly painted walls depicting religious scenes, the massive altar with its bronze canopy rising toward the dome, the numerous columns of marble framing the aisles, and I breathed in the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. The guide finally gave us time to explore on our own, so I motioned to my mom that I was heading back toward the Pietà. The sculpture seemed to pull me, and I wanted more than the few seconds that we’d been previously given. I’d always been into art and loved to pore over thick coffee-table books that featured famous paintings from around the world. There was something about gazing at another person’s view of the world through a painting and having the freedom as the onlooker to interpret that view. Italy held many masterpieces, and even though I was pissed about being dragged on this trip, I was secretly looking forward to indulging in my hobby.

My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I hesitated but slipped it out just to peek.

David.

How’s Italy?

He’d been texting me casually since I left. At first, I didn’t know if it was because he felt sorry I got busted and had to deal with my mom, or if he was actually interested in me. I was mixed-up. Part of me was still fascinated by his quiet, broody nature, but the other part would never forget his expression of loathing when he got picked up by that cop. He didn’t seem scared or worried at all. Then again, his dad didn’t seem to really care. David said he’d been told it was good to experiment as a creative artist but not get caught, so that had been the only thing that bothered his dad.

Would I ever fit in somewhere? My school friends seemed too uptight and fake. But Freda, David, and Connor were wild, and that bust had freaked me out. I wished I could just turn off my thoughts and do stuff that felt good at the time, but then look where that had gotten me.

I tucked my phone back in my pocket and planned to call him later.

I headed to the Pietà and eased my way right to the front. The tour guide had said it wasn’t crowded today, so I took my time and studied the sculpture. I loved the way the marble sheen seemed so cold and perfect, yet I could see the actual folds in Mary’s gown and Jesus’s cloth. His legs seemed alive and gently muscled, with veins coursing under his skin. A warm sensation curled up from the base of my spine and tingled through my body. The expression on Mary’s face, carved of grief and a simple purity of acceptance, haunted me.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” a low voice murmured.