Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,7

of Pisa beneath the weight of my shoulder bag.

"Estrogen, smestrogen," Jackie sniped beside me. "Women act really weird sometimes. And to think of all the money I spent to become one of you. I should demand a rebate."

Even before we could blend back into the group, Duncan stabbed his umbrella in the direction of St. Peter's Square and led the charge out of the basilica. I checked my watch. Three o'clock exactly. Duncan must be from the Midwest. A wave of humanity followed him out the door, but I worried about the head count. Not everyone on the tour was from Iowa. What if someone was late getting back? Uff da. It wouldn't be a good scene if we accidentally left someone behind.

"Why is he walking so fast?" Jackie fretted, as we emerged into blinding sunshine. "He has old people on this tour! And young people wearing extremely sexy but very impractical stiletto slides that make their feet look at least three sizes smaller." She clattered down the ramp that funneled tourists into the square and stopped short when she noticed something on the service road that flanked the ramp. She motioned to me furiously. "Emily, you've gotta see this. An honest to gosh Swiss guardsman."

I scurried over, cringing at the idea of having to wear blue and gold striped balloon pants with a matching doublet and spats to work every day. I knew the guards formed a small army that protected the pope, but I figured if they expected to be taken seriously by an invading force, they might need to rethink their uniforms. I mean, that's why GI Barbie wore fatigues instead of spandex, right?

Jackie snapped a picture of the pike-holding sentry standing before his little guardhouse. "Emily, would you take a picture of me standing beside him? Maybe Tom can hang it up in the salon to show his clients what I'm up to these days."

I glanced back toward the entrance of the basilica. I didn't see any Passion and Pasta people lagging behind, but waiting a few minutes for stragglers probably wasn't a bad idea. I didn't remember seeing Keely leave with the crowd. Her red hair wasn't exactly hard to spot. Could she still be snapping gum in the grotto? I could be a big help to Duncan here. In fact, if I could prevent some tour guest the agony of getting left behind, I'd be a real hero, which would kind of make up for my not attending the seminar last night and introducing myself to the immediate world.

"Okay," I said to Jackie. "Hand over your camera."

I kept one eye on the front of the basilica and one eye on Duncan's umbrella as Jackie scooted down the ramp and up the service road toward the guardhouse. She said something to the sentry, who ignored her completely, then posed close beside him and smiled up at me. "Pizza!" she yelled.

CLICK. I listened to her camera rewind itself. "You're out of film!" I yelled.

"You gotta take one more for insurance!" She fished inside her shoulder bag and brandished another cartridge in the air at me. "You want me to throw it to you?"

I gauged the distance between the guardhouse and me. Unh-oh. Not a good idea. Given her recent sex change, she probably threw like a girl. "I'll come down and get it!"

Casting a final look behind me at the basilica, I hurried down the ramp. The rest of the group was filing helter-skelter through the nearest columns and emerging onto what looked like a street beyond where the bus would no doubt pick us up. I jogged toward the sentry house, reloaded Jackie's camera, and snapped a shot of her standing on the other side of the guardsman.

"Thanks, Emily." She retrieved her camera. "You want me to get a shot of you with Mr. Personality?"

I waved her off. There was only one man I wanted to have my picture taken with, and he was in Switzerland.

As we hotfooted it back down the road, Jackie threw on her sunglasses and looked perplexed as she glanced around her. "Where'd everybody go?"

I pointed to our right. "Through those columns."

Jackie stopped short. "Hold up. I want one last picture of the square. Have you noticed that the square really isn't square? Why do they call it a square if it's an oval?"

"Jack! Come on! Everyone's gone. They're probably on the bus already!" I hurried toward the shadow of Bernini's columns and passed through the relative coolness of the roofed