I catch the brunette rolling her eyes while she plucks her suitcase from the conveyor belt in one graceful, fluid movement. I’ve been so distracted by their conversation I haven’t noticed that my duffel is about to pass me by again. I dive for it, my fingers barely closing around the nylon handle. I throw my weight backward to heave it off the carousel, but thanks to all those guidebooks I packed, the bag is heavier than I thought. I feel it throwing me off balance. I’m going down.
As I start to tip backward, though, a body breaks my fall. Unfortunately, it’s the blond supermodel, whose waifish figure is not ready for my muscular frame and ten tons of luggage to come flying at her like a stealth bomber.
“What the—” she screams, falling backward off her platform wedges. We go down in a tangle of arms and legs, her coffee in a flood on the floor, now soaking itself into my sweatpants.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I mumble, completely mortified. I struggle to scramble to my feet, and I’m nearly up when my foot catches in the handle of my duffel and I fall again, landing butt-first in the puddle. I can feel the cold, sticky liquid soaking into my underpants. Great—after the rumors about my joining the mile-high club, a suspicious stain on my sweatpants is the last thing I need. Did I mention that I hate flying?
I untangle my foot, grab my duffel, and make a run for the nearest sliding doors before I’m subjected to a supermodel-style tantrum. “Sorry!” I yell over my shoulder.
“You owe me a coffee!” the blonde screams at me, but I don’t look back.
When I get to the curb, I scan the crowd for my group so I don’t miss the bus. I spot Jason and start to head toward him, but I quickly realize that he’s not with the group. He’s busy chatting up a raven-haired supermodel who’s poised to climb into a shiny black sedan. Of course.
Another black sedan screeches to a halt right in front of me. The tinted windows provide a perfect reflection of my appearance postflight. My hair is a wild mess, my eyes are bloodshot, and now I have coffee splattered from head to toe, including a large wet spot on my behind.
Great. I’ve arrived in London looking like a homeless—and incontinent—crazy person.
I hoist my duffel over my shoulder. I finally spot my classmates gathering in front of a giant blue tour bus. Mrs. Tennison is bustling around, counting heads and checking things off on her clipboard. Nearly everyone else has boarded the bus by the time I’m dragging my monogrammed duffel toward them.
Flying, children, models, and being late. And Jason Lippincott. The list of things I hate is getting longer by the minute.
I board the bus behind Deirdre Robinson and her ginormous fluff of curly blond hair and slide into an empty seat at the front, hoping it stays empty except for me. Yes, there are twenty students on this trip, and I’m close friends with exactly none of them. It’s going to be a long ten days.
When everyone in junior-year lit class had the chance to go to London over spring break, I thought at least a handful of my swim teammates would come along on the trip. Yet despite my careful planning and organization, I managed to sign up and turn in my deposit before realizing that it conflicted with the MetroWest Invitational swim meet. It’s the meet where I set the state freestyle record last year!
So I am here, and my teammates are not.
Missing the swim meet has me feeling sort of twitchy, and I start tapping my toe inside my sneaker. I promised Coach Haas I’d do extra laps while I’m here (our hotel has a pool, thank God), and hope he hasn’t replaced me by the time I get back in ten days.
“Relax, Julia,” Coach Haas told me when I told him I’d stick to my training. “Just try to have some fun while you’re there, okay?”
Apparently no one understands that my version of fun includes laps, guidebooks, and following the rules.
Joel Emerson ambles lazily down the aisle, and I see him pause next to my seat, so I quickly drop my carry-on into it. Joel will spend the entire bus ride miming lacrosse plays, which I’m pretty sure will make me carsick.
Dammit, Phoebe, I’ll kill you for ditching me.
Phoebe’s parents refused to let her skip the Lis’ family reunion, hosted every five years in Chicago. No amount of pleading from either of us budged them an inch. Phoebe even pulled out the “it’ll look great on my college applications” card, but to no avail. Not that Phoebe needs to be worried about her college applications. She’s an amazing artist, and she’s totally getting into Rhode Island School of Design. And hopefully I am going to get into Brown, and then we’ll share an apartment in a big Providence Victorian with bright walls and a turret.
“Hey, at least there’s a beach,” I told her last week. After months of begging, I’d finally convinced her to reorganize her closet. Phoebe says it’s sick, but organizing other people’s stuff is sort of a hobby for me. There is something incredibly satisfying about putting everything in its proper place.
“It’s Lake Michigan—that hardly counts as beach,” she said, then stuck out her tongue while checking a yellow T-shirt for holes of the unintentional variety. She tossed it into the “donate” pile.
“The Chicago Chamber of Commerce begs to differ,” I replied, putting a pile of brightly patterned sundresses onto hangers one by one. I held up a purple houndstooth-printed minidress with an egg-sized rip in the hem. “Is this a keeper?”
“I can totally fix that,” she said, adding it to the sewing pile next to her desk before gathering her long, shiny black hair into a messy ponytail. I’m so jealous of Phoebe’s hair. It would take me two hours with a flatiron and the entire Kiehl’s counter to get my hair that straight. And thanks to all the chlorine, it wouldn’t be anywhere near that shiny. “Anyway, even if it was a real beach, it’s only warm enough to swim in for, like, three weeks in August. It’s March. That’s practically the Arctic in Chicago!”
I sighed. “It’ll be painful for me, too! There’s going to be so much preppy on this trip I might come back with a full frontal lobotomy and a new wardrobe consisting of only skinny jeans and Tiffany bracelets.” I tried to focus on folding her massive pile of screen-printed T-shirts and not on how lonely I would be. “Seriously, what am I going to do without you there?”
“You’re going to enjoy London,” Phoebe said, her eyes widening as she wound up for one of her famous, mile-a-minute diatribes, “a city filled with studly British scholars who read Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. And every once in a while, you’ll pause for a moment of silence for your best friend, who is busy scarfing down kimchi and casseroles made by great-aunts while you’re enjoying tea and scones.”
So my best friend isn’t here to save me. But I am in London. For free. Without any parents. With an itinerary (highlighted and underlined, of course) full of visits to places I’ve only read about or imagined and a duffel bag full of guidebooks, notable passages flagged with an array of colorful Post-its.
It could be so much worse. I could be traveling with my aunt Matilda, who uses up most of every visit hinting that perhaps if I spent less time in the pool and more time in a dress, I’d have my very own boyfriend. I could be touring London with a convention of high school principals or infomercial hosts. All of those would be worse than this (I think). So it’s decided. This trip is going to be awesome. I take a few deep breaths, pull out the itinerary, and begin psyching myself up for tomorrow’s visit to the Tate. I have already printed out the online pamphlet describing the special exhibits. I plan to spend the evening (which is designated as “settling-in time” on the itinerary) rereading the Tate passages in each of my five guidebooks. Just the thought of the museum and my books, and my stress starts to ebb away.
Mrs. Tennison scurries onto the bus last and begins surveying the crowd. Her palazzo pants and floral tunic whip students in the face as she rushes down the aisle.
“Do we have everyone? Is anyone missing?” she asks, counting heads, then wringing her hands. “It appears we’re one short!” Her mostly penciled-in dark brows furrow together.
“I’m here
! Never fear!” Jason bounds onto the bus, laughing, and squeezes down the aisle past Mrs. Tennison. “Thanks for holding the bus for me, Mrs. T.”
“Jason, please stay with the group. It is very important that we all stick together.” Fifteen minutes in London, and already Mrs. Tennison is massaging her temples. Clearly, this is going to be a rough ten days for her, too.
“Sorry, Mrs. T. Never again, Scout’s honor.” He grins, shuffling down the aisle. He pauses by my seat, his nose crinkling. “Hazelnut, Book Licker? I would have taken you for a black-coffee kind of girl.” I clench my fists.
Babbling brooks and cool breezes. Birds and hearts and rainbows and Mark’s third tooth to the left of center …
“Thank you, Jason,” Mrs. Tennison sighs, pulling out a thick file folder. The bus rumbles to a start, and Mrs. Tennison has to grasp the nearest seat so as not to fall into someone’s lap. She nearly grabs Deirdre Robinson’s fluffy head of crazy-curl hair, but Deirdre executes a quick duck-and-weave maneuver that I’m guessing she picked up on the fencing team (of which she is the sole member).
“Okay, everyone, listen up,” Mrs. Tennison says, clearing her throat. “I’ve got some good news. There was a mix-up with the hotel, and everyone ended up in single rooms.”
A cheer rises from the bus—a cheer even I join in on. A single room means I’ll be spared from sharing with Sarah Finder and her explosion of designer jeans and faux Louis Vuitton bags. Thank GOD. This trip is getting better by the minute!
“Okay, okay,” Mrs. Tennison says, waving her hands to shush us. “Moving on. Your curfew will be at ten p.m., and you will respect it. I will be holding on to your keys for the night so I can be sure you’re in your rooms and not …” She trails off, and I know that she’s imagining half the bus getting arrested and the other half getting pregnant.
All the other students begin grumbling and groaning. Evie even squeaks out, “But that’s fascist!” I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know what “fascist” means.
I don’t mind the curfew. Early to bed, early to rise and swim my laps.
Mrs. Tennison goes on: “The way we’re going to ensure that no one wanders off on their own is an old standby: the buddy system.”
All around me, people are grabbing hands with their buddies, but having attended many summers at Camp Tanasi, I know exactly what’s coming, and I feel a cold knot of dread building in my stomach.
“I’ve assigned partners for the duration of the trip. Not only will you be responsible for keeping track of your buddy, but they’ll also be your partner for all activities and assignments. Remember, this is an educational tour of the UK.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Evie mutters from two rows back. Evie spent the end of the flight paging through The Fashionista’s Guide to London Shopping. It’s the first book I’ve ever seen her read.
“You will be responsible for your partner for the duration of this trip,” Mrs. Tennison continues, winding up for a speech I suspect she practiced in her bathroom mirror before we left. “Their success is your success. You’ll not only be together on our regularly scheduled tours, but you’ll be keeping each other company during assigned cultural hours. You’re probably thinking, What are cultural hours?”
“Um, no.” Evie’s eye roll is practically audible in her voice. Luckily, Mrs. Tennison doesn’t hear her.
“Your cultural hours are daily two-hour blocks of time, in which you are permitted to explore London on your own. With your partner, of course!”
“Shopping time!” Evie squeals.
This Mrs. Tennison does hear. She shoots Evie an evil eye before charging on. “Cultural hours are to be spent exploring even more of the culture of London,” she says, not so subtly emphasizing the words, “and this does not include shopping. I will be keeping track of your hours via your daily reflection papers, where you will write about all the wonderful British experiences you’ve had throughout the day.”
My classmates continue their chorus of groans. I don’t know what they expected. Contrary to popular belief, this isn’t a vacation. It’s for credit, and I plan to get an A.
Mrs. Tennison begins running through the list of partners, and I strain to hear my name. As she moves through the list, I start to notice a pattern. Brian Arnett is paired with Jamie Barnes. Evie Ellston with Sarah Finder. Tony Harrison and Logan Hunt. Lucy Karns and Adam Landry. Uh-oh. This can only mean …
“Julia Lichtenstein, you’ll be with Jason Lippincott.”
No. No no no. I cannot be with Jason. First of all, I just told him to leave me alone. Forever. I can’t even look at Jason, much less tour castles with him. Second of all, what will we even talk about? Aside from our brief encounter today, Jason and I haven’t so much as interacted since he stuffed tampons into my locker in ninth grade. He sits across the cafeteria with his lacrosse teammates and their giggly groupies at lunch and spends most of class time trying to embarrass our teachers with “that’s what she said” jokes. I don’t know how to play lacrosse, and I’m pretty sure he’s never read … well, a book. Plus he’s going to spend 90 percent of the trip figuring out ways to meet girls, which is going to be supremely annoying for the person who has to keep track of him. Which, apparently, is me.
But before I can ask if there is any room for negotiation, Mrs. Tennison pulls out a box filled with identical silver cell phones, each topped with a sticky note containing the phone’s number in neat script. (Mrs. Tennison may be a psychotic mess, but she has beautiful penmanship.)
“These are your temporary cell phones—or ‘mobiles,’ as they say in England,” she says, tittering a little, as she moves up the aisle, distributing phones. My sticky note reads: +442026415644
I stare at the jumble of unfamiliar numbers, trying to commit them to memory. The standard country code is 44, so that’s easy. Twenty … That was dad’s jersey number in high school; he was captain of the football team. The numbers rearrange in my head, forming different patterns. Then I see it: 26 April, 1564. It’s Shakespeare’s birthday! That must be a sign.
There’s only one remaining number to memorize, and that’s easy enough: the last four is my GPA. Dad’s jersey number, Shakespeare’s birthday, my GPA. I mouth it silently to myself until it’s committed to memory.
Mrs. Tennison is prattling on. “These phones are pay-as-you-go. They’ve been preloaded with twenty minutes’ worth of credit, which is exactly the amount of time you should need to call the police, a taxi, or me. This means these phones are meant for emergencies.” She says the word with as many syllables as she can stretch. She places the last phone in Susan Morgan’s tanned palm and then whirls around to face the crowd. “Any credit you use beyond those twenty minutes you will need to purchase on your own. However, I am not giving you permission to spend this entire trip on the phone. Excuse me, Miss Ellston?”
I turn around to see Evie with her nose already buried in her phone, her manicured fingers tapping furiously at the keys. At the mention of her name, her head snaps up at the exact moment she snaps her phone shut.
“Yes, Mrs. Tennison?” she says brightly.
“What were you doing on that phone, Miss Ellston?” Mrs. Tennison crosses her arms over her chest and mimics Evie’s peaches-and-cream tone.
“Oh, nothing,” she says. Her voice gets even more syrupy, which happens whenever she’s lying to an authority figure. I’ve been in at least a dozen classes with her, so I’m kind of an expert.
“Miss Ellston, thank you for reminding me to bring up one final point. As I have said, these phones are for emergencies. They are not for texting or Twittering or Facebooking or connect four-ing or socializing or anything else that will keep you from truly experiencing your time here in London. This trip is an opportunity for you to disconnect from technology and connect with a vibrant city full of art, culture, and history. If I discover that your phone use is proving too much of a distraction, I will confiscate it immediately. You will then have to rely on your partner’s phone for the rest of the trip. Do I ma
ke myself clear?”
The bus breaks into a scattered chorus of yeses and some random grumbling. I flip my phone open, wishing I could use it to send an SOS to Phoebe. I even start typing a text. Help! Partnered with Jason! Suicide likely, homicide imminent! But because I’m a rule follower, I flip the phone shut without sending it.
Why does every1 think a girl who prefers bks to ppl must be in want of a life? —J
The bus pulls away from the airport, and I practically press my nose against the windowpane. I refuse to miss a single second of England just because I’m stressing about Jason. We merge onto the M4 and begin speeding toward London. Everything looks greener here than at home. I gaze out over rolling hills dotted with patches of wildflowers and huge shade trees. It’s a cool but sunny spring afternoon. I wish I could open my window and breathe in the air, because it looks like it smells earthy, heavy, and sweet.
The green hills give way to a vista of dense row houses and large supermarkets. For a minute I’m disappointed; we could be in Cleveland, Ohio. Then we veer off the busy motorway, and the street suddenly gets narrow, the buildings more opulent. This is the London I’ve always imagined. Everything looks like it is or was, at one time, a castle. Even the McDonald’s, with its stone facade located beneath a stately brick apartment building, looks impressive.
Our bus disappears underground, rolling through a tunnel before emerging onto the street. We pass a lush green garden filled to the brim with beautiful flowers. I can’t wait to take my old copy of Pride and Prejudice and read it in a real English garden. Although knowing me, I will probably get attacked by a wild goose or something. (I have goose-related issues. Don’t judge me.)
Before I know it, we’re in the thick of the city, passing locations I’ve heard my mom describe to me since I was a kid: Kensington High Street, Imperial College, Hyde Park, Piccadilly Circus. For a second my throat tightens up and I find myself holding my breath. London is where Mom and Dad went on their honeymoon, and they always talked about coming back here. Dad used to joke that Paris was the city of love for unimaginative folks. “Give me those guards in the big fuzzy hats any day,” he’d say, laughing and planting a kiss on Mom’s forehead. They’d even saved up for a tenth-anniversary trip, but when Dad got sick, the trip was quickly forgotten.
Meant to Be Page 2
