BEEP BEEP … BEEP BEEP …
My night is flooding back to me, with that incessant beeping providing the beat. What in the hell is that?
BEEP BEEP … BEEP BEEP …
And then the last piece of the puzzle falls into place. My phone! I manage to extricate myself from the tangle of my sheets, and I realize I’m still wearing the rolled-short skirt from last night. It has migrated practically to my chin. The left strap of my tank top somehow found its way over my head, so both straps are hooked over my right shoulder. One glance in the mirror tells me I look like I tried to get dressed while riding a roller coaster.
Ugh. I am NEVER. DRINKING. AGAIN.
BEEP BEEP … BEEP BEEP …
I need to make the beeping stop, which will hopefully also stop the room from leaning sharply to the left. My bare foot, now covered in angry red blisters, lands on something small and cold. I lift it to find the shiny silver cell phone, still beeping and flashing a nasty red light at me. The old Julia must have remembered to set an alarm.
I flip it open and press every button I can find on the unfamiliar phone to silence the blasted thing. Thank God I manage to hit something right, because the beeping stops and a text message appears on the screen, glowing a warm blue.
It was amazing 2 meet u last night. I was dying
2 kiss u. U free to chat? —Chris
WHAT?
My brain goes into mini-meltdown mode. My phone bears a message from a guy who wants to—no, is dying to—kiss me.
WHO?
Chris? Which one was Chris? I concentrate, trying to remember the sequence of events that led to this text message. Everything is clear up until the broken table. Unfortunately, the rest of the night is mostly a blur. I know another beer was put into my hand, then another. I started talking more and more, getting bolder and bolder. The beer helped, but so did the idea of being the über-Julia, this whole new person who bears no resemblance to Book Licker. And it turned out that über-Julia was quite popular with the boys.
There was the Irish lad who sang “Danny Boy” (only slightly off-key). I gave him my number, mostly so he wouldn’t launch into his likely very deep repertoire of Flogging Molly covers. Then there was the prep school kid with the posh accent who kept talking about his family’s jet. He was another who’d received the number simply so I could get rid of him.
But then there were the tall guy with the shaggy hair who played guitar in a Shins cover band, the blond university student studying twentieth-century Eastern European literature, and the young Scottish artist with deep blue eyes who told me about his latest installation using tinfoil and Beatles lyrics. I dazzled them all with my wit, charm, and beer-induced confidence, matching the literature buff book by book, dissecting “Revolution 9” with the artist, and humming along as the musician strummed his guitar.
It never occurred to me that any of them would try to contact me. The only calls I normally get from guys fall into two categories: questions about homework and requests for tutoring. As I attend school with exactly none of the guys from the party, I didn’t expect to hear from any of them. Ever.
Which one was Chris?
I read the text message once more, hoping something will jog my memory. Dying to kiss me? They were all cute, so I’m pretty sure I’m dying to kiss him, too.
I mean, none of the boys I met was the one. Not like Mark. But Mark’s not here. And kissing a boy might still be good practice. And practice makes perfect, which is exactly what I want to be when Mark and I finally get together. It’s not like I get these chances very often. Whatever I was doing last night—I guess it’s called flirting—obviously worked. Let’s hope I can re-create that sober.
Because I repeat: I am NEVER. DRINKING. AGAIN.
Now the real question: what the hell am I supposed to write back?
A loud banging starts up on my door.
“Julia? The entire class is waiting for you! Would you please get your ass downstairs, like, ten minutes ago!” Sarah Finder’s voice does a remarkable job of piercing the thick wood door and driving straight into my ears like a spike. I glance at the time on the phone and see that I am, for the first time in my entire life, late. So I type the first thing that comes to my alcohol-addled brain.
Great to meet you too! Can’t talk!
Rushing off to all-day photo shoot. TTYL —J
It just seems easier to continue with the lie I started yesterday than to think of a whole new one. I hit send before I can realize what I’ve done. I make a mental note to check my available phone credit later, then fly out of bed and gargle some mouthwash. I quickly replace my rumpled skirt with a pair of jeans, toss my tank in favor of my favorite blue thermal, and throw on some sensible sneakers in hopes of placating my very angry feet. Drinking, flirting, lying, and now late? Can the old Julia please come back now?
Wow. All clear. Now I know I should have kissed u. —C
“In this room, you will find a veritable feast for the eyes, with colors exploding like fat, ripe berries of passion all over the canvas. Taste with your eyes the juicy flavors of impressionism, paint swirling into itself like a delicious gravy of art.” The tour guide’s speech is interrupted by snickering. My head hurts too much for me to turn and find out who’s laughing at the “berries of passion”—or to point out the tour guide’s use of mixed metaphor.
All I want right now is to crawl back into bed. The only reason I haven’t barfed yet is that I have too much respect for the Tate museum to leave my breakfast on the floor. But if our tour guide keeps going on about feasts and gravy, I may not be able to stop myself.
He finishes his spiel on impressionism before leaving us to explore the contents of the room. Students start milling about, taking in various works of art.
“Miss Ellston!” Mrs. Tennison stomps across the gallery to Evie, who is holding her shiny silver international cell phone in her French-manicured hand. “I fail to see how you can be paying attention to the art around you with your nose in that phone.”
As Mrs. Tennison reaches for Evie’s phone, her jangly adobe bracelet catches on the fringe of Evie’s leather hobo bag, pulling it off Evie’s shoulder and sending its contents spilling onto the floor. Among the assortment of nail polish bottles, tubes of lip gloss, and three different hairbrushes, I see about twenty plastic cards emblazoned with the words “Talk ’n’ Text!!”
Mrs. Tennison looks from Evie to the phone cards on the floor, then back at Evie again. Evie’s eyes have gone wide and all the color drains out of her face until only her artful application of blush remains. Evie’s family may be loaded, but even I’ve heard the stories about how strict her father is. If Mrs. Tennison calls him, someone is getting her Audi taken away.
“Miss Ellston, what did I say?” Mrs. Tennison barks.
“Um, about what?” Evie replies, her voice barely above a whisper.
“About phone use, Miss Ellston!” Mrs. Tennison takes a deep breath and then raises her voice so that all the students in the gallery can hear. “Class? Everyone gather around.”
We shuffle together. Someone in the group smells like the onions in their morning omelet, and I have to take a few steps away from the circle, feeling dizzy with nausea. Mrs. Tennison’s tone cuts right through the cool air of the gallery. She holds Evie’s phone above her head.
“Miss Ellston seems to think my instructions regarding the intended purpose of these phones—and what they are not intended for—were mere suggestions. Let me be clear. You are to remain present on this trip, in mind and body. Therefore, you will not talk, text, or tweet on these phones unless you are having an emergency. Remember, your behavior on this trip will impact not only your grade, but your disciplinary record back at home. You will face classroom repercussions should you disobey my rules.”
“I’m sorry,” Evie mutters. I can hear my mom’s voice in my head: She’s not sorry; she’s just sorry she got caught. I hate when Mom says it to me, but I’m not going to lie: I get a little thrill from watching Evie
’s face as her cell phone disappears into Mrs. Tennison’s ugly old carpetbag full of guidebooks.
“Yes, I’m sure you are,” Mrs. Tennison says. “But I’m afraid the damage has been done. I will be holding on to your phone for the time being, and if there’s an emergency, you can borrow your partner’s phone.”
Students scatter back to various corners of the gallery, and the thrill of seeing Evie get in trouble quickly disappears. All of a sudden I feel like my stomach is going to fall out of my butt. Classroom repercussions? I flip open my phone and scroll through the text messages. Will Mrs. Tennison find out? I try to figure out a way to connect the texts on my phone to a cultural aspect of the trip, but thoughts of the party last night only reignite my pounding headache. I need to reload my phone with credit to erase whatever damage the texts may have done.
I put my phone back into my bag and set about doing what I’ve been doing all morning: pretending to examine a piece of art while actually just standing still, trying to keep it together and not throw up. This is how I’ve managed to hide my hangover from my classmates and Mrs. Tennison. Let me tell you, it has been no easy feat. Even though I’ve been looking forward to this excursion for months, I can’t enjoy a minute of it. I feel like my eyeballs are going to fall out of my head and my brain will ooze out my ears. And that’s just what’s happening above the neck. My stomach is doing a cha-cha. I managed to choke down a piece of toast on my way out of the hotel, but it definitely wants out.
I see a bench in the middle of the gallery, conveniently located in front of a very large sculpture. I lurch for it, sighing with relief as I collapse onto its cool marble. I stare intently at the statue as if I’m taking in the wonder. Really I’m clamping my mouth shut and willing my stomach to calm down. I think of the text message I sent this morning, and though I didn’t know it was possible, I feel even worse.
I hear a jangling coming in from the right. Mrs. Tennison and her oversized jewelry swoop in next to me. She sighs. Playing strict teacher 24/7 is obviously taking its toll on her.
“It’s just lovely, isn’t it?”
“Gorgeous,” I reply, barely glancing at the huge sculpture in front of me. I recognize it from my art history book as Rodin’s The Kiss. It’s huge and shockingly white. With my pesky hangover, I practically need shades to look at it. It depicts two lovers, naked, arms encircling each other for an epic make-out session. I’m hoping Mrs. Tennison will want to take in the beauty in silence, but no dice.
“Rodin really knew the body,” she says, sighing again. “He highlighted every physical manifestation of attraction. Look at how the man’s spine is tense as he pulls her close. Even her toes are curled into the rock with lust. Every inch of this piece is meant to inspire passion.”
“Impressive,” I say, trying to sound engaged without opening my mouth too wide.
“You know, I’ve often imagined myself in this piece,” she says, and my stomach really starts to have a go. “Locked in a tight embrace, never feeling close enough. His lips on hers, skin on skin, the lust of—”
“Gross!” I exclaim, my hands flying to my mouth.
“Excuse me?” Her head whips around, and she narrows her eyes at me so that I can see her liberal application of turquoise eye shadow.
“Oh! Uh, well”—I panic—“it’s just, uh, um, a gross oversight that, uh, the rest of the class isn’t as taken with the piece as you are, Mrs. Tennison.”
“Oh yes, it certainly is,” she says, letting out a long breath. “I just hope one or two of your classmates manages to trip and fall into some cultural experiences.” She smiles at me before wandering off to humiliate another student with her presence. The adrenaline rushes out of my body, and I’m left exhausted. I lean over and put my head in my lap, hoping I can get one moment of peace before we have to move on to the pop art collection. But again, no such luck.
“Hey, buddy, you doing okay?” Jason plops down next to me on the bench. He must have been hovering nearby, waiting for Mrs. Tennison to leave.
“No,” I say into my jeans, too tired and sick to lie.
“Hangover? That sucks, dude,” he says, doing a little seated tap routine with his green high-top Chucks. I swear the kid can’t be still for a second.
“How are you feeling okay?” I manage to ask before clamping my mouth shut again. I look like roadkill, and this guy is sitting here with sparkling blue (non-bloodshot) eyes. I sniff, expecting to catch a whiff of at least beer, if not stale cologne, but there’s nothing. If I can make out anything, it’s the scent of the hotel-provided bar of soap.
“Practice,” he replies with a laugh. He digs in his pocket until he produces a purple-and-white scrap of paper. A gum wrapper. “Are you gonna make it?”
“That’s unclear. I’m trying to recover from the trauma of last night,” I say, sitting up. “I can’t believe I let you convince me to go to that party. And then I got drunk? God, I totally embarrassed myself last night.”
“Embarrassed? No way. It looked to me like you were a hit.” He folds the gum wrapper over and over on itself, until it’s nearly a speck.
“What?” I ask. The faint smell of grape is wafting off the paper, and I have to turn away so I don’t gag.
“Yeah, about an hour in, I came to find you to take you back, but then I saw you with that guitar guy.” He flicks the wrapper toward a nearby wastebin, but it banks off the edge and lands on the floor. “You looked like you were having fun.”
I sit straight up and turn to him. “Guitar guy? What guitar guy? Did you catch his name?”
“Um, Bono? No, I didn’t. Why?”
“No reason,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. I’m pretty sure the squeak in my voice gives me away, though, because Jason frowns at me.
“What’s up, Julia? You’re acting even more wacko than usual this morning.” Jason has made no move to pick up the wrapper, which is still lying several feet away from the trash can. Of course Jason would litter in one of the most famous museums in the world.
“I told you. I’m hungover,” I say. I stand up deliberately and make my way to the abandoned wrapper, which I pick up and pointedly deposit into the bin. I definitely don’t need Jason Lippincott—who until this trip had spoken a total of three words to me in my life—telling me I’m a wacko.
“Yeah, it’s not that.” Jason stands and shuffles after me. His sneakers are squeaking across the floor of the museum like an annoying, yappy puppy.
“Really?” I stop in my tracks and whirl around to face him, mostly so he’ll stop too and the squeaking will stop with him. “Because it’s all I can think about right now.”
“We’re in a museum, Book Licker,” he says, pointing at a late Picasso painting. “It’s like your mother ship, and you’re not paying attention to anything. Seriously. Did something happen last night?”
There is a touch of concern in his voice, and it softens me for a moment. But then I imagine what would happen if Jason knew all about my texting. He teased me enough when he barely had any ammunition.
“I do not want to talk about it,” I reply. I turn my back to him. In front of me, the surface of a Mondrian painting explodes with oranges and blues.
I hear the telltale squeaking of his sneakers as he loops around me so we’re standing side by side. “You don’t want to talk about it, or you don’t want to talk about it with me?”
I can’t seem to shake the guy. “Both. Equally.”
“C’mon, Julia,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his. “I know you feel like hell this morning, but last night it seemed like you were having something resembling a good time.”
“I was,” I concede, still avoiding looking at him.
“So I helped you have a memorable first night in London?” Pride creeps into his voice.
“Oh God, more than you know,” I say. As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my bag. I pull it out and flip it open to find another text from Chris. Hopefully soon, it reads.
“Excuse me, isn’t that your school-provid
ed cell, Miss Emergency Only?” Jason asks, and when I finally do look at him, sure enough, a sly grin is spreading across his face. There is no doubt he is enjoying my new rule-breaking spree.
“Can you leave me alone now, please?” I sigh, and snap my phone shut quickly. Since when is Jason so interested in harassing me? Since when is he so interested in even acknowledging my existence?
“Oh, come on, I’m your buddy. You can tell me anything.” He throws an arm around my shoulders. I’m startled by the gesture, which is apparently exactly what he wants. He quickly uses his free hand to snatch the phone out of mine before taking off at a sprint into the next gallery.
All hangover symptoms melt away in an instant. I take off after him. I have to wander through two different rooms before I find him in the corner of a gallery dedicated to Warhol. He’s clicking through my phone underneath one of Warhol’s camouflage prints. I snatch the phone from his hands, but I can tell from his mischievous grin that the damage is done. He’s read all the texts. Blood rushes to my face.
“What is the matter with you? Were you dropped on your head or something?” I snap. I’m so embarrassed I feel like someone has shoved my whole head into a pizza oven.
“A photo shoot?” Jason laughs.
“It was the first thing that came to my head. Thanks to you, I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.” I stuff the phone back into my bag, spin around on my heel, and march away, trying to muster up whatever dignity I can.
“Hey, no one forced drinks down your throat,” he says, following me once again. “Well, aren’t you going to text back? That is the proper etiquette.”
I turn around and hold up both hands.
“Shut up! Just shut up. For the rest of the day, I need you to shut up,” I burst out. I glance over his shoulder to see a Warhol print of a handgun. If only …
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