Last night’s laps cleared my head, but they’ve also awakened my swimmer’s appetite, and I realize I’m absolutely starving.
The hotel kitchen staff is ready for me, though, and when I arrive downstairs in the dining room, I’m greeted by the most incredible buffet table I’ve ever seen. Rows of gleaming silver chafing dishes are overflowing with golden French toast, pancakes dotted with fat red berries, crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, and home fries (is that what they call them here?). Past those I spy a separate table nearly sagging under the weight of various pastries, baked goods, and bowls of whipped butter and clotted cream. I heap portions of everything onto my gold-rimmed plate. If there’s a heaven, it’s this buffet—inside a library with no one around but me. And maybe Phoebe. And my mom.
And Mark.
“Carbs much?” Evie says sarcastically as she flounces past me.
I nearly lose my grip on the heavy plate, and the Belgian waffle perched precariously on top of my two scones nearly tumbles to the ground, a dollop of maple syrup oozing onto my sleeve. She rolls her eyes, placing one half of a grapefruit on her otherwise empty plate, and flounces off to join Sarah at a table in the middle of the room. I make a face at her receding back, wipe the syrup from my flannel, and find my way to an empty table in the corner.
I dive into the food along with my copy of Pride and Prejudice. I’m lost in the scene where Mr. Darcy proposes to Elizabeth when I feel someone hovering over me. It’s Jason, in his standard uniform of jeans that look like they haven’t been washed since before ninth-grade gym; a ratty, pilled old North Face fleece; and his Sox cap, perpetually askew. I’d bet all the money in my pocket that underneath his fleece is a Bruins tee.
“Where’d you disappear to last night, Book Licker?” he asks, as though I were the one to ditch him. He balances a plate even more overflowing than mine.
“Back to the hotel,” I reply coldly. I make a conscious—and, I think, very mature—decision to ignore the nickname. I feel good, and I’m going to hold on to that mood. I plop a spoonful of clotted cream onto a bite of waffle, wondering if my blood sugar is too high for me to get angry right now. I might be experiencing some kind of food euphoria.
“By yourself?” His eyes grow wide.
“Yup,” I reply. I shovel a forkful of waffle into my mouth and try to sound confident. “I wanted to get some swimming in.”
“I see,” he says. He brushes his bangs from his eyes. They fall right back over his face, and after two more attempts, he finally gives up and shoves them under his baseball cap. “You really shouldn’t wander around by yourself, you know. There are some crazies out there.”
“Right,” I say. “Because being with you is totally normal.”
“Ha-ha.” He slides into the seat across from mine, unzipping his fleece. I see that I’m right about the Bruins tee. “Seriously, Julia. I would have walked you back to the hotel. Just let me know next time.”
He seems genuine, but his tone makes me feel even lamer, like some pathetic lonely girl who can’t even get someone to walk home with her. That’s twice in the past ten minutes someone has tried to make me feel like a loser, and I’m kind of over it. It’s time to take control of this day, so I decide to set my newly hatched plan into motion.
“Well, I wanted to text with Chris,” I say. I peek over my fork to catch his reaction. Jason just rolls his eyes.
“Continuing your little textplorations solo, eh? That’s a dangerous game,” he says. He grabs a bread item slathered with something I don’t recognize and takes a giant bite. Immediately, his nose crinkles and his mouth screws up into a deep grimace. He swallows hard, then grabs my napkin off my lap and starts furiously wiping his tongue.
“What are you eating?” I ask.
“Marmite,” he spits. He steals my glass of cranberry juice and slugs it down. “Ugh, it tastes like a salty dirt pile.”
“Why did you cover your toast in it if you didn’t know what it was?”
“When in Rome,” he says. He flips his toast over so the offending Marmite is no longer facing him. “Isn’t that why you’re on this random text adventure?”
I open my mouth to reply but am interrupted by Sarah, who practically skips up to our table, her loose blond waves bobbing on her shoulders.
“Oh my God, are you so psyched about the Stratford-upon-Avon trip?” she asks, her eyes trained on Jason. In her world, I’m not even here.
“The what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at her.
“Stratford-upon-Avon,” Sarah repeats slowly.
“Shakespeare’s birthplace,” I say, jumping in. I run my finger through a river of maple syrup and lick it off. Sarah wrinkles her nose at me, but I don’t care. This maple syrup is liquid love. While she’s watching, I pick up a cheese blintz and take an enormous bite. Sarah looks like she’s tallying calories in her head.
“Evie saw online that there are going to be a bunch of other American schools there from all over the place,” Sarah explains, turning away from me and back to Jason. “It’s going to be a major party scene.”
“Screw literature; let’s drink,” I mumble to myself through crumbs of cheese pastry.
“Excuse me?” Sarah glares at me.
“Nothing,” I reply, tossing my napkin onto my plate. “Sounds awesome.”
“I’m psyched we’re actually getting out of London for a day,” Sarah sighs exaggeratedly. “I’m already bored. So you’re going?”
“We’re all going,” I say. “It’s required.”
“You heard the lady,” Jason says, pointing a thumb in my direction. “I guess we’re going.”
“We?” I ask with heavy skepticism, though it’s purely for show. I’m, to quote Sarah, “so psyched” for the Stratford-upon-Avon trip. Not only is it Shakespeare’s birthplace, it’s where my parents got their wedding rings, and I definitely plan on stopping by the little antique shop where they found them.
“Yes, buddy,” he says, tapping the table with his fist for emphasis. “You and I are buddies, and as buddies, we will show our buddy-ness by attending the Stratford-upon-Avon trip. Together.”
“Or because you have to be with your buddy,” Sarah says in that obnoxious tone of voice she’s so fond of. She adjusts her brown leather hobo on her shoulder, spins around, and skips back toward Evie.
“Look,” I say as soon as Jason turns his attention back to me. “Let’s get one thing straight. I am really excited about this trip, and not for the major party scene or whatever you call it. As soon as we get there, we’ll be parting ways. My liver and I are not interested in a repeat of the other night. You can party, and I can take in the culture.”
Jason smirks at me. “You and I have very different definitions of ‘culture,’ Book Licker.”
“You and I have very different definitions of everything,” I say.
“Speaking of culture …” Jason leans over and snatches a plump strawberry off my plate. I was saving it to dip in the powdered sugar left behind by my waffles, and it’s all I can do not to reach over and take it right back. “You haven’t forgotten our little agreement, have you?”
“I’ll write your stupid essays,” I snap. I catch myself and say in a more normal tone of voice, “So long as you keep up your end of the bargain.”
“You have yourself a deal,” he says. He holds out his hand. I roll my eyes and shake.
“A deal with the devil,” I mutter. I hope I haven’t traded away too much of my soul.
“Okay, everyone!” Mrs. Tennison calls from the other side of the room. “Bus is here! Finish up your breakfasts!”
I stand up and head toward the bus without waiting for Jason. I can only hope that today’s adventures will be a little less adventurous than my last adventures.
“It’s huge!”
“That’s what she said!”
Cue riotous laughter as our bus rumbles past Big Ben.
I want to roll my eyes, but I’m afraid pretty soon they’re going to get stuck in the back of my h
ead, and penis puns are really not worth my permanent facial damage.
By the time our bus pulls up to the Tower of London, my expectations for the day are somewhere in the basement. Call me a cynic, but since Jason spent the entire time we toured Big Ben talking about how satisfied Mrs. Ben must be, my guess is that a landmark famous for its crown jewels is not going to bring out his most charming comments, either.
But from the moment we walk in the door, he is quiet. He’s not cracking jokes or laughing or snorting or high-fiving anyone. He’s simply following the rest of the tour, listening to the guides and (can it be?) actually reading the historical markers along the way.
We leave the Waterloo Barracks, home to the crown jewels, and Mrs. Tennison tells us to find our partners and discuss what we’ve seen so far.
“Remember, this is perfect subject material for a reflection paper,” she says, her eyes aglow with the excitement of homework. “Don’t simply discuss. Dissect! The work will be easier later!”
I find Jason in a corner, looking at a glossy brochure the tour guides gave us when we arrived. I don’t expect much in the way of dissection. I will, after all, be writing his reflection paper.
“Crazy, huh?” he says, flapping the brochure at me. “You know they used to torture people here, right? Weird that everyone knows it mostly for the bling.”
I stare at him. He goes on to talk about the juxtaposition of the famous jewels and the political prisoners who have been held within the tower walls. He actually uses the word “juxtaposition.” I couldn’t be more shocked if he donned a hat made of fruit and danced the cancan in the middle of Westminster Abbey.
“And a lot of the prisoners weren’t even real threats, you know? I mean, sure Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament or whatever, but they were more afraid of what he was saying,” he says. I remember Guy Fawkes from our unit on European history. “Hey, did you take that political protest class Coach Hudson taught?”
“Not yet,” I say. “I was hoping to get it next semester.” “Coach” Hudson actually coaches the debate team, but he’s just as respected as our soccer coach. Maybe more so. I’ve been dying to take his class.
“Dude, you have to take it,” he says, his face animated. “You’ll be totally into it.”
I blink at him. Jason Lippincott’s recommending a class to me is like my offering makeup tips to Evie. Fortunately, before I have to think of a response, the tour guide signals for us to move on.
As we continue the tour, I try to see the place from Jason’s eyes, but every time we pass a darkened corridor, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I imagine invisible hands snatching me off to some prison cell, where I’m left to bed down on a pile of rotting hay, rats scurrying all around me. The tour guide keeps mentioning that the whole place is haunted with the ghosts of people who have been beheaded there. I can only imagine what their corpses would look like wandering around; somehow I don’t think they’re going to be as friendly as the ones in Harry Potter. I try not to linger too close to the dank stone walls, in case there’s lingering tuberculosis or bubonic plague. I instinctively feel around in my bag for my travel bottle of hand sanitizer.
“Can you believe people were imprisoned here? Some of them for nothing,” Jason says. He leans against one of the tubercular walls and I suppress a shiver.
“Well, odds are at least some of them were guilty of something,” I reply. I’m not totally sure if I believe it, but I’m not going to get through an entire field trip without contributing something to a discussion with Jason. I clear my throat and channel Coach Hudson’s debate skills. “It’s naive and unfair to judge history by our standards. It’s what they had. It’s what they knew. And people should be punished for breaking the rules, so long as the rules are fair.”
“And who decides if the rules are fair?” he asks.
“Society,” I reply, keeping my tone even.
Jason raises his eyebrows at me and opens his mouth to reply, but then he shuts it. I feel a flicker of triumph. Does that mean I won?
We wander into the next room, an interactive prisoner exhibit. It’s a little bit cheesy, with videos of reenactors with hammy British accents playing the roles of various historical prisoners. All around us are instruments of torture with historical placards explaining their uses.
Jason practically skips across the room. When he gets to the far wall, he whips off his belt with a flourish and strings it through a set of iron rings built into the stone wall high above his head.
“Jason,” I say. “What—”
“Oh, flog me. I’ve been a bad boy!” His voice echoes around the room. “All the partying, all the girls, all the fun. It goes against society’s rules. It goes against morality! Punish me, Julia!”
All my blood rushes directly to my face. Strangers are staring, mouths open, while my classmates giggle and whisper.
Without meaning to move, I sprint across the room. “What is your problem?” I ask, leaning in. “Are you mental or something?”
Jason just starts moaning, loud and long, writhing against the stone wall. I’m sure it looks awesome what with me standing so close to him. I leap back so fast I nearly fall ass over teakettle into a giant iron maiden.
A group of British schoolgirls in matching plaid uniforms explode into laughter.
“I love American boys,” one girl says.
“So funny,” the other agrees, and then she actually gives him one of those finger-wiggling waves. I have to keep myself from visibly gagging. How can they be charmed by him? This is London, where people have class. Can’t they see he’s essentially an overgrown seven-year-old?
I scan the room for Mrs. Tennison. Surely she’ll put a stop to this ridiculousness, but she’s nowhere to be found. Seriously? She’s been hovering over us like a thick cloud of mosquitoes since we got here, and she chooses now to walk away? You’d think someone as anxious as Mrs. T would learn to hold it until the wild group of teenagers leaves the building containing priceless artifacts. I wait for a guard to throw us out, but even security seems uninterested. In fact, I catch one woman trying to suppress a smile.
Jason finally unhooks his belt from the metal rings. His grin is fading into a smirk.
“What’s the matter, Julia?” he asks. “Let me guess—you’re not into domination? Maybe you want to be dominated. They say it’s the most controlling people who look for someone to tell them what to do. Look, if that’s your thing, I’m sure we can make it work.…”
I’m so embarrassed—and angry—I could reach out and smack him. Instead, I ball up my fists and feel my nails digging into the flesh of my palms.
“Why do you have to be such an ass?” I ask in the calmest, coldest tone I can muster. “Why do you feel the need to get attention every moment of every day? Were you ignored as a kid or something? Did Mommy forget to love you? Do us both a favor and get over yourself, okay?”
Jason’s face has turned stony. “Dude, you need to chill out,” he says. He tries to put on his belt but drops it; it clatters to the ground. “I’m having fun, Julia. F-U-N. You don’t have to be such a bitch all the time, you know that?”
I open my mouth to reply, but he’s already stalking away from me. My cheeks are burning, and to my horror I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I will them away.
I can’t believe he called me a bitch. I feel like I’ve been plunged headfirst into a bucket of ice water.
The class is gathering at the entrance of the exhibit to move to another gallery, and Jason goes to stand in the back of the crowd, a little bit separate from everyone else, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and staring resolutely in front of him.
So much for not letting Jason get to me. So much for using him to help me get Chris.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, making me jump. I pull the phone out of my messenger bag with shaking hands and flip it open.
Was @ Globe last night and thinking of u, thinking of me? —C
My heart leaps into my throat, and I swallow fur
iously, trying to put it back where it belongs. I wish I could run to Chris right now—which I realize is more than a little weird, considering that I can’t even remember what he looks like. I press reply and stand staring at the blank screen and the blinking cursor. I have no idea what I can say that won’t ruin it.
“Let me guess—Chris.” Jason is staring at me from across the now-empty gallery. The rest of our class must have moved on. His eyes are expressionless. “You haven’t scared him off yet?”
“What is your problem?” I burst out.
“I thought you already knew.” He raises an eyebrow. “Abandonment issues and immaturity. Got any more to add to the list?”
I feel guilt squirming in my stomach. But he deserved it. He did. I look away from him. “You don’t have to embarrass me all the time.” My voice comes out all squeaky. “I embarrass myself enough as it is, okay?”
There’s a moment of silence. Then squeak, squeak, squeak as Jason crosses toward me. He holds out his hand.
“Give me your phone,” he says. He’s not smiling, but his voice is softer.
“No way.”
“Say the wrong thing and you might never hear from him again,” Jason says. I can tell that he has forgiven me for what I said. I guess I can forgive him for calling me a bitch. I may occasionally be a little … outspoken. “You know you need Dr. Love-in-Cott to help out.”
“Ew,” I say, making a face.
He leans into me and nudges me with a shoulder. “Seems like your tactic thus far has been to lie and dodge. Is that working for you?”
I feel like my stomach is going to do a dance right out of my belly button. I’m not going to ruin it. Am I? I stare down at my phone in my hand.
“Suit yourself,” he says. Jason begins skipping backward, still watching me. Now the smile is back in his eyes. “Best of luck to you.”
Meant to Be Page 10
