by Linda Gerber
The problem was, my mom and dad were still asleep, and it would have been rude to wake them up just to ask for permission, right? I wasn’t going to go far. Maybe just walk around our temporary neighborhood a little bit. Explore the surroundings. We were staying right in the middle of the historic district, so I could probably get some good pictures for my blog—even if it was still kind of dark.
Did I mention it was four in the morning?
The early hour would make slipping out a little tricky. My mom and dad’s bedroom was right across the hall from mine. Plus, there was a doorman on duty down in the lobby who might ask questions. But as I said, I like a challenge. I figured I was up for it.
That was my first mistake.
Getting out of the apartment was easy. My mom and dad aren’t exactly known for being light sleepers. Which was good because my dad snores loud enough to drown out a 747. They probably didn’t even hear me tiptoe past their room and out the front door of the apartment.
Sneaking down to the lobby was the tricky part. The elevator was one of those really old cagelike things that rattled and groaned whenever it went up and down. If I didn’t want to wake up everyone in the building, I had to take the stairs, and that meant I had zero chance of getting past the doorman unnoticed. The staircase emptied out right in front of his desk.
Sure enough, I got only about halfway down the steps before he glanced up from the soccer game he was watching on the small television at his desk. From his bland expression, I couldn’t tell if he recognized me or not. Like I said, my mom and dad were the television stars. I was just a footnote. But he had to know I belonged with the Americans who had arrived that night. If he wanted to rat me out, he’d know exactly who to buzz, so I had to make sure he didn’t think there was a reason to rat.
I gave him my best celebrity smile and practically sang “Good morning!” as I bounced down the rest of the stairs.
“Buenos días,” he replied, but he didn’t smile back. His heavy black eyebrows huddled together like he was unsure what he was supposed to do next. He kind of half stood, stooped over, like a question mark hanging in the air.
I pointed to myself and then to the revolving glass front door. “Going running.”
His face relaxed, and he settled back into his seat like I figured he would.
See, the thing about most grown-ups is that they would rather not know if something’s wrong because then they have to deal with it. So as long as I acted like it was perfectly normal for someone my age to go out running alone before the sun came up, it was a pretty good bet he wouldn’t bother me. Or alert my mom and dad. Or notice that I was wearing purple Converse high-tops, not running shoes.
I breezed through the lobby, waving good-bye to the doorman as I passed his desk, but he had already turned back to his game.
Once I was safely outside and down the block—out of sight of the apartment building—I paused to pull my cell phone and earbuds from my pocket. I quickly put together a playlist of Spanish music that ran exactly thirty-four minutes. That way, when I got to the last song, I would know it was time to turn back. Just to be safe, I also set the phone’s alarm so I’d be sure to make it to the apartment before the time Mom and Dad usually woke up.
After all that, I finally relaxed. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the smell of freedom and Valencia. I know that probably sounds weird, but every city has its own smell—especially in the morning before it gets buried under exhaust fumes and heat. In Valencia it was a combination of concrete and oranges and fresh-cut grass, with a faint, salty sea tang that drifted in with the mist from the ocean. I made a mental note of it, and set off to find some pictures to post as well.
I started my blog when my grampa first got sick. Because his medicine made him feel tired a lot, he had to stop driving and he couldn’t do as much around the farm as he used to. I hated that while my mom and dad and I were off seeing the world with the show, his world was shrinking. Gramma finally got wireless at the house and bought him a laptop so he could sit out on the porch and still be able to get online. It helped for him to have something to keep his mind occupied, she said.
I had just gotten a new cell phone with a camera from my mom and dad for my birthday, so I decided to keep a photo diary of our travels for Grampa. That way he’d have some kind of connection with us whenever he got online. I wrote him notes and took pictures I thought would make him laugh. Like Dad asleep on the plane with a big string of drool hanging from his mouth. Or Mom prepping for a segment with rollers in her hair and the makeup tissue tucked into her collar.
When Grampa died, I kept the blog going. It made me feel like I was still connected to him in a way. I continued to send him messages and talk to him as if he was with me. I kept looking for things I knew would make him smile.
It didn’t take long before fans of my mom and dad’s show discovered my blog. When the When in Rome producers saw how many followers I was getting, they offered to host my blog on their website. They even bought me a nicer cell phone with a better camera—this one with video. That should have been my first clue that the blog wasn’t just about Grampa anymore.
Within weeks, my hundreds of followers turned into thousands. Mom and Dad weren’t thrilled to have so many strangers following me, even if most of those followers were fans of the show. After a long discussion with the network, it was decided I could keep blogging as long as I followed a strict list of guidelines, which included disabling the comments. The last thing my mom and dad wanted was some creeper talking to me online.
So anyway, that’s how it all started. I’ll admit that when I snuck out that morning, it did occur to me that just in case I wound up getting caught, my mom and dad might go easier on me if I could say I’d done it all for the blog. Proves how much I know.
Our apartment building sat across the street from the Plaza de la Reina, which put us within walking distance of everything in Old Town—the Turia Fountain, the basilica, and the Valencia Cathedral with its miguelete tower.
I wandered through the historic district, mostly just getting background images that I would edit later when I wrote about our first day in Spain.
Hardly anyone was out that morning, only a few cars going through the roundabout and maybe a delivery truck or two. It was peaceful and quiet as I walked along—just me and my camera and the music.
The last song in my playlist was just ending as I reached the Plaza de la Virgen. I checked the time. Close. I quickly tucked away the earbuds and set the camera to video. The plaza had its own music in the sloshing of the fountain and a quartet of birds too impatient to wait for dawn. It was the perfect sound track for a quick vlog message to go along with all the images I’d been filming.
I propped my phone on the edge of the fountain, making the Door of the Apostles and the Valencia Cathedral my backdrop, and took a few steps back.
“Buenos días, Abuelo,” I said to the camera. “That means ‘Good morning, Grampa.’ We got to Spain late last night, but—”
Just then my phone started to vibrate, buzzing and skipping over the stones toward the pool of the fountain.
“Crap!” I jumped and managed to grab the phone right before it fell into the water. My heart felt like it was going to pound its way right out of my chest. The alarm meant I had to get back to the apartment. Fast.
I held the phone at arm’s length and finished quickly. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll give you an update later. ¡Nos vemos pronto! That’s Spanish for ‘See you soon.’ ¡Adios!”
The doorman was standing behind his desk when I rushed back into the lobby. He’d been talking on the phone, but he cut it short and set down the receiver when he saw me. His little television wasn’t on anymore.
Oh, crap, I thought. He knows I snuck out.
Dread clawed at me every step up the staircase to our apartment. If the door guy knew I wasn’t supposed to be out on my own, someone must have told him. Someone like my mom and dad. They were probably waiting for me on the landing
, ready to lock me in my room. I trudged even slower.
The door to our apartment was silent and closed, just the way I’d left it. Maybe all wasn’t lost. I pulled the key from my pocket and reached for the door when a shape stepped out from the shadows.
“Oooh. You’re in trouble.”
ISBN: 978-0-14-241815-4
Cassidy has a fabulous opportunity to be in an upcoming travelogue about the Greek Isles. For the show, she will be living on board a swank yacht and be hosted by a wealthy local actor and his adorable son, Nikos. But Cass soon starts to suspect that things aren’t really as they seem on the Pandora. At the same time, she wonders what’s going on with Logan—he hasn’t been around for their nightly e-chats. Can she find out the truth about the Pandora? And can she get her relationship with Logan back on track—before it’s too late?
