by Meg Cabot
In fact, all Mr. Williams was doing when I interrupted to ask where the bathroom was was giving Andrew a lecture on how wrong it is for people who don’t truly need the welfare system to abuse it.
That’s when I left.
And I never returned.
Which is why I’m wandering the streets of London, with no idea where I am. I don’t have a guidebook or a map or anything. All I have is a purseful of British money and a sinking feeling that Andrew isn’t going to be too pleased to see me when I get back to his parents’ house-if I can even figure out how to get back there.
Maybe I should have stayed. It was wrong of me just to leave like that. Andrew’s right, it really is hard for students to make ends meet…
Although obviously it doesn’t help if they gamble away their savings.
And what about the money? I promised him five hundred dollars for his matriculation fees and then I just…left. How could I walk out like that? If Andrew doesn’t pay his matriculation fees, he won’t be able to come back to school in the fall. How could I just turn my back on him like this?
But how could I stay?
It isn’t the money. It isn’t. I’d gladly give him every cent I have. Because the truth is, I really can put up with the fact that he thought I was fat.
And I can put up with the fact that he apparently complained about my fatness to his family.
And I can put up with the gambling, and even with the fact that he pretended like he couldn’t come so I would give him a blow job.
But defrauding poor people? Because that is basically what someone who takes unemployment while having a paying job is doing.
That I cannot tolerate.
And he wants to be a teacher! A TEACHER! Can you imagine a man like that molding the minds of impressionable young people?
I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I fell for his whole “I want to teach the children to read” thing. It was all so obviously just an act so he could get into my pants-and, later, my wallet. Why didn’t I see the signs? I mean, what kind of man who wants to teach the children to read-really and sincerely-also e-mails photos of his naked butt to innocent American girls?
I’m so stupid. How could I have been so blind?
Shari’s right, of course. It was his accent. That has to be it. I was completely swayed by his accent. It’s just so…charming.
But now I know that just because a guy sounds like James Bond doesn’t mean he’s necessarily going to ACT like him. Would James Bond collect unemployment while also working? Of course not.
Oh God, and to think I wanted to MARRY him!!! I wanted to marry and support him for the rest of my life. I wanted to have children with him-Andrew Jr., Henry, Stella, and Beatrice. And a dog! What was the dog’s name?
Oh, never mind.
I’m the biggest idiot this side of the Atlantic. Possibly both sides. God, I wish I’d figured that out before I gave him that blow job. I can’t believe I did that.
You know what? I want that blow job back. Andrew Marshall isn’t worthy of a blow job by me. That blow job was special. It was my first. And it was meant for a teacher, not a welfare fraud!
Or a dole fraud. Or whatever they call it here.
What am I going to do? It’s only two days into my trip to visit my boyfriend and I’ve already decided I never want to see him again. And I’m staying with his family! It’s not like I can avoid him there.
Oh God. I want to go home.
But I can’t. Even if I could afford it-even if I could call home right now and have them buy me a ticket-I’d never hear the end of it. Sarah and Rose-Mrs. Rajghatta-even my mother-everyone. They’ll never let me live it down. They all told me-ALL OF THEM-not to do this, not to go all the way to England to visit a guy I hardly knew, a guy who’d, yeah, okay, saved my life…
But chances are I wouldn’t have died. I mean, eventually I’d have noticed the smoke and gotten out on my own.
They will never let me forget the fact that they were right. God! They were all right! I can’t believe this. They’ve never been right about anything. They all said I’d never graduate…well, I have.
Well, okay, almost. I just have to write one little paper.
And they all said I’d never lose my baby fat.
Well, I did. Except for those last five pounds. But they’re hardly noticeable to anyone but me.
They said I’d never get a job or an apartment in New York-well, I’m going to prove them wrong about that. I hope. Actually, I can’t think about that right now or I’ll throw up.
All I know is, I can’t go back home. I can’t let them think they were right about this.
But I can’t stay, either! Not after walking out like that-Andrew will never forgive me. I mean, I just left. It was like my feet developed little brains all their own and just took off, trying to put as much distance between Andrew and me as they could.
It isn’t his fault. Not really. I mean, gambling is an addiction! If I were a decent person, I would have stayed and tried to help him. I’d have given him the money so he could come back in the fall and make a fresh start…I’d have been there for him. Together, we could have worked to lick it…
But instead I just left. Oh, good job, Lizzie. Some girlfriend you are.
My chest feels tight. I think I might be having a panic attack. I’ve never had one before, but Brianna Dunleavy, back in the dorm, used to get them all the time, and end up at the student health center, where they’d give her a note to get out of her exams.
I can’t have a panic attack on the street. I can’t! I’m wearing a skirt. Supposing I fall down and everyone sees my underwear? It’s true they’re the cute polka-dot ones with the bows from Target. But still. I need to sit down. I need to-
Oh-a bookshop. Bookshops are excellent for panic attacks. At least, I hope so, never having had one before.
I plunge past the latest releases and the checkout counter, deep into the bowels of the store. Then, spying a leather chair in the self-help section, which is otherwise empty (British people evidently don’t feel the need for much self-help. Which is too bad, because some of them-namely Andrew Marshall-really need it), I sink down into it and put my head between my knees.
Then I breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
This. Can’t. Be. Happening. I. Can’t. Be. Having. A. Panic. Attack. In. A. Foreign. Country. My. Boyfriend. Can’t. Have. Lost. All. His. Grad. School. Money. Playing. Texas. Hold’em.
“Pardon me, miss?”
I lift up my head. Oh no! One of the bookstore clerks is looking down at me curiously.
“Um,” I say, “hi.”
“Hullo,” he says. He seems nice enough. He is wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. His dreadlocks are very clean. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would kick a woman who is having a panic attack out of his shop.
“Are you all right?” he wants to know. A tag on his shirt says his name is Jamal.
“Yes,” I squeak. “Thank you. I’m just…I’m not feeling very well.”
“You don’t look well,” Jamal confirms. “Would you like a glass of water?”
I realize then how incredibly thirsty I am. A diet Coke. That’s what I really need. Is there no diet Coke in this benighted country?
But I say, “That would be so nice of you,” to Jamal’s offer of water.
He nods and goes off, looking concerned. Such a nice person. Why can’t I be dating him instead of Andrew? Why did I have to fall in love with a guy who claims he WANTS to teach children to read, as opposed to one who really is helping them to do it?
Well, okay, Jamal doesn’t work in the children’s department.
But still. I bet there are children who have been in this shop that he’s encouraged to read.
But maybe I’m just projecting. Again. Maybe I’m just believing what I want to believe about Jamal.
Just like I wanted to believe that Andrew is really an Andrew and not an Andy. When in reality he’s the biggest Andy I’ve ever met.
Not tha
t there’s anything wrong with the name Andy. It’s just that-
Suddenly I know what I need, and it’s not water.
I don’t want to. I really don’t want to. But I realize I have to hear my mother’s voice. I simply have to.
With trembling fingers, I dial my house. I won’t tell her about Andrew, I decide, and how he’s turned out to be an Andy. I just need to hear a familiar voice. A voice that calls me Lizzie instead of Liz. A voice-
“Mom?” I cry when a woman picks up the phone on the other end and says hello.
“What the hell are you doing calling so early in the morning?” Grandma demands. “Dontcha know what time it is here?”
“Grandma,” I say. I close my eyes. My chest still feels tight. “Is Mom there?”
“Hell no,” Grandma says. “She’s over at the hospital. You know she helps Father Mack give out communion on Tuesdays.”
I don’t dispute this, even though it isn’t Tuesday. “Well, is Dad there, then? Or Rose? Or Sarah?”
“What’s the matter, I’m not good enough for you?”
“No,” I say. “You’re fine. I just-”
“You sound like you’re coming down with something. You catching one of those avian flus over there?”
“No,” I say. “Grandma…”
And that’s when I start to cry.
Why? WHY??? I’m too angry to cry. I already told myself that!
“What’s with the waterworks?” Grandma wants to know. “You lose your passport? Don’t worry, they’ll still let you come home. They let anybody in here. Even people who want to blow us all to kingdom come.”
“Grandma,” I say, “I think…” It’s hard to whisper when I’m sobbing, but I try. I don’t want to disturb the bookstore customers and get kicked back out onto the street. I know Jamal will be coming back with my water at any moment. “I think I made a mistake in coming here. Andrew…he isn’t the person I thought he was.”
“What did he do?” Grandma wants to know.
“He…he…told his family I was fat. And he gambles. And he’s defrauding the government. And he…he…he said I liked tomatoes!”
“Come home,” Grandma says. “Come home right now.”
“That’s just it,” I say. “I c-can’t come home. Sarah and Rose-everybody-they all told me this was going to happen. And now it has. If I come home, they’ll all just say they told me so. Because they did. Oh, Grandma.” Now the tears are coming even faster. “I’m never going to get a boyfriend! A real one, I mean, who loves me for me, and not my savings account.”
“Bullshit,” Grandma says.
Startled, I say, “W-what?”
“You’re going to get a boyfriend,” Grandma says. “Only unlike your sisters, you’re choosy. You’re not going to marry the first asshole who comes along who tells you he likes you, then knocks you up.”
This is a very sobering assessment of my older sisters’ relationships. It has the effect of drying up my tears instantly.
“Grandma,” I say, “I mean, really. Isn’t that a little harsh?”
“So this latest one turned out to be a dud,” Grandma goes on. “Good riddance. What are you going to do, stay with him anyway until your flight leaves?”
“I don’t see what choice I have,” I say. “I mean, I can’t just…leave him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Well,” I say, “he’s back at the Job Centre, I guess.” Would he have come looking for me?
Yes, of course. I have his five hundred dollars.
“Then you already left him,” Grandma says. “Look. I don’t get what the big deal is. You’re in Europe. You’re young. Young people have been going to Europe on a shoestring for a hundred years. Use your head, for God’s sake. What about your friend Shari? Isn’t she over there somewhere?”
Shari. I forgot all about her. Shari, who is right across the English Channel, in France. Shari, who actually invited me, just last night, to come stay with her at-what was it called again? Oh yes. Mirac.
Mirac. The word might as well mean heaven, it sounds so magical right now.
“Grandma,” I say, climbing out from my chair, “do you really think…I mean…should I?”
“You said he gambles?” Grandma asks.
“Apparently,” I say, “he has a fondness for Texas Hold’em.”
Grandma sighs. “Just like your uncle Ted. By all means stay with him if you want to live the rest of your life trying to bail him out financially. That’s what your aunt Olivia did. But if you’re smart-and I think you are-you’ll get the hell out now, while you still can.”
“Grandma,” I say, choking back tears, “I…I think I’ll take your advice. Thank you.”
“Well,” Grandma says flatly, “this is an occasion. One of you girls actually listening to me for a change. Somebody needs to break out the champagne.”
“I’ll toast you in absentia, Grandma,” I say. “And now I’d better call Shari. Thank you so much. And, um, don’t tell anyone about this conversation, okay, Grandma?”
“Who would I tell?” Grandma grumbles, and hangs up.
I hang up as well and hurriedly dial Shari’s number. Shari. I can’t believe I didn’t think of SHARI! Shari’s in France. And she said I could come see her. The Chunnel. Didn’t she say something about taking the Chunnel? Can I really do this? Should I?
Oh no. It goes to Shari’s voice mail. Where is she? Out in the vineyard squishing grapes between her toes? Shari, where are you? I need you!
I leave a message: “Hi, Shar? It’s me, Lizzie. I really need to talk to you. It’s really important. I think…I’m pretty sure Andrew and I are breaking up.” I flash back to the expression on his face as he was telling me about his friend from work who could wire my money to the States with no fees.
My heart twists.
“Um, in fact, I think we’ve definitely broken up. So could you call me? Because I’m probably going to need to take you up on your France offer. So call me back. Right away. Well. Bye.”
Saying the words out loud makes it suddenly seem much more real. My boyfriend and I are breaking up. If I had just kept my mouth shut about his waitering job, none of this would have happened. It’s all because of me. Because of my big mouth.
Really, I have put my foot in it before. But never this big.
On the other hand…if I hadn’t said anything, would he ever have told me? About the gambling, I mean? Or would he have tried to keep a secret from me for the rest of our lives together-as he seemed to have done, pretty successfully, for the past three months? Would we have ended up like Uncle Ted and Aunt Olivia-bitter, divorced, financially insolvent, and living in Cleveland and Reno, respectively?
I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen.
I can’t go back to the Marshalls’ house. That’s all there is to it. I mean, obviously, I have to, in order to get my things. But I can’t sleep there tonight. Not in the MDF bed, the same bed Andrew and I made love in…the bed I gave him that blow job in.
The blow job I want back.
And, I realize, I don’t have to sleep there tonight. Because I have somewhere to go.
I stand up so suddenly that I get a head rush. I am staggering around, clutching my head, when Jamal comes back with a glass of water for me.
“Miss?” he says worriedly.
“Oh,” I say, seeing the water. I snatch it from him and down the glass’s contents. I don’t mean to be rude, but my head is pounding. “Thanks so much,” I say when I’m done drinking. And hand the glass back to him. I’m feeling better already.
“Is there someone I can telephone for you?” Jamal wants to know. Really, he is so kind. So attentive! I almost feel like I’m back in Ann Arbor. Except for the English accent.
“No,” I say. “But there is something you can help me with. I need to know how to get to the Chunnel.”
Part Two
The French Revolution in the late 1700s wasn’t just an uprising of common people overthrowing the monarch
y in favor of democracy and republicanism. No! It was also about fashion-the haves (who favored powdered wigs, fake facial moles, and hooped skirts, sometimes as much as fifteen feet wide) versus the have-nots (who wore stout boots, narrow skirts, and plain cloth). In this particular uprising, as history shows, the peasants won.
But fashion lost.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
9
Good talkers are only found in Paris.
– Francois Villon (1431-1463), French poet
I’m pulling my wheelie bag down the aisles of the Paris Souillac train, and I’m trying not to cry.
Not because of the bag. Well, sort of because of the bag. I mean, the aisle is very narrow, and I have my carry-on bag over my shoulder, and I sort of have to walk sideways, like a crab, in order not to bang people in the head with it as I search-apparently fruitlessly-for a front-facing first-class seat in a nonsmoking car.
If I smoked and I didn’t mind facing backward, I’d be all set. Except that I don’t smoke, and I’m afraid if I ride facing backward, I might throw up. In fact, I am sure I will throw up, because I have felt like throwing up ever since I woke up in Paris-having conked out in my comfy seat on the train from London, like Grandma after too much cooking sherry-and realized what I’d done.
Which is, pretty much, set off by myself through Europe, with no idea whether I am actually going to find the place, much less the person, I’m looking for. Especially since Shari still isn’t answering her cell phone, much less calling me back.
Of course, part of the reason why I feel like throwing up might be that I am so incredibly hungry I can hardly see. All I’ve had to eat since breakfast is an apple I bought at Waterloo Station, since that was the only nutritious food I could find for sale there that didn’t have tomatoes on it. If I’d wanted a Cadbury bar or an egg and tomato sandwich, I’d have been all right.
