EIGHT
I couldn’t believe it. I stumbled along our row to our seats, which were right in the middle, and just stood there for a while, my heart really banging. I sat down. Grandpa must have just gone out for a minute, maybe to the washroom (though I hadn’t seen him out in the corridor), and he’d likely be back any second. But I waited for a long time, what seemed like ten or fifteen minutes (though maybe it wasn’t nearly that long), and he didn’t come.
It was the worst feeling in the world, absolutely indescribable, like everything had come crashing down.
I started to panic, and I made a bad decision. When I was little, my parents told me that if I was ever separated from them in a public place, I should stay exactly where I was and they would find me. But at this minute, I was separated from Grandpa in a huge crowd in a foreign country. I had to find him—now! I ran up the stairs and out into the corridor.
I couldn’t see him anywhere. I raced around the entire area, circling the building and searching all the washrooms. Then I made a really bad decision.
I went outside.
NINE
And that was how I found myself standing in that crowd, not a single face familiar to me for as far as I could see, my lifeline cut, fear making my knees weak, and my heart pounding like a basketball rattling hard inside a hoop. I thought back to those safe moments a few days before, when I was on the plane with Grandpa by my side.
I was alone. I had never been so alone. And I’d never been so frightened in all my life.
TEN
The square was packed with people flowing in all different directions, heading for the subways, hanging out in groups, chanting, bumping into each other, blocking my view of everything. It was hopeless. I’d never be able to spot Grandpa out here. I had to go back inside.
But when I tried to open one of the doors, a burly security guy said something harsh to me in Swedish.
“I have to get back in,” I told him in English, alarmed at how shaky my voice sounded, as if I was about to cry.
“You cannot return into the Globe,” he said sternly and stood in front of me with his arms crossed.
“But I have to.”
“Ticket?”
Grandpa had both of them.
“I don’t have one.”
“Go away,” he said, and he meant it.
I staggered back out into the square. What was I going to do?
My first instinct was to stay there, so I leaned against the wall near the door where I’d come out, which was closest to our seats. I peered into the crowd, examining everyone, looking for Grandpa’s distinctive old-but-strong-and-erect frame and his beret and white hair. I recalled what he’d been wearing: runners (believe it or not), black jeans (believe it or not) and a red jacket over a black T-shirt. But I couldn’t see him anywhere. I was beyond frightened, and my heart hadn’t stopped thudding for a long time. I couldn’t just stand there anymore. But what could I do?
Perhaps I could just speak to a policeman or a security guard or another arena employee. Or even just to an ordinary citizen. But the guy I’d encountered at the door hadn’t been too friendly, and the policemen, all in riot-ready gear and looking a little tense, weren’t the sort you just walked up to and had a lovely chat with. Though most Swedes seemed to speak English, who knew if these guys did, and maybe I’d say something wrong and get in trouble, and maybe they’d haul me off to jail or something. That didn’t make a lot of sense, but what did in Sweden? I’d seen and read too much not to know that people here were full of surprises. I really didn’t want to talk to anyone. It might make things even worse. So I put off all those options. I’d just try my best to find Grandpa first. I’d talk to the cops if things got absolutely desperate.
But things actually did feel that way, right now.
I staggered out into the thinning crowd and stood right in the middle of everything, pivoting around 360 degrees to see as much as I could possibly see. As I turned, the same person kept coming into view at one end of the square.
Someone was watching me.
But it wasn’t Grandpa or a policeman or even a creep. It was that orange-haired girl with the ponytails.
She was standing about a hundred yards away, holding on to the bicycle with the handlebars made up to look like a horse’s head. And there was a monkey on her shoulder. I’m not kidding. The girl was wearing very weird clothes—a yellow top, a bright-green dress, pink-and-white-striped leggings and black boots that looked way too big for her. She was about my age.
Then she started walking toward me. I was hoping she was going to pass on by, but she kept coming and then stopped when she was right next to me, and I mean right next to me. We were eyeballing each other—I think I’m going to be a pretty good size, since Mom and Dad are, and so is Grandpa, but I hadn’t started my growth spurt yet. This girl was about my height but very skinny. Her head was less than two feet from mine. Maybe she was one of those close talkers. She had green eyes, and they were sparkling. The monkey on her shoulder said something. It sounded like “Yip!”
“You’re lost, aren’t you?”
Two things surprised me about what she said: first, that she understood my situation, and second, that she knew I wasn’t Swedish and spoke English. Was it my black hair, the confused look in my eyes? But many foreigners could look like that.
“No,” I said.
“That’s a lie.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“My name is Greta Longrinen. What’s yours?”
“Bunny,” I said.
“That’s a lie too. No one is named Bunny… other than bunnies.”
“Adam,” I said, and my voice sounded really shaky.
“You’re scared.”
“No. Go away.”
“You’re an American. I’ve met lots of them. I’ve even met some American boys who were lost, and all of them were just like you, very stubborn and afraid to admit that they were scared. Boys are generally like that. They’re idiots.”
“And who are you, chief of the find-the-lost-boys police?”
“No,” she said. “That would be ridiculous.”
That stopped me for a second. “I didn’t mean that for real.”
“And how was I supposed to know that? You said it, didn’t you?”
I’d encountered a fruitcake.
“Who are you attempting to locate, and where are you residing whilst living in the environs of Stockholm, Sweden?”
“That’s none of your business.” I was not only getting sick of her but also wondering if she was working for some sicko, some guy who sent her off to pick up boys and draw them back to his house. She looked enough like a street person. Maybe she’d been watching me since I came to Stockholm. Maybe she was part of the underbelly of Swedish life, innocent-looking on the outside, full of dark intent inside, a perfect character for a Stockholm crime novel, a kid who picks up other kids for some masterminding weirdo. There was no way I was going anywhere with her or doing anything she said.
“Huh?” she said.
“I’m not lost, and even if I were, I can find my own way back to where I’m staying. Just leave, and if you follow me and try to take me away to someone’s place, I’ll tell the police.”
A smirk came across her face. “I don’t talk to the cops—most kids don’t. They are a bit scary, and lots of us are afraid of them. With good reason.”
“I…I don’t believe you. Go away or I’ll report you as…as someone who is harassing me.”
She scrunched up her nose and looked at me in a funny way. So did her monkey.
“I see it’s time for a proper introduction.” She stuck out her hand. I hesitated and looked at it to make sure she didn’t have a weapon. But when I took it, it was soft and cool. She smiled at me. “I live alone, but don’t tell anyone. My mother died when I was young, and my father disappeared about a year ago, though I’m sure he is coming back. We lived on an island in the Baltic Sea, but he had an apartment in downtown Stockholm, so I went there
when he went away. I get all these government checks addressed to him, and I forge his signature on them and use them to survive. I even pay my own rent.”
“No you don’t. That’s all a lie.”
“Isn’t!” she said and raised her chin and stared at me. “You can ask the admiral here if I’m telling the truth.”
“Yip,” said the monkey.
“I don’t worry about anything, absolutely nothing, unlike you, Mr. Adam. You seem sort of sensitive to me.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“I’m going now,” I said, though I had no idea where and I knew it wasn’t a good plan to leave the square.
“Tell me where you’re heading and I’ll guide you,” she said and took me by the hand. “Let’s make it an adventure! Let’s pretend we’re explorers!”
I shook her off. Swedish girls were obviously pretty bold.
“I’ll do this on my own, thank you very much.”
She smiled. “All right, I’ll watch. On your way!”
I hesitated. I wasn’t even sure which direction to go. I couldn’t get on the subway, because Grandpa had our return tickets and I didn’t have a dime in my pocket. And, of course, I didn’t have a cell phone. If I left here, which wasn’t even a good idea in itself, I was going to have to walk all the way back to the hotel through suburban Stockholm and then the southern part of the downtown area, and it was growing dark. I figured it was at least a three-mile trip…if I went the right direction…and didn’t get killed on the way.
We stared at each other for a while, and then I started to move.
“Wrong way.”
“How do you know? You have no idea where I—”
“Well, unless you are staying in Denmark, I think you should head north, back into central Stockholm.”
Central Stockholm—land of secrets, of assassinated prime ministers, sports thugs, riot police who kids feared and happy people who seemed harmless but committed crimes worthy of dark novels. I was going to go there as the sun set, twelve years old, all alone. But I couldn’t let her know that I was afraid. I’d just go a bit north and then double back, wait here in the square, speak to a cop. They couldn’t be that bad—they were cops, after all. Grandpa must be here somewhere.
But the girl followed me, riding her horse bike with that monkey on her shoulder. I couldn’t shake her, though, to be honest, I didn’t think much about her at first because I was so anxious about not getting even more lost. Guys are supposed to have a pretty good sense of direction (which I certainly hadn’t shown at first, heading off toward Denmark), so I tried to just feel my way. I wasn’t going far anyway. I remembered Grandpa pointing out the direction of the Baltic Sea and Russia when we were on top of the Globe, and that was to the east. I tried to picture where everything was when we were up there. I glanced up at the SkyView on the Globe. The sun had just set in the west, so I turned and headed under the bridge for the six-lane highway that ran beside Globe City on its way in and out of Stockholm, and went east until that road turned north.
There wasn’t much to see at first. Though this was a suburb, there weren’t really any houses, just businesses and apartment buildings.
The girl kept following. I didn’t know whether she thought she was staying out of sight, but it didn’t take much to spot her riding that horse-bike, her bright hair and ponytails and loud clothes clear from far away.
So I couldn’t turn back. North and farther north I went, farther from Grandpa. I’d gone maybe nearly a mile along this busy road when I came to a bridge. I realized that if I went over it I’d be a really long way from the arena, and it might not make any sense to turn around. By then I hadn’t seen Greta for a while. It was completely dark.
I had to decide. Forward or backward? Neither made much sense. But it seemed like it was best to head for home, the hotel, a landmark I knew existed and wasn’t moving.
I ran over the bridge and decided to keep running, to just gamble and make for central Stockholm, which I was pretty sure was straight ahead. I figured if I kept on one of the main roads, I would soon get to the Old Town, the Gamla Stan, and from there it would be easy to find the hotel. I hadn’t seen any police for a while anyway.
I must have run for ten minutes after I crossed the bridge, moving along a wide busy street that still had lots of people on it, a commercial area with storefronts at street level, set in four- and five-story buildings. I saw McDonald’s and Pizza Hut and Starbucks as well as cooler places. I was like a cannonball being fired straight north up this long route toward the area where I thought I’d find our hotel. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone and noticed lots of sketchy people, but I have pretty good wheels and just kept burning forward, not giving anyone a chance to consider that I was a kid all alone.
After a while, though, everything started looking wrong to me. Why wasn’t I getting to the next bridge, the one that led off this island and into Gamla Stan? What if I were going the wrong way, moving as fast as I could away from safety? Could I somehow have gotten turned around? I kept running, but it seemed to me that I had gone nearly another mile and yet there was still no end in sight, no bridge, no Old Town. It didn’t make any sense. Then I saw a subway station tucked into a building at street level, cement steps with silver railings going downward, surrounded by green-tiled walls and huge ads for clothes and electronic devices.
What if I went down there? If I just had a ticket, I could go right into the Metro, find a map on a wall, figure out which direction to take and then do it. Getting around on the Green line had seemed pretty simple when Grandpa and I were on the train. I’d checked it out. If I could simply go the right way on the subway, I’d be back at the hotel in no time. I knew the central station downtown was called T-Centralen, and I knew I could navigate my way back to our hotel from there or from a subway station near it. It would be easy.
But I didn’t have a ticket.
Then I remembered that it didn’t seem like there were always attendants next to the entry areas to the platforms. What if I sneaked in and somehow got past the turnstiles?
What if they caught me?
I stopped for a second and stared at the entrance. A man came to a sudden halt nearby and eyed me.
I descended.
ELEVEN
I went down the steps three at a time, my heart back in pounding mode. It was getting darker as I went, like I was descending into you-know-where. There were lots of people in front of me but no one behind. I got to the bottom quickly and then noticed that someone was following me: the guy who had stopped and looked at me on the street above. It seemed like it was only him behind me, like I’d entered the subway at a moment when there were few people about, like a bubble in the crowds. I hurried toward the row of turnstiles.
The turnstiles were upright silver steel boxes with clear plastic things like the swinging doors in a saloon. You had to insert your ticket (which I did not have) into a slot in one of the boxes and that would momentarily open the doors so you could enter. I saw lots of people going through them in front of me.
Then I saw something really bad. There was an attendant watching everyone entering!
But I had to do this. I couldn’t turn around, not back toward that solitary guy who had looked so closely at me on the street, blond and unshaven, dead blue eyes—a perfect killer in a Swedish crime novel.
The crowd in front had gone through, and I was alone for a moment. I glanced at the attendant. He was looking away, his attention taken by something in the other direction.
I leapt over a turnstile!
Then I kept running. I didn’t turn around for a second, and I didn’t hear anyone shout. I was in!
This was one of those truly awesome Stockholm stations. I remembered reading on Mom’s laptop that this subway line was like the world’s longest art gallery, filled with incredible cave-like areas painted in striking colors, all with different themes.
I checked a map on a wall and found which platform to go to—just three stops to my dest
ination—and then went down the long gleaming silver escalator, descending into the most breathtaking cave I’d ever laid eyes on. I doubt I’ll ever see anything like it again. It was deep red, and the surface kind of hung from the ceiling like lava from a volcano, as if it could drip on you. There were streaks of black in it, and it all glowed, almost as if you were in… you know where. I had been running down the escalator but I stopped hurrying for a moment and just took it in, which was a mistake. One of those silent trains had pulled up while I stood stock-still on the moving escalator, staring at the ceiling. People had quickly filed onto the train, nice and orderly like good Swedes, and by the time I looked over at it, the doors had all quietly closed.
I stepped off onto the floor in that blood-red cave as the train pulled out, and I was all alone. You could have heard a Swede breathe. I looked up the escalator to see the guy who had been behind me. And he wasn’t there.
I stood between the tracks in that dead silence in that bizarre place and started to freak out. I remembered how long it had taken the train to come when Grandpa and I were waiting at the station.
I stood there forever. The silence continued. No train came. Then I started to worry that it was getting late and the trains had stopped running. But it wasn’t late, although it was dark outside. Then I became concerned that they’d seen me jumping the turnstile on a subway camera and they’d shut everything down and were coming to get me. But that was ridiculous, and I couldn’t hear anyone. Not a single person. Not a single sound.
Wasn’t that weird? What was going on?
I kept waiting. Nothing happened. Then the ceiling and the red lava walls looked like they were moving! But that was impossible too. I realized that I was really freaking out.
And then the guy who had been following me emerged from the shadows in the cave, about thirty feet away, and started walking toward me!
I turned and ran.
TWELVE
The escalator was about half a football field away and I made for it at a speed I’d never traveled before. And when I got there, I didn’t wait for it to move me. I raced up four rising steps at a time. On the next floor, I ran for the turnstiles. The attendant was right there, and this time he was looking directly at me!
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