The Wonder of Us

by Kim Culbertson

  It’s not my first hamster ball. I did this once before at our county fair. Riya and I must have been six or seven, and we begged our moms to let us climb into these inflatable transparent balls and fumble across a shallow pool. I remember feeling dizzy with joy and maybe a little bit seasick, but wishing it would never end.

  Now it’s just the seasick part.

  In the translucent ball next to mine, Riya giggles and squeals each time she falls down. I see her in flashes, her fluttering jacket and jeans, her arms flailing, her inky curls bouncing. She bumps her ball into mine, and I scuttle to stay upright, but fail. The whole world turns upside down. Oof. I lie on my back, bobbing, the lights of Edinburgh muted through the plastic bubble, sweating a little in my jeans. Riya spins her ball off in another direction.

  Why does this whole contraption feel like one spinning metaphor for my life?

  The clouds have blown out the next morning, leaving a blue sky over Edinburgh. I have to shake Riya to wake her. We stayed out until after two last night, cajoling Neel to join us at a sixteen-and-over club with a steady stream of both techno music and a chilled drink that tasted like liquid butterscotch. Riya and I spent last night dancing with our cups aloft, pretending we’d stumbled into a wizarding portal complete with butterbeer. At one point, two Scottish rugby players from a nearby school joined us on the dance floor, both ruddy-faced and proud Harry Potter fans. “Team Hufflepuff!” we shouted at Neel as we danced by the chair where he sat sulking in the corner, and then, “Team Ravenclaw!” on the next time around.

  “Can I have my phone?”

  “Not until you dance with us,” Riya called back.

  He scowled into his barely touched cup of tea. Who orders a cup of tea at a club?!

  Eventually, Riya grabbed both of his hands and tried coaxing him out onto the dance floor, but he wouldn’t budge. “Your sad beverage is having a better time than you are.”

  His eyes slid to his cup. “It’s time to go. Say good-bye to your Quidditch fan club.”

  Now we find him sitting in the morning light, sipping coffee in the breakfast room, showered but still sour. “Well, good morning to Hermione and her house-elf,” he grumbles, making a show of shuffling his newspaper as he directs the latter name at Riya.

  Unperturbed, she says sweetly, “Dobby is a free elf, sir,” and helps herself to some rolls and a tiny pot of raspberry jam.

  “Can Dobby give me my phone back?”

  Riya tosses him his phone, and he hurries to check it. “Don’t call her.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Liar.”

  He catches my eye. “I’m not,” he says again, almost fierce.

  “Okay.” I smile sympathetically at him. “I’m just excited to see the Edinburgh Castle today. And not just because it was part of the inspiration for Hogwarts.”

  “Abby loves castles,” Riya tells Neel.

  I do love them. Castles are their own brand of museum.

  Oftentimes, if you go back far enough, they also come with myths and legends, and some of my favorite periods in history are when historical facts blur with myth. The Edinburgh Castle is no exception. Some historians say it was built on the ruins of a shrine, the Castle of the Nine Maidens. One of the maidens was Morgan le Fay, King Arthur’s half sister and a magical shape-shifter. I relay all of this to my tablemates. Riya brightens. She’s always had a soft spot for Arthurian legend, and Morgan in particular.

  “She was a sorceress.” Riya picks up her espresso. “Hardcore.”

  Neel folds his paper into a neat square. “If I remember correctly, didn’t she spend most of her time trying to kill Arthur?”

  Riya groans. “Oh, right—a powerful woman gets cast as the witch trying to hurt the poor patriarchal king. Figures.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “That’s history for you.”

  “Some of it.” I collect our plates to deposit on the busing tray near the buffet. “But she did try to kill him.”

  Riya adds her cup to my stack. “He probably deserved it.”

  A half hour later, we pass through the Portcullis Gate of the Edinburgh Castle, Neel no longer speaking to either of us. This is mostly our fault. On the way over, Riya and I felt the need to yell “Pipers!” every time we saw bagpipers on the walk to the castle. “Could you two just stop?!” he growled as we walked up the steep hill to the castle. “We’re late.”

  Outside the castle walls, Riya nudges me again, stage-whispering “Pipers” at the six men playing in red-and-black kilts. Neel storms off ahead to secure our tickets. Ten minutes later, our guide, a redheaded University of Edinburgh student named Ryan Ramsey, leads us to the Argyle Battery, and we stare out at the city toward Fife, the day hazy but still blue, even as a few clouds begin to form. Ryan explains more about the castle, and about the battery, which was built in the 1730s. When he asks if we have questions, Riya wants to know if they only hire redheads for the tours and if his name is really Ryan Ramsey because it sounds made up.

  “No and yes,” he answers, his blue eyes flashing a sort of twinkle that would seem CGI’d if he wasn’t standing right in front of me. Maybe he’s a leprechaun. No, wait, that might just be Irish.

  “Do the Scots have leprechauns?” I ask.

  “We have brownies,” Ryan answers, glancing at Neel, who shrugs apologetically at our silliness.

  “Double fudge brownies?”

  “Brownies are like leprechauns,” Neel snaps at Riya. “Do you have any real questions, or can the man do his job?”

  We’ve pushed Neel too far. I try to catch his eye, but he’s ignoring both of us, walking with Ryan up the Lang Stairs to the summit of Castle Rock. We follow them as they chat, their hands clasped in identical knots behind their backs, as if all boys in UK universities are taught to ascend castles in this fashion.

  Giggling behind her hand, Riya whispers, “Castle walk formation, gents!” I nod along, but Neel’s annoyance dulls the moment.

  We spend the rest of the morning wandering the castle, learning about grisly Scottish historical prison practices and famous battles. We finally pause to gasp at the stunning views of Edinburgh from the Western Battlements. Even Ryan remarks on the clear day, surprised at a rare sighting of the peaks of the distant Highlands. The day has grown warm, so Riya ties her sweater around her waist. “Views have been kind of our thing this trip,” she tells Ryan, and describes the one from the Rigi bench in Switzerland. As I listen to her description, it feels like something that happened months ago and not just last week. Staring out at Scotland (Scotland!), I realize this whole trip has elongated time for me.

  Ryan gives us a moment more to enjoy the view and then motions for us to continue along so we don’t miss the One O’clock Gun. We follow him down the steps and across the courtyard. As we walk, he explains that “the gun’s been fired every day except Sundays and Good Friday and Christmas since 1861, originally so the ships in the Firth of Forth could set their maritime clocks by it.” He finds us a space in the crowd that has gathered near the low black gate that blocks the gun from the tourists. “We are a historically frugal people,” he tells us. “So some say this is why the gun gets fired at one o’clock every day instead of at noon. To save ammunition.”

  Neel looks impressed. “Quite a lot saved since 1861.”

  Ryan nods, noting the appearance of a guard with a black hat and a red stripe down the pants of his uniform who has just emerged and is now marching to the side of the gun, which actually looks more like a cannon. The crowd quiets. The guard goes through some motions, a half minute passes, and then—BANG! Riya lets out a yelp next to me as I feel the shake of the blast briefly in my knees.

  As the rest of the crowd drifts away, Ryan smiles at us, rubbing his hands together in a we’re-wrapping-things-up way. “Well, that’s it for us, then. You have a one-fifteen reservation for high tea in the Queen Anne.”

  “We do?” Riya frowns at Neel, but he doesn’t see it as he scrolls through something on his phone.

  Ryan checks his
notes. “Yes, one fifteen for tea. Come along.” Riya shrugs at me; this is clearly news to her. We follow Ryan to Crown Square, and he points out the door to the tearoom. “Okay, here you are. End of the line for me. I’ve had, as I believe you Americans say, a blast.” He grins, and we humor his lame joke about the One O’clock Gun because he’s sweet and, well, those blue eye sparkles of his make him easy to forgive.

  A hostess leads us into a narrow, stone-walled courtyard set with wooden tables. “Neel, did you book this?” Riya begins, but then stops abruptly, her eyes wide moons. “Wait, what? Nani?!” The woman sitting at a round corner table stands to greet us. “What are you doing here?” Their grandma is dressed smartly in a canary-yellow dress with a floral scarf knotted at her neck, her long silver hair pinned in an elegant updo. She pulls a surprised Riya into a hug.

  “Hello, Aji.” Neel leans in to kiss her cheek.

  She releases Riya and turns to me. “Abby,” she says warmly, pulling me into a rose-scented hug. “Lovely to see you.”

  “Thank you!” I slide into the velvet chair she motions for me to sit in, silently cursing my long-sleeved T-shirt, Tevas, and cargo shorts. At least Riya is wearing a sundress and pretty leather sandals. They should seat me at a table that says, Underdressed Americans Only, Please. (And it would say please because everyone in Scotland is so nice.) “Riya didn’t tell me we were meeting you here.”

  “I didn’t know.” Riya glances nervously at Neel. To her grandma, she says, “I mean, I knew you were in Scotland, but I thought you were in Skye?”

  “I was.”

  It might be the flat light, but Riya looks almost chalky. “Neel didn’t tell me.”

  “You had my phone.” He shrugs, perusing the high tea menu.

  Nani swats affectionately at Neel with her napkin as she unfolds it. “I got into Edinburgh last night. To surprise you. Neel didn’t know until this morning.” She places her napkin in her lap and blinks expectantly at us, her face perfectly made up. “Well, don’t just sit there gaping at me like koi, tell me about your adventures!”

  As the waitress brings our three-tiered trays of finger sandwiches, pastries, and pots of tea, we describe our trip so far, often interrupting each other to add to the story. Even Neel seems to come out of his funk, enjoying recounting in dramatic detail our going AWOL in Florence, although we add in our own defense, of course. Finally, a waitress clears the remains of our meal: tiny sandwich crusts, half-finished bowls of jam and clotted cream, scone crumbs. I sip at the dregs of the fruity tea in my china cup, watching the diners around me admire the stone walls, the still-blue Scottish sky.

  I’m in a groggy post-tea coma, so I almost miss Nani’s comment when Riya thanks her again for our trip. “Well, of course, dear—my youngest granddaughter has graduated high school and is moving into this next exciting bit of her life. It is my absolute pleasure to send you on this trip.”

  “For my birthday!” Riya hiccups, her eyes cutting to me. “This trip is for my birthday!”

  I snap to attention. “Wait.” I falter, my mouth suddenly dry. “What did you just say?” I stare at Riya. “You graduated high school?”

  Nani’s palm moves to her chest. “Have I said something shocking? All three of you have seen a ghost.”

  Riya licks her lips, her words taking on an almost tinny echo in my ears. “Actually, I haven’t shared my news with Abby yet. About this fall.” She avoids my eyes, folding and unfolding her napkin on the table in front of her.

  “What news?” When she doesn’t look up from her napkin, I repeat, “What news, Riya?” Neel watches us both carefully, his hand wrapped tightly around his water glass.

  Riya takes a visible breath of air and her eyes don’t quite meet mine. “I graduated early.” She pauses. I wait. There is more. There is clearly more. She swallows. “And I auditioned for a theater academy in London. I’ll be moving there at the end of August.” Her words sound different from the ones she spilled across the river last year, but they are in essence the same.

  How can this be happening again?

  Worry creases Nani’s forehead. “Oh, girls. I apologize. I thought that you—”

  But I can’t hear anything else. Stunned, barely aware of standing, I scrape my chair back against the stone floor, my napkin fluttering to the ground, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, please, excuse me, I just have to, I just have to—” and then, the world blurry and tilting, I hurry from the room into the hot light of the Edinburgh Castle courtyard.

  And then I run, my feet slapping against the stones.

  We can’t find Abby. I text her. Nothing. I call her. No response. Nani goes back to our hotel to wait in case Abby goes there. Neel and I walk up and down the Royal Mile, checking busy pubs and shops and museums. We try the Elephant House again. No sign of her. Then we walk it all again, my feet aching in my sandals on the cobbled streets as we dodge tourists and school groups. At one point, I step out of the flow of people into the sanctuary of a closed bar’s empty doorway to try Abby’s phone. Again, no response. I check in with Nani, but she tells me Abby hasn’t returned to collect the key for our room. Next to me, Neel tries her phone, too, then texts her. Nothing.

  She has disappeared into Edinburgh’s Old Town.

  Nani felt terrible, but it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know I hadn’t told Abby, had been waiting until I could give her the news in the way I envisioned at the end of our trip. I thought it would be best: let us enjoy our time together, maybe heal somewhat from last year, regrow a friendship that felt slippery and fragile these last few months. Then, once we arrived in London, our final stop, we’d do the scavenger hunt I created where we’d end up in front of the white-and-black building where I auditioned and I’d say, “Okay, funny story—”

  Only it wouldn’t have been a funny story. I realize that now. Kiara was right. It was a terrible idea. She would have looked at me, her eyes filling with understanding, and it would be last summer all over again. Have I changed so much this year that I didn’t even consider what it would do to her, what this revelation would feel like to her? In my head, I wrote a happy ending that would soften the blow in the rosy glow of London when what Abby deserved was the no-filter wash of the truth. Do other people do that? Withhold or reshape a story, rationalizing that it is best for the person we’re not telling, when really, even subconsciously, we just don’t want to see their eyes darken when we lay out the truth?

  We spend another hour walking the Royal Mile. Still no sign of Abby. Neel’s phone buzzes. He hurries to check it. “Aji says she’s not back yet.” He stuffs the phone into his pocket. “This is useless. If she doesn’t want us to find her, we won’t.” He sighs, his eyes darting around the street, as if Abby might appear from behind one of the glass doors of the shops.

  I’m starting to panic, a jittery whirl that bubbles in my gut and spreads out like a stain. “Don’t you have any spies in Edinburgh? You have them everywhere else.”

  “And they would do what precisely? I’m not in Her Majesty’s Secret Service. There are no hidden cameras.” He scans the crowds of people.

  “Maybe you are and you just can’t tell me.” I jostle him a bit too hard with my elbow. “Wink. Wink, right? You could make a call?” My voice creeps toward shrill.

  “You are mental.”

  I chew at the side of my nail, my anxiety growing like a sunburn. I have to find her. I can’t keep letting her run away. “We need to check every museum. Abby would go to a museum. That’s what we should be doing.” I pull out my phone to Google “Ten Best Museums in Edinburgh.”

  “Oi, you lost?”

  I peek over my phone into the cobalt eyes of Ryan Ramsey. A girl a bit younger than me with tangled, flame-colored curls and knee-high flowered boots stands next to him. She and Ryan have matching eyes and the same easy smile. “Not exactly,” I tell him.

  “We can’t find our friend,” Neel tries to explain. “Abby. She, um, left.”

  Ryan frowns. “Does she have a mobile?”
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br />   “She’s not answering.” I study the research results on my phone. “She doesn’t really want to talk to us right now, but we’re trying to figure out where she might have gone. She’s a big history nut, so we figured maybe a museum?”

  Ryan runs through most of the options we’ve already tried before offering, “I’m off for the day. We could help you. This is my sister, Wyn.”

  I slip my phone into my bag; it’s getting me nowhere. “That is so nice, but I’m sure you have better things to be doing.”

  Wyn shrugs. “Not really.” Her skin is dotted with freckles. She’s tall, but on closer inspection, she must be only thirteen or so.

  I glance at Neel, who gives a brief nod. “Wow, okay. Thanks. We’ll take the help.” To Wyn, I say, “This is my cousin Neel. And I’m Riya.”

  “Almost like your name,” Wyn says to her brother.

  He rubs his hands together. “So, she’s taken off, has she?” To Neel, he asks, “Something you said, then?”

  Neel looks momentarily offended, insisting, “Not me” until he realizes Ryan is kidding.

  We fill them in on where we’ve searched so far, ruling out the possibility that she might be back at the castle for now. Wyn whispers something to her brother, and he nods. “Yes, that. What about Holyrood? Been there yet? They’ve got a smart history tour. And lovely grounds.”

  We follow our tour guide.

  I sit on a bench outside the Holyrood Palace in the lush green shade of a tree. My tears attract more than a few alarmed glances from tourists. A man with a grandfatherly beard and jacket too warm for the day even stops, asking, “Can I help ya, lass?” but I just shake my head, and he smiles sympathetically and moves along.

  When the tears finally subside, I call Dad, hoping he’ll pick up my FaceTime. I’m eight hours ahead of him, so that makes it eight thirty a.m. in California. His workday has just started, and I worry he might be in a meeting he can’t leave, but he picks up instantly. “Abby?”