“But I’m sure Betsey and I will be able to figure something out,” Taylor said, winking at me. Taylor had never been to Europe before. She was enviably excited in a way that I hadn’t been about travel plans since I was a little girl, fretting over whether or not she’d understand how to pay for things with Euros and probably completely underestimating just how Americanized most European cities had become in her eagerness for everything to seem foreign.
I blushed and cringed. I still hadn’t told her that I hadn’t asked for permission from my mom to go. The sensation of knowing people were going to be disappointed in me for something I didn’t do instead of something bad that I did do was even more nerve-wracking than actually getting in trouble.
On Thursday morning, at breakfast, Nicola greeted me with an expressionless face and a large box wrapped in glamorously shiny copper-colored gift wrap with glittery gold ribbon around it. I handed her, in exchange, a flat box wrapped in paper striped with pinks and reds, her favorite colors, with red curly ribbons on top. There was also a smaller gift bag that I handed her at the insistence of my mom, who had sent Darlene products for all of my friends, which was kind of embarrassing. I made Nicola open my big gift for her first, and she nodded in approval at the gold sequined tank dress that I had selected for her. I knew as soon as I saw it online that she would love it; she adored anything sparkly.
“Now open yours,” she commanded.
I tore the gift wrap carefully, not wanting to violently rip such pretty paper. I lifted the lid of the box to find a sheet of paper resting on top of what looked like a sweater. Before I could even get an idea of what the sweater looked like, however, my eyes had started reading the writing on the paper, and I realized that it was a real, honest-to-goodness, handwritten letter from Nigel O’Hallihan. I began sweating and hyperventilating uncontrollably. This kind of excitement was probably not going to mean good things for the grade I would receive on the Algebra 3 test I was scheduled to take in less than an hour.
“Oh, my god,” I said, running my hands over the paper, trying to embrace the enormity of the fact that Nigel O’Hallihan’s own hands had also touched it. “Oh, my god, oh my god. Thank you so much, Nicola!”
“He’s not even a very good artist,” she said flatly, commenting on the crude giraffe he had attempted to draw where he’d signed his name.
Dear Betsey,
My brother’s roommate at school told me that you are a huge fan
of the band. Thanks for that, it’s very sweet of you. I hope to
meet you one day if you’re ever in London.
Cheers,
Nigel
I wanted to stare at that letter all day and night, and rub it all over my body, and preserve it in a glass museum case so that it could never be damaged. I would have licked it if I could have been sure my saliva wouldn’t have ruined the ink. The world would end someday, humanity would be destroyed, and skyscrapers would be in ruins, but this magnificent letter written by the cutest boy of all time would survive.
“Aren’t you even going to look at the sweater? I had it shipped from England,” Nicola said.
The sweater was super cool; it was navy blue and was patterned with orange skulls. I knew instantly that even though it was cashmere and couture, my mother would hate it.
Despite my dining hall freak-out over the letter from Nigel O’Hallihan (which was seriously the best Christmas present ever), I breezed through my Algebra 3 final, having difficulty with only two questions, both of which I was pretty sure Ms. Hobbs had included on the test just to drive us insane. As I walked back across campus toward the dorm, officially half-finished with my sophomore year of high school, the air carried the sharp, sweet smell of snow. It really was almost winter, and I had been so busy with my schoolwork that I’d barely had time to get into the holiday spirit. Christmas carols were playing in the lobby at Colgate when I arrived back at the dorm, and a lot of girls whose last final had been on Wednesday were rolling their suitcases through the lobby, already bound for their respective homes.
Upstairs in our room, Kate was already packed and ready to leave, eager to get home to South Carolina to join her family in all kinds of wholesome holiday activities, like singing carols door to door and baking cookies at a soup kitchen with her sisters. She would be turning fifteen over the break and was expecting to receive a wide variety of cool electronic gadgets as gifts, including a new computer.
Once she was gone, I lingered on the internet, reading a lengthy email Christie had sent me in which she confirmed that she’d be starting at Treadwell in January when classes resumed. My heart soared. If there was anything at all good to come of spending three weeks at home in New York, it would be getting to see her again. But then as I read further down in her message, she mentioned that she’d be traveling to Florida with her parents for Christmas to see her grandparents. I knew it was testament to my own immaturity that I was having such difficulty looking beyond the next three weeks toward the future, when the spring term was positioned to be so great. All I had to do was mind my behavior and steer clear of Danko until after the first week of January, when I could return to Treadwell and try to secure a dorm room to share with Christie. If I was careful, I might not even have had to go back to New York until June.
But I just couldn’t look that far ahead.
I ate dinner alone at Colgate, sitting at the opposite end of the dining hall from Chloe, watching her head bob up and down as she chewed. Taylor was dining with the other members of the junior symphony, including Danielle, at the Gaffin Center. Being excluded from enjoying dinner with all the other girls traveling to Spain in the morning made me suspect that it was possibly for the best that I hadn’t found a way to accompany them. I might not have liked being left out of all of the fun stuff on the trip, and since I already knew there was no possible way my mother was going to sign permission slips or agree to the student travel insurance policy that was required of all the girls in the junior symphony, I wouldn’t be able to share a room at the hotel with Taylor, or even hitch a ride with all of them from campus to the airport.
In my quiet room upstairs, I began packing up my clothes for the three weeks at home. Into my suitcase I placed Rufus the stuffed dog, of course. I would never leave him behind, alone and defenseless, in the dorm. Then I packed my new sweater from Nicola, and the white go-go boots from Halloween, which I would give to Bijoux because I never wanted to wear them again. I was making an honest—even if reluctant— attempt at packing when I heard my cell phone vibrate with the arrival of a new text message. It was from Taylor of course, and it was an atypical message from her, spanning three individual texts because it was so long. She wanted to know if I’d managed to book a seat on her flight, how I was getting to the airport, and if Kristijan’s dormitory, where I’d told her I’d be staying, was close to the hotel where the other girls were booked, on Gran Via, a fancy street in the middle of the city. She wanted me to call her back to firm up our plans.
I sat down on the edge of my bed with my phone in my hands and closed my eyes. In my head, I envisioned walking around posh neighborhoods in Spain at night with Taylor and Kristijan, our arms linked, having the time of our lives. I could be there, walking those grand boulevards, flanked by rococo architecture and posters announcing fabulous exhibits at the city’s many museums, in fewer than twenty-four hours. But of course I wouldn’t be there. Instead, in twenty-four hours I would be at home on East 73rd Street, cowering in my bedroom, powerless, hoping that I would escape my stepfather’s notice. Dreading any moment I might find myself trapped alone with him.
I knew that if I got up from my bed and booked myself a flight, all of the achievements I’d earned since arriving at Treadwell would go up in smoke. Even if I never got as far as the airport in Queens, I’d be pulled out of Treadwell faster than I could make a list of girls to whom I’d want to say goodbye. There would be no more Aikido, and I would probably forget everything I’d learned pretty quickly. I knew that even despite her
best intentions, Nicola would forget all about me in a flash. Her attention span was even shorter than mine. Within a matter of weeks, I’d just become that girl who used to go here in the minds of all of the students with whom I’d become friends at Treadwell. I didn’t like that. I didn’t want to be forgotten. I had already been forgotten by so many, many other classmates at previous schools.
And yet, I still stood and walked over to my computer.
I opened my laptop.
Taylor’s flight to Madrid was sold out, but there were three consecutive flights leaving Logan after hers. The price of tickets had nearly doubled since the last time I had dared to look. My mom had already emailed me a boarding pass for the 8:45 A.M. flight to New York leaving from Terminal B. To book a flight to Spain now, only twelve hours before it was scheduled to depart, was just insane. But knowing that my mom had also already arranged for a limousine to pick me up on campus to take me to Logan airport was too convenient to resist.
I reasoned, I could book the flight to Spain departing at 10:15, and decide when I arrived at the airport whether or not to go for it. If the credit card company called my mother before I got that far, it would be dubious that a hacker had used my credit card to book the flight overseas since I was also typing in my passport number. I’d be caught. But I also knew from past experience that it’s expensive to cancel a flight to Europe, and usually requires a long, annoying phone call with airline customer service. Even if my mother busted me and called to scream at me, she would be too lazy to bother cancelling my ticket. My mother considered herself to be too important to call customer service, for any reason. There would still be nothing stopping me from going to Terminal C at the airport instead of Terminal B, and following Taylor across the Atlantic.
I was reviewing the details of my itinerary.
I was declining to purchase traveler’s insurance, and rental car offers. I was clicking on submit.
I was going to Madrid.
The airport was busy, as it always was during the month of December, with people trying to board flights carrying excess, oversized luggage stuffed with holiday gifts. I had barely slept a wink on Thursday night, I was so anxious about whether or not I’d actually have the nerve to ditch my flight to Boston without contacting my mom first. Prior to climbing into bed the night before, I had the brilliant idea to log into the online account for my credit card, guessing my mother’s password (B1j0uxN0rf33t) with ease, and changing the contact number for emergencies to that of my own cell phone. When the account care representative called me an hour after I booked my ticket, I confirmed that I was Nadine Von Weurth and that I had authorized my daughter’s purchase on the Travel Trax website.
As bulletproof as I considered this little maneuver of mine, I was rattled when my mother started calling my cell phone at five in the morning. The first time my phone rang, I completely freaked out and almost answered it before I realized how improbable it would have been for her to have answered a call from my credit card company between the hours of midnight and 5 A.M. Even still, I was paranoid and genuinely surprised when the limousine with my name in its window pulled up in front of Colgate.
So there I was, at the airport self-check-in. I could hear holiday tunes drifting across all of the baggage-check chatter from its origin, at the Bath & Bodyworks behind the service agents’ counter. As I swept my credit card through the self-check-in machine, I felt like I was being watched, and looked once over my shoulder to be sure no one was spying on me. I was startled when the check-in kiosk indicated both of my flights. After a moment’s hesitation, I tapped on the screen to check in for the flight to Spain and the flight to New York.
Of course I felt a little bad doing that. Naturally when I didn’t arrive in New York, I’d be thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean and my mom would wonder what happened to me. I assured myself that I’d call her once I landed in Spain, when it was much too late for me to double-back to JFK.
The deeper I dug myself into the hole I was in, it seemed, the more confidence I had in what I was about to do. I waited in the lengthy security line staring straight ahead, not even daring to think about the fact that at that very moment, the flight I was supposed to be on to New York was probably boarding at another terminal. Bypassing my usual favorite habit, shopping at the airport, I rolled my carry-on suitcase directly toward the boarding gate for my flight and was pleased to see that the entire traveling group from Treadwell was still there, waiting to board their flight.
“Betsey!” Taylor exclaimed. She was wearing what appeared to be flannel pajama bottoms and a giant wool sweater, and looked like she had just rolled out of bed. “I was starting to wonder if you were going to make it! We’re boarding any second now.”
As if on cue, a flight attendant wearing a uniform stepped up to the small counter near the doors that led to the tunnel connecting to the plane and tapped a microphone. “Good morning. If you are traveling aboard Flight 1801 to Madrid this morning, we’re going to begin the boarding process in just a few minutes, starting with those of you in Business Class, anyone traveling with small children, and any customers needing assistance.”
“I have bad news,” I announced, happy that the news I was about to deliver wasn’t nearly as bad as the news I had prepared to deliver twenty-four hours earlier. “I’m not on your flight. My mom booked me on the wrong one. I depart at ten-fifteen.”
Across the seating area at the gate, I saw Danielle looking me over, curiously. She had her clarinet case balanced in her lap, and I noticed the Team Corpse sticker she had placed on it. She really was under Chloe’s thumb.
“Oh,” Taylor said, sounding disappointed. “But you’re going to text me when you arrive, right? They don’t have any plans for us our first day in town. I think they’re hoping we’ll just sleep all day like toddlers.”
We both turned our heads toward Mr. Ferris and Señorita Rosenkrantz, who were making small talk with some of the girls in the traveling group. Señorita Rosenkrantz was wearing a t-shirt with writing on it that said, “¿COMO TE” and then had an illustration of a llama on it, with her bulky winter puff coat tied around her waist.
“Oh my god,” Taylor mumbled. “I’m going to seriously die if I have to walk around with these people in public.”
And then, suddenly, on the television monitor affixed to the ceiling where morning news was being broadcast on mute, an entertainment headline flashed a caption I’d never forget along with my sister’s picture:
COSMETICS HEIRESS HOSPITALIZED
“Seriously. Mr. Ferris has been making us listen to flamenco music…” Taylor stopped yammering for a moment, noticing that I was barely listening, and her eyes followed mine up to the television. “That’s Bijoux, isn’t it?”
It was. I wished that I could scream at everyone in the whole airport to shut up so that I could understand what the broadcast meant, but even if the gate had been silent, I wouldn’t have gotten any details from what was shown on screen. I thought of my mother, who had started calling so very early that morning. In an effort to avoid her, I had turned my phone off, but I dug for it in my bag, wondering if she had left me any voicemails. What could have happened to Bijoux? I had told her not to drink if Mom was giving her sleeping pills. My vision clouded and my heart began beating quickly. What if something really awful had happened? What if Bijoux was going to die?
“You should see if you can change your flight,” Taylor said solemnly. She actually looked concerned.
“No,” I said, a little too quickly. “I’ll just call them and find out what’s going on. Don’t worry. I’ll text you when I land in Madrid, but it’ll be really late at night.”
Taylor got into the line to board the flight along with the other members of the junior symphony, and waved over her shoulder at me with a frown just once before disappearing down the tunnel toward the aircraft. I immediately sat down in a blue seat that had just been abandoned and began surfing news sites on my phone to learn as much as I could about my sister’s
state.
Information was pretty scant. Reports said that my sister was rushed to Lenox Hill Hospital on New York’s Upper East Side in the middle of the night after she was found unresponsive by a family member at home. She was in stable condition.
I felt terrible, truly terrible, that I was leaving the country at a time when my sister needed me, and my disappearance was probably going to cause my mom even more unnecessary stress when I simply wasn’t at JFK when the driver arrived to fetch me. I considered texting Bijoux but figured that if she was really in the hospital, someone else, like my mother or Danko, would see the message before she would. It would be hours before I’d even land in Madrid and be able to assure her that I hadn’t been kidnapped. But as I handed the flight attendant my boarding pass two hours later and stepped onto the huge jet that would take me to Kristijan in Spain, I reasoned that I had to do what was best for myself, and that was to stay away from Danko. This trip was probably going to be the last ounce of freedom I would ever be allowed to enjoy again in my life. I was going to have to make it worthwhile.
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