Foreign Exchange (18 page)

I dig for my U.S. cell phone, excited to see if she sent me a message about meeting up.

“I
t’s from today,” Sawyer says, relief washing over him.

He
takes a bite of pasta, then another, like he’s famished, but I have to wait until my phone is on to be able to eat.

The thing is, there’s no message from her. Not about
meeting up. Not the same one telling me she’ll talk to me soon. Nothing.

“Who all did she send it to?” Something irks me about the message, but of course what irks me
the most is that it’s not on
my
phone. I try to swallow down my hurt and force a smile at Sawyer. The important thing is that she’s safe.

“Maybe our parents?” he says. “It only c
ame in an hour ago, so maybe they haven’t seen it yet. Maybe for some reason it’s not registering on your phone yet.”

I text
Tristan a quick message, telling her I'm in Milan and I need to talk to her ASAP. Even if she's upset with me, I convince myself over and over that she would at least do the responsible thing and reply.

Finally I force myself to take
a bite. Surprisingly, it helps. Tristan’s safe, I keep telling myself. Maybe she’s angry, maybe she’s still keeping secrets, but at least she’s safe. That’s what’s most important.

After taking my last bite, I’m stuffed and
I sit back in my chair, eyeing the closed up modeling agency again.

“I still need to find her,” I say. “We came all this way, and who knows what she’s planning now, but I need to
try to talk some sense into her in person.”

Sawyer agrees, but h
e checks the time and worry crosses his face. I know we’re on a deadline. How are we going to explain to Mr. Echols where we went and why we were gone so long? But I can’t think about that.

The waiter takes our pasta plates,
but disappears before I can say,
“Il conto,”
to ask for the bill.

A minute later, o
ur waiter arrives back at our table with two full plates of chicken.

“Oh my gosh,” I say, rubbing my stomach. Surprisingly, Sawyer digs right in.

“You’re still hungry?” I ask in amazement.

He
pauses. “Well…maybe not hungry, but I’m not going to let it go to waste.”

“Good, then maybe you can
not
let mine go to waste either.”

Sawyer laughs
, until he sees I’m holding up a forkful toward him and realizes I’m serious. He opens his mouth slowly and I reach across the table, having trouble keeping my hand steady. But I eventually get it to his mouth. I tentatively slip my fork in and he closes his mouth around it, letting his eyes fall closed. I slowly slide my fork out, feeling like it’s a much more intimate movement than it is.

Neither of us says a word
. I cut another small piece and by then he’s finished chewing and sitting across from me with his mouth already open, watching me silently. I feed him again.

By the time the waiter returns, Sawyer’s eaten most of my chicken, but hardly any of his own.

The waiter asks us if we want
“dolce”
or “sweets” and I respond before he’s even finished the word with a shake of my head and my spiel about being ready to pay.

By the time
Sawyer has paid the hefty bill—not accepting any of my money—we see a lady unlocking the building across the street.

We both practically bolt out of our seats. We call out
“Grazie”
to our waiter, and race for the door.

A
group of nicely dressed people—one man and several women—moves through the door into the modeling agency in front of us. The women look like professional models—pretty in a very symmetrical way, makeup drawn precisely, stoic business-like faces. Sawyer catches the door before it falls shut and holds it open for me. We hurry up a flight of stairs. The lady we saw unlocking the place is behind a barrier counter and already on the phone. The other group has moved through a doorway into a wide expanse of a room. The women are stripping off clothing as though they’re not even aware of the open door. I look to Sawyer and his eyes are averted to the lady on the phone.

“
Ciao
,” I say, the second she hangs up. “
Sto cercando una ragazza di nome Tristan Bishop?
”

M
y Italian’s definitely far from perfect. It’s been so long since I’ve used it. She tilts her head and looks at me with a blank stare.

I take a deep breath, slow down, and ask her again if she knows of a girl named Tristan Bishop. A model, I add.

The woman doesn’t even check her computer, just shakes her head, and tells us there’s no model here by that name.

“
Well, maybe not now, but she received a letter from you,” I say in Italian, miming it with my hands to be sure she understands. “And she’s a model, so are you sure you haven’t had some contact with her?”

The lady shakes her head
again. Through the open doorway, I hear the man—the photographer—yell something in Italian about fixing a pose. The models shuffle around and I think he’s done, but then he starts yelling again, this time louder and angrier. All the photographers I’ve seen Tristan work with back home have been friendly. Nothing like this, and I try not to picture her as one of the girls in there stripping down and getting yelled at. Is this what Sawyer meant when he said it’s not an easy life?

“Can’t she check her computer or something?” Sawyer says.

“Si!”
I repeat Sawyer’s thoughts, a little more politely, in Italian, but the woman is already moving to her keyboard, so she must understand some English. “Bishop,” I repeat. “Tristan Bishop.”

Though, come to think of it, the address on the envelope had been hand-written, so maybe she wasn’t in their system.

When the woman frowns at her computer, I call her back over. “Do you send out some kind of rejection letters to models who send in head shots?” I ask.

Finally,
I get a nod. The photographer’s yelling escalates and I want to distract myself.

I
ask again if she may have sent one to Tristan, but the lady shrugs and explains they only keep track of the models they do want to work with. My heart is torn. I’m glad in a way that Tristan’s probably left a whole stack of rejections at her mailbox. Who wouldn’t? And how much rejection has she endured in the last week? At the same time, after hearing about how successful Sawyer’s been and how she’s never felt good enough, it makes me sad for her. Maybe that’s why she’s been hiding from us. Tristan had told Sawyer she’d have a modeling gig lined up for herself by the time I got here. I can practically feel her desperation if she hasn’t been able to do it.

“Can we see a copy of the rejection letter you send out?” Sawyer and I both ask at once in different languages.

The woman nods and tells me it’s a standard form many of the local agencies use, but her phone is ringing and she picks it up, cutting off her words. I continue to stare at her, hoping she’ll realize that I want a copy anyway, and eventually, she makes her way to a file cabinet.

When she hands
the letter over, she’s busily chatting and barely acknowledges us, which I think means goodbye. With the photographer hovering over a half-naked model and calling her,
“Stupido,”
I can’t get out of there fast enough.

Sawyer and I take the letter down the stairs and out the door to read it.
Neither of us mentions the modeling shoot going on inside.

I’m surprised how quickly my recognition of written Italian
returns. “Dear Aspiring Model,” I read aloud, which sounds a little condescending, especially after talking with the snooty receptionist at the agency. It goes on to say how abundant modeling agencies are in Italy and how each one is seeking their own look:    

Unfortunately, if you are receiving this letter, yours is not the look
for us…

It
then goes on to further list a number of modeling schools in Venice, Rome, and Milan. A paragraph near the bottom says they, and many other agencies in the country, regularly scout the fitness festivals, and that can be a great way to break in. It lists several of those, but the one in Venice was the day before yesterday. The next one is in Rome, on the sixteenth.

“This sounds like something Tristan would do,” I tell Sawyer,
focusing on the Venice date and pointing to the last paragraph.

“Yeah, but she never picked up the letter.”

“I know, but the lady said it was a standard letter that many of the agencies use.” I realize as I say this, that he probably didn’t catch that part of the conversation.

This information settles in and he nods slowly, but then points to the dates. “We missed the last one.
I guess we could try the one in Rome.”

“She wouldn’t have gone to Rome
for the sixteenth.” I swallow, trying to sound confident. “She knew my dad was coming here that day.”

Sawyer doesn’t look convinced.

“Let’s go check the conference center, and the hotel near there. Maybe they’ve at least seen Tristan.” I need to find another link to her being in Milan. I can’t believe she would have left for Rome, completely ignoring the whole reason I came to Italy. Completely ignoring what I need … what Eddy needs.

Thankfully, Sawyer must hear in my voice how much I need this, even if he doesn’t believe it will come to anything. He helps me find the route to the
conference center, and it takes us a little over an hour to get there.

I head straight for the box office, my picture of Tristan already in hand.

“May I help you,” the lady behind the glass asks me in Italian.

I hold out the picture and point to Tristan, asking if she’s seen any sign of her in the last week.

Tristan is very recognizable—gorgeous, for one, so people notice her. But she’s also got this dark, almost black shiny hair that’s nearly as glossy as a sheet of glass, and these intense blue eyes. She’s photogenic and unforgettable.

The lady studies the picture, and doesn’t hand it back for a few seconds. I’m not sure if this is a good sign, because it’s so normal. People like to stare at Tristan.

Finally she passes it back and nods. “I think maybe a few days ago.”

W
hile it’s good news—amazingly good news for me that she was still trying to help with finding my dad—it doesn’t help us find
her.
“You don’t know where the girl was staying, or anything?” I ask, lamely.

Of course her answer is no, but she does
rattle off a list of nearby hotels, including the official conference center one. I thank her, but before we leave, I tell her that my dad is a speaker at the upcoming economics conference. I explain to her that I’m trying to get in touch with him and ask if I can leave a note.

She tells me she doesn’t know if it will get to him, but she’ll try, so I scribble a quick note:

To Giovanni Russo:

Dad, I’m in Italy and I really need to talk to you. Please call me as soon as you can. Love, Jamie.

I follow it with my two phone numbers—my U.S. and my international one.

We repeat the process at the
conference center hotel. The three receptionists on duty do not recognize Tristan, but I figure they must have several other people working their front counter. Sawyer scours the lobby for any sign of Tristan, showing her picture to bellhops and any other workers he can find, while I leave another note for my dad.

The good news is,
when I talk really nice to a man at the front desk and explain my situation, he confirms that Giovanni Russo is booked in to stay tomorrow night through the end of the conference. So if this is actually the Giovanni Russo who is my dad, it’s conceivable that I’ll still get to see him in person.

When we leave the hotel, I’m so
excited and distracted with the thought that Sawyer’s words surprise me.

“L
et’s ask around and see how far the Milan Cathedral is. Or if it’s a long way away, we could ask if there’s a park nearby.”

The pictures from Tristan. Of course
. We have more important things to worry about right now.

It turns out the cathedral is all the way across the city, but there’s a park right around the corner. Sawyer and I walk there, and are both surprised at the sudden burst of greenery in the gray and brick city. The trees and hedges look more sculpted than those at home. They’re so perfect, they almost look plastic. Italians definitely take pride in their landscaping.

“See if you notice anything familiar,” Sawyer says. “I’m going to pull
up the picture.”

While we were at the restaurant, Sawyer saved my pictures to his computer. He blows up the park picture, and I can’t help staring at Tristan’s face for a few seconds.
What if my best friend really plans to ignore me and stay in Europe to model? And what will she say if I don’t want her to stay, if I think it’s too dangerous? What if she already knows and neglected to send me a text on purpose?