Meant to Be (2 page)

I pull away from him. “It’s Julia,” I reply as calmly as possible, adjusting the hem of my pants, which have hooked themselves over the sole of my sneaker.

“Of course,” he says, gesturing down the aisle. “After you.”

“Um, thanks,” I say. Maybe he can tell how badly I want to get back to my seat belt.

As I make my way down the aisle, I begin to notice my classmates’
eyes on me. The looks quickly turn to snickers and then full-on laughter. Ryan Lynch, Newton North’s lacrosse captain, is grinning stupidly at me. Sarah is whispering furiously to Evie, her eyes trained in my direction. I have absolutely no idea what is going on, and I immediately wonder if there is more bubble gum in my hair or it somehow landed on my face. I reach to pat my hair down when a wild gesture catches the corner of my eye. I turn to see Jason making a thrusting motion in my direction, winking at Ryan, who reaches out to give Jason a high five.

Oh my God. No way. They think it was
us
, in the bathroom, with the mile-high club and all that. They think it because he’s
making
them think it! How could they think I would do
anything
with Jason Lippincott, much less anything in an airplane bathroom! My eyes dart back to Sarah, who is still in full-on gossip mode, her gaze locked on me. If Sarah knows, everyone knows, which means it’s only a matter of time before the news gets back to Mark. And by then, who knows how crazy the rumor will get? Newton North is like one giant game of telephone sometimes.

One thing is certain: good, sweet, kind, thoughtful Mark is going to want nothing to do with me if he thinks I’ve been even semi-naked with Jason on a transatlantic flight.

Though Jason has stopped thrusting, he’s still laughing and air-fiving his seatmates. Air-fiving. Yeah. First he calls me Book Licker; then he pretends I got down and dirty at thirty thousand feet!

All I can do is turn and hiss, “Stop it!” before dropping into my seat. I cram my headphones into my ears, crank the volume on my iPod, and try to drown out my humiliation with some tunes. At this point, I’m almost
hoping
for a crash.

Is it too late to come w/u instead? —Jules

I
spend the entire rest of the flight seething. I wish my best friend, Phoebe, were around; she would know
exactly
what to say to Jason and how to tell him to shove it. She is the queen of good comebacks.

When we land in London and I march straight up to him at the baggage claim, I’m ready.

“Listen, if you want to behave like some overcaffeinated child, that’s your prerogative, but leave me out of it. I would
never
make out with you, and I certainly wouldn’t …” At the last second, I can’t even say it, not with Jason still grinning at me like an idiot. I take a deep breath. “Not on a plane or anywhere else. Never. So back off. Forever. Okay?”

“Prerogative, eh?” He chuckles, unwrapping a hunk of grape Bubble Yum and popping it into his mouth.

“It’s an SAT word, so perhaps you’ve never heard it before.” Okay, that was a little
I’m rubber and you’re glue
, but I didn’t make it past my opening line as I was writing my script.

“Oh, I know it. Seven twenty verbal,” he says, and then leans in
close. The smell of grape gum wafts into my face, and I wrinkle my nose to block the odor. “But don’t tell anyone. Might ruin my ‘overcaffeinated child’ rep.”

I start fumbling for some kind of comeback, but I’m saved by a tiny terror smashing me in the knees. I look down to see the kid from the plane, his Buzz Lightyear tee wrinkled, his blond curls in knots.

“Watch it!” I say, but he’s too busy giving Jason a high five before racing off toward the luggage carousel (and his parents, I hope). “What was that about?”

Jason is tearing the gum wrapper into smaller and smaller pieces until it barely maintains the molecular structure of paper. It rains down onto his shoe. At that moment, the mischievous giggle rings in my ear and my hand flies up to my hair.

“You!” I cry as I watch Jason blow a perfectly round bubble that takes up half his face. I can still see the faint outlines of freckles through the bubble, and I desperately want to jam my finger into it and splatter gum into his bangs. See how he likes it. “You can’t give little kids gum!”

“Why not? He seemed bored.” Jason shrugs, turning toward the baggage claim. “Jeez, Mom, how ’bout we try to take the stress level down a notch or twenty, okay? This is
vacation
.”

“It’s
not
a vacation, it’s educa—” I start, but Jason cuts me off with a shush maneuver I think I’ve seen on
Dog Whisperer
.

“You know what your problem is, Book Licker?” he says, rocking back on his heels. He gives me a quick wink. “You don’t know the word ‘fun.’ Maybe because it wasn’t on the SATs.”

He brushes past me toward the baggage claim.

I am left reeling, hating him with the heat of a supernova. I’m so flustered I miss my bag as it rolls past on the carousel, and have to wait for it to come back around again. As I crane my neck, looking for my big green duffel, twin shadows overtake me.

I look up to see that I’m flanked by a pair of human storks. They’re wearing matching skinny jeans and strappy tanks and have identical multicolored scarves wrapped around their swanlike necks. The only thing that distinguishes them is that one has a high, tight auburn ponytail, while the other has a high, tight blond ponytail and is clutching a giant iced coffee the size of her face.

“I swear to God, if our flat has bunk beds, I will walk my Manolos right onto the next flight back to the States,” the blonde says. “Last time I came for fashion week, we had to bunk
four
to a room. I felt like I was at fashion camp. I am
so
not doing that again.”

“I can handle the bunk beds, as long as Ursula isn’t there,” the brunette replies, hiking her tote higher on her bony shoulder. “She snores like a lumberjack.”

Holy wow. Real models, in the flesh. Or bone. They certainly
look
overcaffeinated and starving. That’s when I notice that there are a lot of women over six feet tall roaming the baggage area. The airport has been overtaken by Glamazons with hollow cheeks and black wheeled suitcases. They’re all strutting across the linoleum in four-inch heels, looking like they stepped out of
Vogue Italia
and not off a six-and-a-half-hour flight.

“Do you know which shows you’re doing yet?” the brunette on my left asks, scanning the carousel for her suitcase.

“I’ve got some go-sees tomorrow,” the blonde replies. She gives her vat of iced coffee a lazy, uninterested shake. “My agent said Stella McCartney is totally a lock, though. And of course Marc Jacobs, like, loves me.”

I catch the brunette rolling her eyes while she plucks her suitcase from the conveyor belt in one graceful, fluid movement. I’ve been so distracted by their conversation I haven’t noticed that my duffel is about to pass me by again. I dive for it, my fingers barely closing around the nylon handle. I throw my weight backward to heave it off the carousel,
but thanks to all those guidebooks I packed, the bag is heavier than I thought. I feel it throwing me off balance. I’m going down.

As I start to tip backward, though, a body breaks my fall. Unfortunately, it’s the blond supermodel, whose waifish figure is not ready for my muscular frame and ten tons of luggage to come flying at her like a stealth bomber.

“What the—” she screams, falling backward off her platform wedges. We go down in a tangle of arms and legs, her coffee in a flood on the floor, now soaking itself into my sweatpants.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I mumble, completely mortified. I struggle to scramble to my feet, and I’m nearly up when my foot catches in the handle of my duffel and I fall again, landing butt-first in the puddle. I can feel the cold, sticky liquid soaking into my underpants. Great—after the rumors about my joining the mile-high club, a suspicious stain on my sweatpants is the last thing I need. Did I mention that I
hate
flying?

I untangle my foot, grab my duffel, and make a run for the nearest sliding doors before I’m subjected to a supermodel-style tantrum. “Sorry!” I yell over my shoulder.

“You owe me a coffee!” the blonde screams at me, but I don’t look back.

When I get to the curb, I scan the crowd for my group so I don’t miss the bus. I spot Jason and start to head toward him, but I quickly realize that he’s not with the group. He’s busy chatting up a raven-haired supermodel who’s poised to climb into a shiny black sedan. Of course.

Another black sedan screeches to a halt right in front of me. The tinted windows provide a perfect reflection of my appearance postflight. My hair is a wild mess, my eyes are bloodshot, and now I have coffee splattered from head to toe, including a large wet spot on my behind.

Great. I’ve arrived in London looking like a homeless—and incontinent—crazy person.

I hoist my duffel over my shoulder. I finally spot my classmates
gathering in front of a giant blue tour bus. Mrs. Tennison is bustling around, counting heads and checking things off on her clipboard. Nearly everyone else has boarded the bus by the time I’m dragging my monogrammed duffel toward them.

Flying, children, models, and being late. And Jason Lippincott. The list of things I hate is getting longer by the minute.

I board the bus behind Deirdre Robinson and her ginormous fluff of curly blond hair and slide into an empty seat at the front, hoping it stays empty except for me. Yes, there are twenty students on this trip, and I’m close friends with exactly none of them. It’s going to be a long ten days.

When everyone in junior-year lit class had the chance to go to London over spring break, I thought at least a handful of my swim teammates would come along on the trip. Yet despite my careful planning and organization, I managed to sign up and turn in my deposit before realizing that it conflicted with the MetroWest Invitational swim meet. It’s the meet where I set the state freestyle record last year!

So I am here, and my teammates are not.

Missing the swim meet has me feeling sort of twitchy, and I start tapping my toe inside my sneaker. I promised Coach Haas I’d do extra laps while I’m here (our hotel has a pool, thank God), and hope he hasn’t replaced me by the time I get back in ten days.

“Relax, Julia,” Coach Haas told me when I told him I’d stick to my training. “Just try to have some fun while you’re there, okay?”

Apparently no one understands that my version of fun includes laps, guidebooks, and following the rules.

Joel Emerson ambles lazily down the aisle, and I see him pause next to my seat, so I quickly drop my carry-on into it. Joel will spend the entire bus ride miming lacrosse plays, which I’m pretty sure will make me carsick.

Dammit, Phoebe, I’ll kill you for ditching me
.

Phoebe’s parents refused to let her skip the Lis’ family reunion, hosted every five years in Chicago. No amount of pleading from either of us budged them an inch. Phoebe even pulled out the “it’ll look great on my college applications” card, but to no avail. Not that Phoebe needs to be worried about her college applications. She’s an amazing artist, and she’s totally getting into Rhode Island School of Design. And hopefully I am going to get into Brown, and then we’ll share an apartment in a big Providence Victorian with bright walls and a turret.

“Hey, at least there’s a beach,” I told her last week. After months of begging, I’d finally convinced her to reorganize her closet. Phoebe says it’s sick, but organizing other people’s stuff is sort of a hobby for me. There is something incredibly satisfying about putting everything in its proper place.

“It’s Lake Michigan—that hardly counts as beach,” she said, then stuck out her tongue while checking a yellow T-shirt for holes of the unintentional variety. She tossed it into the “donate” pile.

“The Chicago Chamber of Commerce begs to differ,” I replied, putting a pile of brightly patterned sundresses onto hangers one by one. I held up a purple houndstooth-printed minidress with an egg-sized rip in the hem. “Is this a keeper?”

“I can totally fix that,” she said, adding it to the sewing pile next to her desk before gathering her long, shiny black hair into a messy ponytail. I’m so jealous of Phoebe’s hair. It would take me two hours with a flatiron and the entire Kiehl’s counter to get my hair that straight. And thanks to all the chlorine, it wouldn’t be anywhere near that shiny. “Anyway, even if it was a real beach, it’s only warm enough to swim in for, like, three weeks in August. It’s March. That’s practically the Arctic in Chicago!”

I sighed. “It’ll be painful for me, too! There’s going to be so much preppy on this trip I might come back with a full frontal lobotomy and a new wardrobe consisting of only skinny jeans and Tiffany bracelets.” I tried to focus on folding her massive pile of screen-printed T-shirts and
not on how lonely I would be. “Seriously, what am I going to do without you there?”

“You’re going to enjoy London,” Phoebe said, her eyes widening as she wound up for one of her famous, mile-a-minute diatribes, “a city filled with studly British scholars who read Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. And every once in a while, you’ll pause for a moment of silence for your best friend, who is busy scarfing down kimchi and casseroles made by great-aunts while you’re enjoying tea and scones.”

So my best friend isn’t here to save me. But I am in London. For free. Without any parents. With an itinerary (highlighted and underlined, of course) full of visits to places I’ve only read about or imagined and a duffel bag full of guidebooks, notable passages flagged with an array of colorful Post-its.

It could be so much worse. I could be traveling with my aunt Matilda, who uses up most of every visit hinting that perhaps if I spent less time in the pool and more time in a dress, I’d have my very own boyfriend. I could be touring London with a convention of high school principals or infomercial hosts. All of those would be worse than this (I think). So it’s decided. This trip is going to be awesome. I take a few deep breaths, pull out the itinerary, and begin psyching myself up for tomorrow’s visit to the Tate. I have already printed out the online pamphlet describing the special exhibits. I plan to spend the evening (which is designated as “settling-in time” on the itinerary) rereading the Tate passages in each of my five guidebooks. Just the thought of the museum and my books, and my stress starts to ebb away.