Wanderlost (2 page)

“We just established we were in the same class. You know exactly who I am.”

“ID, please.”

I say a silent thank-you to the birthday gods that Elizabeth turned twenty-one last spring. Of everyone here, she's the only one actually old enough to drink. Still, why the
hell
did she open the door?!

“This a fake ID?” the voice booms, even closer now.

There's true indignation in Elizabeth's voice when she answers. “Are you kidding? Of course not!”

Officer Douchecanoe has a definite edge to his voice when he says, “You're gonna want to be careful of the tone you take with me, miss.”

“Excuse me,
sir
,” Elizabeth says, and her “sir” drips with contempt. “I'm a private citizen, of legal drinking age, on private property, and I'd like you to leave now.”

“Like I said, Miss Sadler, you don't want to cross me. You may be twenty-one, but if anyone drinking here tonight was underage, you could be held liable for supplying minors.”

“That's ridiculous. Besides, do you see anyone else here?” Whoa. It isn't like Elizabeth to get worked up like this. She held top honors in her university's debate club and I'm guessing she didn't earn them by losing her cool. “Listen,” she says. “You no longer have my permission to be in my home. If you don't leave right now I'm going to have to file a report against you.”

“Guess what, prom princess? You got a problem. I have the
power now. So you're just gonna have to deal with it.” Whoa again. This guy is not fooling around.

“Please just leave. I'm asking politely.”

Footsteps move away from the pantry and I crack the door a centimeter so I can peek out. The officer is now standing in the doorway that opens off the kitchen, peering into the backyard for any hovering partygoers. He turns to Elizabeth again and my sister puts a hand on his arm to guide him toward the front hall.

Before I can process what's happening, there's a sharp clanging of metal, and then a set of handcuffs are out and around my sister's wrists.

“What the hell!” My sister screeches and I cover my mouth. Madison tugs me out of the way so she can spy for herself. She steps back and mouths, “OMG!”

Is my sister getting arrested? For
what
?

That's obviously what she'd like to know as well. “Why are you handcuffing me?”

“You put your hands on me and I felt threatened. You can't threaten an officer, Miss Sadler.”

“Are you insane? I put one hand on your arm to show you out. It's not remotely possible that you felt threatened.”

What do I do? Do I go out there and defend my sister? I had two margaritas a few hours ago, so I should be good, but I don't know what Madison's intake has been, and if I expose our hiding place, she could be the proof he's looking for to arrest Elizabeth on real charges, ones that could stick. Charges
of supplying minors with alcohol. Which she also didn't do, obviously. This guy must be totally nutso or carrying the monster of all grudges over an unrequited high school crush or something. I move back to the door to peer out, but beyond that I'm paralyzed in place.

“You're welcome to plead your case in front of a judge if you have a different opinion of how things went down tonight. For now, you're coming with me for processing.”

Elizabeth struggles against him and it's nearly enough to make me burst through the door. Nearly. Madison and I have a whole conversation with just our eyes as we weigh what to do, but in the end it doesn't matter. In the span of thirty seconds, the front door closes, two car doors slam, and an engine starts up in the driveway.

And my sister heads off to jail.

Elizabeth has a
folded washcloth across her forehead and her eyes closed when I wander into her bedroom the next day. I hesitate near the doorway.

“Close the door behind you, please,” she says, without lifting the cloth.

I drop a pile of graduation cards addressed to her on her desk and, because she looks so miserable, take a second to straighten them into an orderly pile to match their surroundings.

“You need anything?” I ask.

“Have you
met
our mother?” She waves at her nightstand, where a glass of ginger ale with a straw in it sits next to a plate of dry toast and the TV remote. As if my sister's fighting off a cold and not a criminal record.

I'm impressed my mother has this level of care in her, despite being awoken at a B and B two hours away to post bail for Elizabeth, not to mention the subsequent hours she spent yelling at me.

“Um, so I just wanted to say again how sorry I am about what happened last night,” I offer my sister. “If it makes you feel better, I'm grounded forever.”

Elizabeth slides the washcloth off her face and uses her elbows to push up to a sitting position. She leans back against the headboard of her canopy princess bed and lets her head tap against the wood.

Then she bursts into tears.

Whoa.

“Hey. Hey, it's gonna be okay.”

She wipes her nose with her sleeve, which honestly freaks me out more than her tears. I can't remember ever seeing her the least bit out of control, and the Elizabeth I know would
never
walk around with snot stains on her shirt.

Then again, it's not like I really do know her that well. Everything about her is a mystery I've tried to crack from the time I was a toddler. How did she ride that two-wheeler so perfectly when my tricycle barely kept me upright? How did her cherry lemonade lip gloss stay on when mine tasted so good I licked it off in ten seconds? How did she get the cute lifeguard to watch her with interest every time she climbed the ladder to the diving board? How did she get the grades she got and still have time to be the president of every other club on campus when I could barely get myself to school before the late bell? Seriously, do we even share the same genes?

But for now, the only mystery I want to solve is why she opened the door last night and why on earth she'd mouthed off even a tiny bit to an obviously power-tripping cop.

“So,
what
happened? I mean, I know what happened. But
how
did this happen?”

She smears mascara across her cheek when she swipes at her eyes. Her breath hitches over a deep inhale and then she exhales slowly and says, “I screwed up.”

In spite of the situation, I almost laugh. I would be willing to bet the entire contents of my room that she's never uttered those words before.

“You didn't screw up. That guy was Crazytown.”

“Obviously. But I should have recognized that and not antagonized him. Anyway, how would you know? You ran for the hills.” Oh. Somehow it hasn't quite come out that I witnessed the whole thing from the pantry.

“Well, it's not like I knew you'd open the door.”

“I was trying to cover your ass. I answered the door because I thought I could just smile and assure the officer we'd keep the noise down and your little shindig wouldn't get busted. You said you wanted the party, so I was looking out for
you
!”

And now there's a knife of guilt lodged in my chest. I'm a little surprised too. Usually Elizabeth is wrapped up in her own things and doesn't pay me much attention.

“Thanks,” I mumble, then I add, “Seriously, though, once you tell the judge your side of the story, he or she will have to see what a mistake was made.”

“Maybe. The lawyer Dad hired definitely thinks so. He said it's laughable how weak the case is. But it doesn't matter, because either way the damage is done. I just can't believe that
in the span of, like, ten seconds, all my dreams for my career are dead.”

“What are you talking about? You just said the lawyer will get you off. There's no way you'll end up with any permanent record or anything! You'll be
fine
to start work on the campaign this fall.”

Elizabeth has a grunt job helping a congressman with his reelection campaign, but we all know that's just the start of things for her. Pretty soon she'll be the one running for office and no one who knows her has the least little doubt about that.

She sighs. “Chances are really good I can get the arrest expunged. But as for the job: nope. It all hinged on this tour guide gig this summer. When the congressman's biggest donor asks him for his help finding a last-minute replacement guide and he chooses you, you don't earn a whole lot of brownie points by skipping out on it at the last minute. The conditions of my bail mean I can't even leave the state, much less head off to Europe. I don't see how they could possibly find anyone else to replace me on such short notice. And if I leave his donor in the lurch, there's no way Congressman Willard's going to think I'm responsible enough to work for him. Honestly, if he even gets word of the arrest, that's probably it for me. He needs the soccer mom vote to win and he's not gonna want some girl who hosts keg parties for high school kids helping with his campaign.”

“But you didn't!”

“I know. And maybe I could convince him of that. But
the hint of a scandal coupled with a pissed-off donor? Forget it. It's over.”

This time she sinks low in the bed before losing it with a fresh batch of tears. I stare slack-jawed for a second at my typically stoic big sister, then scoot across the quilt to wrap my arms around her. The pillow she's been hugging squeezes between us.

Obviously, it's not like I haven't hugged my sister before, but I don't think I've ever consoled her, and the role reversal feels awkward. This is usually her job. She's the one who offered me half her Halloween candy the time I was on crutches and Mom thought it would be too dangerous to go trick-or-treating. She's the one who made the attendant at the top of the log flume at Cedar Point let us out so we could walk down the attached steps since I was freaking out so bad I couldn't breathe. Our roles are clear.

She's the big sister.

I'm the baby.

I pretend to mind, but secretly I love having my mom put away my laundry and set out vitamins next to my juice glass every morning. I still sleep with a stuffed animal and have the same friends I did in nursery school, and I'm okay with those things. More than okay. They're comforting. Safe. Home.

Elizabeth sniffles a few more times and her sobs subside.

I ease out of the hug and say, “It can't be as bad as you're making it sound. You'll figure something out.”

She clears her throat and straightens. “The thing is, I
actually do have one idea that would solve everything.”

I grin. “See? I knew you would. You wouldn't be Elizabeth if you didn't.”

Thank God. She'll be fine and I can let go of the crushing weight of guilt on my chest. Already I can feel it getting lighter, floating away.

Elizabeth glances at me from under her lashes. “It's simple, really.”

She pauses and collects a breath before blurting, “You just need to go to Europe as me.”

M
y
jaw drops
to the floor along with the tissues I was getting ready to offer Elizabeth.

“You can't be serious!”

My sister's eyes flash. “I wouldn't be in this position if it wasn't for
your
party. You have no idea how big the stakes are for me right now. What if this scandal follows me around and I can't land a job on
any
campaign? Do you have any idea how screwed I'd be? If I cancel this Europe tour, the congressman is going to need to know why. But if I go—or everyone
thinks
I go, at least—he won't have a reason to suspect anything is wrong.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Bree, please. Just take a little bit of time and think about it. It's only for a month. What were your plans for this summer? Lounging by the pool with your friends?”

“Noooo.”
I pause. “Well, okay, yes, but I was also going to work on some new jewelry techniques and finally launch my
Etsy shop. Everyone says my designs are good enough to sell.”

Elizabeth's voice is sticky sweet when she says, “I'm sure they are. But as far as jobs go, you
could
put that one on hold without letting anyone else down. Or better yet, you could bring your beads and your supplies with you and do them on the bus.” Her tears have dried completely and she seems pleased as punch with her quick solution. She continues, “Most girls, most
people
, would be over the moon about a chance to go to Europe.”

“Would they?” I ask, having a hard time controlling the sarcasm. “Would they also be over the moon about the chance to lead A BUS TOUR OF SENIOR CITIZENS through Europe? I don't even think I
like
old people.”

“How can you say that? You don't know any old people. All our grandparents died before you were born.”

“I've seen at least ten reruns of
The Golden Girls
! That has to count for something.” My mind is whirring. How could she possibly think I would go for this? Doesn't she know me at all? If she
did
, she'd know I barely cross county lines.

“Oh, and Aunt Mira,” I offer. “I know Aunt Mira. She's a few pixels short of a picture.”

“Aunt Mira has dementia. These people are in complete control of their faculties. It's totally different and you know it. At least let me tell you more about the job before you say no.”

I don't reply, which she takes as permission. “Okay, so you'd be leading a twenty-two-day tour of Europe for six senior citizens. They keep the tours super-small so you have
more mobility. Plus it's really expensive and exclusive, so deluxe accommodations all the way. You'll fly to Amsterdam to meet up with them and then you'll do all of your travel by bus. Netherlands, Germany, Austria, Czech Republic, Italy, Monaco, Spain, Portugal, more France, Belgium, and then back to Amsterdam for the flight home. The schedules are very low-key for the seniors. It sounds like a lot, but there's actually tons of downtime.”

It sounds like a lot? It sounds like A LOT? Is she serious right now? I throw my hands up and drop my voice to a growling whisper. “I've never been
anywhere
.”

She leans back and looks me straight in the eyes. “That's not an argument, Bree. That's a reason right there. I've been considering this plan since last night and I think maybe this could be really good for you too. A sort of win-win, if you will.”

I won't. I let loose with a big sigh. She so doesn't get it. “What I'm saying is, I wouldn't have the first clue how to get around. Or how to talk to anyone. I wouldn't even know how to get francs or lira or whatever.”

“Euros.” Elizabeth is fighting to keep the amusement out of her voice, but I can hear it.

“Huh?” I ask.

“Most of Europe uses euros. It's not that hard, really. You just use an ATM, same as here.”

I wind my hair around my wrist. Does this mean she really thinks I can do this? Like, seriously believes I can handle
something like this? That's actually flattering. “Okay, fine, euros. But . . . everything else. The tour guide stuff. I'm not a leader. And I don't know the first thing about Europe except that they make really good chocolate there and they call soccer
football
.”

“I'd help you. I promise! We have two weeks before you'd need to be in Amsterdam. I can quiz you and I'll make you one of my signature study guides. Everything you need to know.”

I groan. Those things are legendary. At one point in high school she started a side business selling her study guides and the entire class GPA rose by 0.5 points in one semester.

I don't admit this to myself a lot, but the fact of the matter is that I miss my sister. We used to hang out when we were little and do sister stuff, like push each other on the swings and fight over who got to climb the stepladder to put the star on the Christmas tree or whose ice cream cone had more sprinkles. As much as I wouldn't want what would be waiting at the end of it, two weeks' worth of my sister's undivided attention would be . . . amazing.

Elizabeth isn't done with her hard sell yet. “Even though almost everyone speaks English and I doubt you'll need them, I'll put language translation apps on your phone. Currency ones too. And you'd have the tour company. They're totally there for you whenever you need them. You just place a call and they'll handle things from here in the States. Easy peasy.”

I am
not
considering this. “There's no way this could work.”

“It could! I've been thinking about all the angles, trust me. The company's based in Dayton, but I've never been there in person. I interviewed over the phone. They had the referral from the congressman's office, and my transcript, and, well, I think they were pretty desperate, so that was enough for them. Believe me, they won't be asking many questions. Anyway, point is, they've never seen me. All they have is a copy of my passport, and that photo was taken back in high school, the time I went to Canada for the debate team competition. It looks just like you, honestly. They'll have no reason to suspect you aren't Elizabeth reporting for duty.”

Except that I'm seventeen and she's twenty-one. And she's Miss Perfectly Put Together and I'm . . . me. For example, it's one p.m. and I'm still in pajama pants.

“What about Mom and Dad? I'm grounded, remember. And even if I weren't, there's zip-zero chance Mom is letting me jet off to Europe.”

“I have a plan for that too. You just let me handle them.” She tugs a hand through her hair and continues, “It boils down to this. All I need is that letter of recommendation at the end of the trip. If the owner gets good evaluations from the tour participants, she's happy, which means the congressman is happy. I'll have my job and I'm golden. I won't have to lose everything I've worked my whole entire life for. Bree, you know how badly I need this job. It means
everything
to me.”

This must be why she did so well on the debate team. I half expect to hear a tiny violin playing in the background.
Apparently she sees my resolve crumbling because she goes for the kill.

“I wouldn't even be in this position if it wasn't for you.”

Ouch. Low blow, even though she's right.

The thing is, I don't know what it's like to want something the way Elizabeth wants a career in politics. When other kids were playing Four Square, she was turning cardboard boxes into voting booths and making me and preschool friends cast ballots for her. I don't have a clue what I want to do when I “grow up,” but Elizabeth has always known. Always. Now she's watching her best shot at that dream slip from her grasp and I have the power to help her.

There are thirty-seven-hundred reasons why this would be a monumentally T-E-R-R-I-B-L-E idea. I'm the least qualified person on the planet to put in charge of anyone. Elizabeth wins Most Likely to Succeed awards while I count myself lucky I haven't won a Darwin Award yet.

“Please, Bree?” Elizabeth's eyes are like saucers now, as wide as an anime character's. It's a total put-on, but for just a second I see the utter desperation behind it and it throws me.

She needs me.
She
needs
me.

My sister has never (not once, not ever) needed me.

I'm going to regret this with every single fiber of my being.

I already am.

But that still doesn't stop me from whispering, “Okay.”