Wanderlost (3 page)

The day of
reckoning is here.

After all the plotting and planning, I'm finally at the airport check-in area, trying to soothe my tear-stricken mother. It should be noted that aliens would need to inhabit the body of Nancy Sadler before anything resembling permission for me to fly off solo to a foreign land would escape her lips, so Mom is blissfully (read: nervously) under the impression that I will be accompanying Madison to the summer camp she's attended and then worked at since forever. I will be in charge of handling boat rentals for a slew of tween girls. I'm a little surprised Mom bought that this would be something I would want to do, but Elizabeth can be very persuasive (as I know all too well). She's even convinced Mom a summer in the backwoods of Maine will get me far away from the “negative influences” that led to my “poor decision making with regard to that party incident.”

Oh, she's good.

Somehow Mom has managed to hyperventilate only once this morning. I, however, can't say the same.

“Mom,
yes.
I have my photo ID.”

“Okay, well, make sure you keep it out because you'll need it when you go through security.”

“Mom, I know. We've been over this.”

“And what about your phone? And the snacks I packed you for the flight? You know what a picky eater you are and you'll be lucky if they serve so much as peanuts on the plane. I should have packed you a whole lunch. I can't believe I let you and your sister talk me into this.”

Madison makes her way over, hunched to one side by the weight of her shoulder duffel. She waves a few sheets of paper at us. “I've got both our boarding passes.”

It's exceedingly helpful to have a best friend who majors in devious. She was all over perpetuating my little charade for Mom's benefit.

“I don't know, sweetie. I'm just wondering if I should walk to the gate with you,” Mom says. “I'll bet if I talked to someone with the airline, I could get one of those passes to accompany a minor through security.”

“Mom! Those are for five-year-olds! I'm not exactly what they mean by a minor!”

“And she's got me, Mrs. Sadler. I do this every summer, remember?” Madison practices her most innocent expression on my mother. Mom's shoulders relax.

“Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I thought I'd be at the airport today
waving Elizabeth off on her European adventure, not sending my baby to Maine. It's just, it feels like yesterday Aubree was clinging to my leg at nursery school drop-off and now my little girl is going halfway across the country from me.”

Or halfway around the world. But who's getting technical? At least she's not suspicious about the way my departure date aligned with Elizabeth's. Having Madison willing to leave a few days early helped big-time.

“Mom, I'm good. I promise. Besides, Dad's probably circled the airport twice by now waiting for you.”

Mom wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “I know, you're right. Madison, you have to excuse this. She's just never been away from home before. You can't blame a mom for worrying.”

When Mom looks away, I roll my eyes at Madison, who stifles a laugh. Although, as much as I'm following proper teen protocol on the outside, inside I'm a mess just like my mother.

Mom sniffles one last time, then straightens. “Okay, okay. Give me a giant hug. And promise to text me when you get on the plane.”

I wrap my arms around her. Madison used to have a bumper sticker on her binder that said, “A hug is just a strangle you haven't finished yet,” and I sort of get it at the moment. It's probably a good thing Mom's acting a tiny bit annoying, because otherwise I might be falling apart too, in a way totally inappropriate for someone my age who's only headed to a summer camp in Maine.

Who am I kidding? I am absolutely
thisclose
to falling apart. There's a lump in my throat that refuses to be swallowed away and tears prickling my eyelids. I've never been away from home for more than the occasional sleepover and suddenly I'm feeling overly sentimental about good old Hudson, Ohio.

I backtrack with Mom to the sliding glass doors, allegedly to claim one last hug, but also so I can make sure she gets into the car and pulls away. I can't risk her seeing me switch terminals to get to where my actual flight departs.

Dad pulls up to the curb and gives a light tap on the horn. We said our good-byes at home, so he leans over the passenger seat and blows kisses.

Then they drive off. And I'm alone.

Well, not really. As soon as they're out of sight, Madison races over from where she's been hovering a few feet away. “Are you okay?”

I swipe my hand across my cheek before she catches the tear and grin at her. I can tell she's not fooled. She steals a look at the clock in the center of the terminal and says, “Crap. I wish I had time to hang until you're feeling like yourself again, but the line for security is huge and if I don't get in it soon, neither one of us will be in Maine to send home those postcards you wrote. I hate leaving you like this. Are you gonna be okay? Your sister's waiting outside?”

I nod, forcing a smile.

But instead of hoisting her duffel farther up her shoulder, Madison lets it drop to the ground and grins back at
me. “Wow. I still can't believe you're actually going to see the Eiffel Tower. And the
Mona Lisa
. And the Alps. I'm insanely jealous, you know that, right? I expect email updates by the hour—they'll be waiting on my phone when I make trips to civilization. And I know I've said this a zillion times, but seriously don't worry about your mom. The camp director was my counselor way back when I was still a camper there. She's beyond awesome
and
she owes me big-time for sticking me in charge of a cabin last year that was one case of head lice after another. I've already emailed her all the deets. She'll totally cover for you if your mom or dad calls.”

As she talks, she helps me tug a lightweight hooded rain jacket over my head.

“If you meet hot European boys, I expect pictures. Or videos. That way I can hear their scrumptious accents. Ooh la la.”

I snort. “You do know I'm going to be spending all my time with octogenarians, right? I can send you videos of old-guy ear hair, if you insist.”

Madison makes a face as I twist my hair into a low ponytail and tuck it under my jacket before yanking on a baseball cap. Disguise complete. Not that I'm expecting my parents to circle back around, but you know, I wouldn't put it past my mom to come wailing through the terminal, looking for “one last good-bye” as if I'm headed off to war.

Nodding at my transformation, my best friend grabs me into a hug. “You're super-brave. I'm in total awe. I cannot
believe
you agreed to this, but I'm so, so excited for you. You're
gonna be amazing. I just know it.”

I didn't realize how much I needed someone to say exactly that to me right at this very second. Elizabeth has been saying things like this these last two weeks and I still don't believe the words, but I believe that she, and now Madison, does, and that counts for something. I nod hard and we squeeze it out before I help her settle her giant duffel back on her shoulder.

“Go take on the world!” Madison calls, working her way toward security.

I give a final wave as Madison takes her place at the back of the security line; then I quickly slip through the glass doors, back onto the sidewalk. Ten cars up the row, I find my sister slumped low behind the steering wheel of her friend's borrowed Toyota. I giggle at the lengths we've gone to in order to pull the wool over my parents' eyes. It's been like planning a spy mission.

In fact, the best thing about all of this is that the last two weeks with Elizabeth have been everything I hoped for when I said yes to this crazy scheme. She's been really patient with me—even when I've had periodic quasi panic attacks whenever reality hit that this trip was an actual thing that was happening—and we've spent nearly every day together running errands, reviewing her binder of information, and snorting with laughter at the testimonials in the tour brochure (where one women exclaimed, “I couldn't believe the copious amounts of time I was given to get my teeth back in before departure every morning!”). It's the most time we've spent
together in the four years since she left for college and I think she's finally, finally seeing me as something other than that middle school kid who borrowed her clothes without asking, and maybe even acknowledging that, with me starting college, the age difference between us doesn't have to mean so much. I think maybe she finally sees me as an equal. Or at least, as someone she could be friends with.

Elizabeth doesn't notice me approach from behind, and through the rolled-down window I can hear her on the phone.

“I mean, I'm taking a pretty big gamble here. What if she can't do it?” she's saying.

I pause and step back, just out of her view.

“I know,” she continues. “But you've never met my sister. She's just not . . . not . . . I don't even know what the right word is. Assertive, maybe? Resourceful? She's basically completely codependent on my mom, who does ev-er-y-thing for her.”

I'm stunned. This entire time Elizabeth has had cheerleader-level enthusiasm for her plan.
Her
plan. It certainly wasn't
my
idea to go traipsing around Europe with a bunch of grannies. And whenever I expressed the slightest doubt, she talked right over it, telling me how easy it will be, how great I'll be. And the whole time she was hiding these feelings?

Elizabeth continues chattering into the phone. “. . . I know . . . I know. Right. She hasn't ever been out in the world. I don't even think she drives into Cleveland ever. She's never had a real job before . . . yeah. Yeah, I guess. Okay, but let me rest my case with this: she had my mother pack her snacks for
the plane ride. . . . No, I'm not kidding!” Elizabeth giggles into the phone.

I go from stunned to furious in two seconds flat. She's laughing at me? After everything I'm about to do to save her ass? I'm furious. I tap twice on the back window and then fiddle with the handle, before yanking it open and dumping my suitcase and backpack inside.

“Gotta go,” my sister hisses into the phone. I exhale a sharp breath and slide into the passenger seat. My sister plasters on a big smile as we move out into traffic, headed for the terminal that houses the airline the tour company uses.

“How'd it go with Mom and Dad?” she asks brightly.

I'm in no mood for her fake friendship. All the confidence Madison's words gave me—and then some—was just wiped away in one overheard phone call. Elizabeth has been insisting I was overreacting every time I got nervous about something or other to do with the trip. All along she kept telling me to trust her, trust the binder full of information she compiled for me, trust that the tour company could have my back. Trust myself. How many times had she said that to me over the last two weeks?

Was it all a big show on her part?

It's one thing for me not to have faith in myself, but finding out my sister doesn't have faith in me either feels like a punch to the gut. And I can't hide it. I'm quiet for a long moment as she circles to the farthest terminal. Finally she repeats her question.

“I heard your phone call,” I snap.

“My—? What?” She acts all innocent but I see her hands clench the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turn white.

I roll my eyes, even though she's now busy looking for a spot to pull up along the curb at the terminal, and can't see me. “You know. Where you told your friend that I'm probably about to ruin your life because I won't be able to keep it together.”

Elizabeth puts the car in park and reaches across the console to place a hand on my knee. It feels condescending, like I'm a small child she's trying to reason out of a temper tantrum. “You didn't hear that, because I didn't say that.”

“No, not exactly. You just said I'm a baby who needs my mommy.” I sit spine stiff in my seat, ignoring her hand and staring out the window at the terminal entrance, where a couple is kissing like their very lives depend on it.

“I didn't mean it like
that
,” Elizabeth says in a soft voice, and I snort.

It feels like every good minute of the last two weeks has just been erased. I can't have this conversation right now. I lurch out of my seat and slam my door behind me. Elizabeth yells “Bree!” in a shocked voice but I ignore her and grab my bags from the backseat. She reaches for her own door handle and hops out of the car, but I move faster, striding toward the terminal. I know she can't leave the car on the curb in a no-parking zone and I quicken my pace. When the glass doors of the terminal swish closed behind me, I steal a tiny backward
glance at my sister. She looks completely perplexed and a little lost, her head tilted and her shoulders raised. I swallow another lump in my throat.

That was not at all the send-off I'd envisioned. Not one tiny bit.

This trip isn't even two minutes old and already it's a disaster.

Mom's always telling
me I can't say I don't like something until I've tried it. She's usually talking about bologna. Or Zumba classes.

Well, you know what, Mom? I've tried flying now.

And flying and I will
not
be
achieving bestie status.

I'm somewhere over the Atlantic in a tin box of death and the curved walls are closing in on me. Every time I pick my head up to look around, my eyes can't help but land on the TV screen at the front of the cabin. The one that shows a tiny animated version of our plane arcing in marching red dots across the ocean—the giant, sprawling, endless sea represented on the screen by a crap-ton of blue. Seriously, it's like watching a slasher film. I know I should look away. I
want
to look away.

I can't look away.

“Nervous flyer, huh?” The businessman next to me touches my arm lightly.

“Sorry?” I tug my headphones out of my ears.

“I was saying, you seem on edge.” He passes me a fresh napkin.

I look down at the one already in my hands and realize I've shredded it into pieces so itty-bitty, it's like my seat-back tray has dandruff. Awesome.

“Thanks,” I say.

So. Embarrassing.

As is the fact that I'm clutching Mr. Pricklepants, my obviously well-loved stuffed hedgehog. I may be a bona fide high school graduate of all of six days, but there are times a girl needs her snuggly.

“Hey, don't worry about it. I used to be a wreck on planes too,” he says.

“How did you stop?” I shift to face him, eager for tips.

He laughs. “Six months of hypnotherapy.”

“Oh. I was hoping you'd say something more immediate, like, ‘You just have to do a headstand and count to twenty.'”

He laughs again. At least someone is enjoying himself on this flight.

“In the here and now, the best thing I've found is to go to sleep and let time take care of the rest. Can't be panicked if you're fast asleep.”

“Can't be fast asleep if you're afraid you're going to snore through the oxygen masks dropping from the ceiling,” I counter.

This time his smile is rueful. So's mine. In fact, I'd say
rueful
pretty much describes my mood in general, ever since the Great Sister Switch idea was hatched by perfect (HA!) Elizabeth. I'm trying not to think about how, even
if
I survive this flight, that is so only the beginning of things.

I tuck Mr. Pricklepants against the egg-shaped window and snuggle into him. My seatmate has turned his attention back to his laptop, so I close my eyes and try to figure out how
this
became my life. The plane gives the tiniest of lurches and I grab for the armrest. Instead I'm horrified to find myself clutching the businessman's arm.

“Um, sorry,” I say, but my eyes are glued to the ceiling, waiting for the oxygen mask.

He gently uncurls my fingers from his forearm and pats my hand.

“Words of wisdom didn't help, huh?”

Yeah, no.

He sighs and says, “Look, I probably shouldn't offer this to a total stranger, but I would feel bad if I had a way to help you and didn't suggest it. I have trouble adjusting to the time difference, so I always travel with sleeping pills. Would you like one? It'll knock you out for the flight.”

Okay, so of course Mom's
Dateline
obsession means I know never to take any drugs not prescribed to me, much less from a stranger, but it's not like he's targeted me for this or anything. There
is
a legitimate reason behind his offer. Plus, the guy has a copy of
The Tale of Peter Rabbit
in his carry-on case and he read it over the phone to his kids while we were
still parked at the gate, before blowing them good-night kisses. He really blew them too, even though his kids couldn't see if he was or wasn't. Surely
this guy
doesn't have plans to put me under and auction me off to some underground sex trade.

“That would be amazing, if you have one to spare,” I say.

He reaches into the carry-on and withdraws a small toiletries kit. “I can't promise you'll have your wits about you when we land. You're only supposed to take this if you have eight hours to devote to sleep and we land in”—he glances up at the evil screen of death—“four hours and eighteen minutes.”

I accept the pill he offers as he continues, “So maybe you'll just want to take—”

I pop the pill in my mouth and swallow.

“—half.”

My eyes grow big as I process his words.

“Ah, okay,” he says. “I'm sure it will be fine.”

“Right. Well, thank you so much.” I give him a grateful smile and adjust my pillow, aka Mr. Pricklepants.

“My pleasure. Sweet dreams.”

I coil the cord of my headphones around my cell and tuck it into the seat pocket alongside Elizabeth's “Everything Bus-Tour Related” binder before snuggling under the paper-thin blanket the airline provided.

Finally, I can turn off the noise in my brain. This sustained level of adrenaline can't be good. The flight attendants are reassuring with their constant bustling and offers of drinks up and down the aisles as I close my eyes and burrow in.

“Miss? Miss! You have to wake up now, miss.”

I squint my eyes open. Where am I? Mmm . . . so sleepy. I flutter them closed again, until a hand shakes my shoulder. Pesky, pesky person, leave me alone.

“Miss, I let you sleep as long as I could, but the flight's empty now and we've got a quick turnaround before we're wheels up.”

I jerk upright and wipe a trail of drool from my cheek, hoping the flight attendant hovering over me doesn't notice it. Oh wow, I really crashed out. The plane is parked at the gate and there are only a few people still shuffling off. The seats all around are perfectly empty. Even my friendly pill-dispensing businessman has deserted me.

“I'm so sorry. I'll . . . I'm going now.”

I move Mr. Pricklepants to the seat beside me, unclip my seat belt, and pop up, only to bump my head on the overhead compartment. Ouch!

“Can I give you a hand? Is this your bag up here?” The flight attendant gestures to the open overhead compartment.

“I can get it,” I say.

Sliding out of my row, I reach above her for my backpack. It's the only thing left in there, but it doesn't budge when I pull on it. I give a hard yank and something tugs free, sending the bag flying out and me tumbling into the row of seats behind me.

“Oh!” exclaims the flight attendant. She offers me a hand and helps me to my feet.

“Oh dear,” she says, this time examining the contents of my backpack, which are now scattered across the aisle and multiple rows.

I snatch my bag from the floor and begin cramming items into it, with no particular rhyme or reason. The flight attendant retreats a few rows and returns to delicately hand me the spare underwear I included in my carry-on in case my checked luggage got lost.

Dear God, shoot me now.

“I think this is the last of it,” she says discreetly.

“Thank you so much.”

“Don't mention it. Enjoy your trip.” Gee, what gave away the fact that I'm a visitor and not some suave European returning home? I try in vain to zip my backpack closed, but the zipper head refuses to line up in the track.

Instead, I force the bag onto my front, tugging it over my shoulders and hugging it to my chest to keep it closed. Mr. Pricklepants peeks over the top. The bag is wider than I am, so I bump seat edges the whole way off the plane. When I reach the exit, the pilot does a double take.

So much for leaving the drama at home.

I could really go for some coffee. And a shower. Anything that will clear the cobwebs out of my brain. I guess there's a reason people coined the term “medicine head” because I'm feeling fuzzier than a pair of slippers right about now. I trail the few lingering passengers up the Jetway and into the terminal.

It doesn't look so very different from the airports in
Cleveland or Philly, where I made my connection. I'm not sure what I expected, but this is Europe. Shouldn't it feel totally foreign? Like maybe the air should be different somehow? Even the signs are in English and there's a banner advertising a McDonald's in Terminal One.

Somehow this is both a huge relief and oddly disappointing.

I follow the crowds to the passport control line and fumble for my passport inside my shirt. Elizabeth made me get a ridiculous-looking money belt, which is like a flat fanny pack I'm supposed to wear buckled around my waist on the inside of my clothes. She says it will keep my money and documents safely on me at all times, yet protected from pickpockets. Apparently there's this rumor online about thieves on trains who wrap bundles up to look like babies and then throw them at tourists. Because who wouldn't reach up to try to catch a tiny infant sailing through the air? Which is exactly when they rob you blind. These are the stories I wish she'd kept to herself. Nonetheless, I'm sort of grateful to her at the moment because at least I don't have to worry about my passport lying abandoned underneath an airplane seat.

I reach the front of the line and slide my only identification under the glass divide to the security guard. Even though I have Elizabeth's to show at hotel check-ins with the tour, I draw the line at committing international fraud. I hand him Aubree Sadler's brand-spanking-new-and-extremely-expensive-to-procure-last-minute passport, with every page boringly blank. Kinda like my brain right now. Ugh.

So. Groggy.

The man looks at it for two-point-five seconds, riffles all the empty pages, and settles on a random one to press his stamp onto.

“Next!” he calls as he slides it back to me.

And just like that I'm in Europe, officially. I thought the occasion would be more noteworthy somehow. I shuffle away, hugging my backpack—er,
front
pack—as I navigate to baggage claim and watch, dazed, while the luggage comes bubbling up from a conveyor belt below to thump onto a circling carousel.

I grab my suitcase, then head back upstairs to grab something to eat. Step by step, that's how I'm going to take this whole experience, because if I think ahead past the next step, the panic attacks threaten. Elizabeth and I reviewed my arrival in painstaking detail and I know from her online research there's a food court in Lounge One upstairs with real American fast food chains. I'm not ready to take my chances with Dutch food just yet. My sister even included a map of the airport facilities in the Amsterdam section of my binder.

I stop sharp in the middle of the walkway. A small child pushing a doll in a stroller and chattering away in a foreign language nearly crashes into me.

“Sorry,” I say. But inside I am screaming.

My binder!

My binder
and
my phone are tucked inside the seat-back pocket.

On the airplane.

Oh my God, oh my God! If I hadn't been so out of it and in such a rush to get off the plane, this never would have happened. I can't believe I did something so totally stupid. That binder has everything, EVERYTHING, I need for this trip. And my phone! My phone is my only method of communication.

What am I supposed to do now?