Wanderlost (8 page)

For the remainder of the drive to Braubach, Mr. Fenton entertains us all with funny and interesting stories about the
Rhine castles. I don't know whether to be intimidated, thankful, or scared for my evaluation.

I decide to settle on thankful. I haven't had to make up any more elaborate stories to deceive my sweet and trusting guests, and Dolores looks especially enthralled with everything that comes out of Mr. Fenton's mouth, so I'm fairly sure she's forgotten all about me.

Which is exactly how I want it.

My sister wasn't
kidding when she said there'd be lots of downtime. I get that the tour company doesn't want to run senior citizens ragged with a crazy schedule, but what it means is that, after arriving at our hotel, we're all on our own for the night.

I make sure everyone's luggage gets to his or her room, then excuse myself to head to my own. Even though there's still some time before Sam is supposed to call, I don't want to take the chance of not being there.

I plop on my bed and switch on the TV. The only channels I can find in English are twenty-four-hour news stations that seem to repeat the same five headline stories, so I settle for an episode of
Modern Family
in German, and it's actually kind of fun trying to piece together the sitcom plot based only on visual clues.

When the phone rings I jump and then practically fall off the bed in my eagerness to grab it. I put it to my ear while
saying, “My turn to ask the questions. Window seat or aisle?”

“What? Bree, is that you?”

It's not Sam. Not Sam at all.

It's my sister.

As annoyed with her as I've been and as much as I've surprised myself by actually enjoying playing European tourist, I'm completely unprepared for the intense wave of homesickness that hits me when I hear her voice. I don't know where in our house she is, but I picture her sitting out in the backyard, next to the stepping stone path we decorated with our little painted handprints the summer my parents put in the pool. For years after that I used to lie in the grass and fit my palm over the imprint of her hand on the rock, trying to stretch my fingers to cover the purple paint she'd used.

Suddenly I miss those rocks. I miss the pool. I miss my bed. I miss the tomato-soup stain on the countertop by the sink and the way Mom mumbles, “Should have listened to that damn contractor when he warned me about stains and marble countertops” every single, solitary time it catches her attention. I miss the strawberry-lime shampoo in my shower and the tiny gap in the crown molding in my ceiling where the corners meet, which I used to stare at from my bed, waiting for spiders to sneak out. I miss ice in my drinks. Why is it so hard to get ice in drinks in Europe? Is there some kind of shortage?

“Yeah, it's me,” I answer over the new lump in my throat. “I, um, I thought you were one of my passengers and I needed to know what side of the bus he wanted to sit on tomorrow.”

“Wouldn't he just choose one for himself in the morning? Are there assigned seats with only six passengers? Never mind. Don't need to know. Jesus, Bree, have you been getting my messages? Why haven't you called me? One call to Mom does not cut it! I've been worried sick, thinking all kinds of horrible things, and it really doesn't help that your phone goes straight to voice mail.”

I get it. I should have called her and I've been avoiding it. But why couldn't her first assumption have been that I was having too much fun to call home? Why imagine all the things I could be messing up? I sigh. I definitely don't want to tell her I lost my phone because I refuse to give her any further ammunition for Dump on Aubree Day, as it apparently has been declared.

“My cell's turned off because I realized the bill goes to Mom and Dad and I didn't want them to see the international calls.”

Actually, I hadn't considered that until right this very second, but wow. Talk about a bullet dodged. Thank
God
I lost my phone.

Elizabeth sounds equally awed. “Damn, for all the planning we did, we never even thought of that. Nice looking out.”

Finally,
finally
. A touch of respect in her voice. I savor it and feel my insides unclench. I really hate fighting with her. It's so much worse than the way things have been for the past few years, which was more plain old distant versus ugly emotional. I mean, I haven't really liked the distant thing either, but at
least it made sense, since the difference between a fourteen-year-old and an eighteen-year-old (which is how old we both were the last time we spent any significant time together) is pretty pronounced.

“Okay, so tell me everything,” Elizabeth orders. “How is it? How are the seniors? Are they nice? Is the tour well organized? Is everything in the binder helping?”

I try not to notice that not one of those questions asks about
me.
How
I'm
doing. I know she's probably just worried about her job with the congressman and whether she'll get to keep it, but c'mon. To be honest, I really do want to tell her all about everything in minute detail. But the weird thing is that, at the same time, I also
don't
want to tell her.

The last couple of days have been an exhausting whirlwind of emotions: I've felt overwhelmed, awed, terrified, amused, frustrated, hungry, tired, amazed. Even though I've been surrounded by people, I've mostly been processing those feelings by myself because I can't exactly confide in anyone here. And that's been . . . okay. Not every minute's been fun, but it's nice to have something that's
mine
, the way this trip has somehow become. As cheesy as this sounds, I'm actually kind of proud of myself for the way I've been problem solving.

If I tell Elizabeth everything in detail, I'm worried she'll get all judgy or tell me how I could have handled a certain instance better, and I might have to scream. Or I might get even more pissed at her, and that's not what I want at all. I wanted this trip to make our relationship better, not worse,
but it kind of feels worse right now. I just want her to have faith in my ability to do the damn tour.

So instead of filling her in about the missing binder, or the fact that Bento and I can't get past
hola
and
buenas noches,
or how Mr. Fenton had to bail my ass out on the castle descriptions today, I say, “It's good. Everything is great. I'm just really, really tired. I guess jet lag lasts longer than I thought.”

Elizabeth is quiet for a second and then says, “That's it? I've been out of my mind for three days and that's the sum total of it?”

“I mean, the scenery is really pretty.” I could give her more. I could tell her about the girl who died alone in the Rapunzel tower waiting to be rescued or how I learned the pointed toes some Dutch clogs have are to help fishermen pull nets from the water, but in reality, I hate how she's gone and made everything all about her again. It's all about how
she's
been worried, how
she's
been feeling. I feel like the scenery in
The Elizabeth Show.

Across the ocean, she sighs. “It's just weird that you're so quiet and zen now when, before we left, you were so freaked out about going. Could you at least tell me that everything is fine with the people at At Your Age Adventures? Have you talked to the tour operator for check-ins? Do they seem suspicious at all?”

Have I talked to the tour company? Oh hell yeah. I glance at the clock. I should be speaking to Sam again in exactly one hour and I'm slightly giddy about it. I'm sure it's just the
fun of flirting with someone my own age, after days among the elderly, that's fueling my mini insta-crush, but whatever. It's harmless. “Yup, I've talked to them every night. As far as they're concerned, everything is one hundred percent perfect.” I catch myself before I say “top-notch” and grin a secret smile. Fifty-nine minutes.

Elizabeth says, “Thank God for that. Not that you've asked, but there's nothing to report here. Mom checks the weather in Maine ten times a day and already sent you a care package of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Guess Madison will inherit them. I'm really glad you're holding up over there. Do you think you could
try
calling me from your hotels along the way? I mean, besides Madison, I'm literally the only other person who knows where in the world you are, so it would be kind of nice to actually have confirmation you're in the places you're supposed to be.”

She sounds put out or snippy or I don't know what, and I hate that the conversation is going like this. I know I could probably play nice and give her what she wants, which is the sweet, hero-worshiping attitude she knows and loves, but I'm still too hurt by the things she said about me behind my back. I know I need to just get over it, but at the moment it's powering my determination to get one kick-ass evaluation and prove to her how wrong she was, and I need that incentive. I really need that incentive.

So I just reply, “Of course! I'll call you every few days from the hotels. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” She doesn't sound upset anymore, just quiet. “Hey, I hope you're having fun.”

Finally
. I smile. “I really am.”

She sounds like she's smiling too when she says, “Good. See? I told you you would.”

And just like that, I'm annoyed again. God, why is she making it so hard to just be friendly and normal with her?

I puff out a breath and say something I've never said to my sister before. “You know what, Elizabeth? Screw you.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I reply.

“What the hell, Bree?”

I grind my teeth. “I just wish you'd save it with the condescending attitude. It's really not helpful.”

“Condescending—? Okay, I have no idea what you're talking about. None. No offense, but you're kind of blowing things out of proportion lately. The airport . . . now whatever this is . . . I really don't understand you.”

And therein lies the problem. I just snort, to which she responds, “Oh, grow up, Aubree.”

“Maybe I already have,” I snap, slamming down the phone.

Okay, what just happened? Elizabeth and I never fight over real, actual stuff. Mostly because we're each orbiting our own planets, but still. She pushed a hot button, but immediately I feel bad. Although I have to smirk just a tiny bit. I bet not that many people have hung up on my sister before. She must be pissed beyond belief. It's mean of me to
find glee in that, but I kind of do.

However, when she calls back less than a minute later, I'm already cooled off enough to answer with a contrived “I'm sorry.”

There's a beat or two of silence at the other end, and then a very male, very
not Elizabeth
voice says, “Love means never having to say you're sorry, Dimples. You're forgiven.”

Sam! My mood does the fastest 180 known to man. I stifle a giggle and answer, “Um, did you just call me Dimples?”

“Of course. If we're all in with this, we need terms of endearment. You're Dimples because it's possible I snuck a peek at the copy of your passport we have on file. I'm all for instalove, but I really do need a visual before committing totally. FYI: your dimples are adorable.”

Oh good God. Of course he means Elizabeth's dimples are adorable. I have
a
dimple. Singular. Not like it matters because Sam can't see me, but . . .

He's still talking. “What do you want to call me? I came up with a few suggestions for you to choose from. Number one: Your Highness. If that doesn't work, I'm also amenable to: My One True Hero, Captain Amazing, or, while we're on the captain theme, Oh Captain, My Captain. Your pick.”

Sam is ridiculous. He's exactly what I need right now. “Give me a second to ponder this,” I say, feeling every lingering bad feeling from my call with Elizabeth fly out into the German night air.

Sam whistles the tune from Final Jeopardy! while he waits.

“How about Watson?” I propose.

“Wow. Way to woo a guy. That doesn't sound nearly worshipful enough. Are you referring to the volleyball in
Cast Away
?”

“That was Wilson, you nut.”

“Oh, ‘you nut' definitely does not work for me either. Let's scratch that. Tell me more about Watson. I'm intrigued.”

“You know. From Sherlock Holmes?” I say. “Because he's the supportive sidekick helping out behind the scenes? Like you with this tour.”

“Ugh, that's almost as bad as asking me to be Robin to your Batman. How come you get to be Sherlock? Sherlock is way more badass.”

“Yeah, well, Jude Law played Watson in the movies. And he was one of
People
magazine's Most Beautiful Men.
Buuuut
, if you don't want me to think of you that way . . .”

Sam laughs. “Now that I can live with, Dimples. Watson it is. So now that we have nicknames established, we're cranking right along. What should we cover next? Where to spend Thanksgiving? My mom cooks a mean turducken. What does yours have to offer?”

I make a face at the idea of turkey and duck in one. “The best mashed potatoes east of the Mississippi. Oh, plus she melts marshmallows
and
brown sugar in the sweet potato casserole. Not even kidding.”

Sam's picked a good topic. Nothing cheers me up like my mother's cooking, although picturing the Thanksgiving table
reminds me that my diet these last few days has not exactly been well-rounded. Dinner tonight was a Bavarian pretzel.

“Not bad, not bad,” Sam says. “Maybe we could time it to hit both. Or do you have to do that holiday runaround already? Are your parents divorced or together?”

“They're together. My dad's in charge of Thanksgiving dessert. Usually that means at least three pies: grasshopper, bourbon pecan, and pumpkin.”

“Remind me to invest in some stretch pants sometime between now and then,” Sam says.

Is it wrong that I'm kind of loving our fake relationship? I've never even met the guy, but I find myself actually wishing he were coming to my house for Thanksgiving. (I'm also wishing hard that I had a pumpkin pie in front of me right now.)

I lie back on my pillow and let Sam's voice warm my insides. “How about you?” I ask. “Are your parents together?”

Sam is quiet for a second and then says, “Nope. Just me and my mom. As for my dad: never met the guy.” I don't know how to answer at first, so I'm relieved when he barely pauses before asking, “Hey, so how 'bout them Yanks?”