Stacey sank into the bed. Her face was pale. “This is horrible. My whole vacation is ruined.”
“I bet this kind of thing happens all the time,” I said.
“Ashes in a suitcase?” Stacey shot back.
“No, lost luggage. We’ll get it back.”
“But I won’t have anything to wear until then!”
“You can wear my clothes,” I offered.
“Your —?” For a moment, Stacey looked as if I’d asked her to swim in a pool of spit. Then she forced a polite smile. “Thanks, but they’re, um, probably too small.”
I knew she’d say that.
I also knew the truth: Stacey would rather wear tinfoil than my kind of clothes. Outside of gym class, I do not believe a T-shirt or sweat-pants have ever touched the skin of Anastasia McGill.
“We could go shopping right now,” I said.
That idea seemed to cheer Stacey up.
“M-C-G-I-L-L,” Ms. McGill spelled out to someone on the other end of the phone. “And I’m at the Cardington Inn….”
She gave the phone number, said good-bye, and quickly hung up. “The good news,” she said, “is that Mr. Anderson was probably on our flight, which means he may be staying somewhere in London. The airline will find out and leave a message at Reception. The bad news is that if we don’t leave right now, we’re going to be late for our meeting with the kids from Ze-hava Berger Junior High.”
“But I can’t go down there wearing this,” said Stacey.
“It’s a beautiful, expensive outfit,” Ms. McGill protested.
“And it’s been through a six-hour plane ride!” Stacey exclaimed.
“Okay, I’ll bring you something of mine,” Ms. McGill said, turning to leave.
“But — but —” Stacey sputtered.
Too late. Ms. McGill was gone.
Stacey looked as if she’d been sentenced to death row. “I have to wear my mom’s clothes?”
I eyed Mr. Anderson’s suitcase. “You know, Stace, some of those trousers look pretty nice.”
* * *
I don’t need to tell you Stacey’s response to that last comment.
She did, by the way, change into her mom’s skirt and sweater. The outfit looked fine to me, but Stacey was mortified.
“What are people going to think?” she asked as we stepped into the lift.
I shrugged. “That you’re my mom?”
“Very funny, Kristy. Hilarious. I have stolen a man’s suitcase with a murder victim inside it, the mob is about to close in, I’m making my European debut looking like a cover model for Parenting magazine, and you’re making fun of me!”
“You don’t know he was murdered,” I said.
Stacey wouldn’t talk to me the rest of the way downstairs.
We were the last ones to reach the hotel meeting room. The Stoneybrook and Berger kids were huddled together — in two separate groups. Standing up. Ignoring each other.
It was kind of funny. But really immature.
At least Ms. McGill and Mr. D were mingling. They were off in a corner with the two Berger chaperones.
I could overhear some of the Berger kids speaking a foreign language. “French?” I asked Mallory.
She nodded. “Remember, they’re from a Canadian school.”
“I thought Quebec was the French-American city,” Jessi remarked. “Toronto’s in Ontario, right?”
“I guess Toronto has a few French speakers too,” Mal said.
A silver-haired woman stepped forward and started clapping her hands. “Attention, please!” she said in a clipped British accent. “We’re all here, so will everyone sit in a rough circle on the carpet?”
In a few minutes we were cross-legged on the floor. The woman stood in the middle, next to a cute, young guy with wire-rimmed glasses and beard stubble. “I’m Ms. Post,” the woman went on. “This is Mr. LaVigne. We work for the tour group, and we’ll be your guides. Now, I know you and your chaperones have been flying all night and you’re tired. We scheduled a light first day, and you may nap here if you like, but I do recommend you go to sleep later, on London time, even if your body tells you it’s not time to do so. To begin our trip, I want us to get to know each other. So, will you all kindly take off one shoe and put it in a pile — Stoneybrook shoes to my right and Berger shoes to my left.”
“A shoe?” Jessi whispered. “After we’ve been in them since yesterday?”
Abby grimaced. “Do they have oxygen masks handy?”
“When you’re finished,” Mr. LaVigne continued, “each of you will pick one shoe from the pile belonging to the other school. It will then be your responsibility to find the owner of the shoe and introduce him or her to your group.”
Stacey buried her face in her hands. “Oh my lord. This is the most humiliating day of my entire life.”
Personally, I thought the idea sounded cool. And I’d scribbled “Let’s Go, Mets!” all over my sneakers, so that would be a real conversation starter. If my shoe happened to be picked by a baseball fan.
Soon two piles of shoes were in the center of the carpet. When Ms. Post said “Go,” we all scrambled across the room, giggling.
I dived into the pile (I know, I get carried away). I came up with a guy’s loafer, made of pretty fancy-looking soft black leather.
I looked inside for a name. Nothing.
All around me, kids were holding out shoes to one another. The whole thing seemed so silly. Everyone was howling with laughter.
“Whose shoe?” I called out, tossing the loafer up in the air a few times, so everyone could see it.
“Take it easy, that is imported glove leather!” a voice called out from behind me.
The accent was definitely French. I turned to face a guy with long black hair that draped across his left eye. He was wearing a loose-fitting shirt, like the kind pirates used to wear, only black.
“Hi,” I said, extending my hand. “Kristy Thomas.”
He took his shoe back before shaking my hand. “Michel DuMoulin.”
“Michelle?” I asked.
He gave me a curious look. “You sound surprised.”
“Well, it just — sounds like a girl’s name. I mean, in my country. Like my sister’s name, Emily Michelle.”
I have such a big mouth. I should learn to shut it sometimes.
Michel did not look pleased to meet me.
“Yes. Well, Christopher, is this yours?” He held up the shoe he was holding, an enormous Doc Marten. Like, size 13.
Whoa. That was low. Very low.
Before I could answer, a sweet-looking girl walked up to me, carrying my sneaker. “Hi. I’m Shoshana. A girl named Mallory told me this is yours.”
“‘Let’s Go, Mets’?” Michel said, reading my scribble. “Your taste in baseball teams matches your taste in sneakers. Blue Jays all the way!”
I snatched my sneaker and stormed away. “Show me to your group, Shoshana.”
“Aren’t I supposed to meet your group?” Michel asked.
I let out a loud whistle. A dozen or so heads turned toward me. “Guys,” I announced, “this is Michel.”
That was it. I had done my job. I hoped I wouldn’t ever have to see that creep again.
“Now, we have a lot to do before the children arrive,” Ms. Garcia was saying. “But first, some news. As you notice, we have a new head counselor….”
It can’t be true, I thought.
“Our original head counselor, Tiffany Sweet, could not be with us….” Ms. Garcia droned on.
I made a mental note never, ever to talk to Tiffany again.
“… And I’m happy to say Jerry Michaels has found us a wonderful replacement….”
I could have gone on that trip to Europe. But I hadn’t wanted to. I had preferred to stay in Stoneybrook. I’d never been a counselor in a real, official camp before. And I love kids. Besides, two of my best friends — Dawn and Mary Anne — were going to be counselors. Plus Mary Anne’s boyfriend, Logan. Plus Bruce Schermerhorn, who ha
ppens to be very cute. (Okay, Cokie Mason is a counselor too. She’s a major pain. But hey, you can’t have everything.)
My gut had told me it was the right decision.
I shouldn’t always listen to my gut.
“… So I’d like you all to welcome a young woman who gave up another summer commitment just to take her place …”
Smile. Pretend your life hasn’t fallen apart.
“… Janine Kishi!”
It was official.
My genius big sister was going to be our new co-head counselor.
I was stuck.
Everyone started clapping. Clapping!
Jerry, of course, was applauding the loudest. He’d called Janine the night before. She’d explained to him that she already had a job. She was supposed to be a counselor at a camp for kids with various abilities and disabilities. But that didn’t stop Jerry. He said the Playground Camp would have to be canceled if she didn’t join.
The liar! He had a secret motive.
LUV.
See, he and Janine used to be boyfriend and girlfriend, until Janine dumped him. Then they got back together and Janine dumped him again.
You’d think he could take a hint, but no-o-o-o.
He kept insisting. And Janine fell for it. She somehow found someone to take her place in the other camp.
Why? Beats me. Maybe she likes playing hero.
“Thanks,” Janine said, blushing at the applause. “I hope I can do an adequate job. I intend to.”
Adequate. That is such a Janine word.
My sister is scary smart. She’ll use a three-syllable word even if a one-syllable word will do. She loves astrophysics and neurobiology. Calculus relaxes her. She’s in high school, but she takes college courses.
Me? I have to work like a dog just to pass my regular classes. I was sent back a grade temporarily because of poor marks.
My parents adore Janine. The three of them share the Kishi family smart genes. (My DNA must have heard its instructions wrong. It made art genes by mistake.)
Don’t get me wrong. I love Janine. Really.
She’s just easier to take in small doses, that’s all.
“We will divide the eighth-grade counselors into two groups of three,” Ms. Garcia went on. “Janine will be supervising half of them: Mary Anne, Dawn … and, naturally, Claudia.”
This was not happening.
This was too cruel.
Ms. Garcia rambled on and on, but I wasn’t hearing a word of her speech.
Soon she was running off to talk to the SES custodian, and we were splitting into our groups.
Janine led us toward the little-kid section of the playground.
“Are you okay?” Mary Anne asked softly.
I nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
“Hey,” Dawn whispered, “it’s about the kids, remember? Everything’ll change once they’re here.”
Mary Anne put an arm around my shoulder. “We’re all together. This’ll be fun.”
My friends are so cool. They read my mind.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Come along!” Janine called over her shoulder. “I suppose we should check the equipment, as a precaution.”
Check the equipment? Puh-leeze.
Dawn, Mary Anne, and I pulled on the swings. We felt the seesaw for splintery wood. We checked the sandbox for broken glass. Janine reached into the mouth of the fiberglass tyrannosaurus. (Why? To check for half-eaten chunks of fiberglass triceratops, I guess.)
After awhile I had nothing else to do. So I hopped on a swing.
So did Dawn and Mary Anne. In a moment, we were pumping hard, soaring toward the treetops.
“Uh, girls … ?” Janine said.
Jerry was bounding over to us. “Hey, isn’t anybody working here?”
“We’re finished,” I informed him.
“Oh. I see. Special little-sister privileges, huh?” Jerry remarked. “Lucky girl.”
Janine adjusted her glasses. “I beg your pardon?” she said coldly.
“Just kidding,” Jerry replied. “Don’t sweat it. Everything’s fine. Most of the important stuff is nearly done.”
He gestured toward the other part of the playground. Bruce was using a little wheeled thing to make chalk lines on the baseball field. Logan was on a ladder, attaching new nets to the basketball hoops. (Cokie was holding the ladder and looking at her nails.)
“For your information, Jerry,” Janine said, “child safety is very important.”
“Hey, I was joking!”
“We were working hard,” Janine pressed on. “And for your information, Claudia receives no special treatment at all.”
“Okay, okay,” Jerry replied. As he turned to go, he called out, “Yo, Cokie! After you’re done, go find out where the first-aid stuff is!”
Janine was glaring at him. Her lips were pursed.
I knew that look. I see it whenever I borrow something from her without asking. Or when I play my music too loud while she’s deep into astrophysics.
The Janine Kishi I-must-stay-in-control look.
“Claudia,” she said, “when you’re finished goofing off, would you please greet the children as they come in?”
Goofing off?
I stayed calm. I did not yell. I was not going to let her ruin my summer.
I dug my feet into the dirt beneath the swing and hopped off.
“Sure, Janine,” I said sweetly.
Janine turned to Dawn. “Maybe you and Ms. Garcia can bring out a table, to facilitate signing in. And Mary Anne, some extra name tags might be wise, until we know all the children by sight. And Claudia, while you’re talking to the parents, be sure they know that the children must have their immunization and health forms by today or they will not be admitted….”
As I walked away, nodding, I forced myself to smile.
“I will have fun,” I chanted under my breath. “I will have fun. I will have fun….”
“Attention,” a voice echoed into the gallery room. “We will be closing in ten minutes. Please proceed to the nearest exit.”
The visitors in the room started heading out. I had my eye on one of them.
Glasses. Red hair. A spray of freckles across the nose. A musical laugh.
So much like the photo of Gillian Orton that Mom had shown me.
But the image was at least twelve years old. Taken before I was born, when Mom was visiting England. Gillian would look a lot different now.
I tried to age the picture in my mind.
It was a match. Or close enough.
“Gillian?” I said to the woman.
She stopped laughing. “Beg pardon?”
“Never mind.”
This was ridiculous.
I had had this conversation about four times already. London is full of red-haired, freckle-faced women my mom’s age. And they all hang out at the Tate Gallery.
Ms. McGill was peeking nervously into the room. Most of the other kids had moved on to another exhibit.
“I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “But I can’t find Mr. Dougherty, and the Berger chaperones have already left with their kids, so I need to keep an eye on —”
“It’s okay,” I said, walking toward her. “I guess we should go.”
“Madam!” someone was calling from the opposite door. “Pardon me, but the gallery is closing.”
Ms. McGill turned toward the voice, nodding politely.
But the guard was yelling at someone else. An anxious-looking woman with a huge mop of salt-and-pepper hair. As she ran toward us, a man and two blond children followed her, trying to keep up.
“Pardon me,” the woman called out, “you don’t happen to be from the Stoneyfield School … ?”
“Brook,” said the older boy, who looked about nine or ten.
“Gillian?” I said.
“Mallory?” she replied.
Hallelujah. I was finally right.
Cousin Gillian threw her arms around me. “I thought so! I’m so sorry. You see —
oh, my dear, you are the spitting image of your mother! — I was in the middle of a particularly difficult chapter, and my agent called — you must have thought I’d forgotten about you — Bernard, Brett, this is your second cousin Mallory! And this is my husband, Peter!”
I was out of breath just listening. “Hi,” I said to the two boys. They were dressed in neatly pressed school uniforms, and they politely shook my hand.
“I’m eight, but most people think I’m older,” Bernard volunteered. “Brett is five, but most people think he’s younger.”
“Five and five-twelfths!” Brett corrected him.
“Peter Orton,” Gillian’s husband introduced himself. He was a tall, trim man with a blond beard, wearing a linen jacket and gabardine pants. “Welcome to London.”
I shook his hand, then introduced them all to Ms. McGill, who looked very relieved. She quickly excused herself and hurried off.
Gillian put her arm around me as we walked to the exit. “I never should have agreed to this impossible deadline,” she said. “Especially with a so-called full-time job that forces me to squeeze my writing into the worst time of the day, right after school. Sorry, darlings, it’s my favorite time, of course, just not conducive to writing, you see —”
“Mom never told me you were a writer,” I said.
“A novelist,” Mr. Orton said. “And a very good one.”
“An unpublished novelist,” Gillian said with a laugh. “Although I do have a contract for a book to be published. Aside from my publisher, my agent, and certain privileged members of my family, no one knows that I write. It’s our little secret. The university wouldn’t look kindly on one of their economics professors dabbling in popular fiction.”
“I’m a writer too!” exclaimed Brett, the younger son.
“In a language no one can recognize,” Bernard commented.
“Mummy, he’s teasing me!” Brett squealed.
“Boys, please,” Gillian said. “Anyway, I now have a deadline, which is why I was working so hard today and lost track of time. So please forgive me.”
Forgive her?
All that waiting in the gallery, all that anxiety — poof. Forgotten.
My cousin was a real, live writer.
A professor and a writer.