Girls Who Travel Page 8

  “So, have you made any friends yet?” my mom asked hopefully, because to her I was still ten years old.

  “Well, Elsbeth has a cleaning lady around my age. She’s from Poland and is obsessed with American pop music, so I hang out with her when she cleans, and we dance around the house singing Lady Gaga.” It was a delightfully uncomplicated friendship.

  “Oh no,” my mother said in discomfort.

  “Don’t worry. Elsbeth is never here when she comes. Elsbeth says she feels guilty watching her clean, so she always makes sure she’s out of the house. Plus, we don’t always goof off—I help her clean whenever she lets me.”

  “How often does she come?”

  “Every day.”

  My mom groaned. Though my mom and I grew up in an affluent area of Long Island, we were both still a little prickly among the super wealthy. For me, it was because I converted everything into traveler’s currency. I’d calculate money into potential days spent abroad, and that gave me a strange financial perspective. What some women spend on handbags, I could live on for a month in Central America.

  My mother always had money until she flew the coop to go to Italy instead of Dartmouth, where both her parents went.

  “I just wanted to see Botticelli’s La Primavera in the Uffizi,” she liked to say all casually with a relaxed shrug whenever I asked her why she chose Italy over Dartmouth.

  She told me that when she found out she was pregnant, she’d stare at that painting for hours, always looking at Spring, the fair-haired pregnant nymph scattering petals beside the muses. She said people used to tell her that she looked like that figure from the painting, all windy haired and serene eyed.

  “I guess there can’t be too many people your age in such an expensive area,” my mother said.

  I looked down from the balcony. Because of the way our house was turned on a wide angle, like a joint, I could see the entrance to the house next door. On the doorstep sat Aston with an acoustic guitar. He probably doesn’t even know how to play that thing, I thought to myself.

  “Well, my neighbor is my age.”

  “Oh?” asked my mother, sounding more faraway now. I heard the sink running on the other end of the line, and I could picture her washing out her morning coffee cup, which said, “Namaste, bitches,” on it.

  “Yeah, but he’s a total snob. One of those upper-crust British brats. Aston Hyde Bettencourt. He, like, told me straight-out he went to Oxford. And he was drunk at seven A.M.”

  “Well, who knows what things are really like for him? Mo’ money, mo’ problems,” my mom said sagely (and absurdly).

  “Speaking of having too much money, the Darlings are making me attend social events with the girls to make sure they don’t get into any ‘tomfoolery.’ Elsbeth’s word, not mine. So I shall be rubbing elbows with young royals any moment now. Not like I have a choice. Elsbeth even bought me all these boring conservative clothes to wear so I don’t embarrass her.”

  “Ah, champagne problems.”

  “Exactly, but still, I wish she’d stop trying to change me. Or at least let me pick out the clothing.”

  “That would be fun. Speaking of fun, have you planned any trips yet?”

  I pulled my sweater down over my fingertips, and when neither of us spoke, I could hear faint guitar chords mounting from Aston’s steps. My ears perked, caninelike. I guess he actually can play that thing.

  “I’m sure by now you have every weekend from now until summer booked!”

  “You know what, Mom?” I didn’t wait for her to answer because she’d never guess. “I actually don’t.”

  Despite the assertion in my words, I couldn’t help but think about how great a weekend in Malta would be right now. But I pushed this thought aside. Something in me made me deposit the money from that first paycheck instead of booking that trip.

  It was a spur-of-the-moment decision: I was walking past the bank and just decided to do it. Funnily enough, ever since I made that first deposit, all I wanted to do was make another. It felt that good.

  “I decided to wait awhile before traveling—so I can save some money,” I told my mom now.

  “No!”

  “Yes. I mean, maybe I’ll go away in a few months or something. It’s just that, immediately, when I got this job, I started thinking about all the trips I could go on. And that’s not the point of being here, is it? It’s to work and save money. I literally cannot afford to let what happened at VoyageCorp happen here.”

  “Ah, so the young grasshopper is learning.”

  “Let’s see how long my resolve lasts . . .” I was purposely avoiding spending too much time on the Internet for fear that a flight sale would pop up or that a friend would invite me somewhere.

  “What brought this on?” my mom asked.

  “Well, the other day I met this artist who has a stall on Portobello Road and sells this kiln-fused glass jewelry that she makes in a studio in her garden, the most beautiful pendants, earrings, and bracelets. I was thinking the old readers of Gypsies & Boxcars would love her stuff, so I want to relaunch the site. But I want to do it right this time. You know, invest money into it and make it self-sufficient.”

  “No trips booked? Investing money into a business? Making it self-sufficient? Is this really Kika that I’m talking to?”

  My pride made me blush. “I’ve been doing some reading online. But there’s still a lot to do. I have to line up more artisans besides this British artist, which means I’ll eventually have to travel again. So I guess I have to work out finances, you know, make a budget and business plan. But I’m crappy with numbers. I’ll need someone to help me.”

  “Don’t put yourself down. Just listen to yourself! If you keep at it you could really do this. And it sounds like your mind is in the right place for it now.”

  Just then, a melody of guitar strings wafted over to me like the smell of home cooking. The sound made me lose my train of thought and forget all about my website.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said distracted. Is that really Aston playing? “I should get going . . .”

  As if Aston felt me staring at him, he looked up and noticed me on the balcony. He gave me the slightest of head nods in civil salutation. I hung up the phone.

  The chords were haunting. The twanging notes were just one minor key away from full-fledged, unabashed sadness.

  The acoustics were better when I reached the street; the music grew louder with thick pastoral soul. The rustic melodies of my childhood resounded: the scratched records my mother would play in the drowsy summertime with every window in the house wide open. The memory of the smell of sticky ice pops and freshly cut July grass flooded over me.

  I followed the harmony in a trance until I found myself standing in front of Aston, arms crossed over my chest to protect myself from the cold.

  Aston noticed me but didn’t stop his vigorous strumming. He closed his eyes for a moment and hummed along.

  Lost in playing, he only briefly made eye contact with me in a sharp flick of those pink-rimmed, insistent blue eyes.

  He struck the final chord, and the sound fell from the air in perfect gradation. And then it was deafeningly quiet. In that moment he looked so artful: a timeless indie-folk troubadour against the red door with its antique brass knocker shaped like a lion.

  I felt the vibration rattle in my rib cage from the ghost of the long-gone note. I realized I hadn’t blinked in quite some time.

  “I . . . I . . .” I started, but I was not exactly sure why I was hovering over him like this. I was not exactly sure how I even got down to the street.

  20

  I STOOD THERE feeling clumsy and uncool, with a cow-eyed stare on Aston. Though it was freezing, I felt a hot bead of sweat slide down the arch of my spine like a tear.

  “Right,” he said, fracturing the trance. “I suppose I’m disturbing your sensitive ears and y
ou want me to piss off inside with my offending racket.”

  I bristled at his brittle delivery, scowling reflexively. Why does he have to be such an abrasive asshat?

  “That’s quite fair,” he said. He hoisted himself up with his palms on his knees and then tousled his already messy hair.

  I opened my mouth to correct him. But then he shrugged off the guitar strap from his threadbare merino wool sweater. His shirt followed his arm upward, and the motion revealed a band of taut lower stomach just above his loose, low-slung jeans.

  My belly did a little flip at the sight of the pristine skin of his lower abdomen, striped with a line of fine blond hairs that led my eyes lower and lower and lower.

  “Yes, what is it?” he asked, tugging down his shirt over his belt buckle.

  When I realized I was blatantly ogling his waist, just above the button of his jeans (dear God I hope he didn’t think I was staring any lower than the button of his jeans!), I shook my head violently so that my bangs tumbled into my eyes. “Nothing. Nothing,” I said overbrightly.

  He turned from me and walked up his short stoop and into his house, closing the door behind him with a clank that banged me back into consciousness.

  21

  “NO! I DO.” Celestynka butted me out of the way with a radioactive-yellow Lycra-clad hip.

  Unable to think of a better comparison, Elsbeth prepped me for meeting Celestynka by telling me: “Celeste likes to dress like . . .”—she rolled her eyes thoughtfully before settling on an adjective—“like . . . Vegas!”

  “It’s just a cereal bowl. I can wash it, Celestynka.” I jockeyed for a spot in front of the sink.

  “Cele-STEEN-kah,” she corrected. “No Cele-STINK-kah.”

  “Maybe I should just stick with calling you ‘Celeste,’ like Elsbeth.”

  “No, you call Polish name. Is better,” she insisted with both hands, waving them with silent-movie gestures.

  I vaulted onto the countertop as Celestynka diligently washed my single cereal bowl with disturbing robustness. (You’d think it wasn’t about to go into the dishwasher.)

  “I see you talk yesterday with Mr. Bettencourt from the next house. Is nice boy, ah?”

  Celestynka was my age but already married with twins, and she was obsessed with the fact that I wasn’t. Of course, you’d never know she was a mother with her rail-thin hips, which were always attired in a smattering of tooth-achingly bright, candy colors.

  “You know Aston?” I asked her.

  “Yes. I clean for him, too. This is why Elsbeth employees me. She knows of me from him. You see?”

  I felt terribly lazy as she began to mop the kitchen floor. “Do you need any help?” I asked her.

  “No. I clean. You mind babies,” she ordered, sloshing the sudsy water around.

  “The babies, as you call them, are in school right now.” Celestynka was under the impression that Mina and Gwendy were the same age as her own newborn twins.

  “So tell me what you know about this Aston character,” I said.

  “I don’t know nothing. I only clean. Always clean. For him and Babcia.”

  “Who the hell is Babcia, his girlfriend? Babcia?” Just saying the name left me with an icky taste in my mouth. “Is she some graphic artist from Reykjavík with that name?” I stopped myself then, realizing I was babbling.

  “No, she Babcia,” she stated louder as if saying it at a higher volume would help me understand. Celestynka looked at me impatiently, as if my Polish language studies were not moving fast enough for her taste. She tapped her temples and closed her eyes to think. “The mother of his mother.”

  “Oh, he lives with his grandmother.” My tongue unfurled from the roof of my mouth.

  “Yes.” Celestynka looked pleased. “His Babcia. This is what I tell you!”

  “Where are his parents?”

  “I do not know. I only clean. You like him, eh?” she asked hopefully with a little spark in her eye. “Babcia good lady. She open many schools for girls. And she know everything about everyone. Aston very kind boy.”

  “Actually, I think he’s a bit of an asshat.” I unsealed a bag of organic trail mix and started fishing out the chocolate chips. It was like World War II with the sugar rationing in this house. I had to get Elsbeth to stop being such a tiger mother when it came to chocolate.

  Celestynka looked confused, and I knew it was because of the word “asshat,” but I kept talking.

  “He’s kind of an elitist. But I saw him the other day playing guitar, and it was, I don’t know, nice. I guess. Surprising.”

  Celestynka stopped mopping a moment but then quickly resumed. “Ah, you think he is nice looking? See, I tell you.”

  I snorted at Celestynka’s encouragement. “I just liked his guitar playing. And stop trying to marry me off. I do have someone, you know.”

  “You do not.”

  “Oh, but I do,” I said with an exaggerated coquettish pout.

  Celestynka wrinkled her nose up and down like a rabbit. The mop clattered onto the marble floor. “Why you no tell me you have boyfriend?”

  She looked genuinely affronted, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Celestynka raised her eyebrows and haughtily picked up the mop.

  I quickly explained: “Well, he’s not exactly my boyfriend. But it’s this Irish guy, Lochlon. I met him when we were traveling. He’s coming to visit me soon.”

  I couldn’t help but let the corkscrews of excitement spiral and swirl into my voice. My mouth eased into a woozy smile. I hopped off the counter to distract myself from the rush of feeling going straight to my cheeks. He is just coming to visit; it doesn’t necessarily mean anything significant, does it? Still, I couldn’t help hoping that this would be the first of many visits that would result in our relationship officially resuming.

  As if Celestynka read my thoughts, she asked: “You will marry this man?”

  The question plunged me into a preteen hypersensitivity. “Oh, I think it’s too early to tell,” I tittered.

  “Is not. You know sometimes. Yes? This is a very American way of believing, I think.”

  Celestynka thought of herself as a very modern girl because she married for love. I got the impression that where she came from, a small fishing village on the Baltic Coast, this didn’t happen too often. She was braver than a lot of people gave her credit for. She first traveled to London alone and then met her Polish husband here.

  “I’m just ready for Lochlon to come. I’m worried that I may jump the next guy who plays folk guitar,” I joked, momentarily remembering seeing the straits of Aston’s lower stomach, mere inches from his—I ousted the unnerving thought from my head and refocused on the conversation.

  “Lochlon is my first real love, though. He was my real boyfriend, anyway.”

  Though Celestynka’s English wasn’t perfect, her comprehension was usually spot-on. “Is good thing. Aleksander is my first love. And Lochlon, you are his first love as well?”

  “Well, I’m not his first girlfriend, that’s for sure. Once, he mentioned a girl from his hometown who he broke up with before he left to travel. But they just grew up together, you know? They, like, got together by default.”

  He only ever brought up his childhood sweetheart, Bernadine, once, in blasé sort of way, which made me think it wasn’t a sloppy or weighty breakup.

  Still, I had secretly wondered if he had run into her since returning home. I knew his town had more sheep than people. But I didn’t dare ask him about her. I knew I wasn’t supposed to remember her name.

  “Yes, I know how this is. At home, many people never leave. They stay in the same town all of their lives; they wed the boy in the house next door. Then you live next to your mother. Done. Over. A whole life in one town.” She hacked down her forearm, the gesture reminding me of an axe splitting wood.

  “Yeah, that’s the same impr
ession I get with Lochlon’s town. All he said about the breakup was that they were two very different people.”

  “Some people want the world. And some people want home,” said Celestynka.

  “Lochlon and I want the world. He’s home in Ireland at the moment, but just temporarily. He’s going back to Asia, and maybe I’ll meet him there when I save enough money.”

  Of course, I hadn’t mentioned a word of this to Lochlon, but he obviously planned on living his whole life traveling, doing odd jobs and writing along the way. And I could fit into that life just fine while working on Gypsies & Boxcars.

  “Aleksander does not like travel,” said Celestynka unexpectedly.

  “He doesn’t? But he’s in London,” I said.

  “Yes, is here like many Poles, for better life, more money, nah, nah, nah.” She swished a bucket of clean water over the already sparkling floor, and I leaped onto the counter again to avoid the incoming tide.

  “But not you. You came for exploration and love.” I didn’t know how she could be with someone who didn’t like to travel. I could never be with someone who didn’t appreciate adventure.

  “Is true. My mother says, ‘Celestynka, you are not right in the head!’” She knocked her skull forcefully. “She no like that I do not marry the butcher’s son.”

  We both laughed.

  “Is only funny because I left.” She shrugged.

  22

  “SO YOU’RE GOING to be on your best behavior tonight, right?” I asked Gwen as I knotted the oversized bow on her frothy party dress. She looked like a tulle cupcake.

  We were getting dressed in my room since Mr. Darling, Elsbeth, and Mina were out to dinner already. Gwen and I would meet them at the party later. Elsbeth and I had decided that a fancy dinner followed by an even fancier party would be pushing Gwendolyn’s attention span and our luck.