Just One Day (3 page)

“Amsterdam’s Centraal Station has one of those,” Willem says. “I always like to stand
in front of it and just imagine I can pick any place and go.”

“Right? Exactly!”

“What’s the matter?” Melanie asks, looking at the TV monitors. “Don’t like the idea
of Bicester North?”

“It’s not quite as exciting as Paris,” I say.

“Oh, come on. You’re not still moping about that?” Melanie turns to Willem. “We were
supposed to go to Paris after Rome, but the air traffic controllers went on strike
and all the flights got canceled, and it was too far to go on the bus. She’s still
bummed out about it.”

“They’re always on strike for something in France,” Willem says, nodding his head.

“They subbed Budapest in for Paris,” I say. “And I liked Budapest, but I can’t believe
I’m this close to Paris and not going.”

Willem looks at me intently. He twists the tie on his backpack around his finger.
“So go,” he says.

“Go where?”

“To Paris.”

“I can’t. It got canceled.”

“So go now.”

“The tour’s over. And anyhow, they’re probably still striking.”

“You can go by train. It takes two hours from London to Paris.” He looks at the big
clock on the wall. “You could be in Paris by lunchtime. Much better sandwiches over
there, by the way.”

“But, but, I don’t speak French. I don’t have a guidebook. I don’t even have any French
money. They use euros there, right?” I’m giving all these reasons as if
these
are why I can’t go, when in truth, Willem might as well be suggesting I hop a rocket
to the moon. I know Europe is small and some people do things like this. But I don’t.

He’s still looking at me, his head tilted slightly to the side.

“It wouldn’t work,” I conclude. “I don’t know Paris at all.”

Willem glances at the clock on the wall. And then, after a beat, he turns to me. “
I
know Paris.”

My heart starts doing the most ridiculous flippy things, but my ever-rational mind
continues to click off all the reasons this won’t work. “I don’t know if I have enough
money. How much are the tickets?” I reach into my bag to count my remaining cash.
I have some pounds to get me through the weekend, a credit card for emergencies, and
a hundred-dollar bill that Mom gave me for absolute emergencies if the credit card
wouldn’t work. But this is hardly an emergency. And using the card would alert my
parents.

Willem reaches into his pocket, pulls out a fistful of foreign currencies. “Don’t
worry about that. It was a good summer.”

I stare at the bills in his hand. Would he really do that? Take me to Paris?
Why
would he do that?

“We have tickets for
Let It Be
tomorrow night,” Melanie says, assuming the Voice of Reason. “And we’re leaving on
Sunday. And your mom would freak out. Seriously, she’d kill you.”

I look at Willem, but he just shrugs, like he cannot deny the truth to this.

And I’m about to back down, say thanks for the offer, but then it’s like Lulu grabs
the wheel, because I turn to Melanie and say, “She can’t kill me if she doesn’t find
out.”

Melanie’s scoffs.
“Your
mom? She’d find out.”

“Not if you covered for me.”

Melanie doesn’t say anything.

“Please. I’ve covered for you plenty on this trip.”

Melanie sighs dramatically. “That was at a pub. Not in an entirely different country.”

“You
just
criticized me for never doing things like this.”

I have her there. She switches tacks. “How am I supposed to cover when she calls my
phone looking for you? Which she’ll do. You know she will.”

Mom had been furious that my cell phone didn’t work over here. We’d been told it would,
and when it didn’t, she called the company up in a tizzy, but apparently there was
nothing to be done, something about it being the wrong band. It didn’t really matter
in the end. She had a copy of our itinerary and knew when to get me in the hotel rooms,
and when she couldn’t manage that, she called Melanie’s cell.

“Maybe you could leave your phone off, so it goes to voice mail?” I suggest. I look
at Willem, who still has the fistful of cash spilling out of his hand. “Are you
sure
about this? I thought you were going back to Holland.”

“I thought so too. The winds are maybe blowing me in a different direction.”

I turn to Melanie. It’s on her now. She narrows her green eyes at Willem. “If you
rape or murder my friend, I will kill you.”

Willem tsk-tsks. “You Americans are so violent. I’m Dutch. The worst I will do is
run her over with a bicycle.”

“While stoned!” Melanie adds.

“Okay, maybe there’s that,” Willem admits. Then he looks at me, and I feel a ripple
of something flutter through me. Am I really going to do this?

“So, Lulu? What do you say? You want to go to Paris? For just one day?”

It’s totally crazy. I don’t even know him. And I could get caught. And how much of
Paris can you see in just one day? And this could all go disastrously wrong in so
many ways. All of that is true. I know it is. But it doesn’t change the fact that
I want to go.

So this time, instead of saying no, I try something different.

I say yes.

Three

T
he Eurostar is a snub-nosed, mud-splattered, yellow train, and by the time we board
it, I am sweaty and breathless. Since saying good-bye to Melanie and hastily exchanging
plans and info and meeting places for tomorrow, Willem and I have been running. Out
of Marylebone. Down the crowded London streets and into the Tube, where I got into
some sort of duel with the gates, which refused to open for me three times, then finally
did, before snapping shut on my suitcase, sending my Teen Tours! baggage tag flying
underneath the automatic ticket machine. “I guess I’m really going rogue now,” I joked
to Willem.

At the cavernous St. Pancras station, Willem pointed out the destination boards doing
that shuffling thing before hustling us to the Eurostar ticket lines, where he worked
his charm on the ticket agent and managed to exchange his ticket home for a ticket
to Paris and then used far too many of his pound notes to buy me mine. Then we rushed
through the check-in process, showing our passports. For a second, I was worried that
Willem would see my passport, which doesn’t belong to Lulu so much as to Allyson—not
just Allyson, but fifteen-year-old Allyson in the midst of some acne issues. But he
didn’t, and we went downstairs to the futuristic departure lounge just in time to
go back upstairs to our train.

It’s only once we sit down in our assigned seats on the train that I catch my breath
and realize what I’ve done. I am going to Paris. With a stranger. With
this
stranger.

I pretend to fuss with my suitcase while I steal looks at him. His face reminds me
of one of those outfits that only girls with a certain style can pull off: mismatched
pieces that don’t work on their own but somehow all come together. The angles are
deep, almost sharp, but his lips are pillowy and red, and there are enough apples
in his cheeks to make pie. He looks both old and young; both grizzled and delicate.
He’s not good-looking in the way that Brent Harper, who was voted Best Looking in
the senior awards, is which is to say predictably so. But I can’t stop looking at
him.

Apparently I’m not the only one. A couple of girls with backpacks stroll down the
aisle, their eyes dark and drowsy and seeming to say,
We eat sex for breakfast
. One of them smiles at Willem as she passes and says something in French. He replies,
also in French, and helps her lift her bag into the overhead bin. The girls sit across
the aisle, a row behind ours, and the shorter one says something, and they all laugh.
I want to ask what was said, but all at once, I feel incredibly young and out of place,
stuck at the children’s table for Thanksgiving.

If only I’d studied French in high school. I’d wanted to, at the start of ninth grade,
but my parents had urged me to take Mandarin. “It’s going to be the Chinese century;
you’ll be so much better able to compete if you speak the language,” Mom had said.
Compete for what?
I’d wondered. But I’ve studied Mandarin for the last four years and am due to continue
next month when I start college.

I’m waiting for Willem to sit down, but instead he looks at me and then at the French
girls, who, having deposited their things, are sashaying down the aisle.

“Trains make me hungry. And you never ate your sandwich,” he says. “I’ll go to the
café for more provisions. What would you like, Lulu?”

Lulu would probably want something exotic. Chocolate-covered strawberries. Oysters.
Allyson is more of a peanut-butter-sandwich girl. I don’t know what I’m hungry for.

“Whatever is fine.”

I watch him walk away. I pick up a magazine from the seat pocket and read a bunch
of facts about the train: The Channel Tunnel is fifty kilometers long. It opened in
1994 and took six years to complete. The Eurostar’s top speeds are three hundred kilometers
per hour, which is one hundred and eighty-six miles per hour. If I were still on the
tour, this would be exactly the kind of Trivial-Pursuit fodder Ms. Foley would read
to us from one of her printouts. I put the magazine away.

The train starts to move, though it’s so smooth that it’s only when I see the platform
is pulling away from us, as though it’s moving, not the train, that I realize we’ve
departed. I hear the horn blow. Out the window, the grand arches of St. Pancras glitter
their farewell before we plunge into a tunnel. I look around the car. Everyone else
seems happy and engaged: reading magazines or typing on laptops, texting, talking
on their phones or to their seatmates. I peer over my seat back, but there is no sign
of Willem. The French girls are still gone too.

I pick up the magazine again and read a restaurant review that I don’t absorb at all.
More minutes tick by. The train is going faster now, arrogantly bypassing London’s
ugly warehouses. The conductor announces the first stop, and an inspector comes through
to take my ticket. “Anyone here?” he asks, gesturing to Willem’s empty seat.

“Yes.” Only his things aren’t there. There’s no evidence he ever was here.

I glance at my watch. It’s ten forty-three. Almost fifteen minutes since we left London.
A few minutes later, we pull into Ebbsfleet, a sleek, modern station. A crowd of people
get on. An older man with a briefcase stops next to Willem’s seat as if to sit there,
but then he glances at his ticket again and keeps moving up the aisle. The train doors
beep and then shut, and we are off again. The London cityscape gives way to green.
In the distance, I see a castle. The train greedily gobbles up the landscape; I imagine
it leaving a churned-up pile of earth in its wake. I grip the armrests, my nails digging
in as if this were that first endlessly steep incline up one of those lunch-losing
roller coasters that Melanie loves to drag me on. In spite of the blasting AC, a line
of perspiration pearls along my brow.

Our train passes another oncoming train with a startling
whoomp
. I jump in my seat. After two seconds, the train is speeding past us. But I have
the weirdest sensation that Willem is on it. Which is impossible. He would’ve had
to fast-forward to another station to get that train.

But that’s not to say he’s on
this
train.

I look at my watch. It’s been twenty minutes since he went to the café car. Our train
had not yet left the platform. He might’ve gotten off with those girls even before
we departed. Or at this last station. Maybe that’s what they were saying.
Why don’t you ditch that boring American girl and hang out with us?

He is not on this train.

The certainty hits me with that same
whoomp
as the oncoming train. He changed his mind. About Paris. About me.

Taking me to Paris was an impulse buy, like all those useless gadgets grocery stores
put at the checkout aisle so you’re out the door before you realize what a piece of
crap you just bought.

But then another thought hits me: What if this is all some sort of master plan? Find
the most naïve American you can and lure her onto a train, then ditch her and send
in the . . . I don’t know . . . the thugs to nab her? Mom DVR’d a segment about something
just like this on
20/20
. What if
that’s
why he was looking at me last night,
that’s
why he sought
me
out earlier today on the train from Stratford-upon-Avon? Could he have chosen easier
prey? I’ve seen enough of those Animal Planet nature shows to know that the lions
always go for the weakest gazelles.

And yet, as unrealistic as this possibility is, on a certain level, there’s a nugget
of cold comfort in it. The world makes sense again.
That
at least would explain why
I
am on
this
train.

Something lands on my head, soft and crackly, but in my panic, it makes me jump.

And there’s another one. I pick up the projectile, a packet of Walker’s salt-and-vinegar
crisps.

I look up. Willem has the guilty grin of a bank robber, not to mention loot spilling
out of his hands: a candy bar, three cups of assorted hot beverages, a bottle of orange
juice under one armpit, a can of Coke under the other. “Sorry about the wait. The
café is at the other end of the train, and they wouldn’t open it until the train left
St. Pancras, and there was already a queue. Then I wasn’t sure if you liked coffee
or tea, so I got you both. But then I remembered your Coke from earlier, so I went
back for that. And then on the way back, I stumbled onto a very cranky Belgian and
spilled coffee all over myself, so I had to detour to the loo, but I think I just
made things worse.” He plunks down two of the small cardboard cups and the can of
soda on the tray table in front of me. He gestures to the front of his jeans, which
now have a huge wet splodge down the front of them.

I am not the sort of person to laugh at fart jokes or gross-out humor. When Jonathan
Spalicki let one rip in physiology last year and Mrs. Huberman had to let the hysterical
class out early, she actually thanked me for being the only one to exhibit any self-control.

So it’s not like me to lose it. Over a wet spot.

And yet, when I open my mouth to inform Willem that I actually don’t like soda, that
the Coke before was for Melanie’s hangover, what comes out is a yelp. And once I hear
my own laughter, it sets off fireworks. I’m laughing so hard, I am gasping for air.
The panicked tears that were threatening to spill out of my eyes now have a safe excuse
to stream down my face.

Willem rolls his eyes and gives his jeans a
yeah-yeah
look. He grabs some of the napkins from the tray. “I didn’t think it was
so
bad.” He dabs at his jeans. “Does coffee leave a stain?”

This sends me into further paroxysms of laughter. Willem offers a wry, patient smile.
He is big enough to accept the joke at his expense.

“I’m. Sorry.” I gasp. “Not. Laughing. At. Your. Pants.”

Pants!
In her tutorial of British English versus American English, Ms. Foley had informed
us that the English call underwear pants and pants trousers, and we should be mindful
of announcing anything to do with pants to avoid any embarrassing misunderstandings.
She went pink as she explained it.

I am doubled over now. When I manage to sit upright, I see one of the French girls
coming back down the aisle. As she edges behind Willem, she rests a hand on his arm;
it lingers there for a second. Then she says something in French, before slipping
into her seat.

Willem doesn’t even look at her. Instead, he turns back to me. His dark eyes dangle
question marks.

“I thought you got off the train.” The admission just slips out on the champagne bubbles
of my relief.

Oh, my God
. Did I actually say that? The giggles shock right out of me. I’m afraid to look at
him. Because if he didn’t want to leave me on the train before, I’ve remedied that
now.

I feel the give of the seat as Willem sits down, and when I gather up the courage
to peer over at him, I’m surprised to find that he doesn’t look shocked or disgusted.
He just has that amused private smile on his face.

He begins to unpack the junk food and pulls a bent baguette out of his backpack. After
he’s laid everything out over the trays, he looks right at me. “And why would I get
off the train?” he asks at last, his voice light and teasing.

I could make up a lie. Because he forgot something. Or because he realized he needed
to get back to Holland after all, and there wasn’t time to tell me. Something ridiculous
but less incriminating. But I don’t.

“Because you changed your mind.” I await his disgust, his shock, his pity, but he
still looks amused, maybe a little intrigued now too. And I feel this unexpected rush,
like I just took a hit of some drug, my own personal truth serum. So I tell him the
rest. “But then for a brief minute, I thought maybe this was all some sort of scam
and you were going to sell me into sex slavery or something.”

I look at him, wondering if I’ve pushed too far. But he is smiling as he strokes his
chin. “How would I do that?” he asks.

“I don’t know. You’d have to make me pass out or something. What’s that stuff they
use? Chloroform? They put it on a handkerchief and put up against your nose, and you
fall asleep.”

“I think that’s just in movies. Probably easier for me to drug your drink like your
friend suspected.”

“But you got me three drinks, one of them unopened.” I hold up the can of Coke. “I
don’t drink Coke, by the way.”

“My plan is foiled then.” He exaggerates a sigh. “Too bad. I could get good money
for you on the black market.”

“How much do you think I’m worth?” I ask, amazed at how quickly fear has become fodder.

He looks me up and looks me down, appraising me. “Well, it would depend on various
factors.”

“Like what?”

“Age. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

He nods. “Measurements?”

“Five feet four. One hundred and fifteen pounds. I don’t know metric.”

“Any unusual body parts or scars or false limbs?”

“Does that matter?”

“Fetishists. They pay extra.”

“No, no prosthetic limbs or anything.” But then I remember my birthmark, which is
ugly, almost like a scar, so I usually keep it hidden under my watch. But there’s
something oddly tempting about exposing it, exposing me. So I slide my watch down.
“I do have this.”

He takes it in, nodding his head. Then casually asks, “And are you a virgin?”

“Would that make me more or less valuable?”

“It all depends on the market.”

“You seem to know a lot about this.”

“I grew up in Amsterdam,” he says, like this explains it.

“So what am I worth?”

“You didn’t answer all the questions.”‘

I have the strangest sensation then, like I’m holding the belt to a bathrobe and I
can tie it tighter—or let it drop. “No, I’m not. A virgin.”

He nods, stares in a way that unsettles me.

“I’m sure Boris will be disappointed,” I add.