Alexandria of Africa (5 page)

“Enjoy your trip,” she said coldly. “I have to go.”

“I will. And you enjoy your car. Later.”

I hung up. I’d teach her to mess with me. There was only room for one princess, and that wasn’t her. Her and her cheesy little Mustang—who drove anything that was American-made? I was certain that my father was going to get me something better than that. Well, almost certain.
Maybe, I thought, I shouldn’t let chance play a role. I’d just tell him that Fred Mason got his daughter Olivia a Mustang for her birthday. He didn’t like the father any more than I liked the daughter. I could see there might be a BMW in my future.

“What do you think, Sprout? Would you like to ride in a new BMW?”

She wagged her furry little tail in response. That would be something for the two of us to look forward to. I’d miss her between now and then, and I knew she’d miss me. Maybe she was the only one.

“Attention, please, we will soon begin our descent into the Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris,” the voice on the intercom announced.

I stretched my legs and yawned. The combination of a first-class seat and the little pill my mother had given me had allowed me to sleep for a fair part of the trip. I looked at my watch. It said eleven in the morning, which meant it was actually more like seven in the evening, Paris time. There would hopefully still be a few shops open and I could convince the Child Save person who was meeting my flight to take me shopping.

I picked up my purse. My father had given me enough money to buy whatever I wanted or needed. He’d said he didn’t want to send me halfway around the world without the benefit of enough money to deal with anything that might possibly happen, and he’d stuffed the wad of money into my hand just before we said our goodbyes. I hadn’t
counted it, but it felt like a thousand dollars or more. He did that all the time, usually so my mother could see but couldn’t really object. It was all part of the game they played to see which of them was the
good
parent. As the referee and major beneficiary, I could hardly complain.

It had been a tearful goodbye. At least for my mother. She had really cried, but that was hardly a surprise. These days she seemed to bawl when she saw somebody win on
The Price Is Right
. I was starting to think that maybe she needed to find herself a new shrink, because the psychiatrist she was seeing obviously wasn’t making her any happier.

Now my father, on the other hand—since the divorce he seemed way happier. Maybe it was because he was free to spend all of his time on his business—which is basically what he did when they were still married, but now there was no one to bug him about it. With all that extra time he was making even more money, and he used some of it to make up for not being around, or to get over feeling guilty about the divorce, or whatever. I didn’t really care about the reason as long as the cash flowed my way.

Sometimes, though, he could be too busy. He’d been so obsessed with a business deal that he almost hadn’t made it to the airport to see me off. And that would have been tragic. How would I have told him about Olivia’s car? If I hadn’t seen him, I was going to maybe come home to a Mustang. He’d hinted around about a Mercedes. I’d hinted around about a sports model, something in white. White went with practically everything. It was sad when an outfit clashed with your car.

I slipped on my shoes. I’d just go into the washroom to freshen up my makeup. I wanted to make the best impression possible. Just as I made that decision, though, the seatbelt light came on and I had to stay in my seat. I hated to
be told to do anything by anybody, but it particularly irked me to be commanded by a little overhead light. I could just get up and ignore it … no, that wouldn’t be possible with the flight attendant hovering around me. One of the things about first class was that the attendants were never far away. She’d been friendly enough throughout the flight, but she was a little past her best-before date. I could imagine doing something like her job as a bit of a lark for a while, but she had to be in her mid-thirties, for heaven’s sake. She was wearing a wedding band and a tiny, tiny engagement ring. Obviously she hadn’t married for money. That made it so much more painful when the marriage ended, because you didn’t have a golden parachute to ease the fall.

I pulled a little mirror out of my purse. Since the worst hour of my life in that cell I swore I’d never go anywhere without a mirror again. The memory of it made me shudder—I knew I’d never stop thinking about being there. It was so real, but at the same time so unreal. It was almost dreamlike … no, nightmarish! I understood that some people had to go to jail, but not people like
me
, not people that
I
knew. Thank goodness my father had the money to make this work. Jail was for people who didn’t have connections, power, or money.

Carefully I looked into the mirror. My eyes were still perfect. I did have nice eyes, and I’d spent enough time experimenting with the right shading—and, of course, the best makeup money could buy—to make them look even better.

I touched a finger against a little pimple that was just starting. It was barely visible, hidden beneath a layer of concealer.

If only I could have concealed my nose. I looked carefully, slowly, turning my head slightly from side to side to
see it all. There was a lot to see. It was too thick through the bridge and there was a slight tilt and the left nostril was definitely bigger than the right. My parents and my friends told me there was no difference, that it was a perfect nose. But they
would
say that. It was so obvious, as obvious as the nose on my face. Still, there was nothing I could do about it. At least not yet. My mother had promised me that when I turned eighteen, if I still wasn’t happy, I could have a little
alteration
, nothing drastic. I’d just have to wait. I folded up the mirror and put it away.

The plane continued its descent and I could feel the pressure building in my ears. The flight attendant took a seat and put on her belt. I looked out the window. It was so cloudy that I couldn’t see the ground below. I just hoped it wasn’t raining. I’d been thinking about sitting at a little sidewalk café and sipping a latte, watching the people parade by. I loved watching people. It was late by American standards but this was Europe! People would still be going out, having a trendy late supper, having a glass of wine, and watching the world stroll by.

Then later, or maybe the next day, I could squeeze in a bit of shopping. There were so many darling little shops in Paris. My plan was to come home with something so new and
off the hook
that even all those
been there, done that
kids at my school would drool with envy. Ideally it would be something that would go with a white Mercedes convertible.

I’d been to Paris before but not without my parents. This was going to be different! Of course there’d be some person from Child Save to meet me at the airport and escort me around—sort of like having your own personal driver and tour guide—but I was sure I could persuade them to do what I wanted. I was very good at getting my own way. And if not, I could certainly ditch
them. I could pretend I was going to the washroom and then just accidentally wander off on my own. I had lots of money in my purse and I could speak enough French to get a taxi, order a meal, or make a purchase. Come to think of it, I could probably
live
in Paris without learning more than that! And if anybody got angry I’d just blame
them
, tell them how frightened I’d been and how irresponsible it had been for them to
lose
me. I could either threaten to sue them or squeeze out a few tears, if necessary. In the end, they’d be the ones feeling bad and guilty. If I worked it right, I might even get them to apologize to me.

The plane dropped down through the clouds and broke into open sky. Paris was blazingly bright—the City of Lights! The Eiffel Tower was all glittering with a million little lights strobing on and off. This was the sort of city I deserved! L.A. was nice and Beverly Hills was definitely my style, but there was just something so … so … 
me
about Paris.

The ground got closer and closer. I closed my eyes and put my hands together and I said a little prayer:
Let the plane land safely, make sure I’m all right and safe, okay, God?
The wheels hit with a thud and my eyes popped open. We whizzed along the runway and the engines roared as the pilot worked to slow us down until the plane was just rolling smoothly. I closed my eyes again and said,
Thank you
. Not so anyone would notice. I always tried to be subtle. It would be embarrassing for anybody to see me saying a prayer.

There was a tap on my shoulder and I opened my eyes. It was the flight attendant.

“Alexandria?”

“Yes.”

“We received a radio transmission. You’re to disembark first. There’ll be an attendant waiting at the end of the
gangway. You have to be escorted directly to your connecting flight to Nairobi.”

“But I wanted to shop in Paris!” I complained.

“Unless you’re shopping for a Coke at one of the vending machines along the way, I think you’re out of luck.”

Very funny. Old, with a puny diamond, and a bad sense of humour.

“You must be very excited.”

“About what?” I asked.

“You’re going to Africa! Are you visiting family or is it just a pleasure trip?”

“I’m going to be doing some work. Charity work, with orphans and such.”

“Good for you!” she exclaimed. “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

“Sixteen … in four weeks.”

“When I was your age all I was interested in was makeup, gossip, and boys.”

I was with her on the first two, but I had little interest in boys—young men, perhaps, but certainly not
boys
.

“You must be a very good person,” she said.

“Well …”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. My girls are still young but I hope that someday they can be like you. I’m sorry they aren’t here to meet you. Your parents must be very proud of you.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to answer. I knew they couldn’t be proud of what I’d done to get here, but I thought maybe they were proud of me. No, I was
sure
they were—although right then I couldn’t really think of anything I’d ever done to make them proud.

The plane came to a full and complete stop at the terminal and the seatbelt light flickered off. It was time to go.

I startled awake as my head bumped against the window ledge, and for a split second I panicked, not knowing where I was, until the whole airplane thing came back to me. I’d done that half a dozen times. Too long in these two planes, crossing too many time zones.

I pushed up the window shade and peered out. Nothing but complete and utter darkness. I knew we were somewhere over Africa, but where was anybody’s guess. I clicked on the overhead light to see the time. My watch said nine-thirty in the evening. I’d been in the air for close to sixteen hours. We’d passed through seven time zones so that meant it was really four-thirty in the morning. My ticket said arrival was at five, so we were just half an hour away.

The plane banked sharply and I looked out the window. Suddenly the darkness below opened up, pierced by hundreds, no, thousands of little pinpricks of light. Something was down there. Something big.

Coming into Paris—the centre of the fashion world—I’d been worried about my hair and makeup. Coming into Nairobi, I wasn’t as concerned. Actually, after another eight hours in a plane I just didn’t have the energy to care. But what did it matter? It wasn’t like I was going to run into somebody I knew. I didn’t even know anybody who had ever been to Africa. It wasn’t Paris, or Cannes, or London, or the Caribbean—any of those would have been different. It wasn’t even Las Vegas, which was so tacky it was cool.

The wheels of the plane bounced down. Welcome to Africa.

One by one people claimed their baggage as it bumped along the conveyor belt. Almost everybody had already claimed their suitcases and left. Where were mine? Where were my clothes? Only a few other people from the flight were still waiting. It wasn’t like I was in any danger of being left alone, though. All around me stood men, staring, watching, waiting—for what? And why did so many of them seem to be staring at
me?
I was used to being noticed, but I didn’t like the way they were looking.

Another bag appeared—not mine—and the only other female standing there claimed it and left. Now it was just me, two other male passengers, and all those men. I had my carry-on bag over my shoulder, and I clutched my purse close to my chest. It held my passport, all my money, and my contact numbers. I couldn’t afford to have anybody steal it.

I suddenly felt very alone. My parents weren’t there. My father wasn’t there to take care of me or my mother to
comfort me. They weren’t anywhere within five thousand miles. I was halfway around the world, waiting for my luggage, and somebody I’d never seen was going to meet me. Where were they, anyway? It wasn’t right to just leave me there all alone. That person should have been waiting when the door to the plane opened.