Foreign Exchange (11 page)

He smiles, and I think he appreciates the l
ight moment too. “Did you call them?” Sawyer seems pretty interested, and I figure this must be one avenue he neglected to explore.

I nod and tell him all about
Don Bristolle. And then about the condoms. And the note. Sawyer’s eyes go wide, so I can tell this is all news to him. “Something felt off from the moment he said hello. And it was a Detroit number…”

“
Donny from Detroit,” both of us say, clueing in at the same time. That was the photographer Tristan had dated in the spring. He was helping her get all her latest photographs uploaded to her Web site, or so she’d said. Tech help. The fake foreign exchange program. Still, it’s hard to believe Tristan would go to such lengths.

I remember
Tristan telling me about how he was helping her. She had given me my first long speech about how guys were happy to help a pretty girl in exchange for a little extra attention. That’s what she’d called it: a little extra attention.

Sawyer’s brow furrows
deeper and deeper, the more I tell him about Don. Because I feel so stupid about it, so much like I’ve actually encouraged Tristan in this crazy plan for her to get to Europe, I have to ramble on. “So Don must have traded her…if she was...with him, he’d play the part of the head of some fake foreign exchange program. He even talked to your parents months ago, remember?”

Sawyer nods slowly.

“I’m starting to understand how she did it, but why wouldn’t she have told me?”

Finally it looks like this new information about
Don Bristolle is settling in on Sawyer and no longer shocking him. “That’s what I wanted to know. Tris told me that you’d probably feel way too guilty and worried and spill the whole secret before you’d given it a chance. She made me promise to let her tell you once you were over there.” He shakes his head and then looks right at me, his eyes conflicted. “I don’t take breaking promises lightly.”

“It’s not like you’ve had any choice
! Neither of us have a choice if she’s hiding so much. Do you really think she’s getting herself into trouble?”

He
blows out a breath like he doesn’t know. “You should read some of her emails.” As he’s saying it, he flicks the Wi-Fi button and opens his Gmail program. “She’s willing to do whatever it takes to make it. She’s talked about you moving there with her and getting visas when you’re eighteen, or earlier if she can find a way.
Whatever it takes,
” he says again.

I swallow hard
, realizing what she’s already done to get there. I remember one specific time when Tristan and I had talked about traveling to Europe together. She kept whispering
eighteen
, and I didn’t know what she was talking about. “I can’t believe this.”

“When I found out, I didn’t know how to keep her safe. Short of
going to Europe myself.”

Sawyer
shows me her emails, and they’re exactly what he’s said. Driven. Secretive. Bordering on delusional. But the truth is, even without the emails, he’s already convinced me.

S
omething is terribly wrong.

Chapter
Eleven

I catch a ride with Sawyer to school the next day, but we don’t say much to each other on the ride. The severity of the situation is hitting both of us, and even though I want to keep telling Sawyer everything will be fine, just like Tristan had told me over and over again, when I look at him, I can’t bring myself to say it. Because I don’t know if it will be.

Is she really planning to stay in Europe permanently? And how long is she going to lie to all of us?

When I see Sawyer in the halls later, his hand is locked to Amelia’s. The entire student body has been jabbering all morning about how much they like each other.

When I arrive at
World Arch class, he’s already seated up front beside her. She gets up out of her chair and on her way to the teacher's desk, very obviously touches Sawyer's shoulder. Sawyer flinches, but doesn't pull away.

Even though I understand Sawyer’s motives,
I'm sick of watching them. The second Matt walks into the room, I wave him over. He joins me at the back and we have a conversation about our Spain schedule that's almost engaging enough to distract me.

“What are you most looking forward to?” I ask.

“Hmm, hard to decide. Definitely one of the cathedrals. How about you?”

What am I most looking forward to? Talking some sense into my best friend.
But obviously I can’t say that. “The crypts look pretty amazing. And a bit creepy,” I raise my eyebrows a couple of times, more out of my recent habitual flirting than anything else.

For the next few days, we don’t hear anything back from Tristan
, which is freaking me out, but Sawyer has been stopping by to update me each evening whenever Mom is out. He’s gone through some of his parents’ papers and found a contact address and phone number for Tristan in Milan. We talked about calling her, demanding some answers, but decided that if she hangs up on us, we might have trouble tracking her down once we’re in Europe.

He also tells me that he sold his Jeep.

It takes a second for this to register. “Wait, what? Really? Why?”

He shrugs. “I had to pay for the trip.”

He really sold his Jeep? Wow. I feel guilty all over again that I’d thought he was coming to Europe for his own selfish reasons.

As the days progress, I grow snippy with Eddy, Mom, and even Sawyer.

The whole scenario of what Tristan is doing has settled in, so it’s no longer shocking me, but each day feels like a year while I wait to get onto a plane so I can see her face to face.

When Sawyer comes over the next evening to tell me there’s still no news, I’m trying to act normal, but all of my frustration has been building, and it must be obvious, because he asks if I’m okay.

I say, “
No, I’m not.”

He hasn’t been touching me, not since he’s been pretending with Amelia, but he reaches out now to touch my arm, to comfort me. I bristle at his touch and he pulls his hand away.

He looks hurt by my reaction, but his hurt look just makes me angry.

“I
t bothers me that you’re still pretending to be with Amelia, even though you’re already signed up for the trip.” This is the least of my concerns, really, but I guess it’s easier to be angry with him than worried about Tristan. He’s never actually dated a girl from our school. He's never publicly admitted to anything that went on with me, and he barely talks to me at school anymore, probably because Amelia wouldn’t like it. He’s shown up with college girls and been all cozy with them at basketball games, or so I’ve heard. I haven’t seen it for myself, but Tristan’s told me he has no trouble getting physical with older, more experienced women. I used to think she just told me those things to sway me away from him, but they’re confirmed by the markings in the upper bathroom stall.

W
ith Amelia, it’s not even a one-time casual thing, though. It’s like they’re a real couple. That’s the way everyone at school is acting, and I’m sick of hearing about Sawyer and Amelia, all-freaking-day long. The question, “How far have things gone with her?” is on the tip of my tongue, and I can’t hold it back much longer.

Sawyer’s still outside, and rather than coming in to talk about it, he glances back toward his house. “You’re still
hanging out with Matt every day so he’ll help you get away from the class trip. How is that different?”

I want to tell
him it’s completely different,
because I don’t have his acting ability
. The way he laughs and smiles and makes it all look so real, I could sometimes swear he’s into her. But the hard truth is, there’s nothing truly even between Sawyer and me. I have no right to expect him to drop
anybody
for me.

I sigh. “I guess I’m just annoyed and tired. I should probably...” I motion back toward where Eddy is in the house.

Sawyer backs away, taking the hint, and not even trying to come inside under the pretense of saying hi to my brother.

Jennifer has been trying to track me down in the halls, but I’ve been doing my best to avoid her. I obviously can’t give her the phone number for Don Bristolle, and I can’t tell her the exchange program is a fake. At least not yet.

Thankfully, when I get home
the next day, only two days before I'm set to leave for Spain, there’s a message from Tristan in my inbox. It doesn’t even start with a hello.

Why have you been talking to Sawyer? What’s going on, Jamie? I thought you never talked to him. We agreed on that, right? Tell me we agreed on that!

Okay, listen, I’m not angry, but I just really need to ask you, Jamie, please, please, please stay away from my family until after the trip, okay? Promise me? If you want this plan to find your dad to work, you’ve got to stick to everything we agreed on. Still no luck on him, by the way... I think we’ll just have to go to the conference center together.

Don’t worry about Don Bristolle. I'll deal with him and he won’t bother you anymore.
I wish you hadn’t spoken to him, but I’ll tell you more about it when I see you.

And that is all she says about it.

She gives me a European cell number, which I’m only supposed to use in case of emergency, but it makes me feel slightly better. It’s the same number as Sawyer found from his parents. I pick up my phone to call it, figuring this has gone way past emergency status with everything I’ve learned from Sawyer. But just before I dial, I rethink things and hang up.

She’s always been able to read me. No matter how calm I try to act, she’ll pry out of me every bit of what I’ve done to screw up our plan over the past week.
She’s already angry enough about me talking to Sawyer—what if she knew the extent of it? And Sawyer’s right. Then she might avoid me when I get to Europe.

She’s attached a couple more pictures of herself at other landmarks
around Milan. I think it’s supposed to be demonstrating some sort of trust in me, but it doesn’t. She’s keeping so many secrets, and she’s not even hinting at any of them.

She’s delusional if she thinks I’m the one who’s not being trustworthy here.

I hold off from writing back, and instead look through her earlier emails again. I hate the fact that I'm looking for lies, but I am. In every sentence I'm looking for what she's not telling me.

That night I send Tristan a carefully worded email promising that from now on I’ll steer clear of her family. And I will, mostly. I’ve even asked Mom to drive me to the airport so Tristan won’t hear from her parents that I rode with them.

I hear back from the conference center hotel in Milan, but they’re unable to release information on guests.
I make a note in my email to Tristan, saying it seems like they need convincing—which is clearly her department. She’s not nearly as focused on finding my dad as I thought she’d be, but I guess I’m still kind of hoping she’ll take the push before I get there. If she’s not in school all day, talking to hotel receptionists seems like a safer option than hitting up every modeling agency in town.

I tell her about the class trip excursion to the Pyrenees Mountains
—the day after I arrive—and when I figure I’ll be able to get away to head with her to Milan.

During the last few days
, I’ve gotten to know a couple of Matt’s friends who are going along to Barcelona. Anna has never been out of Michigan and can hardly sit still when we say the word “Europe.” Caleb is terrified of flying and we’re constantly talking him down about it. None of our little group is friends with Amelia, which, for me, is the important part.

We have to meet at the airport at
eight-thirty in the morning on Saturday. I double-check my baggage for weight, layer myself with clothing, dress Eddy, feed Eddy, feed myself, and Mom still hasn’t come down the stairs.

It’s all I can do to
contain my frustration. “Hey, Mom.” I force my sweetest voice from the bottom of the stairs. “How much longer do you think you’ll be?”

Mom heads down the stairs
, still in her bathrobe.

I
pass her a bagel at the bottom landing. “Okay, okay, I’m almost ready, Jamie. Never mind that I had to work until two a.m.”

The stupid thing is, Sawyer has to go to the same airport. He actually
came over last night to see if I wanted to ride with him and his parents. I explained what I had told Tristan and why I thought it was a good idea to go separately, and Sawyer agreed.

But now,
as I watch Mom dawdling through the house, I second-guess that decision.

“Eddy can’t wear that,” Mom says on her way through the living room. “I don’t want his good shirt getting dirty.”

I’d purposely dressed him in one of his nicest shirts because I thought Mom would want him to look presentable for a trip to the airport.

“We don’t have time to change him,” I argue, following her around.

She sighs. “I’ll change him after I get my coffee.”

My temperature is rising. “We don’t have time to make coffee, Mom. Can’t we stop at Dunkin’ on the way?”

“Calm down, Jamie. If you want me to drive you, you can just stop rushing me.”

I don’t believe this. It’s not like I’m trying to be
five hours early for my flight. Just the two hours the airline requires.  The two hours that Mr. Echols requires.

“Are you really doing this?” I
ask. I have so many pent-up emotions from the last month. From the last six or seven years, if I’m being honest. I’m like a pressure cooker and my lid is about to blow. “I can’t believe you would try to ruin this for me now!”

I march out of the room, hearing Mom murmur something about not being so dramatic
, but I should have known. Besides the fact that she'd rather I didn't go on my trip at all, she’s late for work constantly. She’s late for doctor’s and speech appointments for Eddy. Why did I think this would be any different?

I head to
the front door and reach into my carry-on for my phone. I text Sawyer.

Ha
ve you already left?

Seconds later, I get back:

Just around the corner. Change your mind? Need us to come back for you?

Yes
. I add a second quick text when I realize I didn’t even say please.

I honestly never would have imagined my goodbye to my
mother—my first time going anywhere without her—would involve yelling. But it does. It involves plenty of yelling.

Eddy’s throwing pieces of his checker board around the living room because of the tension
, and I try to calm him down, but Mom just keeps screaming about how ungrateful I am, and how if I had any consideration at all, I’d have arranged a ride in the first place and not gotten her out of bed only to discard her efforts.

The sound of her slow coffee maker percolating in the background tells me
her efforts were not going to be enough.

“I’m saving you a trip,” I say in the calmest voice I’ve had all morning. “You should be happy.”

She continues her rant, about ‘
where’s my respect’
, and I have a mind to have a full-blown conversation about respect, but there’s no time. I want to be out at the curb waiting for Sawyer, even if it means the whole neighborhood will see her tearing a strip off of me. I fling open the door just in time to see Mr. Bishop’s Volkswagen.

Mom seems to realize
quickly that I’m really walking out the door and this is probably not the way she wants to leave things in case my plane crashes or something.

“Well, give me a hug then,”
she says, and she’s suddenly teary-eyed. I give in, not caring how much I have to fake it. I try to hug Eddy, but he’s still agitated and swats me away. There’s a honk in the driveway, so I try to shake off Eddy’s snubbing and sign and say the words, “I love you,” straight to him. I try it three times. He doesn’t sign it back. He never does, I don’t think he really understands the concept, so I know I shouldn’t take it personally, but I can’t help myself. Today I do.

Seconds
later, I’m dropping my suitcase into the trunk and sliding into Mr. Bishop’s backseat beside Sawyer. He’s not looking at me, and honestly, I’m glad.