Foreign Exchange (23 page)

“I know,” I tell him. “And I
will
see you tonight, Sawyer.” I mean it with everything in me.

After dropping hands, we both walk in
opposite directions, not looking back. At least I don’t look back. I can’t. This is hard enough.

Even though Rome is much farther away than Venice, it’ll take me two and a half hours to get to Venice and it’ll only take Sawyer three hours to get to Rome. The trains leave every half hour, so it’s completely conceivable that we can both be
there by morning and back by later today.

I’ll have to rely on my language skills, and he’ll have to rely on his mapping skills, but he’ll see. It’ll be okay.

I keep telling myself that all the way to my platform.

Chapter Twenty-One

I spend my time in the
Informazione
line up at the Venice train station doubting myself and repeatedly glancing to the train platforms. Maybe Tristan
is
in Rome. I’m reading into a rejection letter and a two-sentence text that, for all I know, Tristan typed so quickly, she used some uncharacteristic phrasing. Maybe she isn’t lying to her parents. She’s just done the complaining-about-her-family thing with me, but she never really meant it. The same way I’d probably over-ranted about my mom.

T
hen again, Tristan made elaborate plans to find a modeling job in Europe and only told
me
the truth about the modeling
.
It has to be her family she’s lying to.

I hope it's her family she's lying to.

The one thing I’m sure of is that I need to be able to think on my feet in order to know one way or the other by the end of the day whether or not Tristan is in Venice. I nodded off a little on the train, but now I’m completely alert.

When I’m at the front of the
Informazione
line, the lady has no clue what I’m talking about when I ask about the
Festival di Forma Fisica di Venezia
. She won’t look it up for me either, but thankfully I have an address. She rattles off directions and I jot down as many as I can latch onto.

I ask her to repeat herself, but
people behind me in line are getting restless.

I move out of the line, but then turn around slowly. I’m really on my own. I really have to do this alone.

I have to ask another two people, just to find the main exit of the train station.

When I finally make it out
of the building, I take a few deep breaths. Before I keep going, I dial Mom. I figure I should follow Sawyer’s lead, so she doesn’t freak out if Mr. Echols calls her. Besides, I could handle hearing a familiar voice right now.

Mom picks up after the fifth ring. At least she’s not waiting by the phone
, thinking I’m missing.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Oh. Jamie. Hi. Where are you?” She sounds tired.

I’m not sure how I should answer. Has she heard anything yet? “Um, actually, I’m in Italy.”

Mom grunts and rustles around, and in the meantime, I’ve looked at my phone display. The time difference. Crap. She’s sleeping.

“Italy?” She murmurs something
else I can’t hear. She sounds annoyed when she speaks again. “Spain, you mean.”

I sigh. I might as well use the same story as Sawyer
did, since our parents live right next to one another. “Actually, we took a bit of a detour. I really missed Tristan and so I wanted to go and see her for a day, but well, I guess it’s taking me longer than a day.”

“Are you okay?” she asks, but she still sounds perturbed.

“Oh, yeah, Mom, I’m fine. I just…I won’t get back until tonight sometime and I didn’t want you to worry in case Mr. Echols calls—”

“Who are you with, Jamie? You just went off alone without your teacher in Europe? What are you thinking
, what the hell are you thinking?”

She lets off another long rant about how irresponsible I am, and I hold the phone away from my
ear, regretting my decision to call. I should have just let Mr. Echols break the news to her.

When she gets to
the topic of Eddy, and how hard life has been on her, I can’t take anymore. “This phone is really expensive, Mom. I’d better get going.”

“Jamie Louise Monroe, are you listening to me?”

I assure her I have been, even though I haven’t, really, and then I pretty much hang up on her.

Thankfully she doesn’t call back. At least not now, but I expect by the time she’s out of bed, I’ll hear from her again.
The whole exchange makes me extra committed to getting back in time to see my dad tonight, and even makes me feel a little stronger and more capable. Mom is so instantly irritable from being overworked and exhausted. I mean, I know what I’m doing is wrong in her eyes, but Sawyer’s parents won’t be phoning him every half hour to yell at him.

Maybe I’ll have to
get myself another cell phone.

I glance down
at my directions and start moving forward, step after step, repeatedly checking for landmarks and signs. It’s only a few minutes before my breathing evens out and I start to relax.

I can do this.

After considering it for a second, I stop on a small bridge over a canal and text Sawyer. It's a cheap phone, not a smart one, so it takes a bit of fiddling to get it right.

On my way to fit fest office
.

P.S.
See u soon! Promise.

I think of adding a “Love you” or “Luv u” at the end, but decide against it. It’s all too new and these things should be said in person for now.

But that thought leads to another one: Sawyer Bishop is in love with me.

And
even more enlightening is this: I’m in love with him, too.

Too.
This overwhelming agreement we feel for each other. With each other. I never would have let myself hope for this.

Before I can even slide my cell back into my purse, it dings with a new text:

Thx. Almost in Rome.

P.S.
<3 U

Okay, so maybe it isn’t too new to express a little of our hearts electronically.
Maybe he’s having as much trouble containing his feelings as I am.

His text makes me smile
and notice Venice around me for the first time. It
is
a romantic city. It’s more humid here, and there’s water everywhere—no roads, just plenty of foot traffic, claustrophobically narrow walkways, and bridges. There are more canals than I can count and no cars. But at least it feels safe.

We lived here for a short time with my dad when I was really young, maybe three, but I don’t remember it. All I remember is the stories my dad used to tell me about Venice when he was tucking me in at night. He told me about how all of Venice was flooded at one point. He had to explain what flooded meant, and he drew me a picture showing all the first floors of places under water, so people could no longer live there. As I glance around, I can see water damage on the outside
s of many buildings. There is also plenty of construction going on, and I wonder if they’re trying to restore all the places that were ruined so many years ago.

It takes me more than an hour, but w
hen I reach the building the information lady had directed me to, I text Sawyer back.

Found it! Let u know how it goes.

P.S. <3 u more

Maybe I’ll get some good news inside, and even if I don’t, if this is a dead end and there’s no sign of Tristan, at least Sawyer will know one hundred percent for sure that he’ll see me tonight.

But something tells me Tristan
is
here. I’ve felt it even more strongly since I left the train station. I think even Sawyer believes it. He just needed to obey his parents, and make sure they’re not right about Tristan at the same time. After all, it
sounds
convincing—the fact that she had given them a city name. But still…I step up to the building and my hand shakes with excitement as I reach for the door.

This is it. I know it the same way I knew we’d find a hostel that would lead to her.

As I’m walking up the steps, another text comes in from Sawyer.

Just got 2 Rome.

P.S. Not possible

I smile the rest of the way up the stairs.
Inside I find a busy office that looks nothing like the modeling agency we’d been to yesterday. There are desks strewn everywhere, at least twenty of them, with people busy either typing on computers or on their phones. There doesn’t appear to be a receptionist, and no one looks up to greet me. Even after several minutes.

Finally I walk to the closest desk where
a man is typing. I stand over him, then finally clear my throat and say,
“Scusi.”

He looks up, stares at me for a moment, then asks if he can help me in Italian. I ask if he knows where the
Festival di Forma Fisica
office is, because I’m really starting to doubt that this is it.

He lifts a
hand in the air, snaps, and calls the name “Mario.”

Another man’s head pops up across the room. He has
dark, shaggy hair and sits behind a desk I can’t even see for all the papers.

The guy I was talking to rattles off my request across the busy office to Mario. No one else pays the slightest attention, but Mari
o waves me over.

“Grazie,”
I say, and then make my way between desks to the far side of the office. The woman at the desk next to Mario’s eyes me from feet to head before going back to her phone call.

“Do you know who runs the
Festival di Forma Fisica?”
I ask Mario in Italian. I must not be as fluent as I think, because he replies in strongly accented English.

“I run it.”
He looks very sure of himself, very proud, a trait I’ve noticed in several Italians in the last twenty-four hours.

“You?” I look around the room at all the other busy
office folk. “Just you?”

He nods. “We run
many events out of this office. I oversee a full host of volunteers for that one.”

“Oh. Okay, well, I’m looking for a friend of mine who I…who
was in your latest festival.” I figure I’m probably more likely to get an answer if I sound convinced of it.

Mario stands and goes to a file cabinet behind his desk.
He slides out a file drawer labeled
“Venezia Fitness – Settembre.”

“This month’s
Venezia
festival?” he asks.

I nod, barely believing it’s so easy.

“Name?” he asks.

“Bishop. Tristan Bishop.” I hold my breath as he takes out the file, brings it back to his desk, and flips it open
atop his multitude of stray papers. He thumbs through sheets with what look like rules and regulations for the festival—all in Italian, of course. I don’t see Tristan’s name anywhere, but he’s going so quickly, it would be easy to miss. He gets to a long list of names, maybe participants, but he’s holding the other papers half above, so I can’t read any of it.

He nods, but doesn’t say anything. I feel like I’m going to turn blue from lack of oxygen
. He flips that page over and thumbs through another stack until he gets to a stapled chunk of papers.

It seems to take forever for him to look through those, and he’s being even more private, holding the top cover page as a barrier between my eyes and the rest of the papers. I can read the cover sheet though. It says,
“Modelli Tirocini.”
Modeling Placements.

“Yes, yes,” he says, finally, flipping the pages down and his folder closed.

I let out a big gust of a breath, barely trusting that my ears are working correctly. “Yes?”

He smiles up at me. “Your friend was picked up by a new agency from Bulgaria.
One Time Models.
They were looking for fresh American faces.”

“Bulgaria?” I repeat, my mouth going dry. It was one thing to
traipse around Venice by myself. Could I really go to Bulgaria to find Tristan? That doesn’t sound safe at all.

“Don’t look so worried,” Mario says. “They have an office here in
Venezia
.” He jots down an address on a sticky note and passes it over. “Maybe your friend has not left yet. It was only this week.”

I nod and swallow, conjuring up a bit of saliva. “I hope so,” I force out. “I really…I don’t know how to thank you,” I tell him.

He smiles and offers me a number of directions, guessing, rightly, that I have no idea how to get to
One Time Models
.

“I hope you find your friend.” Mario’s helpful enough, but he’s back on his computer typing a mile a minute before I’ve even made it to the door.

Chapter Twenty-
Two

I take a long, slow breath out on the sidewalk.
Bulgaria.
Not only does the idea of me going there alone sound terrifying, but what if Tristan’s already left? What if she’s alone in Bulgaria, and what if it’s not safe? I’d been so focused on all the lies she’s been telling us that I haven’t let myself think about what kind of danger Tristan could have gotten into modeling. I remember what Sawyer said about things not always working out for Tristan and about the shadier side of modeling.

But before that thought has finished, I remember her passport. We saw her passport! She couldn’t have left Italy yet.

I pull out my phone and it rings in my hands.

Tristan!
I think, but thankfully I glance at the call display before clicking it. It’s not her. It’s my mother.

I turn off the ringer and let it buzz, but it makes me angrier
and angrier by the second. All she seems to care about is how I’m inconveniencing her. I mean, what if I don’t make it home in time to babysit my little brother? Oh, the horror of it!

I have a pang in my stomach when I think about Eddy, and him having to be alone with Mom all this time. I miss my baby brother. As much as he can drain me, one of his smiles can also brighten my whole day. Not to mention
, he was the first one who made me see how wonderful Sawyer really is.

When
my phone’s done buzzing, I click on it and enter a text to Sawyer. It’s not until I start typing that it hits me and I have to stop.

I’ve found Tristan!
Not only that, but she
did
get discovered. She really did. And we’ve found her in time to sort out everything between all of us, and with this modeling agency, even if she does want to stay on her own.

I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the buttons
, and consider shutting off the phone. Maybe I should talk to Tristan first. Then I can go back and meet Sawyer and we can all discuss the situation. As much as I miss Sawyer already, I’d feel much safer about her having someone with her, especially going to Bulgaria for the first time. I mean, I get that it's a young business. Tristan's told me about fourteen year olds who are off on their own modeling. Still, being in Europe on her own? And not even the safer, more touristy parts of Europe. Bulgaria. I know nothing about the country, but it just sounds so Eastern Bloc—like they’re not governed by the same types of laws we’re used to.

Then I have a better idea
. Sawyer could meet us here instead of back in Milan. I click on my phone and type.

I think I found her, Sawyer.
She got a modeling gig w/ One Time Models! Not sure if here or Bulgaria, but I will wait for u in Venice 2 find out. Meet u @ Venice train station @ 17:00?

I hit send before I can re-think
any of it, and then let out a breath of relief, knowing I did the right thing. Not only are we going to find Tristan, but Sawyer will be with me. We can work it out together. Then we can get back to Milan in time to find my dad at the hotel.

I sigh
happily, and then decide I might as well get a late lunch before Sawyer gets here.

I wander along the Grand Canal for a while, looking for a little cafe. I find one and almost fall asleep over my Panini sandwich. I guess I really didn’t get much sleep
on the train. I decide to keep walking to wake myself up. Plenty of tourists with cameras swarm around me, speaking languages I don’t recognize. I stop to watch a gondola float along as if there’s no panic to this city. It feels like I’ve stepped back in time a hundred years. I head over a bridge, turn a corner and I’m suddenly on a cobblestone walkway almost too small for a bicycle.

I look up
at the tall brick buildings on either side of me, then decide to backtrack to an area where I can see the sun better.

When I glance at
the time, I’m surprised to see it’s already three o’clock. A new thought hits me: What if the Venice office of
One Time Models
closes at five? I make a quick decision to at least locate the modeling agency before Sawyer gets here.

Bulgaria.
The more the single word repeats in my mind, the more it bothers me. I don’t want to end up in Bulgaria with Tristan, but I don’t want Tristan to end up there alone either. How do you even get to Bulgaria from here? Another train? A plane? A boat?

It’s all too many unknowns. I have to find Tristan and
make her realize that risk-taking isn’t always the best plan, especially when we’re talking about Eastern European countries where neither of us knows the customs or the language.

A
s I walk across a canal and watch another gondola sailing underneath, I sigh again. If only I could just think of romance—of Sawyer—right now.

But I can’t. I need to concentrate on
finding this agency. I ask for help with my written directions. The route sounds complicated and far away, and I figure I’ll have to do the repeatedly-stop-and-ask thing all the way there. As I start walking, I feel myself getting farther and farther from the train station—even if I don’t know for sure which direction it’s in. Maybe that wasn’t the best meeting place to suggest to Sawyer. But I figure I should find
One Time Models
first before suggesting somewhere closer.

It’s after four by the time I’m getting close. Good thing I went on without Sawyer, because I’d hate myself if we missed the agency’s open hours because I was sitting around waiting. I’ll find the place, find Tristan, and hopefully both of us can meet him back at the train station.

I cross one more canal and round the final corner from Mario’s directions, right past a building labeled
“Polizia,”
which makes me feel better. The area is definitely less busy than it had been around the fitness festival office. For a second, I consider going inside and asking the police for help to find the
One Time Models
building, but I guess a small part of me is still afraid I’ll ruin something good for Tristan. Maybe the modeling agency is just
from
Bulgaria, but they do their photo shoots right here in Venice. Maybe that’s why Tristan hasn’t been in a rush to get her passport.

I search for numbers along the next narrow pathway, and they’re much harder to find here. In fact I only see one near the front of the
narrow alley, and then a bunch of unmarked doors. I’m looking for 6045, and since the one number I can find is 1002, I figure it must be at the other end.

When I
cross another small bridge, the foot traffic thins out even more. At the last door, I decide to ask inside.

When I push open the door, a loud buzzer sounds above me. Inside there’s a counter run
ning the width of the room. A twenty-something girl stands behind it. A gorgeous girl, or so I think until she looks up. Her features are beautiful—model-like and symmetrical—and I think I have the right place, but the hard edge that covers her face makes her look…less pretty. When she smiles at me, her features soften, but only slightly.

There are framed photos all over the walls—a hundred of them—all black and white and all of beautiful girls. This is definitely
the place. It must be.

“Um, is this
6045?
One Time Models
?” I say, my voice shrinking under her stare. In my eagerness, my question comes out in English.

She glances behind me, like someone else might come through the door. But it remains firmly shut.

“Are you American?” she asks. Her words are slow and specific. Her accent is not Italian. More throaty. Possibly Bulgarian, but I know nothing of the language. She’s still smiling big at me, but it looks forced. All modeling agencies are probably different, but I’m surprised how attentive this lady seems compared with the agency Sawyer and I stopped at yesterday. At least this lady seems nice enough. And there’s no photographer here yelling,
“Stupido.”

I nod. “I’m looking for a model…a
girl named Tristan—”

“Come,” she says, her voice
suddenly sharp. She lifts a section of the barrier counter and motions for me to follow along. I turn back and glance out the window. I can’t quite see the
Polizia
building, but at least I know it’s there.

“
This is
One Time Models
, right? Is Tristan Bishop back there?” I don’t bother using Italian, since I doubt it’s this woman’s first language.

She
nods, still smiling, and opens a narrow door behind the counter to lead me into a hallway. I’m not sure which of my questions she’s nodding to, but I suddenly feel so close. Tristan must be in this building somewhere!

“So is there modeling on site then?
In Venice?” My voice gives away my anxiousness, but she’s quiet, except for the echo of her clacking shoes down the hallway. In the following stony silence I’m picturing every shady modeling scenario I’ve ever imagined. Tristan’s always said it would be easy to spot the agencies that take advantage of girls, but if it’s so easy to pick them out, how do they ever dupe anybody? The woman still hasn’t turned back or said another word to me and suddenly I’m getting more than a little creeped out.

But then s
he opens a door to a brightly lit room with several lined up wooden chairs, almost like a miniature classroom. Two other girls sit in the front row filling out paperwork. They’re both very pretty with legs twice as long as mine. I let out an audible breath of relief at not being alone in this place.

“
Please sit,” the Bulgarian woman says to me, motioning me inside.

She thinks
I’m
here to model? She obviously didn’t understand. “Oh! But I only want to find someone—”

“
Please sit,” she says again, her smile unwavering. Her cheeks must be starting to ache from the frozen perma-grin. She keeps staring at me blankly, and I wonder if she knows any English at all. Maybe she’s just following protocol, including the handful of English words she’s been taught.

“
There are just a couple of forms to fill out, and then they’ll take us into the studio,” a blonde girl in the front row says to me in comfortable English.

I glance again at the Bulgarian woman and sigh.
I’m not going to get any better answers out of her. Might as well get into the studio and hopefully find someone who speaks better English.

I
lift a clipboard and application form off of a chair and take a seat behind the blonde girl. The Bulgarian lady leaves us alone, shutting the door behind her.

“It’s really easy,” the blonde girl tells
me, obviously trying to hurry me along. “It’s mostly family and address information.” The girl bounces her leg a little, and I can picture Tristan doing the same thing. She stares between my face and my clipboard, like she’s going to froth at the mouth if I don’t put pen to paper.

“I’m not really a model,” I tell her honestly
, as if she couldn’t tell from my five-foot-two-inch stature. “Is this how it usually works?”

The brunette nods, looking up from her clipboard.
“Most places only judge you on your headshots, but I hear they actually try you out on camera here. If nothing else, it’s quite an experience to take back home and tell everyone about.”

The blonde raises her eyebrows, like that’s
definitely not enough to satisfy her. She’s not
bad
looking, but she has a big nose and is nowhere near as gorgeous as Tristan. But still, I picture Tristan behind the blonde hair and driven blue eyes.

The brunette
starts flitting her gaze to my clipboard too, so finally I give in and fill out my name. I certainly don’t want to be responsible for ruining these girls’ chances. Besides, if they think they’re just getting some bragging rights here in Venice and then going back home, that’s good news all around. Maybe it’s a short term Venice gig for Tristan, too. Bragging rights—something to boost her confidence and tell her parents and friends about.

There are plenty of spelling mistakes and repeat questions on the form, but the blonde was right, at least it’s easy
. “Wow, they want to know lots about our travel plans, huh?” I say, mostly because I’m not sure how to answer those ones. Do I put that I’ve snuck off from my class trip and hope to be back in Spain tomorrow? Instead, I decide on keeping my answers quick and vague. Vacation and sightseeing throughout Europe.

“I told the lady my mom would be back in an hour to sign
the form,” the blonde tells me, obviously following each blank as I fill it in.

I write in, “Parents back in the U.S.,” where they want a guardian signature, hoping that’ll be enough to show everybody I’m not serious about modeling here.

Or anywhere
, for that matter.

When I get to the address line, I wonder
whether Tristan would have given her parents’ house address in Michigan or her postal box in Milan. I don’t remember the Milan address, so I settle on my Michigan one.

“Phone?” the
Bulgarian lady says, coming back into the room, holding open a small white sack.