The Geography of You and Me (13 page)

“It won’t be as bad as all that,” Dad had told her, but Lucy could tell from the set of his mouth that he was only trying to make the best of it. She’d overheard them arguing after he lost out on the position in London. As a consolation prize, they’d offered him some big job in the Edinburgh office, and he’d accepted out of an odd sense of duty, as well as the hope that it might soon lead to better things.

“Scotland?” Mom kept repeating as if she couldn’t quite believe it, and Lucy tried hard not to laugh at her accent, which had grown softer after all these years in New York, but which was now suddenly as crisp and precise as if she were speaking to the Queen.

“I’ve heard it’s nice,” Dad said weakly, and Mom wrinkled her nose.

“I went once when I was Lucy’s age.”

“And?” he asked, looking hopeful.

“And the whole city smelled like stew.”

“Stew?”

“Stew,” Mom confirmed.

Now that they were here, Lucy could sort of see what she meant. There was definitely something heavy in the air, something vaguely soupy, but she only ever caught a whiff of it from time to time, when the winds shifted and the scent of the North Sea—full of salt and brine—drifted inland. She didn’t mind it, though. And she didn’t mind the darkness, either. Just as sunshine and clear skies suited beach towns, the constant rain and perpetual clouds suited Edinburgh, with its stone buildings and churches, its uneven cobblestone streets and the enormous castle that sat high above it all. There was something utterly romantic about it, as if you’d fallen straight into a fairy tale.

Once she reached Princes Street, Lucy waited for the bus beneath the gaze of the castle, a fortress of stone perched on a cliff above the gardens that separated the old section of the city from the new one. When the bus arrived, she was lucky to find a seat, shouldering in between two women in woolly jackets who proceeded to talk around her in nearly indecipherable accents. On her first day, Lucy had brought along her old copy of
The Catcher in the Rye
, clinging to
that small piece of New York as she rode through the unfamiliar city. But halfway there, she lowered it to watch the buildings whip past the windows, and she’d hadn’t picked it up since. There was too much to see.

Her school was all the way across town, tucked just behind a huge rounded hill that rose between the city and the sea. The sun had climbed higher now, pushing through the fog so that the world had turned from gray to gold, and when the bus hissed to a stop across the street from the school, Lucy climbed off behind a cluster of younger students, all of them chattering away as they hurried through the gate.

She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d been expecting when she first arrived. She’d been kidding about the kilts and bagpipes in her e-mail to Owen, but there was still a little part of her that half-expected to be greeted by a bunch of red-bearded, plaid-wearing, whiskey-swigging classmates. As it turned out, though, Scottish schools weren’t all that different from American ones—at least not in any of the ways that were important. The uniforms were worse—knee-length skirts and boxy blazers—and the accents of her teachers forced her to pay close attention, straining to find something recognizable inside all those rolling
r
’s and twisted vowels. But the students were pretty much the same. The boys played rugby instead of football, and everyone talked about sneaking their parents’ whiskey instead of their parents’ beer on the weekends, but these were all small things.

The only real difference—the only big difference—was Lucy herself.

She realized it on the very first day, when she managed to get lost. The headmaster had walked her to registration and left her with a faint photocopy of a school map, which she’d promptly misplaced. So after the bell rang for first period and the halls emptied out with impossible speed, she was left standing there with no clue where to go and no one to ask for help. It wasn’t until she wandered around the corner that she found someone.

He was standing at his locker, leisurely reaching for his books, in no particular hurry despite the empty halls, and Lucy knew right away that she would have absolutely avoided someone like him back home. He was tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and an angular jaw, too handsome to seem approachable. But it was more than that. There was something completely effortless about him, a casual confidence that was unnerving, even from a distance, even without having met him yet.

He was the type of guy who couldn’t ever be invisible, even if he tried.

“Hey,” she said, walking up to him. “Can you help me find my math class?”

He turned to face her, his mouth twisted up at the corners. “Maths,” he said, drawing out the
s
.

“Math,” Lucy repeated with a frown. “It’s not my best subject, but I’m pretty sure I know the difference between one and two.”

This time, he laughed. “Here we call it
maths
,” he told her, reaching for the schedule in her hand and scanning the page. “And you’re on the wrong floor.”

“Ah,” she said, her cheeks burning. “Thanks.”

“No bother,” he said, clearly amused, then shut his locker door. “See you later.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe in histories. Or sciences.”

He squinted at her, but when he realized she was only joking, his face broke into a grin. “Or lunches,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he walked away.

Standing there alone in the hallway, she couldn’t help smiling. For the first time in her life, she realized there was no hope of blending in. Here, she was the one who was different. She was the one with the accent. The new girl. The object of curiosity. And to her surprise, she found she didn’t mind. Maybe this was why Owen had been so desperate to travel, why she’d longed for it herself without ever really knowing why. It wasn’t just that you got to be somewhere else entirely. It was that you got to be some
one
else entirely, too.

Now, as she made her way through the huddles of students—many of them flashing unnervingly friendly smiles in her direction—she saw him standing at her locker. Already, in such a short amount of time, this had become a habit of sorts. Later on her first day, just after fourth period, he’d found her wandering again, and this time he escorted her to class. When the bell rang at the
end, she was surprised to once again find him waiting just outside the door.

“It would be an awful shame if you got lost and missed lunch,” he said with that blinding smile of his, and Lucy let herself be led to the dining hall. She waited for him to introduce himself, and when he didn’t, she finally stuck out her hand a little awkwardly.

“I’m Lucy, by the way,” she said, and his eyes danced with laughter as he regarded her outstretched hand.

“I know,” he said, taking it in his and giving it an exaggerated shake.

“How?”

“Everyone knows,” he said. “We don’t get a lot of new kids here. Especially not Yanks.”

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks hot. “And you are…?”

“Liam.”

In the cafeteria, he guided her through the lunch line, identifying the various trays of mush. “Neeps and tatties,” he said, picking up a spoon and piling some on her plate, and when she gave him a mystified look, he smiled. “Turnips and potatoes.”

She sat with him and his rugby friends, who peppered her with questions about New York. They wanted to know if she’d been to the top of the Empire State Building and if everyone in America had a swimming pool and whether she’d ever ridden in a yellow taxi. She felt like a visitor from some alien planet, but there was a warmth to their
curiosity, a sense of genuine interest, and for once in her life, she didn’t seem to be wilting under such unwavering attention: instead, to her surprise, she was glowing.

Afterward, Liam walked her to her next class, and just like that, it became a routine. She was grateful for the company, and more flattered than she cared to admit, even to herself. She’d seen the way other girls looked at Liam, had heard the stories of some of the plays he’d made on the rugby pitch, had watched the effect his easy smile had on teachers and students alike. But still, each time she saw him there, waiting outside one of her classrooms, she felt a pang of guilt, too.

It was ridiculous; she knew this. In four days here, she’d already spent more time with Liam than she’d ever spent with Owen. He hardly even wrote anymore, and it wasn’t like they’d made any sort of promises to each other. So why did she feel like some small but essential part of her had been left behind in New York?

This morning, Liam was waiting at her locker again, but even as their eyes met and he lifted a hand, she couldn’t bring herself to wave. Instead, she felt around in her pocket for the postcard, tracing the edges, a portable reminder of Owen.

“I have an idea,” Liam said as soon as she was close enough. “Do you have plans this afternoon?”

Lucy shook her head.

“You probably haven’t gone up Arthur’s Seat yet, right?”

“Arthur’s what?”

“Seat,” he said, his eyes bright. “The hills just over
there. It’s really famous, and there’s a great view up top. Want to go after school?”

Lucy glanced down at her loafers. “I’m not sure I’m dressed for a hike.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, flashing a grin. “It’s really more of a walk.”

After school, Liam led the way, through winding streets lined with little shops that sat beneath the hunched green hills, until the roads opened up into a sloping park, and they picked up a trail that went up, up, up as far as she could see.

It was, as advertised, mostly just a walk at first, and they talked about their families and their homes and their siblings.

“Will your brothers come visit, or will you go back and see them?” Liam asked. “Must be a bit odd, being so far apart. My brother moved to London last year, and the way my mum’s been acting, you’d think it was China.”

Lucy smiled, keeping her eyes trained on the gravely trail. “My cousin’s getting married in San Francisco over Christmas break, so we’ll all see each other then,” she told him. “But I bet they’ll come over here for the summer, too. They’d never miss a chance to do some traveling on my parents’ dime.”

“You mean 10p,” he said.

“Huh?”

He glanced back with a grin. “Ten pence. No dimes over here.”

It wasn’t long before the path grew steeper, and they were soon too winded to continue talking. Lucy’s lungs strained in the sea-heavy air, and her feet slipped on the dirt as the afternoon began to ease into evening.

“Won’t it be too dark on the way down?” she asked, squinting up at Liam, who was a few strides ahead.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know the way.”

They trudged on, both of them breathing hard, and Lucy was reminded of all those walks up and down the stairwell during the blackout. An image of Owen flashed in her mind, tall and gangly, lurching up the stairs with all the grace of a broomstick. When she looked up, she saw Liam powering ahead, sturdy-legged and strong-backed, and she felt a tug inside her, something wrenching and bleak.

A few other hikers passed them on their way down, but it felt to Lucy like they were the only ones still winding their way up, and her mouth was dry and chalky, her chest burning as they pushed on. She knew the city was unfolding at her back, and she wanted to turn and look, but she was afraid to lose momentum—or worse, lose Liam.

Finally, they rounded one last bend, and though she could see that there was still room to climb, Liam stopped at a flat outcropping, a sort of makeshift lookout point, and waved his arm out over the edge with a little flourish. For a moment, she couldn’t look; instead, she bent over with her hands on her knees and struggled to catch her breath. Liam had hardly broken a sweat, and briefly, fleetingly, she decided that she hated him. What was he
thinking? It was nearly dark now, and he’d dragged her up some stupid mountain on a lark. She’d never in her life felt more like a city kid, and she was suddenly certain that she didn’t belong here. She was built for rooftops, not mountains.

But then she turned around, and there it was, the city of Edinburgh: spread before her in shades of purple and gold, all spires and turrets and glittering lights. Lucy stepped up to the edge of the overlook, her eyes wide and her chest tight. In the distance, the castle glowed a faint white, and a scattering of other monuments pierced the evening sky.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, and Liam stepped up beside her. He was so close that she could hear a small rattle in his throat when he breathed, could feel the heat rising off him, but in spite of this, her thoughts were still five thousand miles away, in another place with another boy, and the unfairness of this lodged itself in her chest and made her feel like crying.

Because what was she supposed to do now? There was no point in waiting for someone who hadn’t asked, and there was no point in wishing for something that would never happen. They were like a couple of asteroids that had collided, she and Owen, briefly sparking before ricocheting off again, a little chipped, maybe even a little scarred, but with miles and miles still to go. How long could a single night really be expected to last? How far could you stretch such a small collection of minutes? He was just a boy on a roof. She was just a girl in an elevator. Maybe that was the end of it.

Beside her, she could feel Liam smiling as the sky went a notch darker and the lights a notch brighter. “It looks like a painting, doesn’t it?” he asked, and the words stirred something inside her. She let out a long breath, then shook her head.

“It looks,” she said, “like a postcard.”

For Thanksgiving, they bought
a chicken instead of a turkey.

“There’s no way we could eat that much,” Dad said as he wheeled their cart through the freezing cold aisles of the grocery store. And then, as if they needed reminding, he added: “There are only two of us.”

Owen gave in to this, and to store-bought stuffing, too, but he insisted they make all the sides, even turnips.

“I hate turnips,” Dad said with a groan.

“So do I,” Owen said, dropping them into the cart. “But they were her favorite.”