What I Wore to Save the World (6 page)

“Sorry, Mr. Phineas, I was distracted. Which campus did you say?”

“The University of Oxford, located in the city of Ox ford, approximately sixty miles northwest of London, En gland.” He sounded very matter of fact, like he was giving me directions to the local pizza place.

“You mean—I have to be in England in
three days
?” I had to lean against the counter for support. “But there's no way—”

“Perhaps I'm not being clear.” Mr. Phineas's attitude went from chuckles to chilly in a heartbeat. “This is a
special
orientation session. For
special
applicants. It is by invitation only, and a campus tour is a
mandatory
component. Your plane ticket is already purchased and paid for, courtesy of the Oxford admissions office. You have a valid passport, I presume?”

Though I knew he couldn't see me, all at once it felt weird that I was talking to him in my polka-dot bikini top and bare feet. “Sure. I mean, I went to Europe last summer, so I guess the passport is still good.” I shoved a banana into Tammy's mouth to make her get out of my face. “But, Mr. Phineas? Seriously—the plane ticket is free? Is this really on the up and up?”

“The ‘up and up.' What a curious expression,” he said, not bothering to answer my question. “Travel instructions will arrive via e-mail this evening at eight o'clock sharp. Please follow all instructions to the letter! Understood?”

“I understand, but I kind of have to talk it over with my parents first—”

“Morganne,” he said, so sternly I didn't bother to correct him, “where you go to college and what you do with your life—it's not about your parents, or anybody else, for that matter. It's about
you.
Now don't forget to check your e-mail, please! Eight o'clock. Do exactly as it says; that's very important. Goodbye.”

I hung up, as dizzy as if I'd just spent an hour riding the Cyclone at Coney Island.

“Yuk!” Tammy spit out the banana into my hand. “You could have
peeled
it first!”

 

 

 

“oxford is paying for you to fly over for a campus
tour? They must think you're incredibly special!”

At least, this was the kind of ego-boosting crap I was imagining my parents would say, when they both got home from work and I tried to explain what Mr. Phineas had told me over the phone.

“He says I have to go to Oxford. I mean,
go
. In person. Like, this week. The Specials Admissions something-or-other wants me to be there Friday morning. I'm supposed to get all the details later—”

They stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. Then, piercing through the air like a hundred smoke alarms going off at once:

“Morgan is the worst babysitter
ever
!”

Tammy had been happily watching
SpongeBob
in her room until she realized Mom and Dad were home. Now she ran downstairs screaming. “She gave me potato chips for breakfast and she almost let me get drownded in the bathtub and she doesn't even know how to peel a banana!”

I knew Tammy was really only upset about the banana, but after they heard “drownded in the bathtub,” I pretty much lost my parents' attention. Mom started screeching at Dad to hold Tammy upside down by her ankles in case there was any water left in her lungs, and Tammy started crying because she hated being upside down, and Dad started yelling because Mom and Tammy were both hysterical.

From the noise Tammy made it was obvious her lungs were fine. She'd still be happily underwater playing mermaid games with her bubble-blowing faery friend if I hadn't yanked her out of the tub, but I didn't think there was much point in trying to convince my parents of that.

I'll tell them about the trip to England later,
I thought dejectedly, as I slunk back to my room to wait until eight o'clock rolled around
.

 

 

 

at seven fifty-nine i was sitting in my room in front of my computer, staring at the screen and feeling like a fool.

Don't get your hopes up,
I told myself. The more I thought about it, the more unlikely the whole offer seemed. Mr. Freaky Short Pants was probably just yanking my chain. Nevertheless, I'd already piled a dozen potential campus tour outfits in a big messy heap on my bed. I'd also swiped some travel-sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner that my mom had nabbed from various hotels during family vacations.

I'd found my passport stashed in the bottom of my underwear drawer, where so many valuable but rarely needed items eventually find a home. Most important, I'd fantasized at least twenty different ways of trying to convince Colin to meet me in London.

Now I was just sitting there at my desk, watching the screen and the clock.

Sure enough, at eight o'clock exactly, right when my mind started to wander, the new mail alarm on my computer went off. The alarm was a snippet of a heavy metal riff from Kiss, which was kind of an in-joke between me and Gene Simmons, you might say.

I reached for the mouse, but my hand froze when I saw who the e-mail was from.

My heart was pounding like a basketball being dribbled in double-time. Colin had attached a page with some cheap flights and the bus schedule from London to the place in Wales where he and his grandfather were staying. It was called “Castell Cyfareddol.” I was not even going to guess how to pronounce that.

Was this some kind of insane coincidence? Or was Colin's distress signal the e-mail Mr. Phineas was telling me to wait for?

And if so, what did Mr. Phineas have to do with whatever was going on with Colin?

And what the phek, sorry, fek, was Finnbar doing in my parent's bathtub? The weirdness was reaching critical mass. Something must be up.

My mom knocked on the door before opening it a crack.

“Can I come in?”

“Uh.” I glanced back at the computer to make sure I hadn't left Colin's e-mail open on the screen. “Sure.”

“Mr. Phineas just rang the bell, didn't you hear it?”

I looked at her stupidly. “What bell?”

“The doorbell, silly. He dropped this off.” She handed me another envelope with the official Oxford emblem on it, sealed and addressed to me.

I stared at it, speechless. It was like when cartoon characters get so flustered that smoke starts spewing out their ears and their eyes bug out on springs. My mom just smiled.

“Your plane tickets are in there. He said you'd be getting your itinerary in an e-mail. Did you?”

“Um, yeah.” I stared at the envelope, not wanting to open it in front of my mother in case Tinker Bell flew out of it, trailing a stream of magic sparkle-dust.

“He explained about the tour to your father and me. You leave tomorrow.”

“Wow.” It was the kind of all-purpose word that seemed to cover the complexity of the situation nicely, so I said it again. “Wow.”

“Wow indeed.” Mom sat down on the edge of my bed. I knew that move. It meant she “wanted to talk.” This was definitely not a good time.

“How's Tammy?” I asked, as a diversion. “Did you drain all the Mr. Bubble out of her lungs?”

“She's fine.” Mom sounded weirdly calm, considering the big drama that had just transpired. “She was probably playing with Barbies until Dad and I walked in, right?”

“Watching
SpongeBob
, but yeah.”

“We overreacted,” she said simply. “But you didn't. After your father put her down Tammy told us the whole story: that you were right outside the bathroom door the whole time she was taking a bath? And you came in and pulled her out of the tub the minute you heard something suspicious?”

“Yeah, the bathroom is probably a mess, sorry about that—”

My mom threw her arms around me and squeezed so hard I lost my breath. “Morgan! Do you realize that you saved your sister's life?”

“Mom—ouch—I think you still might be overreacting.” I wriggled free, gently, because I could tell she was on the brink of getting weepy, and I didn't have time to deal with that. “Maybe you're having one of those hormonal surges that afflict women your age and cause temporary fits of insanity.”

“Most serious childhood accidents occur in the home,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But not this time, thanks to you. And now this!” She tapped the envelope with her finger. “Oxford University is pursuing
you
! Morgan, I don't know what to say. I feel like there must be a whole side of you that we've missed, somehow.”

Oh my God, you have no idea,
I thought. “Does that mean I can go to England, then?”

“Sweetheart, you
have
to go! I know it's short notice, but it's not like it's the first time you've traveled to Europe alone.” She looked at the pile of clothes on my bed like she wished she were the one with the plane ticket. “Do you need any help packing?”

“I'm fine.” I really wanted her to leave so I could print out Colin's travel directions. “I can manage. Thanks.”

She started to leave, but stopped in the doorway.

“This is going to be a real adventure for you, Morgan.” She put her hand over her heart, drama-queen style. “I just have a feeling. This trip is going to be a
truly
unforgettable experience.”

six

i waited until i heard my mom's footsteps going down the stairs, counted to ten, and then turned back to the computer. My reply to Colin was short and sweet. “I'll be there Friday morning,” I wrote. “Whatever it is, you're not crazy. Love, Morgan.”

I stared at the screen for a moment before pressing SEND. Of course I was dying to know what was going on—for one thing, what the fek was he doing on vacation with his grandfather? He was supposed to be working the bike tour this summer—but there'd be plenty of time to ask questions in person. Right now, the less I knew, the less I'd have to lie to my parents about. I just needed to get my half-goddess butt to Wales without anybody realizing that I was taking a detour. Call it the really, really scenic route to Oxford.

Feeling totally spylike, I printed out Colin's e-mail and travel instructions, then deleted the file. I changed my password too, just in case some nosy kid named Tammy felt like playing with my computer while I was gone.

And I wrote an e-mail to Sarah saying I'd be out of town for a while to look at college campuses. “Cheerio!” is how I signed off at the end, instead of goodbye. I was pretty sure she'd figure it out. I made it a “send later” e-mail and timed it to get to her when I would be high in the sky, halfway over the Atlantic. Detailed explanations would have to wait until I got back to Connecticut.

Of course, I had no idea when that would be.

 

 

 

the next morning, with some small part of me still suspecting I might have dreamed the whole thing, I found myself standing in the lobby of the local Marriott, waiting to board the airport van to JFK.

The Oxford brochure poked strategically from the outside pocket of my wheeled suitcase, where everyone could admire it. My secret itinerary from Colin was folded up and hidden inside the private zipper pouch of my backpack, where I usually stashed my SGS (SGS was Sarah-and-Morgan-speak for Secret Girl Stuff, meaning tampons and panti-liners and supplies of that nature, though math tests that had failing grades scrawled on them in red ink sometimes got crumpled up and shoved in there too).

I promised my mom that I'd be careful and not get kidnapped by perverts, my dad that I'd take plenty of pictures and not get arrested by a “constable” and Tammy that I'd buy her crappy souvenirs from every overpriced gift shop in the United Kingdom.

And then, with multiple hugs all around and my mom doing a final frisk to triple-check that my passport and plane tickets were safely stashed on my person, I climbed in the van and took my seat. Taking the van was my idea—I figured there was no need for either of my parents to miss a whole day's work just to drive me all the way to the airport when the Marriott was only two miles away from our house. I already had enough guilt that I wasn't telling them the whole truth about where I was going.

“I want to handle this trip myself,” I argued, when Mom made a boo-boo face about my van plan. “That's what a true Oxonian would do.” I'd been waiting for a chance to use that word ever since I'd read it in the Oxford brochure. Privately, I imagined the Oxonians as a small, nerdy race of aliens from the planet Oxon. Their incompetent rulers would be called the Oxymorons. Anyway, just saying it did the trick. Dad puffed out his chest, Mom got a tear of pride in her eye, and they let me go.