Destination Anywhere Page 26

  We look at each other. The answer is clearly no.

  “You can’t stop me doing any of this,” I say. “You can’t force me to do a degree I don’t want to do.”

  “I know that, and I wouldn’t do that,” Mum says. “I want you to be happy, I really do. But your dad, he’s very set on this. If you go down this route, he won’t support it. I mean financially.”

  “So? I’ll get student loans.”

  “Peyton—”

  “You’re not going to put me off,” I say. “I did everything you said my whole life, and I listened to you, and I believed you, but look where it got me. I was so unhappy at Claridge, and you knew that. And you didn’t let me leave. Why didn’t you let me leave?”

  Mum blinks at me, guilty and confused. “I’m not sure how that’s related to—”

  “Of course it’s related. Why do you think we’re here? In Canada?” There’s a long silence. “Can you please just tell me why you didn’t move me to another school?” I’ve wanted to know for so long. Years.

  Mum opens her mouth, then closes it again.

  “Be honest,” I say.

  “It’s hard to know what the honest answer is,” she says. “It’s so easy now to look back and say that I did the wrong thing, but that’s hindsight, my darling. It’s a trick; it makes things look so much easier, when at the time they were so confused.”

  “Just say why you didn’t move me.”

  “Because I…” She closes her eyes and lets out a short breath. “I worried that you would encounter the same problems somewhere else, and that would make the damage that much worse. Long term.”

  For a moment, my throat closes up. She thought it was me; I was the problem. I’d get bullied wherever I went, because the problem was me. Tears sting at the backs of my eyes. I wish I hadn’t asked.

  “Peyton,” she says, reading me. “That’s not because I thought there was anything wrong with you. But I talked to a lot of people and I did a lot of research at the time. Children are cruel, and they often pick up on the kind of vulnerability that can come from being bullied in the past. What if you’d gone somewhere else and the bullies there guessed you’d been bullied before? That was my fear. Psychologically, moving schools at that age because of bullying; it can cause more damage if it doesn’t work out. And often, bullying stops after a short time. I thought, on balance, that you were best staying where you were, building resilience, waiting for the storm to pass.”

  “It didn’t pass,” I say, my teeth grinding down against each other. “It was the entire time I was there. You think that didn’t do damage?”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

  “Would you do it differently if you could go back?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I wouldn’t have sent you there in the first place. But, like I said, it’s very easy to say these things with hindsight.”

  “Did you know about my college friends?” I ask. “Did you know that they were bad for me?”

  “No,” she says. “You kept yourself so distant from me. You stopped talking. But I felt like that was something you needed to do, and I wanted to respect that. Clearly, that was the wrong thing, too.”

  Would it have made any difference if she’d tried lecturing me about Travis and his friends? Would I have listened? No. I would have been furious if she’d said a word against any of them.

  “I didn’t mean for that to go so wrong,” I say, stating the obvious.

  “Of course not,” she says. “You saw the best in them because you wanted to. I understand that. I wanted to destroy them for being so reckless with your safety, but that’s motherhood. I’m allowed to feel that way.”

  “It wasn’t all them,” I say.

  She frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “I just…” I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say. “Yeah, they weren’t great, but I wasn’t exactly, like… blameless. I was all in. They didn’t make me do anything. I made those choices myself.”

  Mum’s watching me carefully, quiet.

  “I don’t want to disappoint you,” I say. “I never did. But I feel like I need to understand all of this, and yeah, it would be easy to just blame them for it all, but that’s not going to help me in the long run, is it? If I don’t understand what went wrong, what’s going to stop me making the same mistakes again?”

  She still doesn’t say anything, but she nods, expectant, waiting for me to answer my own question.

  “I didn’t try to get to know them, not really. I’m not sure I wanted to. Maybe because I knew that if I did, I wouldn’t like them, and I’d have to face that, and then I wouldn’t have friends again. And that’s why I stopped talking to you too, I think, because you would ask me stuff about them and I wouldn’t be able to answer.” I shake my head. “There were so many red flags I just ignored. And I can say they’re obvious now, but the thing is, I think they were obvious at the time, too? But I wanted it so badly. I needed it to be good. I can’t blame them for me throwing myself at them, you know? I could have walked away the first time the pills came out. Or when I realized I was paying for everything. Or when I got punched.”

  Alarm pops on Mum’s face. “You got punched?”

  I almost want to laugh. “I’ve got so much to tell you.”

  “I had no idea things were that bad,” she says. “Oh, Peyton. That night… getting that call.” She shakes her head. “There’s nothing like it. You could have died. Out there on the street. They left you. They did that.”

  “I know,” I say. “And that was obviously bad of them. But what I’m saying is, it was a road to get there, and I chose to be on that road, and maybe the only thing that could get me off it was what happened. Maybe it needed to happen, in a way, so I finally realized what I was doing. Maybe if it hadn’t happened, it would all still be going on. Not a big and dramatic thing like, you know, nearly dying, but like an everyday bad. Unhealthy, and me just going along with it all. In denial, I guess. Wouldn’t that be worse?”

  “In the long run, I suppose it would, yes,” Mum says. “Did you know that one of them came round to see me?” she asks. “Casey?”

  I nod.

  “She seemed like she really was sorry,” she says. “For what happened to you. And I had to give her credit where it was due for facing me like she did. No one else did. Certainly not that boyfriend of yours.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, him.”

  Mum laughs, surprising me. “I can only hope that you’ll learn all the lessons you need about bad boyfriends from him, and it will help you make a better choice next time.”

  I think of Beasey. “I already know it will. And friends, too. Lots of lessons, right?”

  She nods. “Good and bad.”

  I sigh. “I feel like my whole adolescence has just been… a mess,” I say. “A messed-up mess.”

  “But look at you,” she says. “You’re almost out of it. Adulthood is so close. And you’re so strong and brave and resilient. So independent.” She’s smiling at me, the pride on her face as surprising as it is wanted. “I wish you hadn’t felt the need to run away, but my God, I’m so proud of you for how you’ve managed this.” She lets out a small, tearful laugh. “It’s a confusing mix of emotions. Being proud of something you can’t condone and wish hadn’t happened.”

  “I get that,” I say. “It would be weird if you’d been, like, Brilliant! Off you go!”

  She laughs. “That’s what your brother said. Brilliant!” She mimics his low voice, which makes me laugh. “Go, Peyton!”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes—your father was furious.” She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Dillon’s even talking about the two of you traveling together. I don’t know how on earth I raised two such adventurous children.”

  “Could be worse,” I say.

  “It could,” she says, smiling dryly. “It could be a lot worse.”

  When do I decide to go home with her? I’m not even sure. The decision comes in slow, no
t so much landing in my head as surfacing, like it had been there all along. It’s so soft, in fact, that I forget to actually tell Mum, assuming she already knows. So when I say, the following day after we’ve stopped off at Tim Hortons for afternoon doughnuts, “Do you think they’ll let me take a couple of boxes of Timbits as part of my hand luggage?” I’m surprised that she drops the city map she’s holding, grabs my arm and starts to cry. Right in the middle of the street.

  “Oh,” I say, just as she sobs out, “Oh, Peyton,” and puts an arm around me, hugging me close to her. She releases me, wiping her eyes, laughing at herself. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just so pleased. So happy.”

  Maybe it’s because I can’t imagine being on my own again after spending this time with her, having someone I love to share it all with and knowing what a difference that makes. It’s different than sharing it all with my friends, and even than sharing it with Beasey, but it still matters. Maybe it’s because I miss home. My house, my bed, my clothes, my dog. Jaffa Cakes and Cadbury’s chocolate. Baked beans. Walkers crisps. Ginger nut biscuits. Maybe it’s because I’m tired.

  Or maybe it’s just time to go home.

  I know I won’t be going back to the life I left. Even if everything there is the same, too much in me has changed. I think that even if I went back to college—which I won’t—things would still be different. Thinking about Travis and Flick doesn’t make me ache with disappointment and self-hatred. I just feel kind of… sad. For them and me. Yes, they did a bad thing at the end, but it wasn’t their fault our friendship hadn’t worked. I’d wanted friends in the abstract; I hadn’t seen them as real people with their own interests and wants and needs. I hadn’t given them anything real of myself to respond to. Of course we had no connection.

  Not that I’ve got any intention of going back home and reconciling with them. That time of my life is done, and I’m happy to keep it in the past.

  Maybe I’ll be going back to a friendless life, but even if I am, it’ll only be for a short time. There’ll be other people to meet and friends to make. Maybe they’ll be older than me or from somewhere else. Maybe they’ll be British or not. Maybe the thing we’ll have in common is that we both like art, or that we’ve both traveled, or that we both like dogs. Who knows?

  And all the while Seva, Maja, Beasey, Khalil, Lars, and Stefan will all just be a WhatsApp away. My friends, scattered all over the world, having their own adventures, making new friends everywhere they go as naturally as breathing, because that really is as easy as it is.

  I don’t have to be scared that I’m not good enough, not anymore. The Amber Monroes of this world—and I know I’ll encounter them throughout my life—aren’t the authority on my personality and who I am. I’m not worthless just because they once told me I was. I’m not friendless because they weren’t my friends. I don’t have to let them live rent-free in my head.

  Maybe there was a time when I didn’t have any friends, and it was horrible and lonely, but it was just a thing that happened, not a sign of my life. I don’t have to be that person, because this is my life, and I am my own person, and no one has control over who I’ll be but me. I have a choice, and that includes what kind of person I want to be. And I know who that is: I want to be kind. Kind like my friends have been to me, kind like Canada has been to me. I can take that gift and carry it with me. I can be a person people are glad to meet, glad to know. The kind of person they make detours for.

  Our flight home is in the early evening on Wednesday, and we spend our last few hours in the city embracing the tourist life. I take Mum to a food court and introduce her to poutine, then buy us an Orange Julius apiece, messaging Beasey with a picture of me and the drink. Did I ever tell you the story of my first Orange Julius? He sends me heart-eyes emojis in reply.

  We visit the souvenir gift shops, loading up on sweet treats and presents to take home for Dad, Dillon, and Grandma. I buy myself a small moose toy—mostly because the label declares him YOUR CANADIAN FRIEND!—and name him Jasper. I don’t care if it’s stupid; I love the idea of having a friend to take home with me.

  It’s not the most exciting way to end my great Canadian adventure, but I don’t mind. What could compare to Tofino, the waterfalls at Wells Gray, Lake Louise? Guiding Beasey across a suspension bridge? The smell of toasted marshmallows on a freezing night outside an RV called Justin?

  “How are you feeling?” Mum asks me when we’re on our way to the airport.

  Sad. Oddly hollow. But okay. “I’m glad you came,” I say, which makes her cry, which makes me cry.

  “What a pair,” Mum says with a laugh, wiping her eyes.

  By the time we board the plane a few hours later, I’m ready to go. Impatient, even, to get back to my old life and reboot it with everything I’ve gained and learned. I will come back to Canada one day, I know that. Maybe I’ll even make it to Nova Scotia next time.

  I take a plane selfie and send it to the RV group. I’m smiling wide, the window in the corner of the frame, my head tilted slightly toward it. Going home! I write.

  Tschüss! Maja writes back almost immediately. Safe travels!

  Best regards to Blighty, Khalil says. He adds an emoji of a plane and the Union Jack. Have a good one!

  A selfie comes through: Seva, a surreptitious smile on his face, besuited, sitting at his desk. He writes something in Russian—I think it’s a form of “goodbye”—and adds another plane emoji.

  Another selfie, this time Lars with Stefan ducking his head into view, both of them grinning. Lars has his ski goggles on, Stefan’s are pushed up over his forehead. Vi ses!

  I wait, hoping for a message from Beasey. The cabin crew are doing their final sweep down the aisle, checking people’s seat belts, closing the last overhead compartments. Mum taps my arm. “Airplane mode,” she whispers.

  “One sec,” I say. Beasey is typing.

  Have a good flight! A smiley face. Another Union Jack emoji.

  I’m about to sink with confused disappointment, tapping my screen with my thumb to bring up settings so I can turn on airplane mode, when another notification comes through. Beasey, messaging privately. He’s sent a picture. I smile as I tap on it, anticipating his sweet, selfied face.

  The picture is of the two of us, our faces up close to the camera, both of us smiling wide. We’re wearing woolly hats pulled down over our ears. His arm is around me. Behind us, the unimaginable ice blue of Lake Louise. I look at the picture, taking us in. I remember that moment so clearly, how happy I felt, how lucky to be there.

  Whatever else happens, this happened, he’s written. And it was amazing. Have a good flight, let me know when you land. Good luck at home in your next adventure.

  I’m smiling, my eyes blurring, as I turn on airplane mode and slide it into the seat pocket in front of me. I wipe my eyes, settling back into my seat, looking out the window. Whatever else happens, this happened, I think. Over and over, like a mantra, as the plane taxis us away from the terminal, toward the runway.

  When the engines roar and we push forward, Mum takes my hand, like she used to do when I was very small and we were going somewhere together. I used to think it was for me, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe needing comfort and support isn’t just a childhood thing. Maybe you always have those moments when you need a little boost of love. I squeeze her hand as the ground drops away. I look out the window, watching Toronto shrink beneath us until it’s a patchwork of city in a giant expanse of ice and snow. I turn back to Mum and smile.

  “Off we go,” I say.

  More from the Author

  Goodbye, Perfect

  A Quiet Kind of Thunder

  Fragile Like Us

  about the author

  Author photo by Tracy King

  Sara Barnard is the author of Fragile Like Us; A Quiet Kind of Thunder; Goodbye, Perfect; and Destination Anywhere. She lives in Brighton, England, with her husband and their grumpy cat. She studied American literature with creative writing at university and never
stopped reading YA. She has lived in Canada, inter-railed through Europe, and once spent the night in an ice hotel. She thinks sad books are good for the soul and happy books lift the heart. She hopes to write lots of books that do both.

  Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen

  www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Sara-Barnard

  Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

  Simon & Schuster, New York

  Books by Sara Barnard

  Fragile Like Us

  A Quiet Kind of Thunder

  Goodbye, Perfect

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text © 2021 by Sara Barnard

  Originally published in Great Britain in 2021 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  Jacket illustration © 2021 by Maggie Edkins

  Interior illustration © 2021 by Christiane Fürtges

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