Destination Anywhere Page 4

  I imagined myself walking over to them, smiling and saying… what? What would Amber Monroe do? No, I don’t want to be like Amber Monroe. If she’s the price of having friends, friends aren’t worth it. I opened my locker and started offloading the day’s accumulation of papers and books into it. I should concentrate on finding one friend first, not expect a group to open itself out to me. The next class I went to, I would speak to whoever my deskmate was. I would find something to compliment—their phone case, their shoes, their handwriting, even. And then at some point, a little later, I’d pretend I hadn’t heard something the teacher had said and ask my potential friend if they’d heard, and they’d reply because people like being helpful. Yes, solid plan. Chin up, Peyton.

  I shut my locker door and there was Flick, standing beside me, smiling. “Hi!” she said.

  Oh my God, it’s happening. I forgot all about my helpful potential friend with the nice phone case.

  “Hi,” I said, very casually. It sounded too much like her “hi,” but whatever.

  “You were in math this morning, right?” she said. “You were next to Travis?” She pointed over her shoulder. “That guy?”

  I nodded.

  “And you’ve got neat handwriting,” she said.

  Weird thing to remember, but okay. I nodded again.

  “Amazing!” she said. “So you were taking notes?”

  “Yeah?” Damn, that sounded too suspicious. I tried again. “Yeah! Why, do you need them?”

  She lit up. “Oh my God! Yes! Well, not me, my boyfriend. Eric. He’s an idiot. I’d give him mine, but he says I take shit notes.” She laughed a little bit too hard. “You seem like you probably take great notes, though. With your neat handwriting and everything.” She smiled hopefully at me. It was the kind of smile that reassured me, somehow, that she wasn’t being mean, even though this whole setup was the kind of thing that, at Claridge Academy, would have led to my notes ending up in the toilet or something. But Flick’s smile had a touch of need in it, a desperation I couldn’t understand but still recognized.

  “If you want, you and me could compare our notes and go over them together,” I said. “And then you can give him yours.”

  Mistake. Her brow furrowed. “I don’t actually take shit notes. He just said I did. They’re fine.”

  There was something in her face, the start of a judgment forming, and it terrified me. Her face said, Why are you making this weird?

  “Oh, I know,” I said, and my brain was working so fast to fix the mistake I’d made that I ended up saying the thing I had definitely not intended to say. “I just don’t know anyone here, so I’m trying to make friends.”

  Instant, nauseating mortification exploded in my chest, filling my blood with a disorientating mix of heat and ice. I felt sick. Why did you say that? Why, why, why?

  But Flick’s brow unfurrowed, her smile returned. “Aw!” she said. “With me?! That’s so sweet.”

  I blinked, trying to smile around the horrified grimace that was threatening to creep across my face.

  “I mean, run while you still can, but sure, okay,” Flick was saying, laughing. “Want to come over and meet the gang, then? If you actually don’t mind sharing your notes with Eric, I mean.”

  I opened my mouth, and the bell rang. Loud and obnoxious, destroying my first potential friendship in literal years.

  “Or tomorrow,” Flick said easily, shrugging. “What’s your next class?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Me too!”

  Oh my God. God who actually exists and is smiling down on me. God who has finally, finally, sent me a friend. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah!” She laughed, possibly at me, but I wasn’t sure. “Come on. Maybe we can sit together; none of my friends are taking psych, but I thought it sounded cool. I like your bag.” She didn’t even bother going back to her friends or her boyfriend, just waved at them as we headed out of the common room together, side by side, like friends. “So where’ve you come from? Are you a consortium kid?”

  “Nope, I was at Claridge,” I said. “The academy.”

  “Cool,” she said. I didn’t correct her. “I didn’t even think about leaving—is that weird? I know this place isn’t technically Eastridge, but it kind of is, you know?”

  “You’re from Eastridge?”

  “Yup. Most of us are, I think. Some of us have known each other since we were literally babies.” I wasn’t sure how literally to take that “literally.”

  “Is it weird having to share with all the newbies now?” I asked, proud of myself for saying something so normal.

  She grinned. “Nah, it’s about time we got some new blood.”

  In psychology, she sat beside me like it wasn’t a big deal, and I tried very hard not to beam like a child. The teacher talked nonstop from the beginning of the lesson to the end, breaking down the course structure and what we could expect to learn over the year, so Flick and I didn’t get a chance to chat, but sitting together was enough.

  At the end of the lesson, when we headed out of the classroom, Eric was waiting by the doorway to the building and off they went. I’d hoped they might invite me somewhere, but I told myself it was fine that they didn’t; we weren’t friends yet. The important thing was that Flick threw a wave over her shoulder as she went, that I hadn’t said anything stupid, that we’d had a normal conversation.

  Hope fluttered in my chest, a caged bird. My head went, Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  NOW

  VANCOUVER

  I wake up groggy. The dorm room is empty—I’d been vaguely roused out of sleep a few times in the night and then again in the morning by my roommates coming and then going again—and I’m jet-lagged and disorientated, unsure what country I’m in, what day it is. I’d dreamed about Flick.

  I reach for my phone to find it’s full of messages, mostly from Mum, plus one from my brother, Dillon. Mum’s are mainly logistical, clearly based off research she’s been doing since I left, asking me about currency exchange, telling me where the hospitals and police stations are, what the emergency number is in Canada. She’s also sent me the full names, addresses, and phone numbers of four different people she “sort of” knows in British Columbia—three former colleagues and a second cousin—and even Grandad in Alberta, which surprises me. She must really be worried. Finally, she’s screenshotted all the flights leaving Vancouver airport for the UK over the next forty-eight hours, “just in case.”

  I reply, Good morning. I love you.

  Dillon’s message is less logistical.

  HOLY SHIT, PEYTON!

  I feel the grin break across my face as I send the Canadian flag emoji in response. I don’t think I’ve ever elicited a “Holy shit, Peyton” from Dillon, who has always treated me with an affectionate and protective older-brotherly indulgence rather than the respect of an equal. Now the ellipsis flashes onscreen.

  Dillon:

  YOU BAD. ASS. BITCH. Can’t freaking believe it.

  Me:

  You proud?

  Dillon:

  PROUD AS FUCK. Mum and Dad are losing it. They don’t know what to do.

  Me:

  They can’t do anything.

  Dillon:

  Dad CANNOT deal with that. Listen, seriously, are you safe? You need anything?

  Me:

  They can’t do anything.

  Dillon:

  OK. You need money or help or anything, call me, OK? I’m serious.

  Me:

  OK!

  Dillon:

  Damn, P. I mean this in a good way, but I never knew you were so cool.

  When I’m washed and dressed, I go into the breakfast room, where a small group of guys are clustered around one table, talking in Australian accents with the kind of animated excitement I can’t bring myself to pierce with my awkward English hello. I hover by the bagel table, staring at the range of food, more aware of myself than I’ve ever been in my whole life. Eventually, I grab two granola bars and leave. So much for ap
preciating the hostel’s amazing free breakfast.

  I head out into the Vancouver morning, trying to muster the boldness I’d felt when I first arrived. It’s a beautiful day, crisp and bright, with only the occasional wisp of cloud showing against the blue sky. Here I am, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, ready to explore. This is why I’m here, isn’t it? I’m ready for adventures, transformative experiences.

  I’d intended to walk confidently in whatever direction made sense, but I falter when I’ve only walked about five feet. Vancouver looked incredible from the air and in all the pictures I’d seen, but I tell you what it looks like now, from the ground: it looks like a city. I’m just standing on the side of a city street, which looks as urban and unfriendly as any city street, except the road signs and traffic lights are different. There are people everywhere, some harried, some calm, alone or with friends, all with a plan and a purpose. They all belong here, and I am a visitor. A visitor with no friends and no plan and no purpose.

  Anxiety rises in my throat. I almost turn and run back to the hostel.

  No, Peyton. You can do this. I take a deep breath and head toward a familiar sight: a Starbucks. I’ll get a drink, have a little sit-down and take stock. I know big chains are peak capitalism and that’s bad and everything, but right now the green-and-brown interior, the logo on the cups—it’s all so comforting.

  I order a tea, and the barista laughs at me, which makes me feel more British than I’ve ever felt in my life. But when I tell him my name, he spells it right on my cup, which has never happened before, and he smiles and says, “First time in Vancouver?” When I nod, he says, “Awesome! Welcome!” and it’s really nice.

  Sitting on one of the cozy armchairs with my hands around my tea makes me feel calmer. I pull out the map I’d taken from the pile at the reception desk at the hostel and see that it’s actually one from a sightseeing bus company. Helpfully, the tourist attractions are all marked on it. Maybe that’s what I should do today: a hop-on, hop-off tour of the city. That’s a good way to get to know it, right? Straightforward, manageable.

  Then I see the price. Seventy dollars.

  “Okay, no,” I mutter to myself. I have savings, but I don’t have limitless savings. I’m going to have to be careful if I want the money to last long enough to get as far across Canada as possible. And I’m an intelligent person, aren’t I? I can figure this out myself. If I use the map, I can find my way around on the transit buses to get to the same destinations. I can be self-sufficient. And that will be better, because I can space it all out and not have to do everything in one day.

  I stay in the Starbucks for an hour, reading through the map and using the Wi-Fi, trying to make some kind of a plan for my first day. By the time I leave, I’m feeling better. I can definitely do this. I can. Independent, that’s what I am.

  I decide I’ll get a bus to Granville Island, which is one of the places highlighted on the tour map, taking my time to very carefully figure out which bus I need and when it will be arriving by trying to connect to a random bank’s Wi-Fi as I walk past. I finally think I’ve figured it out, wait thirteen minutes for a bus, and then realize when I’ve been sitting on said bus for ten minutes that I’m going in the wrong direction. First, I panic. Then, I dither. Finally, I get off the bus.

  I’m pretty defeated, I’m not going to lie. This city is overwhelming and I was an idiot to think I could handle any of this on my own. How am I going to even begin to try to make my way across this gigantic country if I can’t even get a bus across downtown Vancouver?

  I take a breath and decide on a change of plan. Seeking solace, I follow signs that lead me to an entrance to Stanley Park, which I discover is like a huge version of Hyde Park, so huge it contains an actual forest. I head inside and wander around for a while, just letting the parkness of the park soothe me after the stress of the city. At the outer rim there’s a seawall surrounding the entire park that is—according to the information board I diligently read in its entirety—nine kilometers long. I sit down, looking out across the harbor. Finally—this is what I was expecting. The sky is so wide and so blue; the mountains look like they’ve jumped right out of a picture book about mountains; the sea stretches out and on before me. I stay there for a while, telling myself to appreciate this moment, where I am. I want to bookmark this moment in the map of my memories. Find myself in it whenever I start to feel lost again.

  On my way back to the hostel, I stop off at a gift shop and buy a postcard of the Vancouver skyline at sunset and address it to my parents. Rather than write a message, I draw a quick sketch of myself sitting on the front steps of the youth hostel, smiling. I give myself an explorer hat and exaggerate the size of my rucksack, turning my Converse into walking boots. I title it PEYTON THE EXPLORER and add a tiny subtitle, so small Dad will have to put his glasses on to read it: who loves you very much.

  I spend extra on postage to make sure it gets to them as fast as possible. I hope it will be enough.

  * * *

  When I get back to the hostel it’s late afternoon. I head straight to the kitchen area to make myself some tea. A woman in full hiking gear is sitting in the corner, reading a magazine with her headphones on. Two guys are having what looks like an intense conversation. I take my tea into the games room and find the group of Australians from this morning playing pool together. I hover uncertainly, then decide to hedge my bets and go to the common room, which is empty. There are a few tables and a couple of sofas to sit on, one of which is currently occupied by the tortoiseshell cat from the photo on the front desk.

  “Hello, Teapot,” I say. The cat rolls onto her back with a deep, contented yowl and I smile. Animals are so much easier than people.

  I have a look at the bookshelves but nothing appeals, so I settle myself carefully beside Teapot, pull out my sketch pad, and draw her instead, taking my time, relaxing into the quiet, the motion of my hand, the sweep of my pencil.

  I stay there for a while, even after Teapot has gotten bored and sauntered out, sketching freely. As the afternoon wears on, people start to filter in and out of the room, some on their own like me, but others talking and laughing together. I assume at first that the latter group are already friends, booked into the hostel together, but I realize as I eavesdrop shamelessly on their conversations that I’m wrong. Most have only just met and are getting to know each other. Maybe this should have been obvious the whole time, but I swear it doesn’t occur to me until I’m sitting in that common room that this hostel could be full of people like me; travelers, their lives on hold, everything temporary, ready to make friends.

  The thought sears me with a jolt of pure hope. I’ve been so caught up in how independent I’m going to be and how traveling is a solitary thing that I haven’t even thought about what a youth hostel actually is, what it means: people. So many people, all in one place, looking for other people to hang out and have experiences with. It’s not like school or college, where we were all stuck with no escape whether we liked each other or not.

  This realization is why, ten minutes later, when a group of guys all with different accents come into the room and scatter around one of the tables, I put aside my sketch pad, silently will my heart to stop racing, and smile. The tall, well-built guy, the oldest-looking among them, notices me and smiles back, wide and friendly.

  “Hello!” he says. He has a Russian accent and a loud, confident voice. “You are new.”

  I nod. Don’t be shy. Do not be shy. What’s the point? I stand up, squeezing my sketch pad to my side for comfort as I do. “I’m Peyton.”

  “Hello, Peyton,” he says. “I’m Seva. We are about to play cards—would you like to join us?”

  Is it really that easy? Could it actually be so easy? I nod again, sliding into one of the free seats. Apparently, yes.

  “When did you get here?” Seva asks me, tapping a pack of cards out from its box and beginning to shuffle them.

  “Last night,” I say. “Late. Um.” I hate the “um
” as soon as it’s left my mouth. “How about you?”

  “A week,” Seva says. “I finished a work contract and now I am here until I find another one. Lars and Stefan”—he points to two of the guys, who smile at me—“have been here since Saturday. And Beasey and Khalil”—he points to the other two—“since Sunday.”

  “Do you all know each other?” I ask.

  “We do now,” Khalil says, and his accent is Scottish. Scottish! I’m so excited to hear a British accent that I beam at him, probably too wide, but I think he understands because his laugh, though dry, is warm rather than mean. I know mean laughs.

  “Maja,” Seva calls, and I look over to the doorway to see a woman around his age, ginger-haired with glasses, coming into the room. “Hello. Come and play cards.” He turns to me. “Maja arrived the same day as me. We have bonded.”

  “Have we?” Maja says with a laugh. To me, she says, “Hello,” as she pulls out the free chair beside me and sits down. “What are we playing?” she asks the group. She has a German accent and a small, calm smile.

  Seva suggests we play blackjack, which reminds me of long-ago camping holidays with my family; Dillon and I dealing endless hands inside the tent to pass the time while it rained outside.

  I manage to keep up a hopefully natural smile as we play, nodding along and laughing at other people’s jokes, allowing myself to relax slightly. Seva has kept up a running commentary the whole time, and I envy him for how comfortable he clearly is in this environment of small talk with strangers from all over the world. Maybe I’ll be like him in a few years’ time, talking to everyone I meet like they’re already my friends, and making them so in the process.