Destination Anywhere Page 5

  “Peyton,” Seva says. “Have you ever met a Russian before?” When I shake my head, he says, “Am I what you expected?”

  What’s the best answer? I go with, “No.”

  To my relief, everyone laughs, including Seva.

  “I am not surprised,” he says. “I do not fit the stereotype. I can live with that.” He looks around the table as he cuts the deck. “What do you think of when you think of Russia?”

  “Bots,” one of the Scottish guys, the one with glasses, says almost apologetically. What did Seva say his name was? Beasey?

  Seva does a tiny robot with his gigantic hands, a mournful expression on his face. “Meep morp,” he chirps. It’s adorable.

  “Spying,” Khalil says.

  “Vodka,” Lars says, and Seva grins.

  “Best vodka in the world, yes, that is extremely true. But bots? Spying?” He tsks for effect, a smile still on his face, shaking his head. “People, when you travel, they don’t see you as a person—they see you as the country you represent. They forget they are thinking of stereotypes.” He clears his throat and starts dealing out cards again. “I love meeting people from all over the world,” he says. “Getting to know them beyond the stereotypes by staying somewhere like this. Stay here long enough and you’d meet the whole world.”

  “A youth hostel?” I ask.

  He nods. “The interaction, the atmosphere. It draws a particular kind of person. Even though we are from all over the world, we have this in common. We’re all trying to find something.”

  I can see in everyone’s faces that they are thinking the same thing I am, which is, What am I trying to find?

  “Adventure,” Seva continues. “Inspiration. Escape.”

  “Freedom,” Maja puts in, nodding. “Ourselves.”

  All of the above, I think. And then, Why am I just thinking that and not saying it? “All of the above,” I say out loud.

  “And some good quality poutine,” one of the Scottish guys says, and I don’t know what this means but I laugh when everyone else does.

  Seva grins as he deals out the final few cards. “We’re all travelers, explorers, runaways.”

  “I wouldn’t say runaway,” Maja says mildly.

  “Everyone who travels is running,” Seva says. “In some way.”

  I wonder if this is really true.

  “I like explorer better,” Beasey says. “It’s much cooler.”

  Lars and Stefan are talking about skiing, asking each other and all of us if that counts as traveling, or if it’s a holiday.

  “What about you, Peyton?” Seva asks me. “Why are you here?”

  What a question. “I’m not sure yet,” I say.

  They all look at me, waiting for more. The cards that Seva dealt are all waiting for us, but nobody moves to pick theirs up.

  “I’m just going to explore Vancouver for a bit,” I say. “Then move on. I’m going to try to get as far across Canada as I can. That’s really as far as my planning went.” They all look so baffled that I feel the need to add, as if they’re border control and I’m trying to explain myself again, “My grandad lives in Edmonton, so there’s that, too.”

  “You’re going to see him?” Maja asks.

  Definitely not. “Uh,” I say. “Yes.”

  I guess this technically means I’m lying to her and all of them, but this is all temporary, so it doesn’t feel like it matters. I’ll probably have forgotten all about them by the time I get even close to Alberta.

  “Do you drive?” Khalil asks. He’s holding one of his cards between his forefinger and thumb, spinning it against the table.

  “No,” I say. “And even if I did, I couldn’t hire a car here.”

  “So how are you going to travel?”

  “Bus, probably,” I say. “The Greyhound, maybe. I thought I could figure it out as I go.”

  They all look dubious. Maja and Seva glance at each other.

  “The Greyhound doesn’t really run in Western Canada anymore,” Lars says. He gestures to Stefan. “We looked into it when we were planning our trip.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “And anyway, do you know how long it takes on a bus between, say, here and Edmonton?” Khalil presses.

  “No,” I say, feeling a flush start to work its way up my neck toward my face. Why is he pushing this? What’s it to him?

  “A long time,” he says. “Probably a whole day. Canada is big. Like, really big.”

  “That’s why I came,” I say, trying not to get defensive. “Because it’s so big.”

  “You’re a runaway?” Maja asks.

  “No,” I say. “My parents know where I am.”

  Everyone seems to be full-on gawping at me now, and I try to smile, willing my face not to burn too brightly. This is my punishment for deciding to interact with other humans instead of shutting myself away in a safe hole of solitude. This is what I get for forgetting what a failure I am at normal social interaction.

  “But you don’t have a plan at all?” Beasey asks, his cheeks lifting in a confused smile.

  “I want to figure it out as I go,” I say again.

  “Shit,” he says. “That’s brave.”

  “And by brave,” I say. “You mean stupid.”

  “No!” he says. “Brave! I mean, yeah, it’s… well, unusual. To go traveling without a plan. But people do stupid brave things all the time.”

  I can’t help laughing. “Thank you?”

  “We can help you make a plan,” he says, looking around the group. “Right?” Everyone nods. I open my mouth to say that I don’t want anyone else making a plan for me, that the whole point of this is that I do it by myself and learn how to turn loneliness into independence or whatever it was I’d decided on the plane, but he’s already bulldozing on. “You won’t find better travel planners than a random bunch in a hostel at any given time.” He smiles with such confidence. I wonder if he’s ever said anything he doesn’t mean with his entire heart. “You could hitchhike,” he suggests.

  “I could!” I say. “What a fun game. See how long it takes for Peyton to get murdered.”

  He laughs, a kind of bark laugh, like it had taken him by surprise.

  “It’s different for men,” Maja says.

  “Exactly,” I say, glad for an ally.

  “I’m traveling on my own, too,” she says to me. “I can give you tips, if you need any.”

  “That would be great,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Isn’t the hostel running a day trip tomorrow?” she says, turning to Seva for confirmation, who shrugs back.

  “Yeah,” Beasey says. “To north Vancouver. We’re going.” He gestures to Khalil, who nods. “Should be good.”

  “Like a guided tour?” I ask, as if it matters.

  “Yeah, with subsidized entry and travel,” Khalil says. “Good way to see a lot of stuff, save a bit of money.”

  Are they inviting me? Or just telling me? Is there a difference? “Cool,” I say. “I’ll go, too.”

  “There we go,” Seva says, laughing. “That’s one day’s plan, at least. Now”—he picks up his cards—“shall we play?”

  BEFORE

  aka

  MAKE FRIENDS

  MAKE FRIENDS

  MAKE FRIENDS

  My third afternoon at college, and a free period in the middle of the day. I went to the library, intending to get a head start on my homework (translation: sketch) and found, to my pure joy, Flick, already sitting at one of the desks, scribbling away. She was sitting beside another girl, one I recognized from the sofas in the common room.

  (A brief snapshot of my brain in the fifteen seconds it took me to cross the library floor and sit down opposite her: It’s Flick! I should go and sit with her! Will it be weird if I sit with her? Maybe. Wait, will it be weirder if I don’t sit with her? Shall I say something when I do? How quiet is the library meant to be? Don’t look too excited to see her. Be cool. Shit, what if she thinks I followed her here? Shit, you’re too close to leave n
ow. She’s looking up. She’s seen you. Be—)

  “Hi!” she mouthed, face lighting up. She gestured animatedly to the seat opposite her, then down at her textbook, rolling her eyes. I figured this meant, Sit down! But I have to work, ugh.

  I sat, glancing at the other girl, who was intently studying the textbook in front of her. I waited for her to look up and acknowledge me, but she didn’t. I looked back at Flick, who rolled her eyes again and shrugged. Okay, clearly this is a thing. I pulled out Othello from my bag—I wasn’t about to start sketching in front of them, because what if they thought it was weird?—and tried to relax into what I hoped was a companionable silence. Flick’s friend still hadn’t looked up. After a couple of minutes, there was a swish across the table, and then Flick’s notepad in front of me.

  Hi!

  I looked up. She wrinkled her nose at me, like a rabbit. I wrote, Hi! and swished the notepad back.

  Omg. Can you believe I have homework ALREADY

  Crazy!

  I want to die. And Casey won’t let me talk when we’re “STUDYING.” BOOO. How are you?

  Fine! You?

  Meeeeehhhhhhhhh.

  Let me tell you what a moment like this feels like to someone who was bullied and friendless for five years. It felt like the sun had risen inside my chest. And yes, I know how ridiculous and cheesy that sounds, but it’s true. Sitting there with Flick, swishing that notepad back and forth, how she smiled when she put pencil to paper, how it was so incredibly ordinary. The simplest happiness.

  When the bell rang, I’d read about a page of Othello and it couldn’t have mattered less. Flick’s friend—Casey—rolled her eyes indulgently at Flick and then raised her eyebrows in a kind of hello at me. I smiled awkwardly back, taking my time packing up my bag so that it would look natural for me to walk out with them, hoping they’d invite me for lunch.

  And then, when we were outside the library doors, joy of joys—“Want to come to lunch with us?” Flick asked.

  Yes! Yes, I do want to go to lunch with you! A million times, yes! “Sure,” I said.

  “Case, this is Peyton,” Flick said, gesturing at me.

  “Hi,” Casey said. She had none of Flick’s effusive friendliness, and the contrast made me anxious, immediately convinced she’d hated me on sight.

  “Hi!” I said, overcompensating. I could hear myself overcompensating, and yet I still couldn’t stop myself. “I’m new. I’m from Claridge. The Academy.”

  Casey nodded, but she didn’t say anything. Later, when I’d gotten to know Casey, I’d understand that this was normal for her. At that moment, I felt panicky, seeing disdain in her gaze, imagining her shaking her head at Flick, leading her away from me.

  Luckily, Flick was Flick. “Come on,” she chirped. “I’m so hungry.”

  In the dining hall, we met up with Eric and Travis, who barely acknowledged my presence, and the other two guys in the group, Callum and Nico, who seemed so interchangeable to me at first that I kept getting them confused. They were all Eastridge students and had more or less grown up together, though there were some vague references to an ex-girlfriend of Travis’s who’d been part of the group for a while, then dumped. (I wasn’t sure if the dumping was Travis-specific, or if the whole group had turned their backs on her. I didn’t ask.)

  That was the first time I hung out with the group as a whole, and though it’s hard now to remember a time before I knew them, I remember how, from the outside, they seemed so cohesive. A group of friends with their own history, all but impenetrable. It made me anxious, worried there was no room for me. I thought my way in was Flick, because she was a girl and there seemed to be room in her life—like there was in mine—for a girl best friend. She couldn’t be happy being surrounded by guys all the time, surely, and though Casey was part of the group too, she barely spoke and seemed to be in a constant state of eye rolling, usually at Flick. (Casey, distant and aloof, never felt like an option for me.)

  What I learned though, quite quickly, was that latching on to Flick wasn’t really possible. She was way too bound up in Eric, for one thing, and for all her friendliness, she could be incredibly flighty. Her attention span was short, for people as much as anything else. Sometimes we’d be in the middle of a conversation and she’d blink at me like I’d just appeared out of nowhere. I was paranoid that her interest in me was linked entirely to my shiny newness, and that once that had faded, she’d forget me and, in consequence, so would everyone else.

  As the first few days of that school year—my new life—went by, I felt like any progress I was making wasn’t enough. I was convinced that if I didn’t cement myself in with them—or with anyone—soon, I’d lose my chance, and I’d be relegated to the outskirts once more.

  That couldn’t happen. So I dropped business studies and replaced it with economics, which meant Flick and I had three classes together instead of two. (If this sounds extreme, it really wasn’t; I didn’t care about any of the subjects I was taking, and I had no more of an objection to economics than I did business.) She was pleased—so pleased it surprised me—telling me how much she hated economics, how she didn’t have any friends in the class, but now she had me. It was the first time she’d actually called me a friend, and I basked in it. We sat together in the classroom, side by side, and I doodled a tiny Flick comic in the margins of her notepad. Oh my God! she wrote. You’re so good?!!!

  It was progress, but it still didn’t feel like enough. Her attention was so fickle, and Eric seemed more confused by my presence than anything else. I was convinced that just one word from him would change her mind about me. A couple of weeks in, she wrote, I don’t understand any of this :( in pencil on my sketch pad, and I wrote back, I could help? even though no one was ever allowed to draw in my sketch pad, let alone write actual words. Yes please! she wrote, and it was worth it. That’s how I became Flick’s tutor in a subject I barely understood myself.

  But it worked. It worked because, that following week, she invited me round to her house on Saturday. Her friends were all coming over that night, she said, but if I came round earlier we could study together and then I could stay and hang out, if I wanted?

  I wanted. I wanted so badly that when I got home, I ran upstairs, flung myself into my room and sang.

  NOW

  VANCOUVER

  In the morning, I wake up early, still feeling the residual effects of jet lag, to find an email from Dad waiting in my inbox.

  Peyton,

  I have spoken to your head of year at your college and explained the situation, that you are having a difficult time and are not best placed to be making such important life decisions right now. He understands that you need some time. (In fact, he seems to be more understanding of this than I am.)

  Your place at college is being held for the time being, provided you are not gone so long that you won’t be able to catch up on what you have missed. I told him you are a bright, sensible, and intelligent girl. Please prove me right by coming home and returning to college, where you belong.

  I am ready to book you on the first flight home. We can sort out any problems you are having when you are back on British soil.

  Your mother and I miss and love you very much. We are very worried. Please come home.

  Dad

  I feel the weirdest combination of rage and sadness reading his email. I hate that he’s tried to steamroll over everything I want and need by talking to my head of year and trying to undo the decision I’ve made. What does he mean by “explained the situation”? It seems very unlikely that he would actually have said, out loud, what happened before I left, not to mention where I’d gone. Not if he was simultaneously trying to paint me as “bright, sensible, and intelligent.” Maybe he said I’d been in hospital, but not why. Maybe he used a word like “accident.”

  I can see his worry underlying every sentence, though. I can read how helpless his frustration is, not just because he can’t force me to do what he wants, but because he doesn’t understand my unhappi
ness. He’s my dad. I know he wants me to be happy; he just can’t grasp that my idea of happiness doesn’t match his. Knowing this is why I can’t bring myself to be angry when I reply to his email, telling him I won’t be going back to college and I won’t be coming home for a while, but that I love him too and am sorry to disappoint him.

  When I get down to the breakfast room, I make sure to actually get proper food instead of just granola bars. I’m not quite brave enough to try using the waffle machine, even though I want to, so I stick to toast and cereal instead. I turn around, tray in hand, to see the two Scottish guys waving from their table. I head over, trying not to beam too wide.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Morning,” Khalil says.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “Toast and cereal?” the second guy says instead, incredulous. “Seriously? You came to Canada, literal home of maple syrup, to eat toast and cereal?”

  “Okay, judgy,” I say, amazing myself. “No one’s asking you to eat it.”

  He grins. “I’m full up on waffles anyway. As it should be.”

  “Don’t mind Beasey,” Khalil says. “He can’t help being himself.”

  “Beasey?” I repeat, hoping my tone of voice isn’t rude. “Is that really your name?”

  Beasey nods, clearly used to the question. “It’s my surname,” he says. “First name William, but there were a bunch of Williams in my class at school. Five, to be exact. Beasey caught on pretty quick, and now everyone calls me it, even my sister. Though I’m not sure if she just does it as a joke.”

  “I had the opposite problem,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  I nod, pointing at myself with what I hope is a rueful smile. “Peyton.”

  “Ah,” he says. “There weren’t five Peytons in your class?”

  “I don’t think there are even five Peytons in the country,” I say, even though I know this isn’t true. There were six other Peytons born in the UK the same year as me, which I know because I looked it up years ago to answer this exact question, so that means there must be at least a few more than that by now.