Destination Anywhere Read online

  According to her—and my parents, who barely talk about grandad—it’s no great loss that I never met him, and I believe her, even though he’s an actual artist, and it would be very cool (and useful) to know a real artist. The only contact he has with any of us is the cards he sends on birthdays and at Christmas, like clockwork, and the cards we send in return. For years, it was me who got to write the cards and address the envelope, because I loved the novelty of the airmail stamps. Grandad had only ever been abstract to me, but those cards were real, flying across the sea, and Grandma was real, and present, and loving.

  One of the things I love most about her is how happy she’s allowed herself to be, even though she went through a period of the most desperate, lonely sadness. She came through it, and it made her who she was: one of the best people I know. It gave me hope, and spending time with her always made me happy. Long days on the beach, cliff walks with the dogs, barbecues in her garden with her friends and our extended family. She lives in a house on a ridge overlooking the sea, and her living room has the most amazing floor-to-ceiling window. Years ago, she set up an easel there, and when I visited her I’d paint for hours, standing there in the sunshine, looking out to sea. I captured that view in watercolor, charcoal, pencil, acrylics, over and over. Every year I got better. Cornwall and Grandma was my escape, my happiness. And now—

  “Peyton,” she says through the phone, and I jump.

  “I’m fine,” I say automatically.

  “Are you sure?” she asks. “Your father told me what happened. I was quite alarmed. I had no idea you—”

  “I’m fine,” I interrupt. I don’t know what exactly my dad would have told her—surely not the truth, or at least not the whole truth—but I don’t want to hear or talk about it either way.

  “Should I be worried about you?”

  “No,” I say, shifting out of the way so a couple walking up the stairs can pass. “I’ll send you a postcard, okay? I’ll send you five postcards. But I should go.”

  “Okay, darling,” she says. “Keep safe, and have fun. We all love you.” This is how Grandma always frames this; her love is never something she keeps in isolation. She reminds me at every opportunity how they all love me. The words, so familiar, from so far away, make me ache.

  “I love you all, too,” I say. “Bye.”

  * * *

  I spend the day playing tourist, properly, with Lars, Stefan, Beasey, and Khalil, the five of us exploring everything the consumer side of Vancouver has to offer. We wander around a shopping mall and spend most of our time at the food court, creating a smorgasbord that centers around poutine. “Canada’s greatest invention,” Beasey says confidently. “Like chips and gravy, but better.”

  In the afternoon, we get a bus to one of the beaches and hang out there for a while, even though it’s cold. I sketch as they play Frisbee, trying to capture the way I feel on the page, the way my happiness lifts and sparks like firelight in the wind. No one makes me feel weird for sketching instead of playing, or makes a grab for my sketchbook, or demands that I draw them.

  When we get back to the hostel in the early evening, we find Seva and Maja playing pool with some of the Australians. Bottles of beers get passed around but I shake my head, pointing out I’m underage to avoid any questions about why I don’t want to drink. If I’m going to learn from any of the mistakes I made before, the most obvious one is alcohol. I’d really like to at least try to have fun without it.

  We team up to play pool—somehow I end up on a team with Beasey—and we lose by loads but still have fun. So much so that I actually feel a little bit drunk. I take photos of all of us, the pool table, Teapot the cat, and imagine sending them to Flick. Look where I am! I’d say. Do you miss me?

  I swallow down thoughts of Flick, try to shake her from my head. She wouldn’t believe any of this. You? she’d say, frowning and smiling at the same time. You sure, Pey-Pey?

  I bite down on my lip. Stop. I am here. This is now.

  “Hey,” a Scottish voice sounds from beside me and I turn, already smiling. Beasey is holding out a can of Coke. “Thirsty?”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking it.

  What I haven’t been letting myself think all day: Beasey has a nice face. A really, really nice face. The kind of face you see in a crowd and think, That’s a nice face. His hair is a soft brown tumble, not scruffy but not tidy, either. His glasses have red frames, like a cartoon character or a child, but somehow they suit him and he pulls it off. His front teeth are a little crooked under lips that I want to…

  Okay, stop it. I take a long sip of Coke and it fizzes in my throat, so familiar, the same on both sides of the Atlantic. It’s weirdly comforting.

  Stefan lets out a roar of triumph, leaping backward and almost crashing into me as he waves the pool cue in the air, whooping.

  Beasey laughs, taking ahold of my arm to pull me out of the way. “Want to sit?” he asks.

  I nod, following him to one of the sofas. When we sit, we’re facing each other, knees almost touching. He’s telling me about how loads of stuff gets filmed in Vancouver; how it’s stood in for LA, New York, Boston. The chameleon city, he calls it. His eyes are bright and animated as he talks, gesturing with one hand, fingers flicking unconsciously as he lists films. I’m nodding, asking questions not just because I want him to like me but because I’m actually interested. It all feels so impossibly natural, even normal. And really, really nice.

  Someone turns the music up from the other side of the room, and Beasey smiles as he leans forward so I can still hear him, his face angling slightly toward me, his hand coming to rest lightly on my knee. There’s a flicker somewhere inside me, a motion sensor going off, the trip before an alarm. A breach in my walls. I look at him and our eyes lock, and I see it. Right there in his eyes. He likes me. He wants to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me. That warm softness in his smile, the caramel in his eyes. No, like isn’t the word. He fancies me. That juvenile word, something I once wanted so badly I gave myself away for it, for what I thought it would give me.

  In front of my eyes, smiling Beasey disappears and there’s Travis. Not even Travis from that first night at Flick’s, when he was still sweet and hopeful, but Travis on the last night. That awful last night I just want to forget, and all of it had started with one stupid kiss.

  I jerk away, almost shoving Beasey in my haste. “No,” I say, too sharply, way too loudly.

  “What’s wrong?” Beasey starts to say, alarm in his voice.

  “No,” I repeat. I’m almost shouting. “I can’t do this again.”

  “Do what again?” he asks, bewildered.

  I’m already gone. Pushing past everyone, finding the door and tumbling out into the corridor. Too wired to wait for the lift, taking the steps two, three at a time. I get to my dorm and it’s empty. I take my shoes off and climb into bed, not even bothering to undress, burrowing myself under the sheets and squeezing my eyes tight, tight shut. I can’t do this again. I won’t.

  BEFORE

  aka

  First Times: Weed, Alcohol, and

  DON’T KISS THAT BOY

  FOR GOD’S SAKE PEYTON

  YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE HIM

  That very first time I went to Flick’s house, I spent two hours in front of my mirror, trying different hair and makeup styles. Flick didn’t wear a lot of makeup, and Casey barely wore any at all, so I didn’t want to overdo it by looking like I was making too much of an effort, eventually settling on the bare minimum for my face—with a lip gloss in my pocket for later, just in case—and my hair hanging in carefully loose waves to my shoulders. I wore the black jeans I’d bought not long after I’d started college and a boat-necked black top along with the heart necklace Mum had given me for my birthday. I examined myself from every angle, searching for errors. I couldn’t be too much or not enough.

  I hadn’t been in an actual friend’s house since the earliest days of year seven, before my friendlessness became a contagious disease that wasn’t worth
the risk for anyone. Getting this right was beyond vital. It was the key to my actual future.

  Flick was still wearing what looked like pajama bottoms and a hoodie when I got to her house, which was the kind of relaxed I aspired to be but couldn’t imagine ever actually achieving.

  “I’d show you around,” she said, waving a lazy hand toward the living room. “But there’s, like, nothing to see. Want a drink or anything?”

  Did she mean water? Tea? Alcohol? “No, I’m all right, thanks.” I was thirsty, but asking for nothing felt safer.

  We worked at her kitchen table, where she’d piled up her textbooks and notes ready for us. She was quiet at first while I started talking her through some of the problems she was having—I’d done my own pre-studying that morning in preparation—careful not to sound too patronizing, but after a while she warmed up, asking me to draw a cartoon version of her who understood economics. I obliged, drawing a mini Flick in a business suit, giving a lecture under a sign that said OXFORD UNIVERSITY. She laughed, pleased.

  “That’s so cute,” she said. “Draw Eric, too.”

  I’d never sketched Eric before, so the likeness wasn’t as good, but I obeyed, adding an Eric gazing adoringly at her, eyes wide and enraptured. Her smile grew, her eyes flitting between their cartoon faces, like she was drinking it in.

  “You’ll have to draw everyone later,” she said. “They’ll love it.”

  I had a sudden vision of myself standing at a whiteboard while they all watched me, like I was the evening entertainment instead of a new friend. My stomach dropped. “What do you guys usually do when you hang out?” I asked, hoping for an alternative.

  She looked at me blankly. “Er… just hang out?”

  “I mean, like, what do you… do…” I trailed off at the look on her face. Was I being weird?

  “Normal stuff,” she said, shrugging. “Usually we smoke a bit. Sometimes Eric gets some better stuff, but that depends on his brother, Tyler.”

  “Smoke?” I repeated, surprised. I hadn’t noticed any of them smoking at college.

  “Yeah,” Flick said. She’d shoved her pencil into her hair and was twirling it lazily. “Like, weed.”

  “Oh!” I said. “Right. Okay.”

  “That a problem?”

  “No,” I said. She could have told me they were building up a supply of uranium and it wouldn’t have been a problem with me.

  “Mostly we just watch stuff or Travis brings his Xbox, or… I don’t know.” She shrugged again, then laughed. “I’ve never really thought about it. What do you do, with your friends?”

  I swallowed past the sudden blockage in my throat. She still assumed I had friends somewhere. Was that a good thing, that she didn’t suspect? Or should I be honest, so she’d know why my access into her friendship group mattered so much? No. That was unthinkable.

  “We’re mostly art nerds,” I said, conjuring into my mind the friends I’d imagined for myself once. “So we, like… draw together.”

  “Cool!” she said. “Well, we can maybe try that, too. I’ve got Pictionary.”

  That was a long time ago now, and so much has happened since, and I can’t see Flick in the same hopeful, earnest light I did then, but I still haven’t lost my affection for her in that moment, so innocently, sweetly, generous with her new friend.

  “Ugh,” she said, turning back to the textbook. “This stuff is so boring.” She tapped her pencil against the page for emphasis. “Why am I doing this to myself, Peyton?” She widened her eyes for effect. “It’s been, like, two weeks and I already want to die.”

  “One day this will seem like such a long time ago,” I said. In my head this had sounded like a flippant comment, but out loud it seemed heavy—self-consciously profound. I added, “When you’re collecting your exam results and you’ve got an A in Economics.”

  She grinned. “God, can you imagine? My mum would lose her mind. She’d be so proud.” She looked, for a second, wistful. “I bet you get As all the time.”

  “I do, yeah,” I said, and I knew I’d got the tone right because she laughed. “Loads. I’ll share them with you.”

  “Oh my God, best friend for life,” she said, and I half basked in the moment and half wondered what it must be like to be so secure that you could joke about something as gigantic as being best friends. “Okay, seriously, the guys will be here in, like, an hour, and I still need to properly get dressed. Help, help. I want to get this chapter done before then.”

  * * *

  When they all arrived, almost an hour later in one big group, I was sitting on Flick’s sofa with a mug of white wine as if I belonged there, and my feigned nonchalance worked because they barely reacted when they saw me, just smiled and nodded, lifting hands in waves hello. Travis dropped himself onto the sofa beside me—“Hey, math friend”—and produced a packet of Polos from his pocket, holding it out. I took one—I would have taken literally anything offered to me by any one of them—and, looking back, it was all there in that interaction, wasn’t it? There was probably a part of me that had already decided what was going to happen.

  Flick and Eric were already kissing a sloppy hello, Casey was rolling her eyes, Callum and Nico were uncapping beer bottles. And there I was, beside Travis, sucking on a Polo and trying not to beam too wide because I had done it. I was in a social situation with potential friends. I was at someone’s house, all casual, like it was normal for me.

  “You good?” Travis asked.

  I am exceptional. “Yeah,” I said. “You?”

  He nodded slowly. “Not bad.”

  “Mum says we can Deliveroo food on her account,” Flick announced. “Don’t get too excited—it’s just a one-off to celebrate starting sixth form, and we’ve got, like, a limit of about thirty quid for all of us. And it has to involve fries, because I want fries.”

  I felt an instant jolt of nerves for being the extra person that Flick’s mum probably hadn’t factored into this offer. Should I offer extra money? No, not in front of everyone. I’d see if I could get Flick on her own later and ask.

  We ordered from Flick’s preferred burger place and shared out the food when it arrived. The conversation had moved to how everyone felt about sixth form, how it compared to Eastridge, what their plans were for their futures. I kept quiet, listening, trying to decide if I should say “lawyer” or “artist” if they asked me what I was going to be. Which answer was cooler?

  “Mum wants me to be a nurse, like her,” Flick said, mouth full of fries. “But I’m like, no way. She works crazy hours. Like, crazy. And the job’s nonstop, I swear. I don’t think she even sits down. I want a job where I get free time, too. Maybe something to do with money, because money jobs make the most money. Right?” She looked expectantly at Eric, who nodded knowledgeably. “See?” she said to me, as if I’d contradicted her. “That’s why I’m taking math,” she added. “Even though I don’t like math. It’s a really good A Level to have for lots of good jobs.” She tapped her forehead with one finger. “Smart.”

  “Aren’t you failing?” Callum asked.

  “Fuck off, no I’m not,” she snapped, her annoyance genuine. “Why do you all think I’m so stupid?”

  “It’s, like, the third week of term,” Eric said, almost lazily. “No one’s failing yet.”

  In a lot of ways, Eric reminded me of my brother. He had that patronizing, almost smug, laid-back manner that came with being a middle-class white boy, especially one who had risk-free access—Eric through his own brother; Dillon through his friends—to drugs. He also treated me with the same brotherly condescension as Dillon did, though it felt less affectionate, being that he wasn’t related to me and therefore hadn’t earned the right to mock me. Dillon would never hurt me; would, in fact, throw himself in front of a bus for me, if I needed him to. Eric’s protective streak was for Flick alone.

  When the first joint came out that night, small in Eric’s bearlike hand, and started making its way around the room, I didn’t think twice about taking i
t when it got to me. “You sure?” Eric asked, affectedly amused.

  I rolled my eyes at him, closing my lips around the joint. I was proud of myself for this oh-so-cool response. I’d already figured out, even then, how to handle Eric. He’d clearly assumed I was a good girl, and I was, but that was by circumstance, not choice. I didn’t have any particular moral objection to things like weed or alcohol. I’d never gotten properly drunk because I had no one to get properly drunk with. (Bellinis with my grandmother in her garden in Cornwall didn’t count, however fun it was.) I’d never tried weed because no one had ever offered it to me. (Dillon was too protective—and too cheap—to share any of whatever he took with his baby sister.) If anyone ever had offered, I would have said yes.

  I’d made sure to watch everyone carefully as they inhaled so I had the best chance of doing it properly when it was my turn—I was determined not to cough—but I still made a mess of it, spluttering out smoke in a choked wheeze.

  “Aw, a first-timer!” Callum said. “Cute.”

  “Peyton’s new,” Flick said, and her voice was almost possessive, which I loved. “Be nice.”

  Everything got a lot easier after that. The weed loosened us all up and then there was more alcohol, a games console wheeled out and connected to have something to focus on. I spoke to Travis for a while on the sofa, though I can’t really remember what we talked about. It may have been Polos. Something to do with why exactly there was a hole in the middle, and if it was some capitalist trick to provide less product. Is that the kind of thing Travis and I would have talked about? It seems unlikely, but that whole night, that whole period of my life, seems unlikely now.