Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (2 page)

After school I walked out of the tidy brick building and down the stately streets of Wexburg toward our home. I pulled my jacket around me against the liquid gray afternoon. For once in my life I was more worried about smelling like a wet dog than whether or not I looked fashionable. Little cars tootled down the left side of the street, stopping politely at each crosswalk. A big red double-decker bus drove by and I pinched myself. I lived in London! Okay, not London . . . exactly. But near enough with just a quick bus trip or a ride on the London Underground, or the Tube, as they called it here.

“I’m off to Fishcoteque,” I told my mother after dropping off my backpack and picking up the laptop tucked safely inside my treasured Dooney & Bourke bag. Fishcoteque had two things I needed to survive—no, three. Fish-and-chips—which were awesome—Wi-Fi, and privacy from my sister’s crazy dog. Plus, it was just a great place to hang out.

“Be back soon, please,” Mom said. “You’ve got chores to do.”

As always.
I noticed the dark circles under my mother’s eyes and saw her wince as she put a hand on her back. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. I answered more softly than I’d been planning to. “I will.”

I walked down the street and into the bright fish-and-chips shop. Its large booths were nearly full with happy chatter, music was pumping, and the dartboards in the back corner were already occupied.

“What’ll it be, luv?” the lady at the counter asked. “The usual, then?”

“Yes, please,” I said, happy that she remembered my order each time I came in and that she called me “luv.” I paid and then sat down at a booth and opened up the computer. Soon my fish-and-chips were delivered, gift-wrapped in the greasy cone of yesterday’s newspaper. I let them cool, then shook brown vinegar from a fingerprinted bottle over the top of one piece of fish and a few of the chips. They were thick French fries, really, not potato chips. I guzzled a Fanta, the best orange drink this side of the Atlantic Ocean.

I was going to balloon into an orange myself if I didn’t find something to do around here besides eat.

I grinned at my screen saver. Last year I’d taken a few pictures here and there for the yearbook, including a close-up of the baseball team. I’d cropped and zoomed it to one particular player—supercute Ryan. He might not have saved that game, but he was still saving my screen thousands of miles away—even if he didn’t know it.

My fish was cool, so I took that first amazing bite. I’d hated fish before we moved here. Fish at home was kind of flabby, like cellulite with soggy crumbs clinging to it. And it smelled bad.

But not here. In England, fish was crisp and yummy. I took my piece from the newspaper, set the paper to the side, and took a bite dipped in vinegar.

The shop’s door chimed brightly as two girls I’d talked with casually in science class walked in and placed their order. One girl, Gwennie, nodded to me politely, but they sat down a few booths away.

Maybe with my laptop set up it didn’t look like I had room for them.

After I ate my fish and drank my Fanta, I pushed the bottle aside and took the hot pink flyer out of my D&B bag. I unfolded it and ran my fingers down over the creases to flatten them. I read the job description.

Looking for one experienced journalist to join the Wexburg Academy
Times
newspaper staff. Must be able to extract the interesting bits from school and village. Enthusiasm important; team player essential. We’re looking for a writer who can find the fresh angle in every story. Does this sound like you? If so, please e-mail [email protected].

Ah, Jack. Everyone knew who he was. Jack was a year older than I was—a high school junior by American standards; a “year twelve” by British standards. Privately I called him “Union Jack” after the British flag because he was so
veddy
British. Definitely cute with rugby-style close-cut hair and a smile that crinkled all the way to his eyes. But most important to me right now, he was the paper’s editor.

I could e-mail him right now if I wanted to; in fact, I should do just that before I lost my nerve. I rehearsed the qualities he was looking for in my mind.

Extract the interesting bits from school and village? Check!

Enthusiastic? Check!

Team player? Check!

Able to find the fresh angle in every story? Check!

Experienced journalist? Uh . . . hmm.

I typed his e-mail address into my computer, composed a short but (I hoped) compelling note telling him that I was an enthusiastic team player who could extract interesting bits from school and village, and that I was . . . an experienced journalist. I held my mouse over the Send button. Some people might consider me experienced. Or maybe pre-experienced. And anyway, experienced compared to whom, exactly? I mean, I was more experienced than some people. Kind of.

I swallowed my doubt, and then I sent the e-mail “straight off,” as the Brits would say, certain that the nub reappearing in my throat was heartburn from the fish and nothing else.

I left the warm shop and its french-fried smells and walked out into dark mist. I soon rounded a corner in our little village and began down Cinnamon Street, where our house, charmingly named Kew Cottage, was located. The streets were lined with walls made of crumbling stone and held together with ivy. Wrought iron posts and lamps lit each corner, and I half expected Sherlock Holmes to show up.

Once I finally got home, I helped my mom with the laundry. Apparently I set the dryer too high again, because she came racing in a few minutes later and turned it down. Then my parents and sister and I ate dinner together. I ate even though I wasn’t really hungry, because my mom had ordered Chinese takeout especially for me. Chinese food was my favorite. Except for fish-and-chips, most Brits went out for food from other nations. Chinese food was a hit, and so was Indian. I loved a good, warm curry.

“You okay, Savvy?” Dad asked me, stabbing another portion for himself with a chopstick.

“I’m good.” I tried to kick my sister’s dog away from my pants leg. I could feel him trying to chew my hem under the table. I’d had to take care of a screaming baby for two weeks to pay for those jeans. “Leave it, Growl,” I said in a menacing tone.

“His name is
Giggle
,” Louanne protested. The dog came out from under the table and sat quietly by her side, as if he’d been causing no trouble at all. There could not have been a less appropriate name for that dog. He was a short, chubby, gray menace.

I used my chopstick to push at a piece of brown flab on my plate. “What is this?”

Louanne grinned. “Your favorite. Mushrooms.”

I wrinkled my nose but smiled anyway.

“She said she wanted to meet a
fun guy
, not eat
fungi
,” Dad teased.

Louanne chattered on about her friends. She had a lot of them already. Well, of
course
she did. Probably because she was nine and still had recess with girls who skipped rope and held hands. When you’re fast approaching sixteen, like me, it’s not so easy.

Everyone around the table looked at me awkwardly since I hadn’t piped in about
my
friends. I felt I owed them something—especially after the chicken chow mein. “I applied for a position on the school paper today,” I said.

“Wonderful!” Mom smiled widely. “It will be a great experience for you. You’ll be able to work on a team and get to know people and start to enjoy school again.”

I knew she was worried that it was their fault that they had agreed to come here and I had no friends yet. And not to be mean, but it kind of was their fault. Moving away for high school to a land where I got in trouble the first day in school for saying, “What?” instead of “Pardon?” wasn’t my bright idea. I still loved them though, and I knew they were trying to do the right thing.

“I just applied to the paper. I didn’t say they accepted me.”

“You’re such a good writer,” Mom said. “I’m sure you’ll get a place on the staff.”

“I’ll pray for you tonight,” Dad said.

“Me too,” Louanne chimed in.

I offered a weak smile. “Thanks. I need it.”
More than you know.
I grabbed a fortune cookie from the basket in the center of the table and took it with me, remembering Jen’s e-mail of earlier that day.

I grinned in spite of myself when I thought about her nickname for me. Back in my former life, I was Fortune Cookie, the go-to girl with the short, encouraging answers when my friends were looking for a little advice. It seemed bittersweet now—sweet, because they hadn’t totally forgotten me yet, though the e-mails were getting thinner and further between. Bitter, because I was no one’s go-to girl now, at least not in London. I wondered if I’d ever have a nickname here.

I opened up my cookie and pulled out the fortune.

I frowned and crumpled it up. I didn’t believe in fortunes anyway.

I plodded upstairs and put on some comfy drawstring pj pants and a T-shirt and then hung out in my room. Very little homework, thankfully. I washed my face and used a little blackhead scrub I’d been hoarding from home. I was going to have to buy some British substitute soon or else look like I’d suffered a facial assault by a pepper grinder.

I closed my eyes and prayed:

What should I do, God? I try to be an honest person. You know that. But I’m lonely, and the newspaper is one place I think I can fit in. It’s not going to hurt anyone if I just make it sound like I’ve had a little more experience than I have. I know I can do the work. Then maybe I’ll make some friends, have a normal lunch table to sit at. And You know my dream is to be a journalist. Could You just make this teensy little thing happen?

I tried to listen but heard nothing. And of course, I didn’t sleep well.