Meant to Be (26 page)

Pretty soon Jason and I are the only ones left other than Mrs. Tennison, who sags onto a bench under a willow tree across the yard. Clearly, she needs a Zen moment.

We stand across the grass from each other for a few moments, Jason kicking at something invisible on the ground. After a torturous minute of silence, I can’t take it anymore.

“Well, I guess we could go make rubbings of some of the gravestones, then write about the people buried there,” I say.

“Graves? Dead people? Wow, you’re a real ray of sunshine, J,” Jason says. He unwraps a piece of gum, biting off half of it and then wrapping up the other piece. He shoves the remaining half back in his pocket, for later, I guess. Ick.

“Do you have any bright ideas?” All I want to do is ignore Jason. He has, after all, been ignoring me all day. Then I’ll have time to look for my parents’ antique shop, or daydream about Chris. I mean, Mark. I mean … well, both.

“Want to wander?” he asks.

“Wander?” I ask. I feel something in my messenger bag digging into my back. I heave it over my head and flip it open to see what’s out of place.

“Yes! No guidebooks, no historical facts, just taking off in a random direction, without any specific reasons.”

I find the source of the jab. It’s my pencil case, which should go in
front
of my notebook, not behind it. I quickly rearrange things, then reposition my bag. Much better.

“I know what ‘wander’ means,
thankyouverymuch
.” I don’t mention that the only place I wander around in is the library. Hey, Google Maps was invented for a reason!

Jason fake-bows and gestures down the road in the opposite direction of Henley Street and the rest of our class. We fall into step in silence. He stuffs his hands deep into his pockets. His legs are long and his bobbing stride wide, and I have to work double time to keep up.

“So. Anything in particular you want to see?” he asks.

“I thought we were wandering,” I say.

Jason holds up both hands. “Listen, you were the one getting all hot and bothered about coming here. I just want to make sure your literary fantasies come true.”

“Well, I was hoping to find this little antique shop—” I start, but Jason doesn’t let me finish.

“Oh, hell no,” he says, stopping in his tracks. “If I wanted to go shopping, I would have followed Evie and Sarah.”

I consider letting him know that this is
nothing
like shopping, but that would mean telling him about my parents. “Where do
you
want to go?”

“Nowhere in particular,” he says. “I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants
kinda guy. You know. Carpe diem and all that. Never know what’s going to happen next.” I roll my eyes at him, but he has picked up his pace and doesn’t see me. I sigh and follow him.

We take off down the road, away from our classmates, past a series of gardens. We stroll past the Royal Shakespeare Company but don’t stop, because it’s choked with tourists and children and cameras and backpacks. We “wander” along the river, where ducks paddle lazily and people in rented boats glide along the water. Jason and I have lapsed into silence, but it doesn’t feel awkward. The scenery is so breathtaking that there really is no need for words, although I definitely see how Shakespeare produced such beautiful sonnets here. The grass smells freshly cut and sparkles under a layer of dew. There is a heavily sweet smell of flowers suspended over everything. Birds are chirping and frogs croak throatily underneath them, and I start to feel like if I sat down with my notebook and pencil, I might produce something great and beautiful, too. Everything is like a dream—until the sun gets eaten up by increasingly ominous-looking clouds, and it looks like any moment it may start to pour.

Jason leads us across a bridge to the other side, where the houses and shops give way to fields and paddocks, the roads getting narrow and the grass getting high. I don’t want to ask, but as we get further and further away from town and deeper and deeper into who knows where, I can’t help myself.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“I said, ‘wandering,’ ” he repeats, as if that’s a proper destination.

We stumble across the Stratford Butterfly Garden and an old graveyard. It is getting darker by the second. I’ve never seen clouds move so fast before. I don’t know why I ever think following Jason is a good idea. Even if he
did
know where he was going—which he obviously doesn’t—he would still lead us straight toward trouble. I will never learn.

Jason starts trotting down the road as the sky opens up and sheets of rain begin driving down, hard.

“Do you know where you’re going?” I call over the sound of thunder. We hardly need to hurry now; within thirty seconds, we’re already soaked to the bone. Jagged lightning tears across the sky. Thunder booms and I jump.

“I think we can make it back to High Street quicker if we cut through Bancroft Gardens,” Jason says, surveying the scenery.

“I don’t know about that,” I reply, mentally trying to conjure up the maps I’d pored over before the trip. What I wouldn’t give to have my iPhone … “Besides, aren’t you supposed to
avoid
open fields during lightning storms? I don’t want to get electrocuted.”

“Well, either you stand here in this rainstorm, or you take a chance with me,” he says, and as if on cue, a clap of thunder echoes through the trees.

We hop the wet fence and set off through the tall grass. It’s not a difficult walk for Jason, whose long legs stride effortlessly through the terrain, but my wee little legs are not as quick. It probably doesn’t help that every time I hear thunder, I crouch down into the lightning-safe position we learned in fourth grade. What? I’m not taking any chances with my life! I have to incorporate little hops into my gait as I try to keep up with Jason. My sweater clings heavily to my skin, and my jeans are making suction-y sounds with every step. As we cross the field, the rain slows down to something more like a heavy mist. I’ve got my eyes on the ground, making sure I don’t step into any puddles or holes, when I hear a noise that makes me stop short.

Jason charges ahead a few steps but quickly realizes I’ve fallen behind. “What’s going on?”

“Did you hear that?” I ask. Sure enough, it happens again: like a horn honking, if the horn was thirty years old and covered in sawdust.

“What, the geese?”

“What?”
I shriek, my eyes darting around. “Where?”

“Chill out,” he says, chuckling. “They’re not going to attack you.”

“Are you sure?” I cross my arms. “I am not taking a single step unless you can swear to me—”

“There are no geese, you wuss,” he interrupts, patting me on the top of my head like I’m a five-year-old. “No need to have a meltdown. What’s your problem with geese, anyway?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter, and take off ahead of him. I get about six or seven strides ahead when the ground levels out and I find myself face to beak with a flock of about nine geese, their beady eyes trained on me, mouths—or bills—curled up into demonic smiles.

I let out a loud, long bloodcurdling scream. I whirl around and take off at a sprint, no longer paying attention to how much work my short legs have to do to get me through the mud and the grass or how I could get struck by lightning at any second. I hear the heavy stomp of Jason’s footsteps behind me.

“Slow down!” he manages to choke out. “Julia, wait!” He runs a little farther before doubling over and starting to laugh hysterically. I pull back, running straight toward him.

“You jerk!” I give him a hard punch in the arm, which I doubt he feels, what with all the hiccupping and chortling. “You said there were no geese!”

“I didn’t see them!” he says through wild gasps. “That was an incredible scream. I thought you’d seen a dead body! Holy wow!”

“Can we please get out of here before—” I start, but I’m too late. Thunder booms again while lightning zigzags across the sky. The mist turns all at once to liquid, and it begins to pour again. Jason seems not to have noticed, as he’s still laughing hysterically. No doubt we could both be electrocuted and he would still be laughing. I don’t know why I’ve trusted this stupid “wandering” plan for this long. I dig for my phone, then find Mrs. Tennison’s number in the address book. I’ve been in the United Kingdom a week, and I’ve yet to use my phone for any legitimate reason.

But when I hit the green button to call for directions, my phone beeps and a message appears on the screen.

0 Minutes Remaining

“What!” I shout, literally stomping my foot in the puddle that has formed around me.

“What’s your problem?” Jason asks, finally pulling himself together.

“Well, besides standing in a field, lost, in the pouring rain, about to get attacked by disease-carrying birds or possibly electrocuted by lightning,” I snap, “my phone is out of minutes.”

“Wow,” Jason says, looking at the blank screen. “I would have thought someone like you would have planned ahead enough to reload it before we left the hotel.”

“I probably would have,” I snap, tightening my grip on the phone so I don’t throw it at his stupid head, “but I think your immaturity is rubbing off on me.”

“I know you are but what am I?” he retorts, crossing his eyes and poking me in the ribs.

“Please shut up and give me your phone,” I say, holding my hand out. Damp strands of hair keep getting glued to my lips.

Jason abruptly stops laughing. He gives me a strange look. “My what?”

“Your. Phone,” I say, enunciating each word slowly. “We’re lost, and I want to get us out of here as fast as possible. I can call Mrs. Tennison for directions. Or you can call.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, turning away from me.

“Why not? She’s not going to be mad,” I say, following after him. “I mean, not if you give her one of those silly Boy Scout salutes that seems to get you out of so much trouble.”

“Look, if we call her, she’s going to know we weren’t experiencing the culture of Stratford-upon-Wherever-We-Are. Besides, we don’t
need
directions. If we keep walking, we’ll get there eventually,” he says, picking up the pace through the field. I have to accelerate to a jog to keep up.

“I don’t want to stomp through the mud and rain any longer than I have to,” I say. “Either you make the call, or I’ll make it for you.”

“Unlikely,” Jason says, marching forward.

“Jason, this is dumb,” I call, my voice rising with my anger. “Just give me your damn phone!”

“No!” he yells over his shoulder.

“No?”

“No!” And then he’s breaking into a full-on run.

“Jason!” I shout, stamping my foot in the mud. “This is
so not the time
for a game of keep-away!” But he’s not stopping, so I take off after him, and he underestimates my swimmer’s legs at a full sprint. I’m close enough that I could reach out and grab a handful of his fleece. Without thinking, I take a flying leap onto his back. At first he keeps running, me clutching him in a sort of bizarro piggyback ride, but then he stumbles. We both crash to the ground. I dig my hand straight into his pocket and pull out his phone.

“Hey!” he shouts, and just like back in the Tate, he flips himself over in two moves, and suddenly, I’m on my back, in the mud, wetness seeping through my sweater. The air goes out of my lungs, and while I’m gasping for a breath, he snatches the phone and flashes that obnoxious, lopsided grin. He holds the phone high over his head and grins down at me, his blue eyes locked on mine in what looks like pure triumph.

“Let me up!” I scream, trying to wriggle out from underneath him.

But he doesn’t. And then something changes and I realize Jason’s lying on top of me, staring at me, and his lips are inches from my lips, and there is rain dripping off his hair, curling it around his ears, running down onto my neck.

My heart pounds and I feel the tingle starting in my toes again.

Jason drops his phone in the grass and uses the free hand to brush a
fat, wet curl out of my eyes. His fingers brush my cheek and I feel that pull in my belly button that goes straight through to my spine. As he tucks the hair behind my ear, his hand cups my chin. It’s surprisingly soft, and I nuzzle lightly against it. He leans down slightly, then pulls back a bit.

So many thoughts are whirling around in my head at once, I can’t hold on to any of them. Is he—? Does he want to—? Do I want to—?

Are we going to—?

And then he’s kissing me. His lips press against mine, hard at first, hungry, and for once I’m not worried about what is happening or whether this is the right thing to be doing. I relax into it, enjoy it, float away. His tongue gently traces my upper lip. I part my lips, but instead of jamming his tongue down my throat like Billy Russell did when we were at the multiplex in eighth grade, Jason lets it venture slowly into my open mouth. I sigh into the kiss, my arms around his waist, my fingers digging into the wet fabric of his T-shirt. He kisses me for what seems like hours, until I can barely catch my breath. I can hear thunder in the background, but suddenly, it no longer matters. I feel like the ground is opening up and pulling us down inside. The weight of everything rests on top of me, but I don’t feel crushed. I want more. I pull him closer, harder, heavier.

Jason finally pulls away, and I blink at him. I want to ask him why he kissed me, and whether he meant it, and what it means. But I decide it’s probably best to keep my mouth shut so an unending stream of gibberish doesn’t pour out. Jason rolls over to the side of me, propping himself up on his elbow, as though we’re lying on a sun-drenched field instead of a mud pile with what has become a very light drizzle falling down on us.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks. My stomach drops, and I wait for the inevitable “who the hell taught you to kiss like
that
?” inquiry.

“Yeah,” I reply, bracing myself, but Jason comes out of left field.

“Seriously, what’s with the geese?”

I look up to see his eyes flashing, his mouth set in a tight line to suppress his riotous laughter.

“Oh, it’s a dumb childhood thing,” I say. I roll over onto my stomach, then lay my cheek down in the wet grass. My mind is still swirling, my heart still racing.