They asked about America. Mine, anyway.
Joanna wanted to know if I’d ever met Miley Cyrus, Kevin Jonas, or Robert Pattinson. She took it pretty well when I said I hadn’t. I didn’t mention that, as he is English, Robert probably lives in London. Elizabeth grilled me about my vast knowledge of Washington, D.C. I told her everything I knew. Like how the Mall looks when it’s full of PO’d librarians protesting funding cuts. Lucky, ain’t it, our class trip to the Smithsonian coincided with that march? Elizabeth need never know we ended up in the middle of things only because we took a wrong turn looking for a Fourbucks. I think I still have the pix of Kelly holding the “Literacy Ain’t Everything” sign she found.
Anyway, when she’s done her duty in the UK, Elizabeth plans to come be civilly disobedient on our shores. Joanna thinks she’s a pilchard (which, as well as being a synonym for “berk,” apparently, turns out to be a sardine—who knew?). Joanna wants to go to Hollywood.
Taking advantage of this geographical clash, Sarah told us all that, not only did she want to go to Ipswich, but that she had a plan. As in the Ipswich, which would involve a train ride out to the coast with her best friend, and a night spent with the cousin of a friend of one of her posse’s older brothers. Sounded like a good time to me.
Mr. Sadiq’s response? “Not while there is breath in my body.”
Note: he said the same regarding Joanna’s plans to be in the next Jonas Brothers’ video. He’s reliable.
“They’re all going, Dad!” Sarah insisted. “All my mates! Jacinta and Patrice and David and Hamid and Regina and Claire!”
“No.”
“I’ll be an outcast. A pariah!”
“Good word, ‘pariah.’ Your excessively expensive school seems to be living up to its exalted reputation. But still no.”
“Pleeeeease?”
“No.”
“You don’t let me do anything. I might as well be in Baghdad!”
He gave her one of those looks that can stop the mighty Mississippi from flowing. She shut up, but it was a very noisy silence. “Has Jacinta promised her father that she will attain at least B grades in her GCSEs?”
(Elizabeth sez GCSEs are like our final grades and SATs combined; how well you do kinda determines whether you go to Oxford or serve greasy burgers to Oxford students.)
“Well, no . . . ” Sarah admitted.
“Will Jacinta attain at least B grades in her GCSEs?”
“No . . . ”
“And attend a university that does not specialize in alcohol consumption and cosmetic application?”
“Yes! Well, no. Probably not.”
“So.” Mr. Sadiq accepted a cup of tea from Joanna. So did I. What was I going to do—decline? Elizabeth smirked at me. “When you have completed your exams, when a parent can enter your bedroom without the aid of a shovel and biohazard waste bin, when I am reasonably certain that your iPod earblooms are not permanently fused to your ears, I shall entertain the possibility of you accompanying your mates to Ipswich. Fair?”
Sarah looked a tiny bit embarrassed, for a tiny second. Then: “All right, then. I won’t go to Ipswich. Can Jacinta and I go the cinema Friday night? There’s a midnight showing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Her mum will drop us off and pick us up.”
“Fine.”
Sarah grinned at Joanna; they both grinned at Elizabeth. Mr. Sadiq smiled into his tea, and that, apparently, was that.
After dinner, Elizabeth and I hung out in her room. It is, of course, infinitely cool. Gold graffiti on the walls (RESISTANCE IS FERTILE, IMAGINE, STOP MAD COWBOY DISEASE), fab clothing everywhere, pictures all over the walls of Elizabeth and Imogen and Consuelo and the other beautiful people who, I guess, are satellites around their tight little solar system.
I wandered over to look at a pic of the trio in front of the London Eye. They’re all holding airplane barf bags. Empty, I assume. “I should take my dad on the Eye when he comes,” I decided. “He likes being at the very top of things.” Yeah, yeah, Keri, I know. I don’t. But this is my dad’s visit. Besides, maybe Elizabeth still has the barf bag.
As usual when I thought about Dad’s visit, my stomach did a little jiggle. I still haven’t found the perfect restaurant for my birthday dinner. I like Indian; he doesn’t. He likes haute cuisine; I don’t wanna spend my b-day dinner worrying about using the wrong merdeing fork. Beyond that, I’m still not sure about the hotel (what does “Caters to the fine character” mean, anyway?). And, despite several offhand mentions to the contrary, I’m not completely convinced that he won’t show up with the STBS in tow, rendering all of my concerns moot and plans irrelevant. He can be kinda hard to plan around. (Remember the New York fiasco, Soph? Of course you do. Although, to be fair, you gotta admit that the two of us taking the midnight Chinatown bus back to Philly turned out to be kind of a hoot.) The STBS likes four-star, white-glove, no carb, no character whatsoever. And what she wants, he gives her. The wedding? Prepare for really really expensive rubber chicken.
And back to the regularly scheduled program . . .
Elizabeth pointed to a pic of her with another crazy pretty girl, mugging for the camera in matching Rasta hats. “That’s Shazia when they visited in April.”
I peered more closely and saw the diamond ring on Shazia’s finger. She looked like Elizabeth: bright and confident. “Why is she getting married if the guy’s such a toad?”
Elizabeth shrugged and flopped onto her bed. It’s covered with this gorgeous tapestry that feels like a pashmina and has all these little mirrors sewn into it. I don’t think it’s from IKEA, either. “They want to stay in Jordan. Things are still pretty horrific in Iraq. My uncle’s been in prison there for eight years, my aunt can’t find work, and Shaz can’t shop.” She said the last bit casually. But I know it isn’t. Casual.
I thought of the picture on the wall of the shop. “What did your uncle do?”
“He was caught spying for your lot.”
“Really?”
“No. Jeez, Yank, you really will believe anything.” Elizabeth fished a bra out from under her butt (okay, I might actually trade any possibility of something with Will for the ability to wear something with lace and an underwire) and sighed. “Look, Cat, not to cast blame, but it’s a crap life sometimes, being Iraqi. A fluke of geography, really, when you think about it. I mean, all the borders were drawn in 1922 by a Brit. A few miles difference and my grandparents could have been Jordanian. Or Syrian.”
I must have looked confused. “Okay,” she said. “Look at it this way. The Vernons are what? French? English? By ancestry?” I nodded. She got that exactly right. “But they landed in a place some Brits colonized and became pretty French-English people living in America. Americans. Yeah? So we’re Sunni Muslims. Who lived in a place that some Brits colonized and became Sunnis living in Iraq. Iraqis. There are Shiites, too, and no matter what your intrepid Fox News people say, neither is good nor bad nor innocent, and believe me, Yank, no one in Iraq is happy. Get it?”
I got it.
She went on. Her parents saw bad things ahead and left a month before she was born. Her dad’s cousin had a restaurant and sponsored him with a job in it. No one would hire him to teach, so when the chance came up, he bought his own business. Her mom was an anesthesiologist in Baghdad. The English wouldn’t acknowledge her degree and there was no way she could go back to med school. She speaks four languages, so she’s a translator at a hospital in the East End. The uncle stayed in Baghdad. He was arrested for refusing to put his chemistry expertise to . . . noneducational uses. There’s hope he’ll be released, oh, someday, when the good guys, whoever they are, notice he’s still in there.
Elizabeth scooped a green Kate Moss cardi off the floor and put it on. “But I am a bloomin’ English rose, aren’t I? And I have just acquired a bootleg copy of Season Six of Lost, including the Unaired Episode. You in?”
Three hours, countless Black Smoke Monster encounters, and one huge bowl of popcorn later, we staggere
d out of her room so I could get home. Elizabeth was all about coming all the way back with me on the Tube. Good friend. But I flashed the twenty-pound note the (s)mother had given me. Cab fare.
In the end, Elizabeth had to tend to Sarah, who was having a makeup disaster and had locked herself in the bathroom. Mr. Sadiq walked me out to the corner and waited with me. It was a busy street, even at nearly eleven: people coming home from late work or play, a handful of kids still not in bed, people my age going in whatever direction while they texted on their mobiles.
I wanted to say something. Sorry about all the invasion stuff. How could I possibly?
Suddenly, from a distance, I heard a long, musical call, rising and falling. It was a single male voice, singing words I couldn’t understand, but they made me feel sad somehow. Heads turned; men picked up their pace, intent on reaching some nearby destination. A taxi pulled up in front of me, and Mr. Sadiq ushered me in.
“What is that?” I asked. “It’s amazing.”
“It is the azan, the call to prayer. I must heed it.”
I thanked him quickly for dinner.
“You are welcome, Catherine Vernon.” He shut the taxi door and said through the open window. “You are always welcome.”
I could still hear the azan as we turned several corners and zipped away from the Sadiqs.
The driver had no chin and was wearing a Manchester United jersey. “Hate that bloody racket,” he informed me.
He had something twangy and clearly American blaring on the radio.
Had I had any idea whatsoever where I was, I would have told him exactly what I thought of Manchester United football club. Instead, I just stiffed him on the tip.
July 12
Stronger, Part Deux
I woke up way too early (read: 10 a.m.) to e-mail from Kelly. (Thanks for the Adam update; I am certain that tomorrow I will be tickled fuchsia about the french fry debacle.) And one from my dad.
To: Me
From: Him
Subject: London Birthday Visit
(Crap, I think. I really gotta pick a restaurant. Like today.)
It was a real scorcher here today. 95 on ice. Went to the Phillies game with most important client. Thought I was going to melt. They did, in the seventh. Lost to the Mets 5-2. Client was not impressed. He’s from Milwaukee. I’m giving up the seats after this season.
(That’s what? The twelfth year in a row he’s said that? Like he’s ever going to give up third row, third-base line.)
I bet it’s a heck of a lot cooler where you are.
(Honestly, Dad. The weather??)
Which makes me even sorrier that I won’t be able to come for your birthday.
(I mean, I know we don’t have the sort of deep, highly intellectual discussions you and the STBS have, like about Chardonnay and Labradoodles and whether glass tile works with oak . . . Wait. What???)
Samantha feels terrible about it, but she completely misread dates and arranged critical meetings with Realtors and caterers. I can’t leave her alone for them, or I’ll find myself living in the boonies—not to mention eating boiled twigs and flaxseed cake at my wedding.
You understand, Kitty Cat. We’ll do something special when you get back, just the three of us.
Samantha sends smoochies.
Love, Dad
I don’t understand. Should I? Is that the sort of thing I usually understand? Dad seems to think so.
I must have made a noise. A loud one. Mom came in. She managed to catch my laptop before it slid off the bed and onto the puke green carpeting in Professor Fungus’s second bedroom.
“Oh, Cat. I’m so sorry.” She knew. She already knew. “He e-mailed me, too.”
“I’ll live, Ma.”
“Oh, Cat.” And she climbed onto the bed next to me and kinda (s)mothered me for a while. It was the right thing to do. Then she left and went to buy me a Dairy Milk bar. It was the right thing to do.
I’ll say this for Mom. She never bad-mouths my dad in front of me. Never has. Not on those Fridays when I sat next to the front door with my overnight bag—waiting and waiting until the phone rang and she would silently put my sleeping bag back in the hall closet and make me mac n’ cheese for dinner. Not when he gave me a doll for my thirteenth birthday. Not even when he wouldn’t pay his share of my TPS tuition for a year because he didn’t like the new head of school. I’m not supposed to know about that. GM told me when she’d had a third mochaccino once and he forgot to pick me up from her house. She gets kinda feisty when under the influence of excessive caffeine.
So when Mom called Dad that one word we never expect to hear come out of our mothers’ mouths (especially considering the fact that, when you consider moms, dads, and what he-did-to-she-to-make-we, it’s a perfectly reasonable name to call ’em), it was kind of a shock.
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on the phone call either. But Mom is GM’s daughter. She’s pretty fierce (and loud) when someone does me wrong.
The (one-sided) convo went something like:
Yes, Samantha, I know exactly what time it is in Philadelphia. And since we share such impressive grasps of clocks, I assume we also share a knowledge of calendars. However, I don’t really feel like discussing culpability with you. Culpability . . . C . . . U . . . L . . . Put Jon on the phone.
I closed my door. Most of the way. And got back in bed.
. . . this might be the lowest . . . Oh, you think? How about her third-grade Christmas pageant . . . first Wise Man . . . most of the weekends you were supposed to see her... ninth birthday? . . . only freshman to make drama club . . . couldn’t possibly have waited until the following week ? . . . Caterers? Caterers? You selfish bas—
You go, Ma.
I put on my headphones.
(Seex hours latairr)
Ladies, there is a Part Trois. Who’d’a thunk it? Clouds do occasionally have titanium lining.
3:50 p.m. After way too many hours doing absolutely nothing and a mere ten minutes from flipping the finger at the Fates and slumping out for an extra-large bag of Maltesers (I figured they’d give me a pass for the Dairy Milk, as I didn’t buy it):
Ding.
I’ve got mail. From Will.
I got all tingly. You know, that kinda breathless, giddy feeling you got for the very first time when you unstuck the big construction-paper-heart envelope from the side of your desk in third grade and saw that your crush (Aidan Williams) had given you a Valentine? It didn’t matter that it was one of those punch-out ones with a Transformer on it. Or that the girl next to you (Alex) had one, too. He’d signed it. In green crayon.
That’s how I felt when I saw will [email protected]. No delayed gratification here. No hesitation. I clicko pronto.
Subject: History, Dude
I hear your social calendar suddenly has an opening.
(Do I hate my mother? Don’t think I can. Not today. Not even knowing she talked to Will behind my back. Again.)
So, I’ve been thinking of you lately, Catherine (yay! yay! yay me! I squeal inwardly), and the Katherine of years gone by. I think you need to tread in her footsteps.
(Oh. Okay. Maybe, thinks moi, he means dancing. Betcha he knows the good clubs. I could try to get Elizabeth to lend me that silver peace shirt. I think she would. And maybe hit Boots for some shimmery eye stuff . . .)
So I’m issuing you a challenge. Find ten places she mentions in the diary, ten places that still exist in London today, and I’ll take you there. Think of it as my birthday gift to you, an excursion into the past. There was a London before Harry Potter and Stella McCartney. -W
Okay. Not dancing after all. But Will. Will who’s willing to take me puh-laces. Ten of ’em. Count ’em. Ten. There’s gotta be one, I figure, where I can wear a killer silver peace tee. Might have to rethink the eye shadow . . .
29 May
There is a new girl in Town. Her name is Julia Northrop. She is not pretty. She resembles a ginger cat who has eaten a lemon. She behaves like a ginger cat who has eaten
a lemon. She was positively beastly to Winnie Stuart at the Ecclestons’ tonight, hissing and spitting. Miss Stuart certainly did not mean to spill Miss Northrop’s punch all over her dress, but she does have the unfortunate habit of speaking with her hands.
Yes, the dress was white, and yes, the punch was rather pink, but there still was no call for Miss Northrop to use the words “clumsy cow” or “ham-fisted bluestocking.” Such unhappy accidents are the stuff of lively parties.
Mr. Eccleston, charming and eager, was there in a moment, offering sympathy and the use of a retiring room. In fact, he had been with us just before the Incident, as had Misters Davison, Tallisker, and McCoy, offering various foodstuffs. They, however, had trotted off in search of sweets, leaving us. They would not have heard Miss Northrup’s nasty words. They would only have seen her distress. In the wake of their return, they guided her away, shushing and patting her wrists, and being as foolishly helpless as most young men are.
So off went catty Miss Northrop with her swains. Luisa and I remained with Winnie. As always, Luisa was perfectly kind, insisting it was a sorry mishap (quite true), Miss Northrop is a shameless harpy (true as well), and an epic poem such as Lord of the Isles must certainly, by its very nature, encourage dramatic commentary (perhaps not entirely truthful, but kind and convincing and well aimed). Winnie brightened considerably and said to us:
“I should not have minded at all, really—I am, after all, bookish and clumsy—had I not heard her speaking a half hour past with Mr. Baker on the very subject of poetry. I had, of course, thought her to be interested, but now I begin to wonder if perhaps she is truly interested in Mr. Baker, and not in poetry at all.”
Winnie is a good sort of girl, but perhaps not the quickest. Although sometimes her insights are sharp as brass tacks.
“I suppose Miss Northrop does not have to be kind,” she finished with a sigh. “She is rich.”
Falling in Love with English Boys Page 10