by Sandra Byrd
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Asking for Trouble
Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Byrd. All rights reserved.
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Designed by Jennifer Ghionzoli
Edited by Stephanie Voiland
Published in association with the literary agency of Browne & Miller Literary Associates, LLC, 410 Michigan Avenue, Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605.
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.TM Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Byrd, Sandra.
Asking for trouble / Sandra Byrd.
p. cm. — (London confidential ; [#1])
Summary: When a fifteen-year-old American girl finds herself living outside of London because of her father’s job transfer and becomes a columnist for the school newspaper, she learns to use Bible truths to dole out wise advice to her classmates but soon finds it hard to follow her own advice.
ISBN 978-1-4143-2597-2 (sc)
[1. Schools—Fiction. 2. Advice columns—Fiction. 3. Americans—England—London—Fiction. 4. London (England)—Fiction. 5. England—Fiction. 6. Christian life—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B9898As 2010
[Fic]—dc22 2009042427
Build: 2013-09-16 11:16:38
DEDICATED TO NINE BRILLIANT
MANUSCRIPT READERS:
BRITISH GIRLS:
Anna Culliford and Jacque Hall
AMERICAN GIRLS WHO LIVED IN ENGLAND:
Sarah Austin and Brianna Tibbetts
AMERICAN GIRLS:
Abi Davis, Shannon Farmer, Miranda Marburger, and Savannah Marburger
AND OUR RESIDENT AUSSIE,
Erin Mollet
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 1
I hung back at the doorway to the cafeteria of my new supercool British school, Wexburg Academy. Most of the lunch tables were already packed, and the room was buzzing with chatter. The populars, whom I’d secretly nicknamed the Aristocats, commanded an entire table right in the center of the room. Their good looks and posh accents made up the sun around which all other tables orbited. The normal kids were in the second circle, arranged by friends or clubs or activities. The drama table was on the outer edge of the room, and so were the geeks, the nerds, and the punk wannabes—way out there like Neptune, but still planets. Most everyone had a group. I didn’t.
Okay, so there was one table with lots of room. The leftovers table. It might as well have been the dark side of the moon.
No way.
I skipped lunch—again—and headed to the library. One of the computers was available and I logged on, desperately hoping for an e-mail from Seattle.
There was an e-mail from my grandmother reminding me to floss because British dentists only cleaned adult teeth.
Spam from Teen Vogue.
An invitation to join the Prince Harry fan club—I opened it and gave it a quick scan. I’d consider it more later.
And . . . one from Jen!
I clicked open the e-mail from my best friend at home—well, it had been my home till a couple of months ago—hoping for a lunch full of juicy news served alongside tasty comments about how she missed me and was planning stuff for my next visit home. I craved something that would take me the whole lunch period to read and respond to and remind me that I did have a place somewhere in this universe.
From: Jen
To: Savannah
* * *
Hey, Fortune Cookie, so how’s it going? Met the Queen yet? LOL. Sorry I haven’t written too much. It’s been so busy. Samantha took the position you’d been promised on the newspaper staff. She’s brand new, but then again you would have been too. It seemed strange without you at first, but I think she’ll do okay—maybe even better than okay. And hey, life has changed for everyone, right? Things are crazy busy at school, home, and church. We hang out a lot more now that a bunch of us are driving. Will write again in a few weeks.
Miss you!
Jen
A few weeks! My lungs filled with air, and I let it out slowly, deflating like a balloon with a slow leak. I poised my hands over the keyboard to write a response but just . . . couldn’t. What would I say? It had already been weeks since we’d last e-mailed. Most of my friends texted instead of e-mailing anyway, but texting across the Atlantic Ocean cost way too much. And the truth was . . .
I’d moved, and they’d moved on.
I logged off the computer and sat there for a minute, blinking back tears. Jen hadn’t meant to forget me. I was simply out of her orbit now.
I pretended to read Sugar magazine online, but mostly I was staring at the clock, passing the time till I could respectably head to my next class.
Five minutes before class I swung my book bag onto my shoulder and headed down the hall. Someone was stapling flyers to the wall. “Hi, Hazelle.”
“Hullo, Savannah.” She breezed by me, stapling another pink flyer farther down the wall. We had math class together—oh yeah, maths, as the Brits called it—first period. I’d tried to make friends with her; I’d even asked her if she’d like
to sit together in lunch, but she’d crisply informed me that she sat at the table with the other members of the newspaper staff.
She didn’t bother with small talk now either, but went on stapling down the hall. I glanced at one of the flyers, and one sentence caught my eye right away: Looking for one experienced journalist to join the newspaper staff.
I yanked the flyer off the wall and jammed it into my bag. I was experienced. Wasn’t I?
A nub of doubt rose inside me—the kind that popped up, unwelcome, anytime I tried to rationalize something that wasn’t exactly true or right.
This time I swallowed it back. I thought back to Jen’s e-mail that kind of felt like a polite dismissal. I lived in London now.
It was time to take matters into my own hands.
Chapter 2
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.
Chapter 3
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: