by Micol Ostow
“I’m sure it’ll be lovely.” Eliza stepped into the room. She scanned the walls, which were covered with posters of surfers and nearly every environmental group under the sun. At one end of the room was a desk with a corkboard over it, and at the other was a twin bed with a big comforter and some fluffy pillows. There was nothing “girlie” about the room at all. In fact, if she didn’t know better, the room could just as well have belonged to a high school guy as to a girl. The decorations were all about surfing and saving the trees, and the sheets and covers were all in earth tones.
Billie is in for such a surprise when she gets to my room, Eliza thought with a smile.
“Make yourself right at home,” Estelle said as she patted a pile of presumably fresh towels that were stacked atop the bed. “There’s space in the closet, and the top three drawers in the bureau are empty. Why don’t you freshen up and come on out back, and we’ll have a bite of supper in about half an hour or so?”
“I really should give my parents a call and let them know I’ve gotten here all right,” Eliza said. She felt awkward around this new ersatz family.
“Oh heavens!” Estelle said with a laugh. “It’s about two in the morning in America right now.”
Eliza looked at her watch and realized that she hadn’t yet set it for Melbourne time. She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs out.
“What time is it here?” she asked. If she couldn’t handle the metric system, then she probably couldn’t handle the time difference, either.
“About ten to six in the evening.”
Eliza stared at the hour hand on her watch as she tried to figure out what time it actually felt like.
“Well, you get settled, and we’ll see you in a few,” Estelle said again, leaving Eliza to her unpacking.
Eliza hung up her dresses and blouses in the closet and laid her clothes in the drawers. She took out her laptop and put it on the desk, then dug out the plug adapter and plugged it in to charge.
Eliza flopped down on the edge of the bed and fell back into the covers. Staring up at the ceiling, she realized that she was a whole lot more exhausted from the ordeal of travel than she had thought. In fact, if she didn’t get up and out of bed, she was going to fall asleep right then and there.
Not the best move to miss her first dinner, she knew. She picked herself up off the bed and stepped into the bathroom to wash up. Her reflection in the mirror was startling; her long journey sure showed on her face. Her hair had sprouted flyaways in every direction, her makeup had practically evaporated, and even her tracksuit somehow managed to look rumpled and wrinkled. She hastily finger-combed her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. She splashed some water on her face and, feeling slightly refreshed, decided she was ready to face her host family and have some dinner.
Outside, Frank manned the grill with an enormous smile. As Eliza slipped into a chair at the table, Estelle approached with a tray full of the biggest, juiciest steaks she’d ever seen.
“I hope you’re hungry!” she trilled. “Billie decided to become a vegetarian when she started high school, but the rest of us aren’t, so we were glad to hear you’re a bit of a carnivore yourself.”
Despite being completely disoriented and turned around about time, Eliza was hungry. Dinner was delicious with steak, mashed potatoes, and string beans. The twins made a mess of their plates, dropping food left and right.
The Echolses had lots of questions for her, and she did her best to answer them. They wanted to know about the flight, about her family and her school. They were curious what Billie’s classes would be like. The twins wanted to know about what movies were out in the States that hadn’t come out yet in Australia. Before long she was stuffed—in the American sense of the word—and helped Estelle to clear the plates.
“Why don’t you put those down next to the sink and go get some rest?” Estelle offered. “You look simply exhausted, and you have some big days ahead of you.”
Gratefully, Eliza put the plates where Estelle indicated, said a thank-you and a good-night, and headed to her room. She closed the door behind her and flopped back in the bed. She settled herself on top of the covers, and before she knew it, she had drifted off to sleep, still sporting her tracksuit and smeared makeup. Anything else that needed taking care of would have to wait until tomorrow.
Chapter Four
Billie wasn’t sure quite what she’d been expecting when her airplane finally touched down in D.C. Obviously she knew that, capital or no, it wasn’t as though a marching band brandishing mini American flags was going to come stomping through the baggage claim area. Besides, after the horrifically endless flight to which she’d just been subjected, she wouldn’t have had the energy for a marching band, anyhow.
Or would she? She stared dazedly, taking in as much of her surroundings as possible while she made her way toward the traveler pickup area.
After a moment she realized that one of the biggest clichés about America was apparently true. The country’s fascination with McDonald’s translated to two separate outposts that sprang up in the short distance from the arrival gate and the exit to ground transportation.
Billie was a vegetarian, and the thought of eating a Big Mac or Chicken McNuggets made her stomach churn. As she pressed toward the crush of family and friends who awaited her fellow travelers, Billie kept a sharp eye out for Mr. Ritter. S.A.S.S. had provided Billie with a recent Ritter family photo as reference, but she would have recognized Mr. Ritter without it. He was in the news often, crusading for the environment. The whole reason she’d been chosen for this exchange program was her proven dedication to eco-conservation, and Mr. Ritter was essentially Mr. Environment, as far as the U.S. government was concerned. Billie couldn’t wait to meet him, and even—dare she dream it?—“talk shop” with him, as well.
Back at home, down under, Billie served on a bunch of different environmental groups, but they were a lot more hands-on; they held recycling drives, planted trees, and cleaned highway landscapes. It was gratifying, but Billie couldn’t help but wonder whether it required a seat in-house with the government to really set change in motion.
“Belinda? Belinda Echols?”
Billie looked up. Nobody called her “Belinda.” To her surprise, she found a woman, not a man, waving at her. She quickly took in the twin set and pencil skirt, the sensible but clearly expensive pumps, and the sandy-blonde hair twisted into a stylish yet severe bun. She recognized those steely-blue eyes, she realized. But where from?
That’s right. How thick could a girl be? She was obviously brain-dead from the plane, or she would have gotten it right away. This was Mrs. Ritter. She hoped her surprise didn’t actually show on her face, but she suspected it probably did.
“That’s me,” she replied, trying to regain her composure and willing her cheeks to return to their natural, non-fire-engine color as quickly as possible. “Somewhat wrinkled, I’m afraid, but generally speaking, not too bad going. Oh, and you can call me Billie—everyone does.”
“Going where?” Mrs. Ritter asked. Her eyebrows pulled together in a tiny “V” in the center of her forehead. “Never mind,” she decided, before Billie had a chance to explain the Aussie slang. “Welcome, Billie,” she finished, sounding decidedly unenthusiastic about the nickname.
Vibes as subtle as a brick wall radiated off of Mrs. Ritter. She waved a hand toward Billie’s bag as though she meant to pick it up and carry it, but instead she just gestured toward the large automatic double doors a few feet ahead. “The car’s just this way,” she said.
Billie fretted for a moment that she’d somehow, without even realizing it, done something to annoy Mrs. Ritter. But that was silly; she’d barely spoken two words to the woman. She had heard that D.C. was a conservative town, and had been warned by those who’d been there that Americans were different from Aussies—less outgoing, and less friendly to strangers. So maybe Mrs. Ritter wasn’t being aloof so much as she was just being American.
In which case, she c
ould be in for an awfully long semester.
She followed the clipped, staccato sound of Mrs. Ritter’s shoes against the asphalt, coming to a halt in front of…
No.
No way.
Billie was truly, utterly gobsmacked.
This was not the Ritters’ car.
There was no way that the Ritters, family of a full-fledged greenie pundit, drove a gas-guzzling monster of an SUV. That just didn’t make any sense at all.
Billie had, of course, assumed that the Ritters drove hybrids or, better yet, cycled to and fro when they needed. But not this. Between the carbon emissions and the miles-per-gallon rate of this car, driving it was the ecological equivalent of taking a ladder up to the top of the ozone layer and smashing a hole into it with a sledgehammer.
Billie realized her eyes were bugging out. This was not exactly subtle body language. She readjusted her expression as best as she could. Be cool, she’ll be ’right, she told herself, hoping that if she thought it, it would automatically be true.
Mrs. Ritter must have seen her staring. “Of course, my husband drives a Prius,” she offered, “but with Eliza getting her permit this year, I wanted something safe for the two of us to use.” She had a high-pitched, nasal intonation to her speech that made her sound defensive. At least, Billie hoped that it was only the intonation, and not actual defensiveness, that made her sound that way.
It didn’t matter; Mrs. Ritter was back to ignoring her again. She briskly pulled open the SUV’s back door and waved her hand into the expanse. Clearly, the oldies in America weren’t known for lots of warm fuzzy. Billie’s own mother could suffocate you with an innocent hug, so this was bound to be an adjustment.
“You can put your luggage in here,” Mrs. Ritter said. She did not offer to help with this, either, though in all fairness, she was so thin that she looked as though she’d keel over from the effort. Maybe her behavior was all just an elaborate form of self-preservation. Billie really wanted to give chilly Mrs. Ritter the benefit of the doubt. She knew that back home her brothers were bursting with anticipation for their visitor, and she fervently hoped that the same was true of her own host family.
Though to be perfectly frank, Mrs. Ritter didn’t seem the type to burst with anticipation for anything.
Billie gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the tiny stabs of doubt reverberating inside her head. She hoisted her rolling suitcase up into the gaping expanse (really, didn’t the Ritters have only the one daughter? She wasn’t trying to be sanctimonious, but what was the point of all of this space?), and tossed her backpack on top of it. When that was all taken care of, she slammed the door shut and brushed her fine blonde hair out of her eyes.
It certainly was going to be an interesting semester, she decided. For a whole lot of reasons.
If she’d expected an ear bashing from Mrs. Ritter, or some other sort of immediate female-bonding experience, Billie was flat out of luck. The drive from Dulles was quiet. Mrs. Ritter was no slouch with the small talk, but her friendliness felt rehearsed and masklike. Billie still had the distinct impression that she had somehow done something wrong, but since there were only a limited number of “things” that she had actually “done” since landing, she resolved to ignore the little gremlin of insecurity that had perched itself on her shoulder.
She was exhausted, too, she knew, which definitely lent itself to the disorientation. Back home, she had a pact with her brothers that she would be extra careful about her temper when she was short on sleep. That rule of thumb had to apply exponentially here, in this case.
She willed herself to focus on the scenery that whizzed by as they drove. Maryland was absolutely gorj, bright and colorful in a manner that was completely the opposite of Melbourne. Everything was crisp and tinged with gold and orange, where Melbourne was dominated by its cloudless blue sky. If she’d wanted a change, she had it now.
“This weather’s a beaut, don’t you think?” she said, gamely doing her best to keep her end of the conversation rolling.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Ritter replied, her voice friendly in a stilted, party-hostess sort of way. All of her perfect—and perfectly hands-off—manners were suffocating the car ride.
“Right, er…the weather. Beautiful. Lovely day, right?”
Mrs. Ritter nodded swiftly. “Absolutely,” she replied.
But she didn’t say anything else.
After waiting several painful moments in vain for their scintillating dialogue to kick back up, Billie gave up and resigned herself to the silence. She crossed her arms over her chest, sat back in her seat, and resumed looking out the window as the landscape passed by.
Billie hadn’t spent more than five minutes in Eliza’s room before she realized that another cliché about America—that Americans watched too much TV—was apparently true as well. Billie loved her MTV reality programming as much as anyone—she’d watched the Real World Sydney devoutly—but telly always took a backseat to basking in the fresh air. Eliza, however, was a different story. Billie suspected that Eliza was in a category completely unto herself. Her bedroom was proof of that; the girl had her own TiVo system set up, and a massive flat-screen television, too. Billie was gobsmacked—again—and jealous all at once. Back at the Echolses’ household, TV was strictly for the family room. Eliza’s room went way beyond a place for vegging out; if the girl wanted, she could transform herself into a right oversized chopped salad.
Eliza’s room was astounding for other reasons as well. For starters, it was an explosion of lavender and lace. The walls were a soft mauve and the carpet was a deeper violet. The curtains, elaborate drapery with ornate ties, hung in sweeping purple hues. The bedspread was lace, and a purple chenille throw was tossed just so next to a mound of textured, sparkly throw pillows. The effect was…not understated. Billie was more of an earth-tones type herself, but she knew that going with the flow would be best. Besides, she’d come here for adventure, right? Maybe a scary-girlie purple room was adventure.
She slowly unpacked her belongings; judging from the size of Eliza’s closet, she was more of a fashion plate than Billie. Billie was more “no muss, no fuss,” clean and outdoorsy in her aesthetic. Sitting atop the vanity table was a snapshot of her alter ego: the photo revealed that Eliza was a striking brunette with a clever twinkle in her bright brown eyes. In the photo, Eliza leaned happily against a tall boy with dirty-blond hair. They had their arms slung around each other in a way that suggested that he was probably her boyfriend.
Billie wondered how Eliza’s boyfriend felt about her spending the semester in Australia. Billie hadn’t had too much experience with the opposite sex—she was a tomboy who mainly preferred her own company to that of anyone else’s—but based on the experience of Val, her best mate from home, boyfriends could sometimes get clingy.
Suddenly Billie’s unpacking felt very much like snooping. Guiltily, she faced the photo of Eliza and her mystery man away from her so that she wouldn’t be tempted to do any inappropriate probing. She regarded a shelf full of stuffed animals that were appraising her sharply, sighed, and returned to making herself at home.
The house was deathly quiet, she realized. Back home, it was rare for her two little brothers not to be running and shrieking at top decibel through the house. Here, the only thing Billie could hear were the soft strains of classical music coming from the direction of the kitchen.
She was supposed to eat dinner with Mrs. Ritter, she remembered. Mr. Ritter was at an event and wouldn’t be home until late. She decided that it was imperative that she bone up on her small talk. Unfortunately, her brain was complete mush. She flopped backward onto the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling, waiting for inspiration to strike.
Inspiration never came. (Billie could hardly blame it, though, if it was frightened and hiding away from all of the purple flash of the bedroom.) Before long, she was downstairs having her so-quiet-it-was-actually-physically-painful dinner with Mrs. Ritter. In Melbourne, if Billie’s family had company, they wou
ld happily treat the first night as a welcoming celebration—firing up the grill and eating some steaks (with a side of barbecued tofu for Billie, of course). The Ritters obviously handled this sort of situation much differently.
Mrs. Ritter had set the dining room table formally, with enough extra forks and side plates to confuse Billie. Billie’s tactic was to keep her eye on her hostess for cues on good table manners.
Mrs. Ritter looked very much like someone who subsisted on water and lettuce vapors, so it wasn’t too much of a surprise when dinner turned out to be grilled halibut, steamed vegetables, and brown rice. Billie may have been a vegetarian, but she wasn’t a fitness nut or anything. In any event, she was going through the motions of eating the fish for the sake of Mrs. Ritter. It wasn’t easy.
“Have you had halibut before?” Mrs. Ritter asked after she’d daintily swallowed a mouthful. Maybe she, too, felt worried by the blanket of silence that had fallen over the two of them.
“Actually, no,” Billie replied. She wondered why she felt as though she needed to apologize for this fact. “My parents are firm carnivores, and they prefer red meat most of all. But I reckon it’ll be cool to give it a go.” She felt shy about telling Mrs. Ritter that she normally didn’t eat meat. She’d indicated on her S.A.S.S. application that she was a vegetarian, but maybe Mrs. Ritter thought for some reason that fish counted as vegetables. Whatever the reason, the slab of flaky white fish gleamed up at her from her plate. Maybe she’d expand her definition of vegetarianism to include seafood, at least for as long as she was in the States. Maybe.
“In that case, Eliza will really enjoy her time with your family,” Mrs. Ritter said. She smiled a quiet little Mona Lisa smile to herself. “She hates that we don’t eat red meat here at home.”
Billie thought back to the photograph she’d found in her bedroom, and the glint in Eliza’s eyes. She had a hard time believing that the fresh-faced, happy girl in the picture ever didn’t get her way. But who knew? People were always full of surprises.