by Linda Gerber
I had no choice but to trudge into the apartment alone while Mom and Dad glared white-hot daggers at me. That’s what it felt like, anyway. Dad ordered me into the front room and pointed to the couch. He told me to sit. I sank onto the sleek leather and they towered over me.
Mom spoke first.
“Just where have you been?”
One of the many annoying things about parents is that they ask questions when they really don’t want to know the answers. I started to explain about why I had to get out of my room that morning, but Mom just shook her head, too angry to listen.
“What were you thinking,” she demanded, “wandering alone at night?”
“It’s morning,” I mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
I studied the pattern of the rug at my feet. “Nothing.”
“It’s not morning,” she said tightly, “until the sun comes up.”
“What?” I knew it would have been smarter to keep my mouth shut, but you know how I said I love a challenge? I couldn’t help myself. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Cassidy,” Dad warned, “backtalk will not help your situation.”
“But, Dad, she said—”
“The point is”—Mom’s voice rose an octave—“you know better than to go wandering away without permission. You had us worried sick. We were about to call the police.”
Wow. Talk about overreacting. “I wasn’t wandering,” I argued. “I just wanted to see what—”
“You could have been hurt,” Dad said. “Or worse.”
I folded my arms and slumped back against the couch. Traitor. Of anyone, I thought Dad would understand. He’s the one who was always telling me to “think for myself” and to “explore my surroundings.”
Mom sat down beside me, her hands pressed tightly together in her lap. “It may be,” she said slowly, “that the time has come to make a change.” Her voice had gone soft and apologetic, and that scared me even more than the anger. I didn’t know how it happened, but her tone told me the conversation had just taken a sharp left turn.
My throat squeezed tight. “What kind of change?”
I had to ask, even though I already knew the answer. I mean, I overhear stuff. It’s kind of hard not to when we spend so much time together in small spaces. My mom and dad are so used to tuning out the cameras, the crowds, and the crew when they’re working; sometimes they forget and tune me out, too. So they talk. I know they’ve been wondering if maybe it would be better for me in a “normal” home with friends my age, regular school, blah, blah, blah. I always figured they were just talking, but now….
Mom gave me this weird, sad little smile and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. I shook it back out, and she sighed. “Your father and I have been thinking,” she said, slipping a quick, meaningful look up to where my dad still stood. I knew right then I wasn’t going to like what they’d been thinking about. “You’re almost a teenager now. Perhaps you need—”
Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
“—a more structured environment.”
I stared at her. Was she kidding? She always said structure was for the unimaginative. “What are you saying?”
Dad sat on the other side of me and rested his hand on my shoulder like we were suddenly best friends. “We think it might be good for you to take a break from the show for a while. Your grandmother said you’re welcome to stay as long as you li—”
I jerked away from him. “You want to dump me with Gramma?”
His face crumpled like I’d just swiped his lollipop. “You like visiting Gramma.”
“Yeah. Visiting, not staying.”
Before you get the wrong idea, I should tell you—I love my gramma. I really do. We’ve always stayed at her farm on breaks and between shows, so it’s the closest thing to home I know. But that’s just it. It’s her place now. It used to be hers and Grampa’s, but now he’s gone. I don’t like going to the farm anymore. It hurts too much to be there without him.
But Dad didn’t understand that. He kept talking like I was supposed to be excited they had worked out all these details without ever mentioning it to me. “We thought it might be nice for you to attend regular school for a change,” he said. “Get involved. Make new friends.”
“My friends are here. With the show.”
“I’m talking about friends your age.” Dad said. “You remember that little neighbor girl, Kristy? You could have her introduce you around….”
There was more, but I stopped listening. I told you he didn’t understand. My gramma’s neighbor’s granddaughter was Christine, not Kristy, and I hadn’t talked to her for at least a year. She stopped coming around the first time she saw my picture with Mom and Dad on the cover of TV Guide. She said I wasn’t as special as I thought I was. I told her she was just jealous. Grampa made me apologize, but I never saw her again after that.
Except for Christine and her little brother, who was supremely annoying, I didn’t know any other kids in the school district. It was kind of hard to be sociable when all the farms are at least a mile apart and I was there only for weeks at a time. The last thing I wanted to do was to go to a school where everyone else knew one another and my only “friend” thought I was a stuck-up snob.
It’s not like I’m a baby or anything. I’ve been to twenty-seven different countries. I’ve climbed mountains and pyramids. I can eat chicken feet and goat eyeballs without hurling. But the thought of sitting alone at a lunch table in some school cafeteria makes my stomach turn cold.
And, yeah, I know what I said about challenges. But I like to choose my challenges. Could I make it through a day of middle school? Yes. Did I want to? No way. But Mom and Dad had already made up their minds. Which was completely unfair.
“What about Victoria?” I asked. If they didn’t care about me, they should at least think about her. Victoria was my tutor. She traveled with us to all our locations and made sure I stayed current with my schoolwork. If I started going to a regular school, Victoria would be out of a job. “What is she supposed to do?”
“Victoria will be fine,” Dad assured me.
“But—”
“Your father and I only want what’s best for you, Cassidy,” Mom broke in. “We want you to be happy.”
“Then why don’t you ask me what I want?”
“This is not the first time we’ve spoken to you about wandering off, Cassidy.” All the softness was gone from her voice. From her face, too. “You had us so worried! I’d put you on a plane right now just to keep you in one place, but—”
“No! Wait. Give me another chance. I promise I’ll do better!” I hated to beg, but I was desperate. I would have gotten down on my knees if I thought it would do any good.
“I don’t know, Cass,” Dad said. He was starting to cave; I could feel it. So I directed my arguments to him.
“You always said this show was a family project. How can we be a family if I’m in Ohio and you’re on the other side of the world?”
Dad exchanged another one of those looks with Mom, and then she pinched her lips together. She knew when she was beat. “You will remain with us for this shoot, Cassidy. But beyond that, the choice is up to you. We’ll be watching….”
Travel tip: Always pack a change
of clothes and some toiletries in your carry-on in case you make it to your destination but your luggage doesn’t.
Mom made us eat breakfast together, even though I kept telling her I wasn’t hungry. But after my family togetherness argument, how could I refuse? They were “watching,” Mom said, so I made jokes with my dad and ate all the food on my plate and did everything I could to show them I was going to be a cheerful, obedient new me. Then I excused myself and escaped to my room. I love my parents, but all that cheer was making my cheeks hurt.
The airline still hadn’t found my suitcase, which meant I had no clean clothes to wear except the T-shirt and boyfriend shorts I had carried in my backpack in case of emergency.
Being strande
d in Spain with one change of clothes wasn’t the worst thing in the world—I could always use an excuse to go shopping—but I missed having Grampa’s picture to talk to. I needed him. Especially now that I was on probation.
At least I had my lucky charm necklace. I pulled the leather cord out from under my shirt and laid the necklace gently on top, my fingers searching the charms for the squiggly gold Italian cornicello. That was the first charm I’d ever gotten. Grampa had given it to me when I started traveling with Mom and Dad. He slipped the necklace over my head, making me promise never to take it off. The cornicello was for luck, he’d said. It would protect me as long as I stayed on the right path.
After that, charms became a “thing” with Grampa and me. Everywhere I traveled, I would find a new charm for the necklace, and when we got back to Ohio, he would tie it onto the cord for me. After he died, I kept the tradition going, even though tying on the charms by myself wasn’t quite as meaningful. The cornicello would always be my favorite.
The apartment doorbell chimed. Probably Bayani. He was supposed to go over the shooting schedule for the next couple of days with Mom and Dad, and I wanted to see what was coming up, too. I hurried and smoothed the hem of my T-shirt, checking my reflection in the dresser mirror to make sure I didn’t look too rumpled. Backpacks aren’t known for their wrinkle-free effect on clothes.
I pulled the clip from my hair, and it tumbled down around my shoulders in honey-blond waves. Usually I wear my hair straight, but since my blow dryer and straightener were lost along with my suitcase, I had just scrunched it up into a messy bun after my shower and let it dry by itself. I was planning on combing it back into a ponytail, but I decided not to. People are always telling me how much I look like my mom with my blond hair and blue eyes, but her hair is always sleek and straight. This way I looked a little less like a mini-her. I liked that.
Except…. I gasped and leaned closer to the mirror, lifting my bangs. A huge zit had erupted overnight, right in the middle of my forehead. Not cool. I brushed my bangs forward again to cover it up, but I could still see it. Maybe if I fluffed them a little. Or brushed them to the side. Or—
“Knock-knock.”
I jumped away from the mirror just as Victoria swung the door open.
“Well! Don’t you look nice?” She stepped behind me and smiled at me through the mirror. I always liked the way Victoria smiled. And the kindness in her eyes. And her thick, black hair that didn’t need a straightener. But most of all I liked how she always seemed to be interested in how I felt and what I had to say.
Not like Mom and Dad, who were ready to ship me off to Ohio against my will.
Victoria stepped back. “Hey, now. What’s with the frown? Let’s have a look at you.”
I turned from the mirror and gave her an exaggerated curtsy. “Like it? It’s the very latest in backpack couture.”
“Very fashionable. Lovely the way your shoes pick up the purple in your shirt.”
“Oh, yeah.” I turned back to the mirror. “Not planned. I wanted to wear sandals.”
“Well, those look cute with your shorts. And I like how your charms add just a touch of sparkle.”
I fingered the cornicello again, and my smile returned. Victoria always did know how to make me feel better.
She hooked her arm through mine. “Come along, then. Your mum and dad are ready to go over the shoot schedule.”
When we walked into the kitchen, Bayani was already going over the details of the schedule with Mom and Dad. He glanced up and didn’t even bother hiding his smile. “Oh, look. You’re still alive.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Have a seat,” he said. “You’ll want to hear some of this, too.”
I pulled out a chair. “Where’s Cavin?” I asked. Cavin was our director, and he usually ran the planning meetings.
“Flight’s been delayed,” Dad said. “We’ll have to start without him.”
Bayani handed me one of the schedule sheets. “Think you can follow along?”
I didn’t even dignify that with an answer. I tuned out Bayani and skimmed over the highlights on the paper. Today we’d be mostly shooting B-roll footage. That’s the kind of background filler stuff you see on shows between scenes that are supposed to give a sense of time or place. Since When in Rome is a travel show, they use a lot of B-roll, sometimes with a voice-over, telling about the area. I liked B-roll days because everyone was pretty laid-back, and sometimes the crew even let me get behind the camera or hold the boom mike so I would have something to talk about on my blog. One show segment was scheduled with my mom later in the afternoon, but the rest of the time looked like fun.
In the evening, we’d catch the train to Buñol, where we would take part in the Tomatina (Tomato) Festival the next day.
My eyes kind of glassed over after that. Too many details on the page. All I wanted to know was what we were going to see, and would there be any shopping. Of course, as the fixer, Bayani had to go over every detail with Mom and Dad at least four times each.
A fixer’s the person who goes to the location ahead of the rest of the crew and arranges everything. He finds the local guides, checks out venues and filming locations, and makes sure everything runs smoothly at each shoot. The network had hired Bayani as the local fixer in the Philippines, and they liked him so much, he stayed on with the crew. He’s as good at his job as he is at teasing—and that’s saying a lot.
“Hello?” Bayani flicked my paper so that it fluttered out of my hand and onto the table. “Are you listening? Some of these locations today were set up especially with you and—”
Dad suddenly had a coughing fit and waved Bayani’s paper away. “We, er, haven’t had a chance to discuss that yet.”
They had my full attention now. “Discuss what?”
“We’ve, uh…. we’ve had to make a few changes of assignment this trip,” Dad said.
“Right,” Bayani agreed. “The network would like to see more of—”
Dad shook his head to cut Bayani short. “The thing is, with Cavin’s delay, Bayani will be taking on some of the director’s duties, and…. let’s see….” He glanced down at the papers he held in his hand and nodded. “Jack, it appears, had a family matter to attend to, so we are short one cameraman and we’ll have to make a substitution.”
Not exactly big news. Since we traveled with a small crew, everyone took on extra duties from time to time. Bayani, for example, also handled a camera. And Victoria often helped with the editing. None of which had anything to do with me. “No, really,” I said, “what do we need to discuss?”
Mom turned so that she was facing me, one arm resting casually across the back of her chair. Too casually, I thought. “We’ve had a request from the network,” she said.
I didn’t like how cheerful she sounded all of a sudden. It made me feel like I was being set up for something. I slid a look to Victoria for help. She could usually fill me in on all the crew gossip, but she just shook her head and shrugged.
“It’s the ratings war,” Dad said. “We’re falling behind.” For years, When in Rome and a rival show, A Foreign Affair, had been competing for everything from numbers to sponsors to time slots. This was the first time I ever heard of A Foreign Affair pulling ahead.
“Okay,” I said cautiously. I mean, I was sorry to hear about it and all, but again, I wasn’t sure what it had to do with me.
“The network feels,” Mom said, “that we might bolster our ratings by trying to reach a younger demographic. They’ve noted the increasing number of hits on your blog and suggested we include you in the B-roll footage.”
“Really?” I just about jumped out of my seat. I mean, it’s not like she was talking about giving me a segment or anything, but getting onto the show was big. At least to me. I’d been begging for a chance to get on camera for months. “What do I get to do? Can we do beach shots, please? Please?”
“Not on the itinerary for today,” Bayani said, tapping my paper again. “But don’t worry, th
ere’ll be plenty of candid shots waiting for you and—”
Dad started up with his coughing fit again. What was his problem? Inserting me into the setting sounded simple enough, so why was Dad all nervous about “discussing” it with me? I wanted to know what Bayani was about to say when Dad cut him off. Me and…. and what?
“You remember me telling you about my old friend Hector?” Dad asked.
“Um, yeah.” Only about a million times. Dad had met Hector Ruiz-Moreno when they were both part of an international studies program at the University of London. Now Señor Ruiz-Moreno was a professor of anthropology at the Universidad Politècnia de Valencia, and he was going to be our guide this trip. Again, what did that have to do with me?
Dad straightened the napkin next to his plate, smiling to himself. “Back in college, Hector and I—”
“‘Hitchhiked from Paris to Prague on a dollar a day,’” I quoted. It’s all he’d been talking about for weeks.
Someone knocked on the door, and my mom sat a little taller. “Well. That must be them.”
Dad jumped out of his chair and hurried to answer the door. Mom followed, smoothing a hand over her hair.
“What’s going on?” I whispered to Victoria.
She watched them curiously. “I’ve no idea. Let’s go find out, shall we?”
In the front hall I stopped dead and stared at the man Dad was clapping on the back. Not some old professorial type with thick glasses and a pocket protector like I’d imagined. No way. This guy looked like Antonio Banderas. I’m not even kidding. My dad used to hang out with him?
Mom must have sensed me staring because she turned and said, “Ah. There she is!” She waved me over. “Come here, Cassidy. We’d like you to meet someone. This,” she said proudly, “is Hector Ruiz-Moreno.”
Travel tip: When greeting locals in Spain, it’s customary to….
Oh, man. I didn’t know. My mind had gone completely blank. I just stood there like an idiot staring at Señor Ruiz-Moreno, trying to remember if I was supposed to bow or shake his hand or—