Getting the Boot

by Peggy Guthart Strauss

  “No, dummy. That’s truffle. Try it, it’s good. And too expensive to waste.”

  Kelly took a bite. She couldn’t describe the taste, but she liked it. Kind of mushroomy, but with other flavors she couldn’t identify. “That’s insanely yummy. Can you get these at home?”

  “You can, but I think they cost a lot more there.” Sheela put a forkful into her mouth and shut her eyes. “We should go halfies on a bottle of truffle oil or something before we leave. This is heavenly.”

  “You’ll enjoy this,” Dr. Wainwright announced as a dish holding a round brown blob was put in front of each diner. “Tartufo—ice cream, smothered in shaved chocolate and whipped cream, with a sour cherry in the center. It’s named after the treat you just finished, the truffle, because of its resemblance to the little fungus.”

  “Oh, that’s appetizing,” Marina groused. “Now I feel like I ate athlete’s foot for dinner.”

  “It could be worse,” Jarvis answered. “You could have eaten jock itch.” Kelly and Sheela exchanged looks and giggled.

  When every bit of chocolate had been licked from every spoon, Dr. Wainwright stood up, tapping his wineglass for silence. His rumpled pinstripe suit made him look even more professorial than usual.

  “Friends, Romans, countrymen and women—lend me your ears. I am blessed to be an educator. In what other profession is one surrounded by enthusiastic, fascinating, intelligent, young people? Not only do I get to do what I love—teach—I learn from my students every day.

  “Whenever I say farewell to a group of students, my heart aches, because I will miss each and every one of you. But my heart also sings, because I know that you are leaving here enriched, empowered, and invigorated by your experiences in this program. It gives me hope, knowing that you youngsters are our future. Thank you for a lovely summer.”

  Dr. Wainwright smiled. “Now please join me in thanking our superlative instructors.” He waved a long arm down the length of the table, and the kids broke out in cheers. Waving and smiling, the teachers stood, some taking mock bows. When the noise died down, Marco jumped from his seat and shouted, “A Dottore Wainwright! Mille grazie! Salute!”

  Everyone stood and toasted Dr. Wainwright’s very good health. And to a job very well done.

  Later, the group gathered in the lounge. Andrea and Steve had put together a slide show of pictures taken on their road trip. Kelly winced when Joe’s face flashed by, but she loved the shots of herself mugging for the camera with Marina and Sheela. And the pictures of Siena made her smile. Despite everything, it had been a wonderful trip.

  Afterward, everyone stayed up way too late, hugging, exchanging info, and packing. As Kelly soaked in the frenzied mood, she realized that something was missing. She found Marina sitting alone in her room, hunkered down over a pad full of drawings.

  Marina raised an eyebrow at her. “What can I do for you, Brandt?”

  “I need to take a break from packing. Mind if I hang out awhile?”

  The two girls talked into the early hours. Marina promised to send Kelly photos when her tattoo was finished. Kelly promised to send Marina a T-shirt (in black, naturally) from Second City, the improv comedy theater in Chicago. Marina even posed for a photo, sticking out her studded tongue and making devil’s horns with both hands. She refused to say good-bye.

  “No gooey stuff, Brandt. We’ll be talking in a couple days. You’ll just have to take my abuse via e-mail.”

  In the morning, the same little buses that had brought them to the PIR at the beginning of the summer appeared in the driveway again. Luigi pulled up on his Vespa—he had made a special trip to Aventino to say good-bye—and the whole PIR staff stood outside, checking tickets and passports.

  Marco kissed everyone on both cheeks, including the boys. Steve gave them each a rib-crushing bear hug.

  Kelly felt almost shy saying good-bye to Andrea. She wanted to tell her so many things—how much she admired her, how much she appreciated the faith Andrea had in her, how much she would miss her—but she found herself at a rare loss for words. “You’re a great teacher,” she finally managed.

  Andrea smiled warmly. “Don’t forget to e-mail me, okay? I want to know how AP art is going. And if you find yourself in Boston, I hope you’ll visit me. We can go to the Gardner Museum, or maybe do some shopping on Newbury Street.” Andrea was finishing her Ph.D. work at Harvard. Kelly nodded, knowing that if she opened her mouth again, a sob would burst out.

  Dr. Wainwright fixed his sparkling eyes on Kelly and gripped her hand tightly. “Young lady, you are a joy. I’m absolutely certain that whatever you choose to do with your life, you’ll be a tremendous success.”

  Kelly answered him with a tearful hug.

  Then she took a deep breath and walked over to Luigi. He had been waiting patiently while she bid her teachers farewell, and smiled as she walked toward him.

  “Luigi,” Kelly started, “I want to tell you how much I . . .” She couldn’t put into words what she needed him to know. When it came to flirting, or getting boys to fall for her, Kelly was unstoppable. But this was uncharted territory. She had no idea how to say good-bye to someone she cared for so much. She swallowed hard, avoiding his warm eyes.

  Luigi reached out and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. He gently took her hands in his and smiled sadly. “I’ll miss you, Kelly Brandt. And Roma will miss you.”

  Kelly blinked back tears. “Same here,” she replied.

  Luigi held her tightly, and with a quaver in his voice, he whispered in her ear, “Ciao, bella.”

  As they kissed, Kelly wished that time would stand still. Reluctantly, she turned and got on the bus. She watched as Luigi, her beloved school, and her beloved neighborhood faded into the distance.

  The flight was perfectly smooth, but Kelly couldn’t fall asleep. Her brain was buzzing and her heart was bursting with emotion. There was no way she could ever express how she was feeling, but she needed to try. Pulling her notebook out of her backpack, she began writing. First came Dr. Wainwright. Andrea was next, and then Marina. The final letter was to Luigi.

  Once in a while a tear splatted the lined paper, but Kelly didn’t care. The words kept tumbling out, page after page. When she finished, she was utterly exhausted, and slept until the plane touched down at O’Hare Airport. There was no time to fix her makeup, but Kelly didn’t care so much. She was a lot more than a pretty face; she knew that now.

  At the same gate where they had arrived, Kelly stood patiently as Sheela and Jarvis clung to each other, whispering their farewells. Reluctantly, Kelly put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. Jarvis had a connecting flight to catch and their families were waiting for them.

  “Andrea told me that Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh has a fantastic art program. That’s where Jarvis is from, right?”

  “Right,” Sheela said, smiling and wiping her eyes.

  “You know, before the weather gets too cold we should take a road trip. We could check out some schools and visit Jarvis, too. I think it’s about time I started working on getting some wheels, don’t you?”

  Sheela shook her head. “You’re not driving all the way to Pittsburgh. Do you know how many speeding tickets we’ll get? I’m driving.”

  “No way, slowpoke. Besides, who’s better than me at talking her way out of speeding tickets? I’m driving.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Sheela said drily. “We’ll take the train.”

  Arm in arm, the two girls headed down the long hallway, getting closer to home with every step. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, glinting off the wings of planes arriving from all over the world. One journey was ending, but Kelly knew there would be many more. To college, into adulthood, and anywhere else la dolce vita wanted to take her. She was ready to jump in, whooping and hollering all the way.

  Turn the page for a special preview of another

  novel:

  Westminster Abby

  “In the event of an emergency, a member of the flight crew shal
l direct you to the nearest exit.”

  Abby Capshaw shifted nervously in the narrow confines of her tiny window seat. One of these days, she vowed to herself, when she was long past high school and making an actual salary instead of a paltry allowance and some money from babysitting, she was going to spring for a first-class ride. The plane had taken off, like, three seconds ago, and already her knees were cramping.

  Normally Abby would be paying attention to the announcements that the captain was making over the loudspeaker, or craning her neck to see the flight crew’s safety demonstration. She was a firm believer that one never could be too cautious—she’d seen Castaway. It was important to be prepared. And Abby was nothing if not the responsible type. She was spacing now for two very specific reasons.

  For starters, she couldn’t understand a word that the captain was saying. She knew he was speaking in English because this was a British Airways flight and, well, he was English, but she had quickly discovered—with no small amount of dismay—that apparently a British accent was actually kind of tough to decipher in any context other than a Hugh Grant movie. Since boarding Flight 0178 to London’s Heathrow Airport, Abby had found herself doing more politely ambiguous nodding than she had, pretty much, ever done in her whole life (family reunions notwithstanding).

  So listening to the captain was essentially an exercise in futility. Though she did note with some amusement that he pronounced direct as “die-rect.”

  Just like Hugh Grant. Mmmm. . .

  The other reason that Abby was slightly less concerned than usual about hearing the announcements had to do with why she was on this plane to begin with: the whole “responsible type” thing. As in, she was tired of it. And she was looking for a change. Starting now.

  Abby’s junior year of high school had begun with a vow: Things were going to be different this year. Last fall, on September 13, Abby had turned sixteen. She was a Virgo. Normally she didn’t pay all that much attention to things like horoscopes and the zodiac, but her best friend, Dani Schumacher, was a huge believer in it, and, as such, kept Abby well informed on the subject.

  According to Who Do the Stars Think You Are? (a dubious source, in Abby’s humble opinion), being a Virgo meant that Abby was “a hardworking, dedicated personality who wants perfection in all you do. Because you are very organized, you make the perfect party planner!”

  In other words, totally boring. (Except for that party-planner thing, which didn’t so much apply to her life. Though one time her principal asked her to put together a casual going-away thing for her English teacher. But there was nothing sexy about a party your principal asked you to plan.)

  Abby had to admit to herself that life in New York City was pretty much okay. She went to a nice private school where the kids were decent and down-to-earth, even though most of them had a lot of money—definitely more money than she had (well, technically, more than her parents). She got very good grades and tutored through a peer-to-peer program. She had a small, close-knit circle of friends. Maybe she wasn’t captain of the cheerleading squad or anything like that, but she fit in and felt well liked.

  Terminally boring.

  She had discovered that she was a little vanilla. Actually, way more than a little. She needed some flavor. Some hot fudge or colored sprinkles. Ideally, she could spin “vanilla” into “hot fudge sundae.” The goal had been to put the plan into action over the course of junior year. But things hadn’t quite worked out the way Abby’d planned.

  Her parents were completely overprotective of her (not that she’d ever given them reason to be—so unfair), making her stay home most Friday nights for “family time” and forbidding her to date until she was seventeen. Seventeen was ancient. Seventeen was senior year. By then, everyone in school would have paired off and she’d be lucky to go to the prom with her cousin Jeff. Clearly that was out of the question. Things had to change, and fast.

  “Biscuits?”

  Abby felt a tap at her arm and looked up to see a cheery blond flight attendant beaming away at her. “Huh?” she asked.

  “Biscuits, luv. A package.”

  Abby peered at the plastic package, trying to decipher what was inside. It was definitely something of the edible variety, that much was for sure, but as a general rule, she liked to have a vague sense of what she was eating before she dove in. Then again, she was sort of hungry. She nodded and took the snack. If nothing else, it was a crash course in British culture.

  “Something to drink?”

  Abby shrugged. “Water?”

  “Certainly. Fizzy or still?”

  “Um . . . tap. Plain. I mean, still,” Abby stammered. The flight attendant passed a small chilled bottle across the row. Abby took her drink and placed it down on her tray, then ripped open the package of biscuits.

  Oh! Biscuits were cookies. These were plain and flat, and cream-colored, probably vanilla-flavored. Not very exciting. Kind of like Abby’s life. How appropriate.

  She mentally flipped through the glossary she’d been sent from her program director before leaving: bird, biscuit, bloke, boot, brolly, chemist, jumper, knickers, lorry, loo, newsagent, pants, trainers, WC—the words were either completely foreign, or familiar, but with a totally different meaning. For instance, she’d been warned not to use the word pants to mean “trousers” because in England, pants were underwear. Like knickers. Knickers were also underwear. Totally confusing.

  Abby didn’t care—that much—though, because being in this cramped, crowded plane and navigating her way through secret, coded language and pseudoexotic snacks was the first step toward that hot-fudge-sundae lifestyle she so craved. She was on her way to London. To live.

  A thrill ran through her just thinking about it. She’d been accepted to the S.A.S.S. program—a program that encouraged high-school girls to study abroad—then she’d been approved for admittance to City College, a university based in the eastern area of the city, for a ten-week summer session. Ten weeks. In London, one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world. London was all about cool, sophisticated accents, fancy meals like “high tea,“ live theater that rivaled Broadway, actual royalty complete with palaces and everything—and she’d be right in the middle of it.

  Was she scared? No way.

  She was terrified.

  The most ironic part about the trip was that the whole thing had been her parents’ idea in the first place. They had been the ones who’d found the S.A.S.S. program and decided that it sounded like “an opportunity not to be missed.” They had been the ones who insisted that Abby apply. The same people who got on Abby when she received an A-minus rather than an A on a paper or a test (which for the record, was pretty damn rare). The same people who acted shocked when Abby professed a desire to see a movie with her friends rather than play Boggle on family night. It was these two people who had driven Abby to elaborate measures of faux rebellion such as talking on her phone from inside her bedroom closet when it was later than 10 P.M., her “phone curfew.” Those people actually wanted her to move to England. For ten whole weeks.

  Ultimately, Abby’s reasons for wanting to stay and her parents’ highly uncharacteristic reasons for wanting to ship her off to a different time zone were one and the same. One reason, to be precise. A boy reason.

  A boy named James.

  Back in November, Abby would have given anything not to be separated from James, which was obviously why her parents had insisted on doing just that. They pulled out that “not until you’re seventeen” bull, which Abby was pretty sure they’d made up on the spot just because she’d happened to take an interest in the opposite sex. She was too young to date, they proclaimed, but paradoxically, she was old enough to be thrown to the proverbial wolves for the summer. The British wolves.

  Abby had used every tactic she could possibly conceive of: She cried, begged, pleaded, suffered weeks without talking to her parents or eating (in their presence, anyway). . . to no effect. Abby loved James, James was bad news, Abby was going to England.
<
br />   At the eleventh hour, Abby had finally come to terms with the tragic situation and used her rather prodigious babysitting savings to buy James a plane ticket over to England to visit her halfway through the summer term. There was no way that she was going to spend the entire summer apart from the boy she loved.

  It was funny how things could change so dramatically, so quickly, Abby thought.

  She took a sip of her water and broke off a tiny piece of her biscuit. It was hard and bland, like one might expect of a cookie that was called a “digestive.” It tasted of vanilla—chalky, gritty vanilla.

  But that was okay.

  Because in seven hours—wait, no, six and a half, she realized, glancing at her watch—Abby’s whole world was going to be a giant, gooey pint of New York Superfudge Chunk.

  Well, except in London, of course.