DC Trip

by Sara Benincasa

  “Okay, let’s drop it,” Brooklynn said, and Peighton said no more. Kaylee stared at both of them with big saucer eyes. It was the first time Gertie had ever heard one of them contradict the other, and it seemed it was Kaylee’s first time too.

  Sivan sat quietly and wondered again who Peighton really was.

  Rachel turned around and flashed that same innocent-

  looking smile at Brooklynn, just as she’d done in the lobby before they began their tour. Brooklynn sneered at her. Then Rachel turned back around to face the screen. She smoothed her hair. She leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the person sitting in front of her: Brock Chuddford.

  “Hi, Brock,” she whispered, laying a hand on his shoulder. He half-turned and looked right into her big, beautiful blue eyes. Brock smiled. Behind her, Rachel could feel Brooklynn’s horror. Which is exactly why she grabbed Brock’s face and kissed him.

  There was a pause while the kids in their area noticed what was going on. They were in the back of the theatre, and the teachers were standing off to the side with Rhonda, so it wasn’t super-obvious. Until a few seconds later, when Brooklynn shook off her shock and made it pretty evident that something was going on.

  “Wow,” Gertie whispered as the kiss went on and on.

  “This is the most epic Rachel move of all time,” Sivan whispered back.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Brooklynn shrieked, jumping up and lunging for Rachel. Peighton sprang into action once again, holding her back, but Brooklynn still managed to yank Rachel’s hair. The students in the front of the theater turned around and stared, and Ms. Deats and Mr. Kenner ran into the crowd to separate the girls. Rhonda looked startled.

  “Brooklynn! Rachel!” Mr. Kenner hissed. “Outside. NOW.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rhonda,” Ms. Deats said, totally embarrassed. “We’ll take care of this outside. Everyone else, keep watching the film.”

  “No problem,” Rhonda said, hushing the rest of the students.

  Kaylee and Peighton followed Brooklynn outside, just as Gertie and Sivan followed Rachel. Mr. Kenner marched into a small corridor with restrooms and water fountains. He whipped around and stared at the other girls.

  “What the hell are the rest of you girls doing out here?” Mr. Kenner demanded. “Go inside and sit down.”

  “Rachel was only standing up for me,” Sivan said.

  “By doing what?” Peighton snapped. “Being a whore?” Apparently any goodwill or empathy she’d felt toward Sivan for a moment had dissipated.

  “Peighton!” Ms. Deats said, aghast. “We do not call names, and we do not shame other young women!”

  “And we do not yell profanity in the middle of a documentary film at the Holocaust Museum!” Mr. Kenner spat, shaking with anger. “Brooklynn, that’s your first strike.”

  “That’s not fair!” Kaylee said.

  “It’s Rachel’s fault!” Peighton said.

  “I fail to see how it can possibly be Rachel’s fault that Brooklyn shouted obscenities and attempted to physically attack her in the middle of a quiet theater,” Mr. Kenner said.

  “She provoked me,” Brooklynn protested.

  “Brooklynn, it’s very important to exercise self-control,” Ms. Deats said. “Did Rachel hit you?”

  “Of course I didn’t!” Rachel said.

  “Rachel would never do that,” Gertie said.

  “Rachel isn’t a violent person,” Sivan said.

  “Oh, shut up, Sivan,” Peighton snapped. It was like she was making up for being nice earlier.

  Sivan lost her temper then, finally.

  “You shut up, Peighton!” Sivan said loudly. She didn’t quite shout it, but a nearby security guard shushed her.

  “That’s it,” Mr. Kenner said. “Everybody gets a first strike. All of you. I don’t care how it started, but this is where it ends.”

  The girls all looked as if they were going to cry. Brooklynn actually started to cry, rather noisily. Ms. Deats handed her a tissue and looked at Mr. Kenner reproachfully.

  “Now, now,” she said. “Maybe there’s some way to make this better.”

  “And what exactly would you suggest?” Mr. Kenner asked.

  “This could be—a teachable moment,” Ms. Deats said. “It doesn’t have to be a first strike. It can be a chance for these girls to work through some of the tensions that have created this conflict.”

  Mr. Kenner rolled his eyes and threw up his hands.

  “Okay, Alicia,” he said. “Whatever you say.” He stalked back into the theater. Now Ms. Deats kind of looked like she might be about to cry.

  The six girls looked at one another wordlessly. They may have been in two very separate groups and they may have hated each other’s guts, but they’d just witnessed some kind of weird tension between Ms. Deats and Mr. Kenner, and that was pretty noteworthy. Even Brooklynn stopped crying and looked intrigued.

  “Jeez, he’s pissed,” Kaylee said.

  “Are you guys having some issues?” Rachel asked sympathetically. “Anything you want to talk about, Ms. Deats?”

  “No, Rachel, I do not want to talk about anything,” Ms. Deats said testily. “Other than the fact that all of you girls need to agree to get along for the rest of this trip, or else. You are not going to make this trip miserable for everyone else just because of your own petty differences. There are too many women in this world who tear one another down instead of building one another up. We all need to look out for one another, not engage in some misguided battle for supremacy.”

  “Ooh, like white supremacy?” Kaylee whispered fearfully. Clearly, the exhibit on nationalism and hate had penetrated her lovely, thick skull.

  “She doesn’t mean white supremacy,” Peighton said.

  “Okay, good,” Kaylee said. “What does she mean then?”

  Ms. Deats looked at Peighton and Kaylee in confusion, then decided to drop it.

  “All right,” Ms. Deats said. “Everyone join hands.”

  “Oh, no,” Brooklynn moaned. “Seriously?”

  “You’re not really in a position to argue, Brooklynn,” Ms. Deats said, with apparent annoyance. Ms. Deats almost never seemed annoyed, so they knew she meant business. Begrudgingly, Peighton joined hands with Gertie, who joined hands with Rachel, who held Kaylee’s hand, who gingerly held Sivan’s hand, who held Brooklynn’s hand. Ms. Deats stood between Brooklyn and Peighton, completing the circle.

  “Okay,” Ms. Deats said pleasantly. “Let’s all take a deep breath as a group. Like I taught you in yoga. Big inhale, really get that air down into your bellies.”

  “Breathing into my belly makes me feel fat,” said Kaylee.

  “You need to release your body judgment right now and just go with the flow, Kaylee,” Ms. Deats said.

  “But I don’t have my period,” Kaylee said.

  “Just do what she says,” Brooklynn whispered.

  The girls breathed in as a group, and then exhaled as a group.

  “Now,” Ms. Deats said. “Would anyone like to release any resentment by, say, making an apology?”

  “I am not apologizing to anyone,” Brooklynn said.

  “Me neither,” Peighton said, tilting her chin up defiantly.

  “I don’t even know what I would apologize for,” Kaylee said.

  “I’ll go,” Rachel said sweetly. “Brooklynn, I am genuinely sorry you are so hostile toward me. I’d really like to do what I can to make things better between us.” Gertie and Sivan looked at each other and tried not to grin.

  “That’s wonderful, Rachel,” Ms. Deats said approvingly. “Brooklynn, what do you say in response? Remember that you don’t want to get that first strike.”

  Brooklynn looked at her friends helplessly. They looked back at her, unable to do anything.

  “I’m sorry I got so upset with you, Rachel,” Brooklynn finally muttered.

  “And?” Ms. Deats prompted her.

  “And I’m sorry I tried to hit you,” Brooklynn said.

  “
Thank you, Brooklynn,” Rachel said. “That honestly means a lot to me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I really have to pee,” Kaylee blurted out. “Can I go pee and then come back to the circle?”

  “I think the circle has accomplished what was necessary,” Ms. Deats said, enormously pleased. “Let’s all take one more group breath, and then let’s put this ugliness behind us.” The girls did as she told them. Well, they did the first part, anyway, and all inhaled one deep breath.

  After the “unfortunate incident” in the theater, as Ms. Deats called it (Mr. Kenner preferred to term it a “childish tantrum”), Rhonda escorted everyone to the museum shop. They would have a half hour to look around and make some purchases before they were due back on the bus, at which point they’d go to a restaurant for an early dinner and then to their hotel “where you can relax,” Ms. Deats said.

  “And study,” Mr. Kenner said.

  “Well yes, of course,” Ms. Deats said quickly. “They know that.”

  “Do they?” Mr. Kenner asked drily, and then walked over to help Carter Bump get a copy of Night by Elie Wiesel off a high shelf (it was really on a pretty easy-to-reach shelf for a sixteen year old of normal height, but nothing was easy for Carter Bump to reach). After he handed the book to Carter, he moved on.

  From a few feet away, Rachel watched as Carter dug into the book with evident eagerness. Then Brock Chuddford strode up to Carter and clamped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh shit,” Rachel said quietly to herself. She’d only kissed Brock to piss off Brooklynn; he was kind of a doofus and teased people sometimes, although she’d never actually seen him be mean. Still, her bully detector went off, and she prepared to act.

  “What’s that?” Brock asked suspiciously.

  “What’s what?”

  “That.” Brock pointed to Night.

  “It’s just a book,” Carter said, hiding it behind his back. “It’s nothing.”

  “Give it to me,” Brock ordered him, and Carter obeyed.

  Rachel didn’t like to see the fear in Carter’s eyes, but she was smart enough not to embarrass a guy by stepping in unless it was absolutely necessary. Rachel knew Carter didn’t have a dad, because his dad had died in Afghanistan. That was kind of a lot of pressure. And when you’re short and nerdy and fat and you don’t have any big brothers to stick up for you, it’s not like you have an easy time in school, either. Rachel remembered Carter getting beaten up a lot in middle school, although that had seemed to cease once they hit high school.

  But Carter Bump had good reason to cringe when Brock Chuddford told him to hand over Night. The possibilities were as follows: 1.) Brock would make fun of him for reading a boring-looking book; 2.) Brock would whack him in the head with the book and then laugh loudly; 3.) Brock would call his buddies over and one of them would whack Carter in the head with the book; 4.) Mr. Kenner would notice something amiss and come over and break up the situation. Rachel figured her intervention was option number 5.

  And then Brock Chuddford did something that surprised Rachel.

  He looked at the book with evident interest.

  “Is this good?” he asked Carter.

  “Are you—are you, like, joking?” Carter asked uncertainly.

  “Little dude, I wouldn’t joke at the Holocaust Museum,” Brock said seriously. “Would you?”

  “No,” Carter said.

  “So is this good or what?” Brock asked again.

  “I heard it’s really good,” Carter said. “It’s about a man who survived the Holocaust. He’s pretty famous.”

  “Elie is a dude’s name?” Brock said.

  “I guess in the country he came from,” Carter said. “I think he came from Hungary.”

  Brock looked at the book curiously.

  “You think it’s hard to read?” Brock asked.

  “I’m sure it’s really sad,” Carter said.

  “Oh, I don’t care about that,” Brock said. “I’m good with sad. I just mean, like, do you think it’s complicated?”

  Rachel understood then that what Brock was asking was whether Carter had the confidence that Brock would be capable of understanding the words on the page. There was something so strangely sweet about this whole interaction.

  “Well,” Carter said carefully. “A lot of people read it and they seem to like it. So it can’t be that hard to understand, because it’s really popular, and stuff that’s hard to understand is never popular. But it’s supposed to be really good.”

  Brock thought about that for a second. Then he reached out and pulled another copy of Night off the shelf.

  “I might have questions for you,” Brock said. And without another word, he gave Carter’s copy back to him and took his own copy to the register.

  Carter looked at his own book, then at Brock, then at the book, then at Brock.

  Then he looked at Rachel. She looked at him and shook her head in disbelief. Then she grinned.

  He grinned back.

  Well, that had been … unexpected.

  Gertie was off in a corner by herself, looking through a beautiful book of photography of Holocaust survivors and their descendants, when she heard a familiar voice.

  “I’m fine,” it said. “Thanks, Mr. Bauer.”

  Gertie’s head snapped up as if she were a hunting dog who had heard the rustle of something in the underbrush. Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head and laid eyes on a handsome boy who stood not twelve feet away, wiping tears from his eyes and talking to a concerned-looking middle-aged man.

  Danny Bryan.

  Gertie’s face went completely white. She sank into a nearby chair—thank goodness it was there, or else she probably would’ve just fallen on the floor. Across the shop, Rachel looked up at just that moment and saw Gertie. Rachel hurried over to Sivan.

  “It happened again,” Rachel whispered to Sivan.

  “What happened?” Sivan asked. She was deeply intrigued by a book of translated Yiddish poetry and wanted to focus her energies on that, disappear into the words and get a break from the dumb realities of this D.C. trip for a moment.

  “My psychic thing,” Rachel said. “I got this weird tingly feeling, and I looked up, and I saw that.”

  “Rachel, you really need to get over American Horror Story: Coven,” Sivan said. “It’s not real life.” Then she looked at where Rachel was pointing, and saw Gertie’s face.

  “Oh no,” Sivan said. “She looks sick. Maybe it was the lunch her mom packed her. You know her mom isn’t much of a cook.” The girls hurried over and knelt down beside Gertie, who appeared nearly catatonic.

  “Gertie,” Sivan said tentatively. “You okay?”

  Gertie murmured something unintelligible. The girls leaned in closer.

  “Danny Bryan is right over there,” she whispered, pointing. They looked and sure enough, it was the guy they’d seen a million times on Instagram and Facebook and in Gertie’s annual camp yearbooks.

  “No shit,” Rachel said excitedly. “Gertie, go say hi to him.”

  “No way,” Gertie said. Because as soon as she’d seen him, she’d been seized by a powerful feeling that now was not the time to interact with him. He looked like he was having a private moment, and maybe that other guy was a teacher who was trying to guide him through the moment, and Gertie didn’t want to ruin the moment, and also she had like this Pavlovian reaction to seeing Danny Bryan that dictated that she had to freak out, like, every single time she saw him.

  “I’ll talk to him, then,” Rachel said lightly, and before she could make a move, Gertie’s nails were digging into her arm.

  “Fucking ow!” Rachel said, snatching her arm away. “You almost drew blood.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him,” Gertie said resolutely. “Not now. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen.”

  “Gertie,” Rachel said. “As someone who is maybe kind of psychic, I feel like this trip is your chance to actually get to talk to Danny Bryan for real, as a grown young woman and not some
geeky little girl. And my senses are telling me that if you talk to him, good things will happen, and you really don’t have to worry about it. So therefore, I think you should talk to him right now.”

  “He’s been here for a while,” Sivan said. “We saw that Instagram a few hours ago. His class must be here too.” She indicated a group of older boys and girls milling around the teacher who had been concerned about Danny. One of the kids wore a Lindbergh High School football T-shirt, and Gertie pointed it out in a whisper.

  “So let’s go talk to them,” Rachel said. “C’mon. I won’t talk to Danny. I’ll just gather some information.” She stood up and brushed herself off.

  “Rachel, Gertie doesn’t want you to,” Sivan said.

  “But I want me to,” Rachel said.

  You couldn’t argue with that kind of logic. And so despite Gertie’s obvious feeling of wanting to curl up in a ball and die, Rachel confidently stepped off in the direction where the Lindbergh High School kids were gathered.

  “Wow, you guys go to Lindbergh?” she said to the kid in the Lindbergh T-shirt.

  “Yeah,” he said. “In Jersey.”

  “We’re from Flemington,” she said.

  “Oh, for real?” he said. “No shit. That’s cool.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “We’re staying at some Holiday Inn somewhere. Is that where you guys are staying?”

  “No,” he said. “We’re—hey, Danny, what’s our hotel called again?”

  Danny Bryan turned and looked at Rachel and the other guy. From twelve feet away, Gertie’s entire being clenched in anxiety.

  “We’re at the Henry Hotel,” he said. “Bro, we’ve been there a day and you can’t remember?”

  The kid laughed, and Rachel smiled prettily.

  “Have a great trip!” Rachel said.

  “Thanks,” said the kid, looking her up and down.

  Rachel was already walking away, triumphant.

  “What happened?” Gertie whispered.

  “They’re staying at the Henry Hotel,” Rachel said. “And you’re welcome, Gertrude.”

  “You didn’t mention me, did you?” Gertie said fretfully.

  “Of course not,” Rachel said. “I respected your wishes. Anyway, how are we going to get to the Henry Hotel?”