“But . . . ,” Sofia begins. “That’s not true. We didn’t join another group.”
Tate shrugs, that infectious grin spreading across his face. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them, right?”
I look back and forth from Sofia to Kensington, hoping one of them will speak up, will say this is a bad idea, will insist that we track down a counselor immediately. But neither of them looks overly concerned by Tate’s news.
“What’s up, @AvalonByTheC?” Tate asks, almost in a whisper as Kensington and Sofia pull ahead of us. “You okay?”
I think about telling Tate the truth, that I’m not comfortable lying like this. That I’m afraid we’re going to get caught. But despite every instinct that warns me to put an end to this, to convince Sofia and Kensington that we need to get back in touch with a chaperone, that we can’t risk getting kicked out of the retreat, I find myself responding, “Yeah, I’m great.”
And Tate—he smiles. And just like that, I actually am. Great, that is.
* * *
And I stay great for the majority of the next three hours, pushing my worries out of my mind as the four of us have more fun than I’ve had in a long time. Tate even convinces Kensington (after we find New York City’s smallest subway door, of course) to go for a stroll down Fifth Avenue—including a stop at the flagship Tiffany & Co.—an activity I know that she normally would have refused on account of being “touristy.” But all three of us seem to listen to Tate, and trust Tate, and agree that Tate has made what was already our good time even better.
Until, that is, we arrive at the designated meeting spot for our group dinner. And we are late. Ten minutes late. Without a chaperone. Officially, undoubtedly caught.
And let’s just say that Roberto is not happy.
Rather than immediately reaming us out, Roberto relegates us to a table in the corner of the restaurant, making clear that the consequences will be doled out after dinner. We sit tensely as we wait, looking back and forth among one another, trying to figure out what’s going to happen next.
“They’re going to send us home, aren’t they?” Sofia asks in a forced whisper.
“They might,” Kensington agrees, and even her usually stoic face has been replaced by a look of concern.
“Maybe we should apologize,” I suggest. “Maybe if we explain what happened—”
“That we purposely ‘lost’ our chaperone? I don’t think so,” Kensington interrupts me as Tate passes us each a menu.
“Is there something else we can do?” Sofia asks. “I really don’t want to get kicked out. We just got here.”
“Hey—no one’s getting kicked out,” Tate says. “If it comes to that, I’ll take the blame. You three don’t have anything to worry about.”
“No, you can’t do that,” I say, pulling his scarf more tightly around my shoulders, suddenly chilled. “You shouldn’t take the fall for us. That’s not fair.” I look across the table at Sofia and Kensington, who nod, opening their mouths to speak, but Tate begins first.
“Look,” he starts, “the way I see it, we don’t have control over what they decide to do to us anyway, correct? So let’s not waste any more time fretting over it. Plus, I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Sofia says quietly.
“There’s the surprise of the century,” Kensington quips. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s not talk about it anymore. We might as well enjoy our last supper, so to speak.” The three of them all look down at their menus, so I follow suit, trying to push away my apprehension. The restaurant features a fusion of Chinese and Japanese dishes, and I swoop my eyes over the food options, searching for words I recognize.
“Do you think I can get a plate of egg rolls?” Sofia pipes up. “That’s what I want.”
“Not if you expect me to be seen eating with you,” Kensington says. “This place is famous for sushi—not for egg rolls.”
“Ew, I don’t eat anything raw,” Sofia says. “It’s not like fish thrive in Arizona. Landlocked state and all.”
“I’ve never had sushi either, and New Jersey isn’t landlocked,” I reassure Sofia, but this comment only riles up Kensington more.
“Well, you’re not in Arizona or New Jersey anymore, are you?” she says, and before we can stop her, she places the order for our entire table—all sushi, without a single egg roll to be found.
“When I wake you up in the middle of the night crunching through our snacks because I’m starving to death, you’ll be sorry,” Sofia tells her.
“You will eat it and you will like it,” Kensington insists. But when our plates of sushi arrive, Sofia and I stare at it skeptically, trying to decide where to start (if at all).
“What’s up, @AvalonByTheC?” Tate asks, picking up a piece of rice-enclosed fish.
“I have no idea what to do with this,” I tell him honestly.
“Nothing to it,” he says, and then in a faux television announcer voice, he continues, “What we have here is a basic tuna roll. How do you feel about salt?”
“Love salt,” I answer, and he dumps at least two tablespoons of soy sauce onto one piece.
“And spice?” he asks.
“Not as much.”
“Only a little wasabi, then,” he says, moving a small bit of green goo off the corner of my plate and placing it on the roll. “Now pretend this is tuna fish, but in its natural state. And feel free to eat with your hands. No need for chopsticks.” I grip the piece between my thumb and index finger, take a deep breath, and make a move to bite it.
“No, no, all at once. Don’t be polite,” Tate corrects me, and dutifully, I place the entire roll on my tongue. I begin chewing, praying that I don’t gag and spit the entire creation onto his lap. But to my surprise, the sushi is . . . delicious. Not as good as the Levain cookie, not even as good as the smorgasbord we put together at Chelsea Market, but still good. Once I’ve swallowed, I pick up the soy sauce and begin to drown another piece.
“What’d you think?” Tate asks.
“It was great,” I tell him. “Though I kind of only tasted soy sauce. Not that I mean that as a bad thing.”
“Soy sauce makes everything better,” Tate agrees. I nod, watching Kensington attempt to force-feed a roll with an orange center to Sofia.
“I don’t eat salmon!” Sofia is insisting.
“Please, I saw you pick up a cupcake crumb you had dropped on the ground at the High Line and put it in your mouth. You’re not that picky. Pull yourself together,” Kensington says, shoving the whole thing in her mouth despite Sofia’s protestations.
“I’m glad I got you as my sushi instructor,” I tell Tate.
“Do you think this seating arrangement happened by accident, @AvalonByTheC?” Tate asks, flashing his signature smile. I feel my face flush, and I make a point of pretending to concentrate fully on spreading a dot of wasabi onto my next roll. Before I can taste it, Roberto claps his hands three times directly behind us, causing my stomach to turn a somersault.
“Once you have finished your meal, you will all be heading back to your dorm rooms for the night. Let this serve as your warning—if anything like what went on today happens again, it will mean an automatic dismissal from the program. And to make sure no further funny business goes on”—while my back is to him, I can feel his eyes, plus the eyes of the entire rest of the retreat, staring at us—“your counselors have been instructed to duct-tape you into your rooms. If any of you try to break out during the night, we will be aware, and we will find you, and that will be the end of your retreat experience. Our intention had been to give you some leeway this week, but those privileges have since been revoked due to the actions of your fellow retreaters.” Roberto stops talking, and low murmurs spring up across the restaurant, presumably all about us.
“Phew, at least we get to stay, right?” Sofia whispers. “But are they seriously going to duct-tape us into our rooms? Is that even allowed?”
“It was probably a clause on that safety form our parents signed,” Kensington r
easons. “The one where they essentially signed our lives away.”
“Boy, this brings a new meaning to Dingymist Dorm, huh?” Sofia says, but I can’t manage to smile at her. The rest of our sushi sits uneaten as the whole group is escorted away, counselors surrounding us on all sides like a bunch of prisoners. As we walk back, I sense what feels like a thousand eyes boring into the backs of our heads. We are now the “bad kids” who have ruined it for the rest of the class. I try to tell myself that this isn’t my fault, but I know that I’m partly responsible. And by the time Sofia, Kensington, and I are locked—truly locked—in Room 609 that evening, I feel close to tears. Roberto is going to call our parents, right? And even if he doesn’t, I’m most likely going to wind up telling them on my own, if only to try to relieve the feelings of guilt that are hovering in the middle of my chest.
With nowhere to escape within our cramped quarters, I climb onto my bunk and burrow deep under my blanket, head included. I open my texts, taking a deep breath and trying to decide how best to broach this with my family before Roberto can reach them first. It would probably be better to call, but then Sofia and Kensington would hear the conversation, and plus, I’m afraid I would cry.
I drum my fingers against the back of my phone, thinking. Maybe I’ll tell Arden. Maybe I’ll explain the whole thing to her, and have her relay the story to our parents. Arden could make it funny. Arden could lighten up the whole circumstance. Arden might even make me feel better in the process.
I begin typing a note to her, backspacing multiple times as I decide where to start. In the middle of this drafting, my phone buzzes with a new text.
Way to keep your promise.
Oh, no. Celia. In all that had happened today, I had completely forgotten to call her, to text her, to think about her much at all. And she was right—I had promised. Even though she had told me to go to New York without her, even though she had said it was okay, I knew she was jealous. Of course she was jealous. I would be jealous, if I were in her position. As her best friend, I should have considered that when she made me swear to keep her updated, it wasn’t only because she wanted to live vicariously through my experience. It was because she felt left out. And forgotten.
I was a bad friend. I used to be a good one, but I hadn’t been this week.
Just like how I used to be a person who didn’t get in trouble. Who didn’t aimlessly follow a boy around a strange city. Who wasn’t the reason an entire dorm full of people were currently duct-taped in their rooms.
Agreeing to come to this retreat was quite possibly the worst decision I ever made. It was turning me into a person I barely recognized anymore.
I’m sorry, I type to Celia. I had a terrible day. I’m so sorry. I miss you.
But hours later, by the time I finally manage to fall asleep, she still hasn’t responded.
* * *
Our dorm room remains quieter than usual the next morning as the three of us move about, trying not to get in each other’s way. Eventually, Ella pulls the duct tape off our door and releases us, like caged animals, into the hallway. As we make our way toward the elevators, it becomes obvious that we were the final room to be “freed”—one last punishment for the ringleaders of trouble.
“We really are the black sheep now, huh?” Sofia asks as we wait for the elevator, even perfecto Ella leaving us behind.
“Looks like they even let Tate out before us,” Kensington observes. “That’s low.”
“Maybe they didn’t want to punish his two roommates,” I reason. “All three of us were troublemakers in our room—but only he was in his.”
“We’re such rebel youth,” Kensington says as we step onto the elevator, making our way to breakfast. I carry Tate’s green scarf in my hand—in the uncomfortable chaos of our return last night, I had forgotten to return it to him. Once in the cafeteria, I deposit it on an empty chair before joining Sofia and Kensington at the end of the buffet line, all while feeling like everyone in the room is watching us and whispering about us. The girls who ruined their nights.
“Where’s Tate?” Sofia asks quietly. She piles her plate extra high today, seemingly making up for the uneaten sushi dinner last night. “I don’t see him anywhere.”
“I’m trying not to look around,” I say. “I feel like everyone hates us.”
“Who needs them?” Kensington says. “We had a great time yesterday, and that’s all that matters, right?”
Sofia and I don’t answer at first, and I get the feeling that she’s about as used to getting in trouble as I am. But then she pipes up with, “You know what? You’re right. I honestly don’t care if the rest of these people like me. And to tell you the truth, I always care if people like me. It’s kind of my thing. So this is a big deal.”
I smile at this, though I can’t get on board with their attitudes. It’s not that I’m so desperate for everyone to like me—I’m pretty sure my avoidance behavior at our first meeting in the lobby made that clear—but I also hate when people I care about are upset with me. People like Celia. The fellow retreaters being mad, well, Kensington is right—it doesn’t really matter much. But their disdain toward us also doesn’t make me feel better.
“But seriously, where is Tate?” Sofia asks again once we sit down. “He’s definitely not in here.”
“Maybe they didn’t release him yet?” Kensington guesses. “Freed his roommates but not him?”
“Do you think I should give this to one of the counselors?” I ask, holding up his scarf. “Ask one of them to return it to his room?”
“I’m surprised he let that thing out of his sight for this long,” Kensington says. “He had it on since the minute I met him, until, of course, he gave it to you.” She bats her eyelashes quickly, mocking me, which makes Sofia laugh.
“He definitely likes you,” Sofia adds. “For him to give up his security blanket for you? That means a lot.”
I roll my eyes, tossing the scarf on the table as if it were burning my hand. At the time, I was happy when Tate had lent it to me, both because I was cold, and because, well, it was nice. Tate was nice.
But now, the sooner I can get that thing out of my possession, the better. Thinking back, my day was going great before I put on the scarf. Its presence was the beginning of my bad luck: getting in trouble with Roberto, hurting Celia’s feelings, wishing to flee home. . . .
That scarf, I believe, is cursed.
“I’m going to ask,” Kensington interrupts my thoughts, making a beeline toward Ella, Nina, and Lulu, who are huddled together on the other side of the room. Kensington’s back is toward us, so we can’t watch her face, and when she turns around to walk back, she remains difficult to read. She takes her seat and pulls off a corner of her croissant without speaking.
“Well?” I ask, unable to take the suspense any longer.
“He got kicked out,” Kensington answers.
“No way!” Sofia yells as I feel my own mouth drop open. “Are you lying?”
“Nope,” Kensington says. “It’s true.”
“Because of yesterday?” I ask. “But that’s not fair—we can’t let him take the blame for us, even if he said he would. We were just as responsible as he was, and if he got kicked out for being late and not being with a chaperone, then we should—”
“Not about yesterday,” Kensington interrupts me. “It seems Mister TaterTotter managed to open his duct-taped door last night and sneak out. There was some kind of pattern to how the counselors had taped them closed, and they could tell it had been tampered with.” Kensington shrugs. “At that point, he was kind of asking for it, right?”
“I can’t believe it,” Sofia says. “I mean, I believe he did that—it sounds just like Tate—but still. He didn’t even say good-bye.”
“I doubt they gave him a chance to go around and tell people to keep in touch,” Kensington says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Roberto refused to let him pack.”
“Wait, then what am I supposed to do with that?” I say, pointing to th
e scarf, which is lying limply in the middle of the table. “How do I get it back to him?”
“Keep it,” Kensington says, a wry smile parting her lips. “Something to remember him by.” This comment makes Sofia cackle, and they lean their foreheads together, laughing.
Laughing at me.
“Never mind,” I say testily, rising and grabbing the offensive scarf, ready to give it to the counselors—or anyone but me—to deal with. I have to get it out of my sight, and out of my life, before it causes any additional damage.
“Wait, no,” Sofia calls after me. “If you give it to the counselors, they’ll probably lose it on purpose, as some sort of revenge on Tate.” She begins scrolling through her phone. “Did he give either of you his number?”
“No, none of us ever exchanged them,” I say, standing behind them with my hands on my hips, the scarf dragging on the floor next to me.
“That was dumb. We should have,” Sofia says. “I’ll try to send him a message through PhotoReady, or comment on one of his pictures or something.”
“He has that feature turned off,” I tell her. “He mentioned that. Something about not wanting to give anyone the expectation that he’d respond.” I look down at the scarf, as if staring at it long enough would make it disappear. I should leave it here, unclaimed, and hope that its removal from my life would also mean the removal of all the bad energy circling around me. Then, like Tate did, maybe I could find a way to vanish, to run home, to get away. Maybe I could go to Celia’s house, to apologize in person. Maybe Arden could convince our parents to come home early, and they could pick me up. Maybe by tonight, I could be asleep in my own room, on my own sheets, under my own covers. And then maybe I could turn back into the person I was a few days ago. The one who had never met Sofia, or Kensington, or Tate. The nonworldly, non–boy following, nontroublemaking Avalon. The one who was content with what was outside her windows.
* * *
I spend most of our class time plotting how to get home. I’ve already texted Arden, who was no help whatsoever (it seems she and my grandmother are on the verge of winning first place in this week’s pinochle tournament, and she isn’t about to give that up). Plus, I didn’t want to tell her the real reason I wished to leave, at least not yet. There was no indication that Roberto had told our parents what had happened, so I didn’t want to sound that alarm bell unless necessary.
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