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PART TWO
One Year
Fourteen
SEPTEMBER
College
Allyson. Allyson. Are you there?”
I pull the pillow over my head and scrunch my eyes shut, faking sleep.
The key turns in the lock as my roommate Kali pushes open the door. “I wish you wouldn’t lock the door when you are here. And I know you’re not asleep. You’re just playing dead. Like Buster.”
Buster is Kali’s dog. A Lhasa apso. She has pictures of him among the dozens tacked up on the wall. She told me all about Buster last July when we had our initial howdy-roommate phone call. Back then, I thought Buster sounded cute, and I found it quirky that Kali was named for her home state, and the way she talked—as if she were punching her words somehow—seemed sweet.
>I run into the street. The cars honk at me, their horns strange and foreign sounding, as if even they speak another language. I spin around, having absolutely no idea where I am, no idea where to go, but desperately wanting to be home. Home in my bed. Safe.
The tears make it hard to see, but somehow I stumble across the street, down the sidewalk, ricocheting from block to block. This time no one is chasing me. But this time I am scared.
I run for several blocks, up a bunch of stairs and onto a square of sorts, with a rack of those gray-white bicycles, a real estate agency, a pharmacy, and a café, in front of which is a phone booth. Melanie! I can call Melanie. I take some deep breaths, swallow my sobs, and follow the instructions to get the international operator. But the call goes straight to voice mail. Of course it does. She left the phone off to avoid calls from my mother.
An operator comes on the line to tell me I can’t leave a message because the call is collect. I start to cry. The operator asks me if she should call the police for me. I hiccup out a no, and she asks if perhaps there is someone else I might call. And that’s when I remember Ms. Foley’s business card.
She picks up with a brisk “Pat Foley.” The operator has to ask her if she’ll accept the collect call three times because I start crying harder the minute she answers, so she can’t hear the request.
“Allyson. Allyson. What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” she asks over the line.
I’m too scared, too numb to be hurt. That will come later.
“No,” I say in the tiniest of voices. “I need help.”
Ms. Foley manages to pull the basics out of me. That I went to Paris with a boy I met on the train. That I’m stuck here, lost, with no money, no clue where I am.
“Please,” I beg her. “I just want to go home.”
“Let’s work on getting you back to England, shall we?” she says calmly. “Do you have a ticket?”
Willem bought me a round trip, I think. I rifle through my bag and pull out my passport. The ticket is still folded neatly inside. “I think so,” I tell Ms. Foley in a quivery voice.
“When is the return booked for?”
I look at it. The numbers and dates all swim together. “I can’t tell.”
“Top left corner. It’ll be in military time. The twenty-four-hour clock.”
And there I see it. “Thirteen-thirty.”
“Thirteen-thirty,” Ms. Foley says in that comfortingly efficient voice of hers. “Excellent. That’s one-thirty. It’s just past noon now in Paris, so you have time to catch that train. Can you get yourself to the train station? Or to a Metro?”
I have no idea how. And no money. “No.”
“How about a taxi? Take a taxi to the Gare du Nord?”
I shake my head. I don’t have any euros to pay for a taxi. I tell Ms. Foley that. I can hear the disapproval in her silence. As if nothing I’ve told her before has lowered me in her esteem, but coming to Paris without sufficient funds? She sighs. “I can order you a taxi from here and have it prepaid to bring you to the train station.”
“You can do that?”
