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That I’m more than four thousand miles from home at this moment is a miracle in itself. I pretty much extorted Dad to let me take this trip, threatening not to return to college in the fall for my junior year. Would I really have done that? Probably not. But he finally relented, as long as I promised to follow a strict itinerary and call home every day.
Plus, my twenty-first birthday is soon, and I wanted to be someplace exciting to celebrate it. After a lot of persuading, I convinced him to give me this as a gift. He was opposed at first, but to my surprise, I eventually wore him down.
He gave me a decent budget to work with. Not enough to get into trouble, but enough to keep a roof over my head and keep from starving while on the road. I’ve never been out of the USA, so Spain seemed like a manageable place to start. Good food, cool history, safe for a girl on her own. At least that’s what all the travel sites say.
“I… I do a lot alone,” I say in response to their nosy-ass question.
Confusion crosses Sabi’s face, like something’s been lost in translation. But a second later she follows up with another bright smile.
“Abbay,would you like to hang out—that’s what Americans say, right?hang out?—with us?”
They look so hopeful. And hell, there isn’t anything else on my day’s agenda besides visiting the Prado museum and walking around. They seem nice enough. And fun.
But they also look like they’re from the ‘cool girls’ table.’ And cool girls don’t hang out with the likes of me.
Regardless of my flash-back lunchroom status, Vivi puts her hands on the table. “We would also like to practice our English,” she adds.
And there we have it. Although their English sounds pretty good to me.
“I’m going for a semester in America, and I need practice.” She looks at her sister, who nods enthusiastically.
I shrug, glad I washed my hair this morning. Regardless, I probably look like these girls’ poor cousin, anyway. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do it,” I say, trying to muster enthusiasm.
I trudge after Sabi and Vivi as we wander around Madrid, me in my faded denim skirt and high-top Converse Chucks, kind of like the less-pretty friend who holds the alpha girl’s hair back when she barfs. The sisters turn heads and giggle at catcalls everywhere they go in their short summer dresses and platform shoes, flipping their hair like preening peacocks, and it’s all just fascinating to observe.
As usual, I am invisible. But I’m used to that.
We exit the Prado museum after a rushed visit—no surprise, these girls couldn’t care less about art—and even though I’m in my most comfy shoes, my feet are aching. I have no idea how these two clomp around all day in platform shoes. When they see the pain on my face, we plop down on a bench vacated by some noisy Americans and Vivianne coaxes me into a selfie with her sister. She shows us all the photo, and then jumps to her feet.
“Abbay, you must come with us tonight!” she screams.
Sabi grabs my arm. “Oh, yes,Abbay. You must.”
I figure they’re going to dinner someplace nice. Which is fine. I’m not getting close to spending my daily budget, saving some each day so I can splurge when the impulse hits me.
Or they have plans for a show. I’ve been thinking about seeing a Flamenco exhibition. It’s a must-see according to all the guidebooks.
“What’s tonight?” I ask, wondering if I’ll be sorry I didn’t just say I have plans.
Vivi claps her hands together. “We’re going to Ibiza! We have an Airbnb, and we have passes to thehottestclub there.”
What the fuck iseebeetha?
It doesn’t really matter. They lost me atclub.
“Yeah, thanks. But I don’t think so. I told my dad I’d stick to the schedule here in Spain.”
“But it’sinSpain,Abbay! It’s a beautiful little island in the Mediterranean, only an hour plane ride away,” Sabi says. “Oh, you’re coming with us. I’m buying you a ticket right now.” She whips out her phone and says something in French to her sister.
Now it’s my turn to jump to my feet. “No, Sabine, don’t. Don’t buy me a ticket. I can’t go.”
I don’t care if Ibizaispart of Spain and only one hour away, if my father finds out, he’ll drag my ass home. Besides, I don’t do clubs. Not my thing. Not my style.
She ignores me. Of course. “Oh my god, these flights are so cheap. Okay,Abbay, give me your passport number,” she says, looking expectantly at me, finger poised and ready on the airline app.
But before I can protest one final time, Vivi grabs my hand, twirling me like we’re dancing. Then she twirls herself.
This is how pretty girls act. Like life is a buffet table, waiting for them to decide what they want to try next.
