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nine
Who is Marco, really? I have no idea, do I?
Of course, I never knew him well enough to begin with—that was the whole point. Anyone who actually knew me would never agree to help me run away. And as for it being dangerous and stupid, well yeah. It’s the only way to do this, isn’t it? If I had asked someone who was safe to take me to Yale, they would just have said no. Or have taken three days to put it together, what with clearing security and gathering a team of guards.
And I don’t have three days.
I don’t have three minutes.
I don’t have answers, either, of course, so I just wasted all of this time for nothing. I put my life in danger for nothing.Dammit, Angel.
Why aren’t people what they are supposed to be? What they appear to be?
I know I have lived a very sheltered, small life; it’s one of the reasons I wanted to go to university in the States. To broaden my horizons, my mind. But this is too broad.
Why can’t people stay who I thought they were?
I thought my father was this amazing dad who took me for ‘plane rides’ on his shoulders across the ballroom of the winter palace near the Austrian border of Asteria. Instead, he is the guy who lied to me my entire life. Who fathered children left and right, children who are so mad at him they are plastering their opinions across the internet.
Instead, he is the man who has been trending on twitter with the #cancelkingmihail hashtag for two days now and has not yet made an official statement.
And Marco? I thought he was this gruff, gorgeous dude who got a full scholarship ride to UVM and who likes to coach basketball on the side, in-between playing all the girls who come across him. But this boy who threw up after almost brushing his bike’s wheel against a dog? Who ordered me a car (with his own money, it looks like)? Who picked me up in his arms, yelling at Angel because he was being horrible to me?
Who is he?
He is not what I thought he was.
He is not who he appeared to be.
Nothing makes sense. I think back on how easily Marco agreed to take me on his bike, on how he laughed uncontrollably when I told him not to smoke. How mad he looked when he had to save me from the pool.
Who is he, really?
***
We still have a few hours to go, but I honestly can’t wait to get back to Vermont. I miss its waters and its cold air. I miss its open spaces and its apple orchards. It has already begun to feel like home, I realize. Something that is completely mine, that belongs to me.
Now it’s poisoned by my father’s betrayal. I try to distract myself by gazing at the large, white and red houses we pass on the way, and the chessboard of green and red trees reflected on the glass of the glorious Lake Champlain, but I am so sleepy, I can barely keep my eyes open. I…
Suddenly, I’m jerked awake, and someone is yelling.
“What?” I ask around a yawn.
We’re parked on the side of the road, not moving. Marco has killed the engine, but he’s still straddling the Ducati. His torso is twisted so that he’s turned fully around and is holding me with both arms. His hand is cupping my neck, muscles taut, as if he is holding my head up.
When did he do all that? Was I daydreaming?
He doesn’t look mad: he looks insanely mad.
“Your hands relaxed around my waist,” he sputters. “I nearly had a heart attack.”
“Did you throw up again?” I ask with interest, fully expecting to be told to shut up.
Instead, he chuckles. Lets me go.
“You are such a pain, my queen,” he says. “Ok, that’s enough, we’re going to a motel.”
“I don’t want your pity,” I tell him, twisting further away from his body. He doesn’t move to oblige me.
