13 Gifts Page 3

  I turn to look at Mom. No one went over that part with me. “Yes,” Mom replies. “Her aunt and uncle will be there. I wrote their names and telephone number on the release form. Tara has a copy in her backpack, too.”

  “Excellent,” the station manager says. “Then we’re almost all set.” He reaches back into his drawer and pulls out a bright yellow rubber bracelet. “You’ll need to wear this for the duration of your travel with us.”

  He hands it to me and waits while I pull and stretch it in an attempt to get it over my hand. “Is there a bigger size?”

  He shakes his head. “Sorry, they make ’em pretty small so they don’t slip off the younger kids. I can give you this instead.” He reaches back into the drawer and pulls out a white sticker the size of a paperback book with the words UNACCOMPANIED MINOR in huge red letters. “You could wear this on your chest.”

  I give one more yank and the bracelet finally lands on my wrist. “Thanks, I’m good.”

  “Bon voyage,” he says with a salute.

  Dad salutes in response. Mom shakes the man’s hand, and I tug at the bracelet. It really is very tight.

  “Does my hand look purple to you?” I ask Dad as we follow the signs to the right track.

  He takes hold of my hand and turns it side to side. “Not more than usual.”

  “I’m serious. What if my circulation gets cut off and my hand swells up and has to be amputated?”

  Dad shrugs. “Then I’ll put you in my next horror novel.”

  “This is the gate,” Mom says, stopping short.

  I look up at the sign next to the door that leads up to our track. It lists all the stations. “I don’t see Willow Falls on the list, Mom. Guess we better head home.”

  “Not so fast. You’ll be getting off in River Bend, the next town over. Willow Falls is too small for a train station.”

  When we arrive on the platform, the train is already there. I tighten my grip on the backpack while Mom hands the conductor my ticket. He asks to see my bracelet, so I hold up my wrist. I’m fairly certain my hand is not normally the color of grape juice.

  He motions us to climb on. “Train departs in eight minutes, so be sure you’re off in time.”

  My parents assure him they will. Inside the train it’s actually pretty nice. The seats are blue and green striped, with two seats on each side of the aisle. It looks clean, too. A little cramped, but not too bad. I follow Mom down an aisle as she carefully checks out each seat. The train is mostly empty since this is the first stop on the line, so I’m not sure why she doesn’t just pick one.

  “How ’bout this one, Mom?” I gesture to a perfectly good seat by a window with no one on the aisle.

  She shakes her head. “Keep going.” So we trudge through another car until finally she stops and says, “Here.”

  I look at the seat. It looks exactly the same as the others.

  “What’s different about this one?” I ask.

  She takes a deep breath. “It’s in the center of the train car, so there will be less sway when the train’s moving. And it’s facing forward; some of the others were backward. You tend to get nauseated when traveling backward. Also, the bathroom is in the next car, so it’s close enough to use without having to deal with any unpleasant odors that might emanate from it. Plus there’s an escape hatch above the window in case of emergency.”

  “Perfect,” I say, dropping my backpack onto the seat. “When my hand falls off and my arm begins to gush blood, the paramedics will be able to climb right in to save me.”

  “That is indeed handy,” Dad says. “No pun intended.” He easily tosses my suitcase on the rack across the aisle from me.

  “Why’d you put it over there?” I ask.

  “You can keep an eye on it better than if it were above you,” Mom explains before Dad has a chance. “If you get hungry, the food car is two ahead of this one. And make sure you have your backpack with you at all times. People come and go on trains, and you can’t be too careful. You have your phone, so call us if you need anything. Not sure about the reception in here, though …” Her eyes mist up. Dad sniffles, then coughs to hide it.

  At least I know they care. “I’ll be fine, really.” I actually have no idea if I’ll be fine, but it seems like the thing to say in this situation.

  “Call us when you arrive,” Mom says, “and remember, we’ll only be able to call out once a week, so keep your phone handy. If there’s a problem, just call that number I gave you and the Institute will send someone out to fetch us.”

  The speaker crackles on. “Train 751 departs in two minutes. All aboard.”

  “Excuse me,” a soft voice says from behind my dad. He steps out of the aisle to reveal a short dark-haired woman with a deep purple scarf draped over her hair and tied under her neck. She’s wearing the most makeup I’ve ever seen on someone outside of the movies. Green and purple eye shadow, bright pink lipstick, and what has to be four coats of mascara and ten coats of foundation. She looks very glamorous. And sort of like a whole makeup store exploded on her face.

  “Got four root canals yesterday,” she explains, pointing to the scarf. “Cheeks swelled up like beach balls. Not pretty.”

  My parents nod politely and move farther out of the way to let her pass. But she doesn’t even try to squeeze by.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear,” she says. “Your daughter is traveling alone?”

  Dad nods. Mom’s eyes suddenly lock on a spot over my shoulder, like there’s something only she can see. There better not be ghosts on this train. Then she takes a deep breath and focuses again. “We’re in a hurry,” she tells the woman. “So —”

  The woman holds up two tickets. “I have an extra ticket for the club car. First class. Full meal service and lovely accommodations. My daughter was supposed to travel with me but got called away on business. You know how it is with these modern women.” She tries to smile, but then winces and brings her hand to her cheek. “Still waiting for those painkillers to sink in. Anyhoo, I’ve got an extra one if you think she’d like it.” She pauses. “Ticket, that is, not painkiller.”

  “This seat will do fine,” Mom snaps, a bit rudely if you ask me. I know she doesn’t approve of women wearing a lot of makeup, but it’s no excuse to get snippy.

  “You’re sure, now?” the woman asks, looking from Mom to me.

  Since I’ve never traveled first-class anything, I say, “First class sounds pretty nice, Mom.”

  “This will do fine,” she repeats firmly.

  “All right,” the woman says, turning around.

  “I don’t see the harm —” Dad starts to say but is cut off when the conductor steps into the car. It’s a different guy from the one who let us on.

  “Last call!” he shouts from the doorway. “You folks traveling with us today?”

  My parents shake their heads.

  “Better get a move on, then.”

  Mom leans over to hug me, and holds on so tight that when she stops I feel more alone than ever. She rushes down the aisle without looking back. Dad leans in and whispers, “You go take that woman up on her offer. You deserve it.” I pull back in surprise. Dad almost never goes against anything Mom says. He gives me one more squeeze before hurrying after her.

  They wait outside my window until the train pulls away from the platform. We wave at each other as the station gets smaller and smaller. The last thing I see is Mom leaning into Dad and him putting his arm around her. My eyes burn and I blink away tears. Being alone on the train is bad enough. Being alone on the train and crying about it is that much worse.

  When I’m sure the train is out of my parents’ sight, I stand up, hold on to the back of the seat across the aisle, and pull down my suitcase. I figure someone will eventually sit next to me, so if I have to make small talk with someone, it might as well be with a lady who’s nice enough to offer me a first-class ticket.

  It’s not easy maneuvering down the aisle, but I only bump one person in the knee and he had his leg re
ally far out into the aisle to begin with. Now that the station is far behind, the train has picked up speed. I try not to look as the scenery whizzes by. Throwing up right now would not make me very popular with my fellow passengers.

  After realizing I’m going in the wrong direction and turning around, I finally find myself in front of the door marked CLUB CAR. I press the button and the door glides opens. I blink and stare, wide-eyed. I might as well be on a whole different train! The seats look twice as wide and ten times as soft as the one I was just sitting in. The walls are dark wood rather than the white plastic that I’d seen as I walked the length of the train. Silk curtains billow down from the windows, swaying in time with the motion of the train.

  My arrival has caused pretty much everyone in the car to look up from their papers, books, knitting, and wine sipping. I can’t help noticing the white tablecloths on the seat-back trays. A young woman in a fancier version of the conductor’s outfit approaches me. She places a bottle of red wine back on the little counter at the front of the car and wipes her hands with a cloth.

  “Can I help you?” she asks. “Are you lost?”

  I shake my head but I’m not sure what to say. Maybe this was a mistake. I don’t even know the nice lady’s name. “Um, I have a ticket. Kind of.”

  “She’s with me,” a voice calls out from the back of the car. The glamorous woman in the scarf leans into the aisle and waves her extra ticket. The conductor (waitress? both?) leads me to the back, where I smile gratefully at the woman.

  “Darling!” she says, throwing her arms around me. “I’m so glad to see you! I was wondering when you’d get here.” As she pulls away I think she’s winking at me but it’s hard to tell with all the makeup.

  “Um, thanks! Yeah, you, too!”

  The conductor/waitress smiles. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like anything to drink? Some soda?” I never get soda at home. “Yes, please.”

  She takes my suitcase and places it in the wooden cabinet above our heads, right next to a first aid kit and extra pillows. I think for a second about Dad putting it across from me before, but it’s different back here. Much safer. This is first class!

  I smile politely at the man on the other side of the aisle reading his newspaper. He nods politely in return. And my parents think I’m antisocial! I plop down in the seat next to my new best friend and turn to thank her. Her only response is a gentle snore. Guess those painkillers must have kicked in. I admit I’m kind of relieved. Even though I no longer believe that talking to strangers will turn my tongue green, it’s best not to take unnecessary chances.

  The time speeds by much quicker than I’d have thought possible. Between the iPod, my books, the three-course lunch, and the generous helping of free snacks and soda, I hardly even notice the time passing. And those painkillers must be pretty strong because my new BFF hasn’t woken up.

  And the best part? Halfway through the ride, the conductor/waitress notices me tugging on my bracelet and offers to help. I hold out my arm eagerly. I guess I’m not really unaccompanied anymore anyway! She snips the bracelet right off with a pair of scissors from the first aid kit. So much better. I rub the thick red dent and watch my hand slowly return to its usual handlike color.

  The gentle motion of the train is hard to resist, and I drift in and out of sleep. Every time the train stops at another station I jerk awake. My seatmate sleeps through it all.

  I’ve been putting off using the bathroom but those four sodas have left me no choice. Heeding Dad’s words, I grab my backpack and bring it with me. It feels unnecessary — I can’t imagine a safer place — but I do it anyway.

  Which is why it’s so surprising when, an hour later, the train pulls into River Bend station and I disembark (after a groggy but warm good-bye from my sleepy seatmate), to find that my backpack is empty except for a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich, my aunt’s phone numbers, and a strip of bright yellow rubber that makes me feel more like an Unaccompanied Minor than ever.

  Chapter Four

  To say that I’m panicking at this moment might be an understatement.

  I have no money, no iPod, no phone, and the River Bend train station is not much more than a patch of land in the middle of a cornfield. The other two people who got off with me are gone. Any minute I expect hail to start falling from the sky because that would just be my luck.

  The clock on the brick wall of the station says 5:15. The train arrived only fifteen minutes late. Has Aunt Bethany come and gone? Unable to think of anything else to do, I open my suitcase. I know it’s impossible for the stuff from my backpack to have migrated here, but I rummage through it anyway. I have a pair of pajama bottoms in one hand and a sock in the other when I hear a wooshing sound above me, followed by kreeee. I crouch even lower before looking up, expecting the worst. Bats maybe, or another beady-eyed hawk.

  Not a hawk. TWO hawks. Two hawks playfully circling each other above my head. I instinctively cover my head with my hands (and the pajama bottoms and sock). Fortunately, the birds seem a lot more interested in each other than in me. A minute later, the larger one extends one clawed foot (talon? paw?) to the smaller one, who grabs on and they fly away together.

  If Mom were here, she’d whip out her camera and follow them. She’s fascinated when animals (or people) act differently than research dictates they should. Two birds holding hands (feet? paws?) isn’t something you see every day. I actually go so far as to reach into my pocket for my cell phone to tell her about it when I realize that I no longer own such a thing. The panic returns and I turn back to the rummaging.

  The next noise I hear is the clomping of heavy shoes on the pavement behind me. I shove everything back inside and look up to find a man hurrying down the platform toward me, the laces of his hiking boots flying around his ankles.

  It’s been a few years since I’ve seen Uncle Roger, but this tall, blond guy in green cargo shorts, sunglasses, and a T-shirt encouraging people to SAVE THE KOALAS definitely isn’t him. This guy can’t be more than twenty-two years old. As he gets closer, he holds up a cardboard sign with TARA printed on it in big purple letters. Purple letters outlined with glitter.

  “Might you be Tara?” he asks, tilting his head and grinning.

  I nod and zip up my suitcase.

  “Ace!” he exclaims, folding the sign and tucking it in his back pocket.

  Even though he’s smiling really wide and doesn’t appear to have any concealed weapons and is tall in a comforting reminds-me-of-Dad kind of way, it still feels weird being alone with a strange guy in the middle of nowhere. Not being judgmental, but any guy who uses glitter qualifies as strange.

  If pushed, I’d have to admit that, strange or not, he’s downright good-looking. In a doesn’t-remind-me-of-Dad kind of way. His tan skin really makes his straight white teeth stand out. The only person I’ve ever seen with whiter teeth is Jake Harrison and, of course, I’ve never really seen him.

  “I expected you to be a wee ankle biter, but you’re almost full grown! Here, let me get your port.” It’s hard to figure out where one word ends and another begins. I’ve never heard someone with his accent before. If everyone in town talks this way, I’m going to be in big trouble. He grabs my suitcase, grins at me again, and takes off toward the parking lot at the end of the platform. I have no choice but to follow since he has my last remaining belongings.

  “Your aunt will get all up me for being late, but first my car was cactus so I had to borrow your uncle’s car and then there was a big bingle on Elm Street. I’m lucky I got here at all!”

  My aunt would get up him? His car is a cactus? Four out of every five words he says don’t make sense.

  He pulls a pack of gum from his pocket and holds it out to me. “Want a chewie?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not my bowl of rice either,” he says, putting it away. “But my oldies always said to make sure to have something to offer a new cobber like yourself.”

  A cobber doesn’t sound like a good th
ing to be.

  The only car in the parking lot is small and red and sporty. It seems impossible that a grown man could fit in it. But he strolls right over, opens the trunk, and tosses my suitcase inside. Then he goes over to the passenger door and holds it open for me.

  When I don’t make a move to get in, he says, “Oh, do you need to use the dunny? Or did they have one on the train?”

  I follow his eyes to the Porta-Potty on the side of the station and feel my cheeks redden. I shake my head and speak for the first time. “I’m sorry; who are you? My aunt and uncle were supposed to pick me up.”

  He slaps his hand on his forehead. “Oops! Forgot to introduce myself. My blokes always tell me I yabber so much I forget all the important stuff. The name’s Ray Parsons. I’m an offsider for your rellies. Errands, upkeep around the house, assist your uncle in his lab, that sort of thing. They’re good folks. Pretty decent way to make a quid while I’m in the States, actually.”

  “My rellies?”

  “Bethany and Roger. Your rellies.”

  “You mean my relatives?”

  He shrugs. “If you want to use a longer word to say the same thing.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  He holds both hands palms-up. “She’ll be apples, I promise ya.”

  “Seriously, you’re saying all these words but they don’t make any sense.”

  He laughs. “How do you know you’re not the one who doesn’t make sense?”

  Before I can reason out an answer, he says, “Why don’t you ring them up? You got a mobile?”

  I’m pretty sure that means a cell phone. I shake my head. “It’s sort of missing at the moment.”

  “No worries,” he says, tossing me his own.

  I pull out the paper with the contact information and dial their home number first. Answering machine. I hang up without leaving a message and try the number listed under Aunt Bethany’s cell. As soon as the call goes through, Aunt Bethany yells, “Ray! Have you got her? Tell me you have her. Her parents have been trying her cell and can’t reach her. And something about the GPS being out of range? Ray! Ray?”