“Hi, Lena,” she says. “Got yourself into a real pickle this time, huh?” I smile. Cara’s always been more like a big sister to me than anything else. She used to babysit me as a kid. She’s been working for my dad for ten years.
“Hey, Care Bear,” I say. “A total shitshow. The Producer’s not pleased.” Cara and I started calling my dad “the Producer” in jest a few years back because of his secret love for Broadway (he himself lacks vocal talent). But it’s all out of love. Cara swears she’d never work for anyone else, and my parents have given her a pretty cushy setup at home. “Can you book me two one-ways to Bangkok, please?” I whisper this last line, because Aubrey does not yet know we’re going to Bangkok. “You can use my dad’s card for both.” I bite my lip. Aubrey gave me her emergency card for her ticket with strict instructions to book for Chicago. But we might need it for other things once we’re in Bangkok. Since we have no money and all.
“No way, Lena,” Cara says, her voice rising. “Your dad told me to get you straight back to Boston.”
“Cara,” I start, keeping myself calm. “Thing is, we already have return tickets booked from Bangkok.” My eyes follow Aubrey’s progress toward the back of the store. She’s funny, like a child, eyeing all the cheap touristy stuff with huge eyes. “We were supposed to be there already,” I tell her, lying. “We booked the whole thing—flights there, then flights back to the U.S. tomorrow morning from there. But we were supposed to fly in last night, and we missed our flights when a psycho Indian guy drugged us. So can you just book us new flights? My dad knows all this. Minus the psycho Indian guy.” My heart’s hammering but I keep my cool. I pause, waiting for Cara’s response.
“You wouldn’t lie to me . . . ?” There’s uncertainty in her question. I squeeze my eyes shut and grind my teeth once before I answer. I’ve never lied to Cara. Not until now. I never thought I would, especially when it might mean her getting in trouble with my dad.
“No way!” I pipe up, feeling the receiver shift against my slick palms. “I’d never. Dad was just confused.” My stomach drops. I hate what I’ve just done. Worse, I don’t understand it. I don’t know why I can’t just let this mad search for Charlie go, and why I keep making ridiculous choices at the expense of everybody else.
But after Anand’s note . . .
He’s alive.
The voice that tells me so won’t quit. There’s no turning back. It’s not possible.
“Okay. Eleven fifty-five p.m. into Suvarnabhumi. It’s a redeye, but that way you’ll still make your flights tomorrow morning. You’ve been there, yes? You know how it works? Or you want me to arrange for someone at the airport to escort you two?”
“Cara, please. I’m nineteen, not twelve.” Cara laughs, and I feel a pang. She’s always been rather protective of me.
“Got it,” she says. “Give me a minute while I make the reservations.” I sneak peeks at Aubrey, who’s moving toward me. I can’t have Aubrey catch me before the transaction goes through. She still hasn’t called her parents, told them the whole story. She’s trusting me to get her home. But I can’t, not now, not when we’re in it so far. Surely she must know that, a little voice in my head pipes up. Surely she can’t expect anything else. A second later it’s done. “You’ve got access to email?” Cara wants to know.
“Sure,” I say distractedly. “There’s loads of Internet cafés around.” It’s not entirely true. We’re in a third-world country, after all. But I’m sure we’ll figure something out. The phone beeps to let me know I have less than a minute left. “Cara? Thanks.” I pause and take a breath. “I really appreciate your help.”
“Anything for my girl,” Cara says, her tone warm. “Bye, sweetie. Safe travel, ’kay? See you tomorrow night.”
“See you,” I start to say, but the phone disconnects before both words leave my mouth.
“Is it done?” Aubrey wants to know. She’s wearing a stick-on bindi on her forehead and carries an open pack of sparkly faux jewels.
“We don’t have money for you to buy those,” I point out.
“Sure we do,” she says. “I found a hundred rupees in my pants pocket. We could probably even eat something tonight if we play our cards right. I’m kidding,” she says, registering my expression, which probably reads as worried. “There’s gotta be enough left on my credit card for food, right? I mean, there was a thousand-dollar limit. How much was my ticket?”
“Um . . .” I start. “Only about four hundred.”