6:45 P.M.—Arrive at airport. Do not check your bags. Clear security and proceed to the exit at Gate B-24. Your plane will be waiting for you there, together with the other students selected for this expedition. Your chaperone and point of contact: Professor Dr. Thibault Dorf.
I got the fancy blue folder in the mail a matter of hours ago. Reams of thick, creamy paper detailing where we’re going, what we’ll be doing, what’s expected of us. I run my fingers over the Sapani coat of arms embossed on the top right corner of each of the pages—a hatchet and flag, entwined with two roses. They’re the financiers. They own the chateau the site was found under. According to Google, they’re the fifth richest family in the world. Never heard of them. They definitely don’t go to my parents’ lawn parties. I keep flipping back and forth through the pages like I’m actually reading them. I’m not. I’ve gone over all this a dozen times, but I don’t want the driver to get chatty. I’ll snap his head off if he talks to me. I’m really trying to be helpful here.
My eyes dart over the documents. Packing lists. Safety precautions. Something called Building Good Teams—
Clarity, Communication, and Commitment, which I’ve skipped every time. They had me take weeklong intensive courses in rock climbing and scuba diving, sign thirty-six pages of contracts, get tested for every major disease and condition known to man, to make sure I didn’t have anything that might endanger the expedition. On top of that they expect me to be a clear, communicative, and committed person? That’s asking a lot.
I hold the papers in front of my face and let my gaze wander out the window. Watch the trees turn to town, now city, red-brick tenements and gas stations, networks of power lines chopping the sky into manageable pieces. I thought the whole thing was a scam at first. That single unmarked envelope three weeks ago, outlining the opportunity, all smarmy and fake. Dear Miss Peerenboom: The information you are about to read is strictly confidential. That’s as far as I read. I left it sitting on my homework heap for a week. Looked up the name Sapani on a whim. Turns out smarmy and fake can also be synonymous with polite professionalism. The Sapani Corporation is huge. It has offices in Paris, Moscow, San Francisco, Tokyo. Based on my SAT scores and past accomplishments, they had plucked me out of the wallowing masses of New York’s so-called private school elite. I wasn’t going to let this opportunity go.
So here I am. Following their rules like I’m good at it. They had me do the prep, notified me as I passed each round. I was worried they’d ask for a face-to-face meeting in the end, I’d say something rude and they’d throw me out the window. They never asked.
We’re in Queens now, heading south. I try not to think about home. I was supposed to tell parents or legal guardians about the site, have them sign off on it. I didn’t. Now that I think about it, it wouldn’t have made much difference either way. As far as they would have known, I’d be visiting a fairly regular—though culturally significant—chateau in the Loire Valley for a restoration camp. After reading the blue folder, I get why the organizers were so stingy about information. This site we’re visiting is not just any chateau. It’s on the same level as the Terracotta Army in China. The pyramids. Ancient Pompeii. Not as old as those, but huge and bizarre and possibly monumental for the historical community. And so nothing’s allowed to leak. No news outlets have been informed yet. Once we’re there, we’re on a complete social media blackout.
The car is pulling up in front of Terminal 4. I tuck the blue folder under my arm. As soon as the car stops, I climb out and scurry for the trunk, dragging my suitcase out while the driver is still opening his door. I walk away as fast as I can without looking like I’m fleeing a crime scene, which I basically am. The driver is probably staring after me, scratching his head.
Sorry, man.
I catch a split-second image of myself in the sliding doors as I approach. Tall. Thin. I’ve got a tiny, vicious-looking, sharp-chinned face. Haircut like a helmet, a severe black bob. Dark rings under my eyes. The granny coat hangs around me like a box, my stick legs punching out the bottom, and from there it’s all skinny jeans and witchy lace-up boots with pointed toes that will probably kill my feet in a few hours––
The doors whoosh open, splitting me in half. I step into the terminal. Eau de Airport washes over me—coffee and dusty carpets, top notes of radiator heating and cheap washing solution. Passengers, pushing their luggage mountains in front of them like they’re doing penance for something, stare at me, bovine and slightly hostile.