Up Over Down Under (11 page)

Billie just nodded vaguely. She actually
didn't
know, and she didn't really want to go advertising that fact. Like pining, drama was something else that could be romantic, even if it was a little bit annoying.

“Oh!” Heather exclaimed, as though just remembering something. “You'll meet Parker. He's doing the Ritter internship, too.” She lowered her voice. “Also a scandal—he and Eliza were set to do it together, until she decided to skip town, instead.”

Billie's eyes widened. That
did
sound scandalous. Was it wrong that she found it kind of intriguing as well?

Of course, now that she had some more background on Parker, she was all the more eager to meet him. The idea that she had in her head of Eliza was a strange one; it was almost like they were long-lost twins, in the way that they were literally exchanging lifestyles with each other for the term. But the composite of Eliza's self that Billie had cobbled together was based on only a few flimsy context clues. Eliza's American persona was a mystery that Billie was excited to learn more about.

 

In the end, it turned out that Billie and Parker were actually in chemistry class together. Science was Billie's weakest subject, and therefore she couldn't give too much attention to Parker and his relative state of being. But from first impressions, he seemed to be much the way Heather had described him. He was one of the few students clad more like a refugee from an Abercrombie advert than a Marilyn Manson acolyte, but his cheery demeanor seemed almost aggressively upbeat. Billie tried to keep her gaping to a minimum, and she decided she'd wait until she had better found her feet before she got too chatty with him. She was definitely curious to hear more about this newspaper thing. Writing was something that had always fascinated her.

Or at least, if she couldn't stop herself from gaping for the foreseeable future, she'd wait to approach him until she'd kicked her jet lag, which didn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. Wasn't the equation something like, one day per hour of time difference? That meant she'd be spacey just about forever.

That would never do. She didn't have forever. All she had was this one semester in D.C. And she was determined to make the most of it.

 

Luckily, Billie's enthusiasm for her internship that afternoon perked her up. While she'd spent the morning of classes wandering the halls of Fairlawn in a semi-fugue state, now she was buzzing like she'd mainlined ten shots of espresso in a row. All of her eco-conscious activities in Australia had been leading up to this moment. She was going to Take Charge, Be Heard, and Do Something.

Actually, to be more specific, she was also going to Jump Out of Her Skin if they couldn't get to work sooner rather than later.

Billie and her fellow interns had arrived at Mr. Ritter's office at two P.M., all itching to jump in and get involved. There was a certain amount of terror over suddenly having what felt suspiciously like a real job, but it was, for the most part, overridden by a pervasive enthusiasm unique to volunteer-type people.

Any moment now, Billie knew, she and her co-interns would be handed their clipboards and canteens and sent out to survey land, collect samples, or mash up paper from recyclables using only their bare hands.

Any. Moment. Now.

She jiggled her foot in her seat impatiently, trying not to make too much noise in the process. She sighed under her breath. She chewed on her fingernails. She contemplated helping herself to another cup of coffee but rejected the idea for a host of reasons. She was already half mad from adrenaline as it was.

She was trapped. Trapped in a dimly lit conference room on the fifteenth floor of an office building.

She surveyed her fellow interns briefly. Of course there was Parker, who'd offered her a smile of recognition and a nod when they'd first arrived. She assumed that he knew she was the one staying with Eliza's parents for the semester, but they hadn't had a chance to discuss that just yet. Instead, the two of them had spent the last few minutes shifting uncomfortably in their seats and generally avoiding eye contact with the other two members of their little group: thin girls with pale skin and brownish-blonde hair who were dressed in nearly identical jeans and pastel cable-knit sweaters.

As if aware of Billie's eyes on her, one of the two girls (the one in the lime-green sweater, as opposed to the one in Pepto-Bismol pink) glanced up.

“I'm Fiona, and this is Annabelle,” she offered. “We're freshmen at Fairlawn. We had to apply special to be accepted into this program with upperclassmen.” She sounded extremely proud of this fact. She also seemed to be the designated spokesperson for the two of them. It was odd, but Fiona was clearly doing her best to be friendly, and as far as Billie was concerned, her overture was welcome.

Less welcome was the ages-long orientation speech to which she and her colleagues were soon to be subjected. The door to the conference room opened with a creak, revealing a crisp, no-nonsense type woman in sensible shoes, black pants, and a baby-blue sweater set.

More pastels? What was it with Americans dressed like Easter eggs?
Billie wondered.

“I'm Iris Meyer,” Easter Egg began, clearing her throat. “I'm your internship coordinator. I'm just going to quickly take attendance, and then we'll go through the ground rules.” She settled herself in a seat at the front of the room and quickly referred to the clipboard she'd been carrying, reading off names to confirm that all of the interns were, indeed, present. Billie couldn't help but notice that Fiona and Annabelle both responded to each of their names.

“Bathrooms are located in the front of the hall, on either side of the elevator banks,” Iris droned. “You'll need a key for that, so check in with the receptionist when you need to go.”

Billie frowned. Why were they sitting around talking about toilets when there were rain forests to replant? She'd been doing almost nothing since she arrived but flit in and out of getting-to-know-you sessions. She knew that it was very important to be properly acclimated to new situations and stuff, but it was getting to be a bit much. When were they going to get up and actually Do Something?

Oh—now. Now they were getting up.

In her personal pity party, she'd almost missed it. Parker sort of nudged her on the shoulder as he brushed past her seat, teasing her for zoning out.

“The conference room where we were just sitting is where most of the office meetings will take place. If for some reason we need more space, then we meet on the seventeenth floor,” Iris said. “In that case, you'd be informed by e-mail.” Her low-heeled pumps whispered softly as she strode forward, in full-on tour-guide mode.

She led them past an
extremely
miniature kitchen. The fridge was so teeny that Billie wasn't sure it would even fit a jar of Marmite.

“This is the break room,” Iris continued. “If you bring food from home, you can keep it in the refrigerator. But be sure to label what's yours,” she warned, “so that it doesn't go missing.”

Billie's eyes widened. Since when did activists nick one another's tuck boxes? Then she remembered that Americans weren't too keen on Marmite, and she realized that theft probably wouldn't be an issue.

Iris came to a stop in front of an enormous room filled with copy machines. Honestly, it looked like every single copier in the entire world had been shoved into the same space. The dull industrial lighting bounced weakly off of the machines' shinier surfaces.

“Are you guys ready for your first task?” Iris asked, sounding, in all truth, rather subdued. Her tone of voice was not exactly what Billie would call inspiring.

Nevertheless, it was all that she could do to avoid leaping into the air and pumping her fist. Who cared if Iris was running on low batteries?
She
was ready for her first task, definitely. She'd been—what did the Americans say again?—
born
ready. She rubbed her hands together like a cartoon villain.

Apparently it was meant to be a rhetorical question, because Iris plunged right onward with her spiel.

“You are all familiar with Proposition Seven, yes?” Another rhetorical question, but of course the answer was yes. Proposition Seven was Ritter's bill to de-pollute the Chesapeake Bay, which had been deemed dirty water. The EPA had announced a proposed cleanup initiative to start at the end of the calendar year.

She nodded at Iris, as did the other interns.

Iris pressed her lips together. Her expression was inscrutable…not a smile, but not a grimace, either. More of a non-expression.

“We've recently been made aware of some new developments regarding the EPA's proposed cleanup. This”—she slid a sheaf of papers out from the mass of her clipboard—“is the press release, which should tell you all you need to know about the new information.” She passed the papers to Fiona. “Fiona, you and—”

“Annabelle,” Annabelle chimed in helpfully.

“Annabelle,” Iris repeated mechanically, “can collaborate on our e-mailing list of potential volunteers. We need to update them on the news.”

“E-mailing list?” Annabelle asked. She sounded disappointed.

“Yes,” Iris said. She smiled. “You two can put together the e-mail addresses, while you”—she pointed at Billie and Parker—“can work on the body of the e-mail itself.” She narrowed her eyes. “Nothing too flashy. Just stick to the facts.”

“Of course,” Billie replied warily. She eyed her cohorts, none of whom seemed wildly impressed with the level of responsibility they were being given.

“Anything else?” Iris chirped, practically daring the group to come up with another query.

The room was silent.

Iris clapped her hands together briskly. “In that case, you know where to find me.”

And with that, she was gone.

It wasn't until Iris was long out of earshot that Billie had a moment to peruse the press release their coordinator had left with them. And when she did, a dawning horror crept over her.

There were some changes planned for Proposition Seven and anti-pollution funding, to be sure. Some
big
changes. Namely? The cleanup was being postponed. Indefinitely.

“Miss Ritter, might you come to the front of the class and share with everyone your solution to question number six from last night's homework?”

Eliza froze in her seat, her brain in overdrive.

“Excuse me?” It was as though the teacher had spoken in Swahili. Eliza had completely blanked out.

“Miss Ritter, I don't believe I'm stuttering or mumbling. Am I?” Mrs. Lambert stared over her glasses at Eliza.

“No, ma'am.” That much, at least, Eliza knew to say.

“Then please stand up and favor the class with your insights into the effects of the
Mabo
decision.”

Though she was generally a good student, Eliza had a real block on remembering names, dates, and places. It was no surprise, then, that history was not her forte. By extension, then,
Australian
history was not accorded much room in her mind (especially not when there were concerts, shopping, and cute Ozzie boys to keep track of). It was not ideal that she was now being asked to recall it for an audience. Fortunately, though, an idea struck her.

Well, less of an “idea” and more of a whisper and a nudge from Nomes.

“Was it…something about…the Aboriginaries?”

A titter of laughter ran through the room. Eliza looked down to see Nomes biting the sleeve of her sweater to keep from erupting in hysterics.

“How about you have a seat, Miss Ritter? And I suggest you spend a little more time at your studies and a little less with some of the reprobates in your peer group.”