Up Over Down Under (26 page)

She didn't want to think about going home. Even if she was missing the twins. That would change the moment she had to break up one of their famous quarrels.

“Well,” she said, deliberately changing the subject. “It's not as if your mother needs more fish sauce.” She nodded toward Heather's own parcel, which was admittedly half the size of her own.

Heather glanced at her, completely deadpan. “You can never have too much fish sauce, Billie.”

At that, Billie had to laugh.

 

Billie thought if she took one more bite of pasta, she'd explode. She pushed her plate away from her and toward the middle of the table, the edge of it catching on the red-and-white-checkered plastic tablecloth. She smoothed the “cloth” and settled back into her seat. “I'm full,” she announced, patting at her stomach.

Mr. Ritter chuckled heartily. “Then you're in trouble, missy.”

Billie's eyes widened in alarm. “Why's that?”

“Because dinner was only a warm-up,” he said. “We've still got a whole dessert sampler coming.”

Billie groaned. “We never should have let you order for the table!”

“When in Rome,” Mr. Ritter pointed out.

Heather reached across the table and refilled her glass with sparkling water. “Rest. It'll be at least three minutes before the next course comes out.”

“The shrimp cocktail here is fantastic,” Mrs. Ritter said, nibbling daintily at the edge of a crab cake and clutching at a wine glass.

“So far, everything's been fantastic,” Heather said. “Thanks so much for having me—for having us this weekend.” She flushed, her expression earnest.

“Glad to do it,” Mr. Ritter said. “I'm just sorry I don't have more time at home to spend with you, Billie. My hours are so long.”

Billie waved her hand at him. “'Course they are. I completely understand. Besides”—she glanced at Heather—“I've kept busy.”

“That's right. I've been meaning to ask you about the internship. The program is new,” Mr. Ritter said. “This is the first year that we've taken on S.A.S.S. students. We'd love to get your input, hear how you think things are going.”

Billie paused for an awkward beat. She and Heather exchanged a look. She wasn't sure what tack to take here, so she settled on, well…
tact
. Honesty, but tactful honesty.

“The truth is…” she said, fiddling nervously with her butter knife. “I just wonder if we could…you know…be doing more?”

Silence fell across the table.

“You know we're huge supporters of Proposition Seven,” she went on, her words coming too fast for the thoughts in her head, “but since funding for that has been put on hold, the internship…it's a lot of, you know, e-mailing, and
mail
-mailing, and I just wonder if there isn't…a way to, you know, get out there. Really take action.”

Mrs. Ritter coughed lightly.

“I think what Billie is saying,” Heather jumped in, “is that maybe she'd like to get out more, you know—from behind the computer screen and such.”

“Exactly,” Billie chimed in. “I've found a great group—the Green Gorillas. And they're planning a sit-in to support—”

At this point Mrs. Ritter made a dramatic choking sound, sending a light spray of her white wine over the table. Mr. Ritter reached over and patted her gently on the back. After a moment, she was breathing regularly again.

“Do you…know of them?” Billie ventured, hesitant.

“We do,” Mr. Ritter said shortly. “I'm curious how you found them.”

“Uh, a friend suggested that I pay them a visit,” she said, hazarding another quick look at Heather. “Because of how I was wanting to get involved and stuff. And that's when I heard about the sit-in…” She trailed off, realizing that the Ritters were bound to have a different opinion of the sit-in from her own.

“It's a protest against the postponed funding of Proposition Seven,” she admitted, lowering her gaze.

Mrs. Ritter's face went white.

“I'm sorry…” Billie stammered. “Honestly, I knew you'd probably be upset that I was protesting against the EPA, but I was hoping that you'd support me standing up for something I believe in.”

Mr. Ritter sighed. “You couldn't have known, Billie, but the Green Gorillas are a very aggressive team.”

“What have they done?” Billie asked nervously. “Aggressive” didn't sound good. Maybe they'd had some sort of history with violent protests or the like. She shivered at the thought.

“They're extremely loud. Their protests garner a lot of negative publicity.”

Billie's chin dropped into her chest. “That's it?” That didn't sound very aggressive to her. But what did she know? This whole world was completely new to her.

“That's more than
it
,” Mrs. Ritter jumped in. “That's quite enough. It's like those PETA volunteers who throw paint on fur-clad celebrities—it's negative publicity for the EPA.”

“Well, yes, I can see that,” Billie sputtered, desperate, “but I guess I just assumed—”

“You assumed wrong,” Mrs. Ritter snapped.

Billie looked helplessly to Mr. Ritter, hoping for some sort of reprieve, but it was clearly not to be found. His face had turned very red, in stark contrast to his bone-white knuckles, which gripped the edge of the table tightly.

Parker had been right, she realized. This wasn't going to go down well.

“I'm sorry,” Billie said quietly, looking down. “I made a mistake.”

Even though in her heart of hearts, she really didn't believe that it had been a mistake. Not at all.

“No harm done,” Mr. Ritter said, looking as though he was really trying to believe that. After a moment of consideration, he added, “I hope they weren't counting on you for the sit-in.”

Billie took a long swig of her water, hoping in vain to postpone the inevitable. Even if she did drop out of the sit-in—was that really what she wanted?—there were other considerations to take into account.

“Well,” she said finally, “I suppose they'd be fine without me. But Parker had”—she winced, wanting to bite back the words—“told me that they were planning to run my article on the protest in the school paper. I mean, if I wrote it.”

“No.” Mr. Ritter banged his palm down flat against the table.

“I'm sorry?” Billie was so unused to this sort of display of anger—from one of the Ritters, no less—that she thought she might be hearing him wrong. Studying his trembling face, however, there was no mistaking his tone.

“That's out of the question.”

Her face flamed. Much as she hated the idea of disappointing Mr. Ritter, she couldn't believe he'd truly try to stifle her. “That's free speech,” she replied.

“Mr. Ritter needs to distance himself from the Green Gorillas,” Mrs. Ritter insisted. “Which means that you do, too. End of story.”

Heather kicked at Billie's ankle underneath the table, indicating that the conversation was over, at least for the time being. Tempers were flaring, and if things continued on in this direction, it would only get worse. It was no use. She would have to concede the battle.

For now, anyway.

The waiter arrived at the table, depositing an enormous silver platter laden with desserts. Everyone shifted in their seats uncomfortably.

Talk about a waste of resources,
Billie thought. It didn't matter whether it was dessert or not; she had completely and totally lost her appetite.

“I think that's a day for me. If I get one more noseful of saltwater, I'm going to be sick for a week,” Eliza said to Macca as they treaded water.

“Oh, come on! You're just getting the swing of it.”

“I know, and it's great, but it's getting late in the afternoon, and I want you to be able to surf on your own. We'll get some time tomorrow, right?”

“All right, I'll be in in a bit. You did great.”

“That might be overstating it just a smidge, but I'll settle for all right.” With that, she turned and began paddling in toward shore, letting a small wave carry her most of the way.

Once back on the beach, she set down Johnny's long board, shimmied out of the wet suit, and stretched out on her towel while the other girls dished about people Eliza didn't know. She watched the waves as the swells got bigger in the late afternoon and the wind coming off the beach made them curl over into rolling barrels of water. The guys would seemingly disappear into the froth, and suddenly a flash of wet suit would appear, and there they would be, standing tall on their surfboards, with the wave chasing them along. She wasn't sure, but it crossed her mind that this could be paradise.

As the sun started setting, the golden light of the end of day caught the spray off the waves, and one by one the guys in the water trickled onto the beach, until finally they were all lying in the sand watching a few people catch the last waves of the day.

“I'm famished!” Will stated at last. “Let's get out of here and make some dinner.”

No one could argue with that plan.

 

 

When they reached the site, everyone went back into action as they had the night before. Collecting wood, setting up tents, laying out food. Before long Whiz was bent over a pile of wood and coaxing along the fire while Will muscled into place the large stones on which to balance the grill.

Eliza was chopping tomatoes on a slab of wood when the flash of headlights caught her eye. A car pulled off the main road and headed down the short track to the camp-site. As it neared, she could see that it was a Victoria State Police car. She didn't think much of its approach.

That is, until it pulled directly up to their site.

The troopers flicked on the spotlight and shined it on the group. Eliza blinked, puzzled. What could the officers want?

Apparently she wasn't the only one wondering. As the two cops exited the car and came closer, the kids—all of those in Eliza's party, as well as a bunch who were not—gathered, curious to see what was up.

“Good evening. Could we see everyone's identification?” The trooper looked impatient with the whole scene.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” Macca asked, stepping forward and clearly trying to appear mature and responsible.

“Just get your identification.”

Eliza grabbed her bag out from under the edge of the tent and pulled out her passport as one of the cops walked up to her. He shined his flashlight at her face as he took the passport and looked at her name and photo before calling to his partner.

They weren't shining the flashlight on anyone else's face. Why were they shining the flashlight on her face?

Eliza was starting to get a very bad feeling.

This bad feeling was confirmed by the next words out of the officer's mouth. “This is her, Bob.”

Eliza's heart fell. They're here for me. She was humiliated, and terrified, in equal measure.

“Young lady, you've caused quite a bit of consternation, do you know that? The state police were notified of a missing person because of you.” The officer no longer looked impatient, but seeing as he now looked angry, this development was not necessarily an improvement.

Someone from behind her giggled, and Eliza could feel her face burning with embarrassment. She looked around, hoping to find a large rock or something she could crawl under and die. Everything had been so perfect, and now it was perfectly ruined. She was certain Macca would never talk to her again.

“Why don't you grab your things and say your good-byes.”

“This is ridiculous. Couldn't we just make a call and let the Echolses know where I am, and that I'm fine? You know, clear this all up?” Eliza sputtered, searching for a way out.

“You are a minor who was reported missing by your custodians, and thus we have to return you to their care. Grab your things and we're going. This is not up for debate. As for the rest of you, consider this a warning: we catch a beer in the hands of anyone under the age of eighteen and you're all going to get written up. Got it?”

There were meek nods of understanding, and a few irritated grumbles from the other campers. Eliza hurried to her tent and quickly grabbed her few things, trying to avoid catching the eye of any of the others and wishing that something, anything (meteor? tidal wave? earthquake?) would happen so that this moment would just end. Finally she had her things, and as she turned to go, Macca came up to her and grabbed her arm.

“I'm so sorry, Macca. I ruined everything and, well, I don't know—”