Up Over Down Under (8 page)

Not soon enough,
she decided.
Not at all.

It was bright and early on Saturday morning when Billie cautiously peeled open her eyes. She allowed herself a suspicious glance at the digital alarm clock on the night-stand: 9:30. That meant it was…hmm…around eleven at night back home. No wonder she felt like she'd been hit by a train.

At first, she had no idea why she was even awake—clearly, her internal clock had gone completely screwy from her journey. Then she realized what had roused her: it was the static-y murmur of talk radio floating up into the bedroom from the kitchen.

The Ritters were up. And apparently, eager-beaver early birds. Mrs. Ritter was almost like a caricature of herself. Even her morning radio was no-nonsense.

Groaning, Billie reluctantly sat up and swung her legs around onto the floor. On a scale of one to ten, her desire to be up was something like a two. She knew it was smarter to pull herself out of bed now, though. The harder she was on herself, the faster the jet lag would be over.

She dressed quickly in her track pants, trainers, and a hooded sweatshirt, hoping to head out for a run. From what she'd been able to tell the night before, D.C. was a bit more humid than she was used to. Thank goodness she wasn't the type to fuss all that much about her appearance; a swipe of lippie and a finger-comb of the hair, and she was good to go.

 

Downstairs, she was pleased to find Mr. Ritter manning a frying pan. Frying pans were usually good news.

“I figured you might be homesick,” he said, seeing Billie come into the room, “so I thought I'd scramble you some bangers and mash.”

“Thanks heaps, Mr. Ritter,” Billie said appreciatively, “but…actually…aren't bangers and mash English?”

“Could be,” Mr. Ritter responded cheerily. “To be totally honest, I'm not even really sure what they are. So I was just going to give you some scrambled eggs and toast and keep my fingers crossed.”

Billie giggled. “Scrambled eggs sounds perfect. A proper American brekkie.” She took her seat at the table and glanced across it to where Mrs. Ritter was drinking from a mug almost as large as a dinner plate. It looked as though the mug was brimming with black coffee, and she didn't appear to be eating anything.

“Aren't you going to have some?” Billie asked, spearing up a healthy portion of the eggs that Mr. Ritter slid in front of her.

Mrs. Ritter shook her head quickly, making a face that suggested that eating breakfast was a sin on the scale of baby snatching, jaywalking, or indulging in full-fat frozen yogurt. “I'm off to yoga in a minute. Can't work out on a full stomach.”

“Yup,” Mr. Ritter chimed in. “It's a regular old Saturday here at the homestead. The missus has yoga, and I've got to head in to work.”

Wow. Billie was amazed. Mr. Ritter really was every bit as hardworking and idealistic as she had assumed. She was so thrilled to have the chance to work in his organization—and possibly even alongside of him—this summer!

“Is there anything that I can do?” Billie asked brightly. “I mean, I know that the internship doesn't start properly until Monday, but if you'd like a shadow in the office today, I'd love to be of help.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Ritter proclaimed. “After the internship starts in earnest, you're going to miss having your weekends. You should enjoy yourself while you still can.”

Billie nodded. “There were a few things I was hoping to see.” She blushed, thinking of her guidebook stashed away in a desk drawer upstairs. The thing had so many highlights and colored stickies it looked more like a maths textbook.

Okay, so maybe she was a little bit gung ho about this program. She was a nerd in crunchy clothing. What was wrong with that?

“Well, why not start at the top and work your way down?” Mr. Ritter suggested. “My office is on the Hill, so I can give you a lift.”

Billie knew that “the Hill” was short for Capitol Hill, which was where many of the important government buildings were located. It was definitely the number one stop on her self-guided tour of the area.

She grinned broadly at Mr. Ritter. “Ace,” she said. “As long as there's time for me to take a quick run beforehand, you've got a deal.”

 

 

After Billie and Mr. Ritter parted company, she gave some thought to where she might like to visit this afternoon. It was yet another crisp fall day, and so her love of the outdoors won out. Therefore, a stroll across the mall was called for.

She glanced at her dog-eared guidebook, embarrassed at looking like a gawking tourist. She read that the Mall had been officially established in 1965, which was funny to think, since in her mind, the image of the vast expanse of grass was synonymous with Washington, D.C., itself. It was hard to imagine that there'd ever been a time without it.

Billie smiled and took in the cloudless blue sky and the crisp snap in the fall air. She was so excited she thought she might jump up and down, but realized how silly she'd look if she did. She felt lame. Totally and completely lame.

She had good reason to feel that way; at the moment, in addition to the goofy smile she had plastered across her face, she was being twenty different types of conspicuous, the way she kept glancing at her guidebook, and squinting across the lush lawn. She had a sudden urge to peel off her socks and shoes and run across it barefoot, but she had a feeling that that would really make her stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. Not to mention, it was possibly illegal.

I'm practically begging to be pickpocketed,
she decided at last, coming to her senses and remembering that she'd read D.C. could be dangerous. She stashed her guidebook back into her messenger bag before something was nicked, and resolved to find her way around through sheer determination. The Washington Monument reared up in the distance on the far end of the Mall, framed in Billie's view like an image from a postcard. She headed across the Mall and toward it. That much, at least, she could handle without a guidebook.

At first, Billie thought that the most exciting thing she'd seen in D.C. was the exterior of the White House (apparently you needed to book a tour of the interior in advance, which she planned to do as soon as she could). Then she visited the Smithsonian National Museum of American History, and laid her eyes on the original ruby slippers that Judy Garland had worn in the movie
The Wizard of Oz
. So for a while, that was number one on her list of amazing sights. Then she wandered through the International Spy Museum, where she had a chance to develop her own spy “alias” and cover story, which immediately bumped the ruby slippers out of the running.

Eventually, Billie had to admit to herself that, all in all, her first weekend in D.C. had been fairly fantastic and there was no use in putting absolutes on the experience when it'd all been great, anyway.

Also great was a run-of-the-mill Starbucks in Dupont Circle, which proved very useful in combating Billie's incredibly persistent jet lag. She'd been jogging to Starbucks on two consecutive mornings now before the sun rose too high in the sky, relishing the alone time, the fresh air—and the java fix.

Now it was Monday, and Billie's first day at Fairlawn Academy. She had no idea what to expect. Back in Melbourne, Billie attended St. Catherine's. St. Cat's was all-girls, and had a required uniform. Billie longed for that uniform right about now. She had tried on three separate outfits this morning, worrying about her fashion sense, and becoming extra sensitive when she realized she was now trying to impress both the girls
and
the guys.

She finally settled on a denim skirt, boots, and a long-sleeved polo shirt. It was a uniform of sorts itself in that it looked like something any other American girl might wear. Or so Billie thought. She supposed she'd just have to wait and see.

 

 

She arrived at school early; she was laid-back like the typical Aussie, but she was responsible, as well, and she didn't want to miss her S.A.S.S. orientation conference, which was scheduled for eight-thirty sharp.

She congratulated herself on her punctuality as she made her way to the guidance counselor's office on the first floor, only to discover that the guidance counselor in question looked as though he'd been in his seat, at his desk, waiting on her, for at least the last ten years. Although of course that couldn't possibly have been the case, something about his pallor and his heavy-lidded gaze suggested he, in fact, spent most of his time in his office.

“Ah, you must be Belinda.” A slight man, he pushed his horn-rimmed glasses farther up the bridge of his nose as he peered at her over a sheet of paper. She knew the paper was some sort of background information on her, and she wondered what else, aside from her name, it might say.

“That's me,” she said. “G'day. But everyone back home calls me Billie.”

Her accent, which she'd never noticed much before, now sounded thick and exaggerated, like a record played at the wrong speed.

“Well, welcome to Fairlawn, Billie,” he amended affably. “I'm Eric Roger, and I'm the guidance counselor here at school. I also oversee our S.A.S.S. Goes Green program.

“I've prepared a handbook to help you acclimate,” he continued, passing Billie an immense sheaf of paper.

Handbook? It looked more like a telephone book, it was so thick. Billie didn't want to be ungrateful, but she already had a binder full of papers from S.A.S.S. Were they trying to smother her with a crush of flyers?

“The one thing that I'd like to stress to you is that Fairlawn may be very different from what you're used to back home. We're a progressive liberal arts school, which means that many of our students are artists of one form or another. We have a strong interdisciplinary program featuring dance, creative writing, music, and drama, in addition to the general education requirements of the state.”

Billie took a moment or two to zone out. She knew all about Fairlawn. In fact, half the reason that she'd applied was that their curriculum was challenging, but “self-designed.” “Self-designed” was apparently code for “spend all day working on whatever you so choose.” Hence, her internship.

Eric wasn't finished. “Students here are free to express themselves creatively, in almost any way that they choose. In fact, we have no dress code here; as long as you're not undressed, you're fine. So you may see that kids take certain, ah…fashion risks that maybe you didn't find at your school back home.”

He meant that they all wore black, pierced their noses, and dyed their hair green. She'd visited the school Web site before coming, after all. Just as long as no one held her down and tattooed her against her will, she reckoned she'd be fine. After all, prim and proper Eliza Ritter went to Fairlawn, didn't she? And she hardly seemed to be the piercing type, unless you were talking about ears. Actually, Fairlawn had a reputation for being one of the very best schools in the area, which Billie suspected had a lot to do with why Eliza was enrolled there. And Eliza couldn't have been the only student to attend Fairlawn for the education as much as for the arts appreciation.

“Classes are small, and many of the students have known each other since as early as nursery school. It's not uncommon for exchange students to feel edged out. But I assure you that if you're patient, and you make the effort, you will develop some rich and rewarding bonds during your time here this semester.”

Okay, so in summation, Eric had just basically warned her that kids dressed like weirdos, that classes were, well, fluid in their execution, and that nobody exactly embraced outsiders into the fold.

This semester was suddenly sounding much more inauspicious than Billie had at first thought.