But how could I possibly know what would come to pass? How could I know that the summer job I’d foreseen as a free adventure in paradise would blow up my life more effectively than a block of C4 thrown into my path? How could I know that, in seeking change, I’d courted my own demise more doggedly than a suicidal bridge-jumper?
I couldn’thave.
So… I didn’t look back. Not evenonce.
I guess it’s true what they say abouthindsight.
That bitch is twenty-twenty.
Chapter Two
B A G G A GE
Six hoursand three thousand miles later, I walk into LAX deflated like a piñata at a children’s party. After the cross-country voyage, my once chic, travel-savvy outfit is rumpled beyond recognition, my carefully-curled mahogany waves have flattened into a hopeless tangle of frizz, and my neck is aching fiercely from a seemingly endless flight crammed into the middle seat between a bickering couple who refused to relinquish either window or aisle, instead preferring to argue across me for the duration of ourtrip.
I’m due to meet the Flints in an hour, but I can’t show up looking like this. I can almost hear Mom’s voice in myhead.
You never get a second chance to make a first impression, honey. How you’re dressed determines how you’llbeaddressed.
I heave a sigh, adjust the grip on my backpack, and head to the baggage claim to retrieve the duffle I checked before leaving Boston. Seth, his wife Samantha, and their daughter Sophie are at the swanky private terminal across the concourse, where all privately chartered flights depart Los Angeles. It caters specifically to celebrities, VIPs… and, evidently, my new employers. A flutter of nerves zips through my veins as I realize I’ll be face to face with them in mereminutes.
We conversed by email and video-chat after I accepted the position two weeks ago. They seemed nice enough from the relative obscurity of a laptop screen, but… I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I’ve been so eager to get out of my hometown, I barely considered the fact that this family isn’t like mine. Not in the slightest. Anderson mother-daughter trips involve pitching a tent on the Saco River every summer, or hiking to the summit of Mt. Washington to see the view of the famed White Mountains that belt ourstate.
We’re campfire songs and roastedmarshmallows…
They’re caviar and companyjets.
My pace increases as I make my way through the maze that is LAX, jostling around other travelers and keeping my eyes fixed on overhead Baggage Claim signs. The air here is saturated by a frantic sense of urgency. Everyone’s in a rush — searching for gates, running to make connections, shuffling doggedly through gridlocked security lines. Impatience is tangible. With each minute that ticks by, I feel my heart kick into higher gear, a mad tattoo of nerves jangling inside me like wind-chimes in a hurricane. It’s a potent medley of anticipation andanxiety.
Breathe, Violet. Justbreathe.
My grip tightens on the straps of my backpack, fingers squeezing until the canvas cuts into my palms. I scan the faces around me — a sea of strangers rushing from one terminal to the next, their travel-weary eyes checking flight listings, their bare toes flexing against security line floors. Thousands of humans headed hundreds of places, jetting off from a single runway like branches of a tree reaching across the sky in all directions. Just being here, in their midst, is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened tome.
Ever.
I can’t decide if that’s cause for excitement or self-pity.
Even though I’m here — three-thousand miles from home and only halfway to my destination — it still seems like a daydream. Like some elaborate inside joke between me and the universe. When Mrs. McNally cornered me in the produce aisle of our local supermarket two weeks ago and presented me with theopportunity of a lifetime— working as a nanny for her son’s former Dartmouth fraternity brother, Seth— I thought she was screwing with me. When I realized she was serious, the wordyes!popped out of my mouth before she could fill me in on so much as a singledetail.
Frankly, the details didn’tmatter.
I didn’t care why their other nanny had suddenly become unavailable for the summer, or that they’d barely pay me anything except a small living stipend during the twelve-week trip, or that she’d already taken the liberty of telling the Flints all about my years of babysitting experience for the many families in our hometown. None of that concerned me. Not when there was a free trip to paradise on thetable.
But now, minutes from meeting the Flints, all those concerns I’ve been so determined to push aside are clanging around inside my head so loud, it’s hard to think about anythingelse.
In twelve hours, I’ll be in a bikini on a beach, I remind myself.Focus onthat.
With a renewed bounce in my step, I finally locate the BOS-LAX carousel in the baggage claim area. I wait with several dozen strangers, eyes trained on the unmoving luggage chute. It seems an eternity before the orange strobe lights begin to pulse, assaulting my weary eyes with rhythmic flashes. A few seconds later, there’s a grind of gears and a metallic groan as the carousel churns into motion. My ability to filter out the many sensations occurring around me is all but gone. Every sound and smell feels like an assault — the piercing scrape of metal against metal, the pungent medley of too many sweaty, perfumed bodies crushedtogether.
When the first suitcase slides from the chute, everyone presses inward in an impatient wave, all eager to get their bag and then get the hell out of here. My nose twitches as a woman wearing a heavy dose of Chanel presses against my right side. I catch an elbow to the collarbone when an aggressive man yammering into a cellphone spots his black rolling bag and staggers forward to retrieve it. I don’t know how he recognizes it — those rectangular rolling suitcases all look identical to me. Black on black, without so much as a sticker or a luggage tag to distinguish them from therest.
Bags disappear one by one, and their owners along with them, eventually thinning the crowd until I can breathe again. Mine must be in the bowels of the plane because by the time it finally appears, I’m one of the only people left gathered around the carousel. The green duffle is well-worn, made of sturdy canvas with thick padded straps — a relic from my father’s days in the army. It survived a war zone; let’s hope it’ll outlast a few weeks with me in the SouthPacific.
Mom wanted to buy me a flashy new rolling set for the trip, but I wouldn’t budge. Even though he’s long gone, carrying Dad’s duffle somehow makes me feel like I’m carrying a small piece of him with me, wherever the journeyleads.
Rushing forward with my eyes fixed on the bag, my arm lifts from my side on auto-pilot. I’m eager to finally be on my way. So eager, in fact, I don’t notice I’m on a crash-course with something that — when I look back later — I’ll have no choice but to ascribe tofate.
My hand closes around the right strap. I’m already turning on my heel to walk away when I hit unexpected resistance. A sharp, opposing tug stops me in my tracks, jerking me back like a puppet on a string. For a second, I think a strap must’ve gotten stuck in the carousel, but when I whip around, I see it isn’t caught in a metalgear.