Away for the Weekend

“Did you?” Officer Zokowski pulls out his notebook. “And who gave you that?”

Delila points through the shrubs. “The man who lives in that house up there. Joe.”

“Joe.” Sunlight glints off Cecilia Rueda’s badge. “And his last name is…?”

Gabriela looks at Delila, who is looking at her. “Well, he didn’t tell us his last name, but—”

“Get in the car,” orders Officer Zokowski.

No one answers the door of Joe’s house.

“We told you,” says Gabriela. “His housekeeper’s out and he can’t walk.”

“Because he sprained his ankle jogging.” On the lips of Ivan Zokowski the word “jogging” somehow sounds like “picking daisies”.

“That’s funny.” Cecilia Rueda looks musingly up at the house. “I would have thought someone living in a place like this would have their own gym.”

“I don’t know if he does or not.” Gabriela is still smiling. “I only went to the freezer for the peas.”

“I’d like to take a look in your bags,” says Officer Zokowski.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” groans Gabriela. “Do we look like terrorists or something?”

Delila, the granddaughter of a man who has lost count of how many times he’s been arrested for civil disobedience, says, “I don’t think so. I know my rights. You have to have a reason to search our bags.”

“You were acting suspiciously.”

Delila sighs. “We were walking across the lawn.”

Gabriela was hoping that the officers would realize how ridiculous they’re being and give them a ride back down the hills, but she can tell that, between Delila’s belief in sticking up for herself and the kind of day this is, that probably isn’t going to happen. Instead, she has an image of them being bundled back into the police car and thrown into a holding cell with people whose dress sense is even worse than Beth’s. “Why don’t you call Professor Gryck,” she suggests. “Professor Cybelline Gryck? She’s our chaperone for the weekend. She’ll vouch for us.”

Officer Rueda looks as if she’s been invited to telephone Santa Claus. “You have a number for this professor?”

Professor Gryck is standing outside the bus when they arrive, her hands clasped and her sharp features softened by concern. “I can’t tell you how worried we’ve been,” she says several times to the officers. “They’ve never been to LA before. I was afraid something terrible had happened.” This isn’t actually true. Beth Beeby may present herself as mild-mannered and unassuming, but Professor Gryck knows that this is only an act. In reality, Beth Beeby is a troublemaker, a subversive force who has no respect for the rule of law. Che Guevara in grey trousers, generic trainers and a cheap barrette. Even the fact that Professor Gryck couldn’t get through to her or Delila on their phones didn’t make her worry for their safety. They were AWOL not MIA. Nonetheless, she does worry about her own reputation, and couldn’t stop the lurid headlines that raced through her brain like a runaway train: Visiting Teens Missing from Tour… Girls Found at Bottom of Pool… Tomorrow’s Writers Dead Today… And it would be all her fault for leaving them on their own while she restored her shattered nerves with a glass of white wine. How would her career ever recover from that? Instead of Dr Cybelline Gryck, leading authority on the Norse sagas, she’d be Cybelline Gryck, the woman who lost those poor, innocent girls. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” she says several more times. “You’re a credit to the force.”

Piled with praise, the officers are modest. They’re glad they could help. It’s not every day they have a happy ending.

“I can’t apologize enough for any trouble you’ve been caused,” says Professor Gryck, who apparently can’t. “I really am very sorry.”

“No trouble,” says Ivan Zokowski. “We were just doing our job.”

But as soon as the patrol car moves back into traffic, all traces of empathy and concern vanish faster than an ice cube tossed into a volcano. “Why did you wander off like that?” demands Professor Gryck. “What in the name of God were you thinking?” Now her expression is as dark as the inside of the barrel of a gun. This is yet another thing that has never happened to Professor Gryck before.

“We’re really sorry, Professor Gryck,” says Gabriela. “But we did have a good reason.”

“That’s right,” Delila chimes in. “There were seriously extenuating circumstances.”

Sadly, Professor Gryck doesn’t believe their story any more than Taffeta Mackenzie believes Beth’s.

“Your aunt?” Professor Gryck’s voice is sour with doubt. “Your aunt was hiking through Beverly Hills?”

“No, it wasn’t my aunt,” repeats Gabriela. “I just thought it was my aunt.”

“Like you thought you helped a jogger who sprained his ankle?”

“How could he answer the door when he couldn’t walk?” argues Gabriela.

“And anyway he probably fell asleep right away,” adds Delila. “From the shock.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t fallen asleep from the shock,” mutters Professor Gryck. So far, the weekend hasn’t gone according to plan. Not according to her plan. The competition and all its fanfare and publicity were supposed to add a contemporary, media-wise coda to the distinguished book that is her academic career, but it’s turning into a Three Stooges movie. Or it would if she allowed it to. Which she won’t. From now on, Cybelline Gryck, PhD, isn’t taking any more chances. “Nothing can go wrong tomorrow. And by ‘nothing’, I specifically mean nothing that has to do with you, Beth Beeby. You won’t start a food fight. You won’t set off alarms. You won’t go wandering around private property.”

Tomorrow is the awards ceremony. The distinguished academics and writers who judged the competition will, of course, be attending, but the very large and rare feather in Professor Gryck’s literary cap is the fact that she has persuaded one of the greatest and most reclusive figures in American literature to present the prizes. No one knows about this except the organizers; if news leaked out, there would be a tent city of reporters and photographers and slightly rumpled-looking, intense young men outside the hotel in a matter of minutes. Professor Gryck has not worked so hard for this coup, and to keep her secret, to have the day ruined by a high school student. “I’m going to be watching you as if I’m a broker on the verge of bankruptcy and you’re the stock market, is that clear? The only time I won’t have my eyes on you is when you’re sleeping.”

With some effort, Gabriela manages not to bang her head against the side of the bus. This day just gets better and better.

Outside a small taqueria on the busy boardwalk, a couple sit at a table with a view of the ocean, paper plates of food in front of them.

“Look at you, eating Mexican!” crows Remedios, as though this is a personal victory for her. “I thought you said Mexican food’s the revenge of an oppressed and conquered people.” She scrunches up her face in horror and distaste. “All those nasty chillies.”

“I’m hungry.” Otto’s run around so much today you’d think he was a racehorse, not an angel. And then, of course, there was all the palaver on the bus – dogs … snakes … hysterical women … police officers … “And in any case, I didn’t call you here to discuss my diet, Remedios. We have more pressing concerns.”

Remedios watches him, amused. “You know, I’ve never seen anybody eat a burrito with cutlery before…”

“Don’t try to change the subject.” Otto points his plastic fork at her. “I want to know what happened. I did my part. All you had to do was get Gabriela on the same piece of sidewalk as Beth at the same time and swap them back. What was so hard about that? That was our understanding.”

It was his understanding, not hers. Remedios bites into her lunch in a non-committal way.

“However,” Otto continues, “for some twisted reason of your own, you didn’t do that, did you?” Otto cuts his food into remarkably even slices. He may be upset, but he’s still neat. “You just sat there and watched them charge off in opposite directions as if they were being chased by rampaging Cossacks.”

“I don’t know why you’re blaming me. I am not responsible for the unpredictability of humans, Otto. Beth just bolted for that bus like a frightened horse.”

“You could have stopped her.” He pops a slice of burrito into his mouth.

“I’m so sorry, Otto.” Remedios is the voice of sweet reason. “But if you recall, you told me very specifically to look after Gabriela. Not Beth.”

He flaps his fork at her. “You didn’t stop her either!”

This, of course, is true. And because it is true, Remedios takes another bite and chews slowly. “You know,