ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alaya Dawn Johnson has published seven novels for adults and young adults, including The Summer Prince, longlisted for the National Book Award, and Love Is the Drug, winner of the Nebula award. Her latest is the historical adult novel, Trouble the Saints. She was born in Washington, DC, and spent thirteen years in New York before migrating to Mexico City, where she now makes her home. She received her master’s degree in Mesoamerican Studies from the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México in April of 2019, with honors.
THE TRIP
Sona Charaipotra
Today’s the day. I can feel it in my bones. Well, okay, not my bones. But my dil. The way my heart has been racing all morning, speeding up even more every time I’m within five feet of Rajan—and I will be, for the next ten days. I know something big is about to happen. And I can’t wait.
“Everyone got their passports ready?” Professor Hollander asks as she starts handing out boarding passes. Ten days, twelve teens, and two (decidedly lax) chaperones. I feel like I need to pinch myself, like they do in the movies. Or like there are bees in my stomach instead of butterflies. This incessant buzzing of heat and energy. Like I’m on the edge of something, and totally ready to fall off.
I still can’t believe it’s finally here. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for two years, since I first moved to Westwood High as a freshman and joined the model UN team. Geneva. For a whole week. I’ve never been anywhere. Except for India, of course.
But this is different. For once, I get to be just the average girl. No parental supervision. No chores or drama from Nanima, who likes to stalk my every move, like she’s my mother, not Mom’s. I still don’t quite know how Mom convinced her to let me go, although I overheard several murmured discussions over late-night cups of chai. And then Mom said it was okay. I barely survived the month before the trip, I was so bursting with excitement.
Now it’s here: a week exploring and having fun, completely parent (and Nani!) free. And well, the whole presentation thing, too. With my best friends. And Rajan. Though I’m probably more excited about that part than he is. We’ve been practicing our talk for a month, and I think he’s finally starting to realize I’m a girl. Maybe.
He’ll definitely know after this trip. I packed and repacked my bag all weekend, plotting out each outfit, so he’ll have no choice but to think of me as more than just his debate project partner. And this morning, a little kajal, a shiny lip gloss, and, for good measure, those pale blue glass bangles he kept commenting on last week.
“Hey Sarika,” Rajan says, coming up behind me on the security line, touching one of the bangles. He’s staring down at me from behind those unruly curls that keep landing in his line of vision, that too-wide grin making me blush before I can even say a word. “What seat are you?”
I look down at the ticket Hollander handed me. “23C.” I smile, trying my best not to actually beam.
“Oh, I’m 23E. Maybe I’ll make Mike switch.” He grins. “Then we can go over our segment. I mean, it is an eight-hour flight.”
“I’m gonna sleep,” Mike says with a groan. “So you guys better keep it down.”
Rajan raises a brow and smirks. “I make no promises,” he says, and Mike punches him lightly in the shoulder.
“Come on,” Hollander shouts in our direction, and we all scoot to catch up with the group. The security line winds for miles behind us, even though it’s barely 6:00 a.m. The thought of getting lost in this crowd sends a shiver through me. I’ve never traveled solo before. I mean, I’m on a school trip, so it’s not really solo. But no parents. It’s surreal, the freedom of it. Even if Hollander is kind of hovering.
“Andy will take half the group, and you five stick with me,” Hollander says, waving to me and a few others. I watch Rajan and his friends shuffle off behind Andy. But Neha and Beck stay put, so I guess I should, too. I pull my laptop out of my bag, along with my stash of snacks, and dump them into the security bins.
I throw my backpack onto the conveyor belt and walk toward the little security gate.
Andy and his group—including Rajan—are through in about ten minutes, but we’re in a different and apparently much slower line. Hollander hands our passports over to the guy at the desk, who scans each one, frowning the whole time. He hands her back a bunch but keeps one. Hollander pushes us forward.
The woman behind the counter scans every bag from top to bottom, rummaging through each one even when the scanner brings up nothing, and rerouting about half of them for further checking. Sigh. One by one, we go through the full body scanner, lifting our arms and shedding our dignity.
My underwire triggers the thing, as usual, and the uniformed, blonde woman behind the gate waves me over for a pat-down. Funny how no one else’s bra ever causes such drama.
“Remove your necklace, please,” Faux-Ever Blonde says, and I slip off my little Ganesh chain and place it in the round bin the lady holds out. He’s the god of new beginnings and so very necessary for this trip. Plus, Nani gave him to me, so I feel a little pinch as the lady shoves the bin onto the conveyor and I watch Ganeshji disappear.
The woman runs her small
