backpack down from the overhead storage compartment. It’s so awkward and heavy that I nearly fall over trying to get the stupid thing back on.
“Thanks for the help,” I mutter at the back of Seth’s head.
And who says chivalry is dead?
At least figuring out where to go next is easy. All I have to do is follow the mob of pilgrims getting off of the train. Most wear these large white scallop shells (the one from Dad’s dream) around their necks or on their packs. Apparently it was worn in the Middle Ages and tells everyone you’re a pilgrim. Talk about
the
original statement piece.
I weave through the crowd and catch up to Seth. “Why are you freaking out? My mom knows I’m here and she’ll tell my dad soon enough. It’s not like the military is going to issue a Missing Person notice for me.”
“Not for you. But they’ll need one for
me
after your father buries me six feet under.” Seth’s pace doesn’t slow one bit. “I’m supposed to be looking out for you, not kidnapping you.”
“Looking out for me? What, like I need your protection?”
The fact that Seth sees himself as my chaperone is infuriating, but I’m momentarily distracted by the man crossing the street in front of us. He leans on a long shepherd’s crook and is trailed by a border collie who herds three brown cows right down the middle of the main street. It’s like we’ve walked onto the set of
The Sound of Music
, but Seth doesn’t even notice.
“You have no idea the position you’ve put me in,” he seethes. “Then again, why would you? This is all a big game to you.”
“No. It’s not. Chill out. My dad will come around.” At least I hope he will, though that can’t happen unless Mom breaks the news in her own diplomatic way. But if
Seth
turns me in, my father will be on the next plane to Barcelona, intent on dragging my sorry butt home.
I hold up the G.I. Joe and wave it in Seth’s face. “Don’t worry, the Sarge will be fine once he sees our photos and realizes what we’re doing for Lucas.
Lucas
, Seth. Forget about my dad. Think about Lucas.”
Seth does think. In total silence. For the next quarter of a mile.
We reach a bridge crossing a river lined with stone houses that must be hundreds of years old. Other than church bells, chirping birds, and lots of pilgrim footsteps, the town is quiet. Whenever I exhale (which, given the altitude, is often), my breath turns to mist as it mixes with the steam rising from the river.
Seth’s expression isn’t one of contemplative awe. He doesn’t look angry anymore, just uncomfortable, like he knows he doesn’t belong here. Like he has no idea
why
he’s walking through a medieval village in southern France with a bunch of strangers on holiday when his best friend is in a hospital bed and the rest of his buddies are being shot at. Seth’s short haircut, solid build, and busted arm draw a few curious glances from the other walkers, but his stay-away
body language makes it clear he isn’t taking questions.
Where are we going? Why is he torturing me like this?
Are you going to call my dad or not?
I want to shout. Instead, I try summoning patience, which is so not my virtue.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, okay?” We close in on the official headquarters of the
Camino de Santiago
, the place where we’re supposed to pick up these pilgrim passports that enable us to stay in the cheap municipal hostels.
Please stop, please stop, please stop.
“Did you hear me?” I repeat. “I said
I’m sorry
.”
If only Seth knew the rare and precious value of these words, coming from me.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “Let’s just get our credential.”
Hallelujah.
My heart pumps liquid relief. I speed-walk towards the pilgrim office door before Seth can change his mind.
“Hold up,” he says from behind me. “I have one condition.”
Of course he does. I turn. Slowly. “And that is?”
“You have to be honest with me from here on out. You have to give me
“Thanks for the help,” I mutter at the back of Seth’s head.
And who says chivalry is dead?
At least figuring out where to go next is easy. All I have to do is follow the mob of pilgrims getting off of the train. Most wear these large white scallop shells (the one from Dad’s dream) around their necks or on their packs. Apparently it was worn in the Middle Ages and tells everyone you’re a pilgrim. Talk about
the
original statement piece.
I weave through the crowd and catch up to Seth. “Why are you freaking out? My mom knows I’m here and she’ll tell my dad soon enough. It’s not like the military is going to issue a Missing Person notice for me.”
“Not for you. But they’ll need one for
me
after your father buries me six feet under.” Seth’s pace doesn’t slow one bit. “I’m supposed to be looking out for you, not kidnapping you.”
“Looking out for me? What, like I need your protection?”
The fact that Seth sees himself as my chaperone is infuriating, but I’m momentarily distracted by the man crossing the street in front of us. He leans on a long shepherd’s crook and is trailed by a border collie who herds three brown cows right down the middle of the main street. It’s like we’ve walked onto the set of
The Sound of Music
, but Seth doesn’t even notice.
“You have no idea the position you’ve put me in,” he seethes. “Then again, why would you? This is all a big game to you.”
“No. It’s not. Chill out. My dad will come around.” At least I hope he will, though that can’t happen unless Mom breaks the news in her own diplomatic way. But if
Seth
turns me in, my father will be on the next plane to Barcelona, intent on dragging my sorry butt home.
I hold up the G.I. Joe and wave it in Seth’s face. “Don’t worry, the Sarge will be fine once he sees our photos and realizes what we’re doing for Lucas.
Lucas
, Seth. Forget about my dad. Think about Lucas.”
Seth does think. In total silence. For the next quarter of a mile.
We reach a bridge crossing a river lined with stone houses that must be hundreds of years old. Other than church bells, chirping birds, and lots of pilgrim footsteps, the town is quiet. Whenever I exhale (which, given the altitude, is often), my breath turns to mist as it mixes with the steam rising from the river.
Seth’s expression isn’t one of contemplative awe. He doesn’t look angry anymore, just uncomfortable, like he knows he doesn’t belong here. Like he has no idea
why
he’s walking through a medieval village in southern France with a bunch of strangers on holiday when his best friend is in a hospital bed and the rest of his buddies are being shot at. Seth’s short haircut, solid build, and busted arm draw a few curious glances from the other walkers, but his stay-away
body language makes it clear he isn’t taking questions.
Where are we going? Why is he torturing me like this?
Are you going to call my dad or not?
I want to shout. Instead, I try summoning patience, which is so not my virtue.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, okay?” We close in on the official headquarters of the
Camino de Santiago
, the place where we’re supposed to pick up these pilgrim passports that enable us to stay in the cheap municipal hostels.
Please stop, please stop, please stop.
“Did you hear me?” I repeat. “I said
I’m sorry
.”
If only Seth knew the rare and precious value of these words, coming from me.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “Let’s just get our credential.”
Hallelujah.
My heart pumps liquid relief. I speed-walk towards the pilgrim office door before Seth can change his mind.
“Hold up,” he says from behind me. “I have one condition.”
Of course he does. I turn. Slowly. “And that is?”
“You have to be honest with me from here on out. You have to give me
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