|
My name is Victoria Julianne Van Wyck. My friends call me Jewels because of my family’s money, the European press calls me “brat” or “La Terreur Américain”—and that’s on good days. My mother calls me Victoria: “You were named after a queen, the least you can do is act like a lady” (yeah, right), and my father mostly just calls me you, as in: “What sort of trouble have you got yourself into this time?”
This is a rather narrow-minded over-reaction to what I would describe as my natural thirst for adventure.
Just because Daddy’s spent several hundred thousand Swiss Francs (which is only one or two hundred thousand American dollars) bailing me out of trouble in Germany, France, and Italy for indiscretions a more forgiving father would write off to youthful exuberance, doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. Even a judge in Monaco termed me “high-spirited” after a group of us broke into the local zoo and released a dozen monkeys into the Four Seasons grand ballroom. It was hilarious (though I might have conked a gendarme with a bottle of champagne—I can’t remember).
But enough of that.
This story begins months ago, right after my seventeenth birthday.
CHAPTER 3—ME, MYSELF, AND AMANDA JONES
At the airport, Adam had the driver drop us at Aeroflot ticketing.
“We’re going to Russia?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly. The Russian mafia would sell us out for a pack of cigarettes. Here.” He handed me one of the suitcases.
“I’m not carrying this.”
“Fine, then leave it. They’re your clothes.” He turned and began walking across
the terminal floor—without me!
“Wait up.” I grabbed the bag and dragged it all the way to the Swissair counter.
Adam pulled me into a corner chair and handed me a passport. “Your new name is Amanda Jones.”
“What?”
“You’re English.”
“My teeth aren’t that crooked.”
“Pay attention, Amanda, this is no game.”
An image popped into my mind of the terrorist with the jagged scar below his left eye. That quieted me.
“Go on,” I said, biting my thumbnail.
"You’re flying to America to finish high school. I’m your Uncle Bob. Your parents were killed in a car crash.”
I could feel tears coming, but I fought them back. (I told you, I’m not a wuss.)
He handed me a box with a ribbon tied round. “Take this, go into the women’s bathroom, and dye your hair.”
“I’m not going into a public—"
The words froze in my throat. A huge man in a full-length black leather coat strode toward us. He had a wild gleam in his eyes. Was this the end? Was I was going to die in an airport, holding a bottle of L’Oréal Superior Preference Fade Resistant Colorant Dark Auburn 4R?
At the last minute, the man swerved aside and scooped a little boy into his arms.
“Papa,” the boy squealed.
With great relief, I turned to Adam. Neither his expression nor the smooth tone of his voice wavered. He had nerve, I’ll give him that.
“Don’t call attention to yourself and speak to no one. Our plane departs in fifty minutes. If you hurry, we’ll just have enough time to clear customs.”
I must have taken a stupid pill or something because all I could do was gawk at him.
“Go!” he hissed. “Before they pick up our trail.”
I shot to my feet like a jack-in-the-box and scooted off toward the bathroom.
English? That’s what kept thrumming inside my head. How can I be English, I hate soccer...though I can imitate the accent perfectly since my mother is British. Cheers.
|
