8

Idon’t know what made me do it.

One minute I was asking Mr. Williams-the supervisor of the man who’d escorted us to the little back office-if he could direct me to the ladies’ room (although here in England they apparently call it a toilet, since it took some seconds before I could make anyone understand what it was that I needed), and the next I was making a run for it.

That’s right. I left. I left the Job Centre-and Andrew. I pretended like I was going to the women’s toilet.

But instead I exited the building, hurrying out onto the busy London streets with no idea where I was going, let alone how to get there.

I don’t know why I did it. I’d said what Andrew had told me to say-that I’d been mistaken about his having been at work. I suppose that since Andrew gets paid under the table, the Job Centre people have no way to check on whether this is really true. So it wasn’t as if Mr. Williams could really do anything to Andrew…like have him arrested.

In fact, all Mr. Williams was doing when I interrupted to ask where the bathroom was was giving Andrew a lecture on how wrong it is for people who don’t truly need the welfare system to abuse it.

That’s when I left.

And I never returned.

Which is why I’m wandering the streets of London, with no idea where I am. I don’t have a guidebook or a map or anything. All I have is a purseful of British money and a sinking feeling that Andrew isn’t going to be too pleased to see me when I get back to his parents’ house-if I can even figure out how to get back there.

Maybe I should have stayed. It was wrong of me just to leave like that. Andrew’s right, it really is hard for students to make ends meet…

Although obviously it doesn’t help if they gamble away their savings.

And what about the money? I promised him five hundred dollars for his matriculation fees and then I just…left. How could I walk out like that? If Andrew doesn’t pay his matriculation fees, he won’t be able to come back to school in the fall. How could I just turn my back on him like this?

But how could I stay?

It isn’t the money. It isn’t. I’d gladly give him every cent I have. Because the truth is, I really can put up with the fact that he thought I was fat.

And I can put up with the fact that he apparently complained about my fatness to his family.

And I can put up with the gambling, and even with the fact that he pretended like he couldn’t come so I would give him a blow job.

But defrauding poor people? Because that is basically what someone who takes unemployment while having a paying job is doing.

That I cannot tolerate.

And he wants to be a teacher! A TEACHER! Can you imagine a man like that molding the minds of impressionable young people?

I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I fell for his whole “I want to teach the children to read” thing. It was all so obviously just an act so he could get into my pants-and, later, my wallet. Why didn’t I see the signs? I mean, what kind of man who wants to teach the children to read-really and sincerely-also e-mails photos of his naked butt to innocent American girls?

I’m so stupid. How could I have been so blind?

Shari’s right, of course. It was his accent. That has to be it. I was completely swayed by his accent. It’s just so…charming.

But now I know that just because a guy sounds like James Bond doesn’t mean he’s necessarily going to ACT like him. Would James Bond collect unemployment while also working? Of course not.

Oh God, and to think I wanted to MARRY him!!! I wanted to marry and support him for the rest of my life. I wanted to have children with him-Andrew Jr., Henry, Stella, and Beatrice. And a dog! What was the dog’s name?

Oh, never mind.

I’m the biggest idiot this side of the Atlantic. Possibly both sides. God, I wish I’d figured that out before I gave him that blow job. I can’t believe I did that.

You know what? I want that blow job back. Andrew Marshall isn’t worthy of a blow job by me. That blow job was special. It was my first. And it was meant for a teacher, not a welfare fraud!

Or a dole fraud. Or whatever they call it here.

What am I going to do? It’s only two days into my trip to visit my boyfriend and I’ve already decided I never want to see him again. And I’m staying with his family! It’s not like I can avoid him there.

Oh God. I want to go home.

But I can’t. Even if I could afford it-even if I could call home right now and have them buy me a ticket-I’d never hear the end of it. Sarah and Rose-Mrs. Rajghatta-even my mother-everyone. They’ll never let me live it down. They all told me-ALL OF THEM-not to do this, not to go all the way to England to visit a guy I hardly knew, a guy who’d, yeah, okay, saved my life…

But chances are I wouldn’t have died. I mean, eventually I’d have noticed the smoke and gotten out on my own.

They will never let me forget the fact that they were right. God! They were all right! I can’t believe this. They’ve never been right about anything. They all said I’d never graduate…well, I have.

Well, okay, almost. I just have to write one little paper.

And they all said I’d never lose my baby fat.

Well, I did. Except for those last five pounds. But they’re hardly noticeable to anyone but me.

They said I’d never get a job or an apartment in New York-well, I’m going to prove them wrong about that. I hope. Actually, I can’t think about that right now or I’ll throw up.

All I know is, I can’t go back home. I can’t let them think they were right about this.

But I can’t stay, either! Not after walking out like that-Andrew will never forgive me. I mean, I just left. It was like my feet developed little brains all their own and just took off, trying to put as much distance between Andrew and me as they could.

It isn’t his fault. Not really. I mean, gambling is an addiction! If I were a decent person, I would have stayed and tried to help him. I’d have given him the money so he could come back in the fall and make a fresh start…I’d have been there for him. Together, we could have worked to lick it…

But instead I just left. Oh, good job, Lizzie. Some girlfriend you are.

My chest feels tight. I think I might be having a panic attack. I’ve never had one before, but Brianna Dunleavy, back in the dorm, used to get them all the time, and end up at the student health center, where they’d give her a note to get out of her exams.

I can’t have a panic attack on the street. I can’t! I’m wearing a skirt. Supposing I fall down and everyone sees my underwear? It’s true they’re the cute polka-dot ones with the bows from Target. But still. I need to sit down. I need to-