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got.”
    I feel a lightness in my chest and the start of a lump in my throat, and I shake my head to suppress it. “Bye, Dad,” I say.
    “Wait. I have something for you,” he says. He pulls out a folded twenty-dollar bill and presses it into my palm. I open my hand to see it unfold into five twenties. One hundred dollars.
    “Dad, I don’t need this,” I say, trying to give it back. He presses it back into my palm, then wraps his hands around mine.
    “For emergencies, Sloane,” he says. “You’re going to be in a foreign country. You never know.”
    Looking down at the folded bills makes me instantly sad. I know the cash is probably the last he’s got until payday next week. I wish I had restocked the freezer with pizzas before I stomped out in a huff this morning.
    “Thanks, Dad,” I say, then give him an honest-to-goodness hug. I turn and climb the steps of the bus. I make my way halfway down the aisle to an empty row. I fling my backpack into the rack overhead and plop down in thewindow seat. I see my dad standing there in the crowd, hands in his pockets, watching me. I know he’ll stay there until the bus finally pulls away.
    By the time we get to Montreal, my legs feel like they’ve been infested with a thousand grasshoppers. The bus ride was eight hours: eight hours on a bus sitting next to a man who smelled like Robitussin and tuna fish. Eight hours listening to the girl in front of me yap her way through two cell phone batteries. Eight hours of pure, unadulterated transportation hell. Nine if you count the hour we spent at the border, where we all had to file off the bus and stand there while the border patrol made sure we weren’t trying to smuggle in six pounds of amphetamines in our luggage. I almost wished I’d forgotten my passport, which until now I’d used exactly once, to attend a hockey tournament in Toronto. It doesn’t even have any stamps.
    The bus station is eleven blocks from my hotel for the night, but the thought of boarding another bus makes me stabby, so I opt to haul my gear bag, my duffel, and my backpack the rest of the way on foot. When I finally get to the hotel, I drag my bags through the maze of cars and limos, looking for the entrance along the vast stone façade. Already, I can tell this place is ten times nicer than anywhere I’ve ever stayed. My cousin Theresa is a concierge at the Westin in Philly, so she hooked me up with a room with the same company for almost nothing. All around me, bellhops in crisp uniforms dart from car to car, opening doors, smiling, taking bags off shoulders and depositing them oncarts, but not one throws a glance my way. Typical. They can probably sense that I don’t belong here.
    My duffel starts to slip off my shoulder. By now, my shoulders are aching, so I drop my duffel, then start to ease off my backpack. I feel a hand tug on me. And before I know it, I’m going down. I land hard on my elbow and let out a grunt.
    I look up to see a skinny, dark-haired girl in pristine clothes pulling herself up from the ground and brushing invisible dirt off her jeans.
    “What the hell?” I toss my hair out of my face so I can get a good look at her.
    “I’m sorry. I was falling and …” She trails off with a shrug. Like it was no big deal. She’s not even looking at me. I see her rotate a thin ankle and rub a spot on her shiny gold flats.
    “You didn’t care who you took with you?” I say, finishing her thought. “Why don’t you watch it next time?”
    “I’m so sorry,” she says. She finally looks at me, and I see a brief look of horror cross her face. I’m probably not looking so pristine after my eight-hour journey. “It was an accident.”
    “Whatever,” I say.
    “Well, I wouldn’t have tripped if you hadn’t left your luggage on the ground. Seriously, who does that?”
    I can’t believe it. Now I’m rude? “ Most people watch where they’re going, princess.”
    “Well, most people are more mindful of