“Yes, of course.”
Pop gives her a long look. “And you’ll stop obsessing over your film?”
She hesitates. “No promises.”
“How about thinking of starting a new one?”
“Definitely.”
“Then, I suppose,” he says with a satisfied nod, “that the right answer is yes.”
Hugo stands in themiddle of Penn Station, which is not only the very worst rail station he’s ever been in but also quite possibly the very worst place, full stop. It’s dark and gray and dingy, filled with too many people and too much noise.
A police dog stops to sniff his rucksack, and when Hugo reaches to pet it, the officer snaps at him. “Watch it,” he says, and Hugo shrinks back, keenly aware that he’s in America now, and for all the warnings his mum gave him about keeping track of his belongings, it’s the ones his dad has given him over the years—about the extra layer of caution required to exist in the world when you’re half-black—that are running through his head in this crowded station.
It doesn’t seem like the most auspicious beginning to the trip.
There’s still no sign of Mae. Hugo leans his rucksack against the wall, careful to keep it close. It would be just like him to have it stolen even before he gets on the train. So far, he’s managed not to get lost or mugged or anything worse. It’s been only twenty-four hours, but it still feels like something of a victory.
Without either of the Margaret Campbells, he couldn’t get into the hotel that had been booked for them last night. Instead he found a grimy chain on the edge of Times Square, where he could hear people arguing through the paper-thin walls. It didn’t matter, though. Hugo couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a room to himself, and he was too excited to sleep.
He woke early, jet lagged and ready to follow the itinerary Margaret had mapped out for them. But without her, he realized, he could do whatever he wanted, and that thought sparked a strange sort of joy in him. He was alone in a foreign country, no parents or siblings or girlfriend; in fact, there wasn’t a single soul who knew where he was at this exact moment.
He was completely and entirely free.
Instead of the Met, he went to the High Line. Instead of the fancy restaurant Margaret had booked, he ate a hot dog from one of those little carts with the umbrellas. Later he went for a pint at an old alehouse in the West Village but was promptly declined.
“Does it count if I’m English?” he asked hopefully.
“Does this look like England to you?” asked the scowling bartender, and that was the thing: it didn’t. It was all wonderfully, amazingly, heart-thuddingly new. And he loved it. All of it. Even the pigeons.
Now a text pops up from his mum:You still in one piece?
Hugo sighs. As if she can hear this, another one appears:I’m only asking. No tattoos or anything?
Hugo: No tattoos. But I did get my nose pierced last night.
Mum: Hugo!
Hugo: I’m just winding you up. Stop worrying.
Mum: You’ll take a picture of the ocean for me, won’t you?
Hugo: Too late. I’m about to head west.
Mum: I meant the Pacific. I’ve always wanted to see it.
The gate for their train is announced, and the crowd around him begins to swirl again. Hugo squints up at the giant board, an alphabet soup of times and destinations.
Hugo: Mum, I’ve got to go. Train is here. Love you.
Mum: Love you too.
Hugo: And don’t worry, I’ve got my passport.
Mum: I wasn’t going to say a word.
He shoves his mobile back into his pocket and looks around for Mae, trying to call up the image from the video, but he doesn’t see her anywhere. It’s now ten past three, which means she’s officially late. The train is due to leave in exactly thirteen minutes, and he stands on his tiptoes and scans the station again. He’s so busy looking around that it takes him a second to realize she’s suddenly there, standing a few feet away from him.
