I also knew that we would be in line for ten minutes, which was just the window I needed. I took out my notebook, drew in a deep breath, and then started to write. It wasn’t easy—facing up to how you’ve let people down never is—but as I reached the end of the letter, and the line had moved up to the front, I knew I’d said what I needed to.
I dropped the notebook back in my bag and double-checked the plastic bag from the gift shop, making sure that what I’d bought there was still safe and sound. Then I peered around the La Jolla group, to see Greta and Nora in front of them. Just like I’d planned on.
The cast members were getting people settled in the swinging cars, and I moved forward automatically, keeping my eyes on my old quiz bowl teammates, who were laughing at something on Greta’s phone. They stepped up to get on their car, and the cast member looked at the La Jolla group behind them. “How many?” she asked.
“Four,” they chorused, which was my moment.
“I’m a single rider!” I said, raising my hand but not stepping out of line or letting myself be seen—not yet.
“Great,” the cast member said with a smile. “Come on up. Any other single riders?”
“Me!” I heard a voice behind me say. I turned around and saw, to my shock, that I recognized him—it was Tristram/Doug.
He wasn’t yet in his Eton Mess outfit, and I realized as I looked at him that I’d never seen him wear anything else. He was in jeans and a sweatshirt that readCHICAGO!above the city’s skyline. I blinked at him for a moment, wondering how this was happening—how I could have missed him in my recon. But in fairness, I hadn’t been spending a lot of time looking behind me. I had been more focused on figuring out how I could get myself in the right car.
“Excellent!” the cast member said. “Single riders, step on up!”
I looked around her and saw that Greta and Nora were already in the car. I walked forward—at the same time that Tristram/?Doug did. We bumped shoulders, and he took a step back.
“Sorry, go ahead,” he said, using his real American accent.
“Thanks, Doug,” I said automatically. His eyes went wide, and I tried to backtrack. “I mean—Tristram?”
“Do we know each other?” He started off sounding American but veered toward what I was pretty sure was supposed to be a British accent at the end, like he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be.
“Single riders!” the cast member called again, and I hurried forward, feeling like we were holding up the line. I hadn’t foreseen the Tristram/Doug part of all of this, but I tried to tell myself that it would be okay. That this development? might evenhelpwith the last—and most complicated—part of tonight. The part that I couldn’t even let myself think about, or I’d get too nervous I wasn’t going to pull it off.
I just had to keep doing this in sections. One piece at a time, and not letting myself get overwhelmed by everything that needed to happen in a pretty short period of time. And my focus right now was Greta and Nora.
I got into the car before Tristram/Doug and sat down. He followed, sitting next to me, and I could see he still looked freaked out—like his cover had just been blown. “Have we met before?” he asked in a low voice. He was still alternating accents every few words, which had the effect of making him sound Australian.
“Kind of? It’s—I’ll explain later.”
“Explain what?” he asked, as the cast member stuck their head in the door.
“All set? You know you’re on the swinging cars?”
I nodded, resigned, wishing that someone had pointed this out to me the first time around. “All set,” I echoed.
Greta and Nora looked over at me, and their eyes widened in shock. The ride jolted forward, rising up, and I gave them a smile. “Oh, hey, guys.”
Cass?” Greta asked, her voice strangled. “CassIssac? What are you doing here?”
“Seriously,” Nora added.
“Wait, you know them, too?” Tristram/Doug asked, looking around. “Is this some kind of hidden camera show or something?”
“What?” Nora asked, sounding baffled.
“What’s happening with your voice?” Greta asked him. “It kind of sounds like you’re glitching.”
“That’s Doug,” I said, feeling like the moment had arrived to take the situation in hand. “He’s pretending to be British. But he’s actually from Chicago.”
“No I’m not,” he said, in what was maybe his least convincing stab at the accent yet. “I’m from…Hertfordshire?”
Nora shook her head. “I really don’t think you are.”
“And it saysChicagoon your shirt,” Greta pointed out.
