Antipodes Read online

  Praise for

  ANTIPODES

  “Michele Bacon’s writing expertly plunges us into a captivating New Zealand setting and Erin’s journey as she learns how to whole-heartedly live her life rather than simply accomplish it. Antipodes is a must-read.”

  —Natasha Sinel, author of The Fix and Soulstruck

  “Antipodes is an engrossing read about being right side up when you’re upside down, and finding yourself when you didn’t even know you were lost. When you read Michele Bacon’s richly-detailed, fully-realized New Zealand, you’ll want to visit. When you meet Hank, you’ll want to stay.”

  —Katie Kennedy, author of What Goes Up

  “Antipodes is a love story, yes, and as much one about loving ourselves for who and what we are. It’s wise, compassionate, and bursting with the bittersweet complexity of adolescence.”

  —Martha Brockenbrough, author of The Game of Love and Death

  Praise for

  LIFE BEFORE

  “A gripping story about a shattered family and one boy’s journey to begin again. Bacon takes on the subject of domestic violence with skill and compassion in this fast-paced, suspenseful, and thoroughly enjoyable novel.”

  —Kirsten Lopresti, author of Bright Coin Moon

  “Xander is a believable protagonist who triumphs over fear and trauma. Michele Bacon adds a new, honest, and strong voice.”

  —Cheryl Rainfield, author of Scars and Stained

  “Life Before is a thought-provoking and engaging read, which beautifully illustrates that anyone could be striving to overcome difficulties—no matter what you see on the surface.”

  —Mindi Scott, author of Free Fall and Live Through This

  “A riveting story told in a voice that will resonate with teens…. A great read-alike for teens who enjoyed Alex Flinn’s Breathing Underwater, Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak, or Sharon Draper’s Hazelwood High trilogy.”

  —School Library Journal

  “Both a coming-of-age story and a nail-biting thriller, this debut novel will appeal to a wide range of readers.”

  —VOYA Magazine teen reviewer

  Also by Michele Bacon

  Life Before

  Copyright © 2018 by Michele Bacon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyponypress.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Kate Gartner

  Interior design by Joshua Barnaby

  Map by Karen Rank

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-2361-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-2364-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  for Heather Booth

  because she’s the best

  ANTIPODES /an‘tipde-z/

  noun

  1. Direct or exact opposites. Erin’s months studying abroad were the antipodes of her previous life.

  2. (often capitalized) Australia and New Zealand, The Antipodes

  ONE

  Last July, Erin had studied astrophysics at Harvard’s Pre-College Program. Even Astrophysics at Harvard was easier than this.

  July as Erin once knew it was over. Here, in the Southern Hemisphere, July was the dead of winter, and Erin Cerise was in limbo. Twenty-four hours prior, she’d departed her childhood home, boarded a flight in Chicago, flown across her own country, and traversed the vast span of the Pacific Ocean. In a mad panic, she’d edited the third draft of her personal essay for college applications and tried in vain to sleep on the plane next to her snoring, fetid seatmate.

  Erin was eager to end her journey and begin her exile halfway around the world. Her fellow passengers, however, possessed no comparable sense of urgency as they disembarked in Christchurch, New Zealand.

  Erin flexed and released her fingers, an unconscious signal she needed to lay hands on her cello immediately. Her Suzuki teacher insisted she practice daily and, until this little excursion, she’d held a streak of 2,243 consecutive days. She’d reached the twenty-four-hour point mid-flight, and crossing the International Date Line had forced her to miss Friday entirely.

  Erin was starting over at Day One.

  With cello, that is. If only she could start over at Day One with everything else, turn back the clock twenty-four hours to summer in Chicago, or a bit further to when Ben loved her in early May, or to when she was assured the swimming captainship, or back to summers in Michigan.

  Any one of those would suffice. She wanted to turn back the clock to a time—any time—when she’d been happy.

  Today, she was not happy.

  Mid-July was winter in New Zealand, so Erin felt upside down already. Departing sunny, humid Chicago to endure a second winter Down Under felt more like punishment than a clever ploy to augment her college applications.

  Just two months prior, she’d had excellent college prospects, complete independence, a supportive swim team, and a great boyfriend in Wheaton, twenty-six miles west of Chicago.

  But one tiny cosmic shift had ruined everything, much like lollygagging New Zealanders were ruining her first morning in Christchurch.

  Kiwis. New Zealand people called themselves kiwis. She knew that much.

  Sidestepping a family of five, Erin dashed past a wall of windows that would have offered her a first glimpse of Christchurch’s vast azure sky, unmarred by clouds. Tourists snapped photos, but Erin was ready to meet her host family and establish her new schedule.

  Her loss of swim team captainship left a huge—gaping—hole in her college applications, to say nothing of the voids in her weekly calendar.

  Voids, vacuums, and black holes had mesmerized Erin for most of eleventh grade. Where voids in the universe kept planets and solar systems at peace, however, voids in her schedule and résumé were devastating.

  Her mother, Claire, hoped studying abroad might fill that void and make Erin an attractive Ivy League candidate. Attending Columbia—or any Ivy, really—would establish her trajectory toward a great medical school, a great job, and a great life.

  But first, she must endure five months in New Zealand. Squaring her shoulders, she walked down the escalator toward baggage claim.

  TWO

  Felicity, Erin’s host mother, had promised to wear a yellow shirt for their meeting at the airport, but there were no yellow shirts. There was no host family. Erin walked through the crowd, studying every woman of the appropriate age.

  She tried not to panic as the luggage parade began. One guy had spray painted his carry-on. Easy to find, yes, but completely ruined. Erin’s new suitcase was black and enormous. Thanks to her father, it boasted a bright orange bow of yarn, a nice complement to the construction orange duct tape that marked his own luggage. Erin spotted her suitcase and yanked it off the conveyor belt.

  Still no Felicity.

  Erin wrestled her luggage into a restroom stall, peed, washed her hands, splashed water on her face,
and assessed her reflection. As a final parting gift, Chicago’s humidity had frizzed her carob curls; she tried her best to tame them before emerging from the bathroom.

  Still no host family.

  Everyone from her flight had departed with their luggage, deserting Erin and her enormous suitcase. Was she in the right place?

  In a cute kiwi accent, which fell somewhere between British and Australian, a man paged Vienna Galagher with increasing frequency and urgency. Erin expected to hear her own name and an explanation for her desertion, but it was only Vienna Galagher, over and again.

  In a foreign country where she knew literally no one, she had no Plan B.

  Stalling for time, she wheeled to a snack counter that carried strange candies and something called chocolate fish. She bought a Picnic candy bar, which seemed safe. Refilling her water bottle at a fountain, she calmed herself.

  I will not cry. I will not cry.

  She was in way over her head, but phoning her host family would expose her unworldliness. Felicity must perceive her as confident and self-sufficient, which she surely was in all moments.

  Except this one.

  Instead she texted her best friend, Lalitha.

  Erin: They’re not here.

  Litha: What do you mean they’re NOT THERE?

  Erin: I’ve been standing alone at baggage claim for 20 minutes. Everyone else from my flight has left.

  Litha: Are you at the right airport?

  Erin: I’m not an idiot.

  Litha: Maybe call a cab?

  She’d never done that before. She studied the airport signs, all of which were in English and a second language she couldn’t decipher. Searching for taxi stand indicators, she looked north and south before spying a flash of yellow moving toward her from the far end of baggage claim.

  Erin relaxed. It was definitely Felicity.

  Erin: They’re here. Text later.

  Litha: ♥

  She drew a deep breath. No turning back now.

  THREE

  Erin’s host mother had brought her partner and a small girl who carried a poster with Erin’s name in lopsided multicolor letters. The girl, who Erin figured for the promised little sister, was far littler, perhaps eight. Bright gratuitous patches dotted her jeans, and her shoes were worn within an inch of their life.

  “Felicity?” Erin said.

  The precocious pigtailed girl thrust her hand toward Erin. “I’m Pippa, your new little sister.”

  It sounded like sista.

  “She has been so excited to meet you. I’m Felicity.” She hugged Erin loosely. “Nice to meet you, Erin.”

  Ear-in. The adorable kiwi accent got her name wrong: Ear-in. In middle school, when Erin’s mother hired her Suzuki instructor, she had warned him about Erin’s listening skills: If you don’t look her in the eye, everything you say will be ear-in, ear-out.

  That’s how her name sounded in Felicity’s mouth: Ear-in.

  Felicity’s partner said, “Hamish Wakefield. Good to meet you, Erin.”

  Ear-in.

  “Easy flights?”

  “Yeah.”

  Pippa bounced. “Did you gedda look out the window?”

  “No. I worked on the way to L.A., and for some of the big flight. Otherwise, I tried to sleep.”

  Pippa’s shoulders sagged. “Oh.”

  On their way to the airport exit, Pippa peppered Erin with questions about America: Had she been to New York? Had she been to Los Angeles? Had she been to New Orleans?

  Hearing that Erin had been to all three put Pippa in awe.

  “And the States are like Australia, Pippa,” Felicity said. “So that’s like traveling to Cairns and Melbourne and Perth.”

  “Do you get to Australia often?” Erin asked.

  Felicity laughed. “Haven’t been since she was seven. But she hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

  Erin smiled. “Maybe we’ll go while I’m here.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Hamish said. “It’s two thousand kilometers away.”

  “No kidding.” Australia had seemed a lot closer on Google Maps.

  “All right then?” Hamish asked.

  He pulled Erin’s suitcase into the sun and thanked a woman greeting them at the door. In response, she said, “Cheers!”

  People in New Zealand—kiwis—were awfully chipper for 7 a.m. Lalitha would be appalled.

  FOUR

  Erin inhaled Christchurch’s crisp, clean air and detected no aroma—not the smog of L.A. or the grease of Chicago or the distinct earthy scent of her grandparents’ lake house. New Zealand air was so fresh she wanted to eat it … and so chilly she pulled her striped sweater from her carry-on.

  In the small parking lot, Hamish lifted Erin’s suitcase into an ancient blue Nissan. “What’s this? Twenty kilos?”

  A kilo is 2.2 pounds, so a pound is .45 kilos. Fifty pounds is: “About 22.6 kilograms.”

  “Just one bag, then?” Hamish asked.

  “That’s all I was allowed. My dad shipped another box. It should get here Friday.”

  Felicity squeezed into the backseat with Pippa so Erin could sit up front and enjoy the best view. Erin had anticipated driving on the left but hadn’t imagined the unsettling feeling of being a passenger on the left side of the car; she checked the rearview mirror repeatedly, but it faced Hamish on the right.

  She studied the Nissan’s buttons and dials; everything was in Japanese. “Do you speak Japanese?”

  “Whazzat?” Hamish asked.

  “Your car. Everything’s in Japanese. Are you fluent?”

  Hamish guffawed. “Nope. Don’t read it, either, but when you have a car going on fifteen years, you figure it out.”

  Fifteen years. Erin figured her parents had owned at least eleven in that time, plus her own Fiat, which was just a year old.

  The Wakefields must be broke.

  The host-family dossier had noted Hamish’s occupation as “construction” and Felicity’s “secretary.” Suspecting a blue-collar family was a bad fit for Erin, Claire had spent two weeks lobbying unsuccessfully for a Scottish experience. Foreign Study Network insisted it was too late to swap; Erin could have New Zealand or nothing.

  “You all right, Erin?” Hamish asked.

  Ear-in.

  She nodded, staring down the long, flat road, which ran between squat buildings and construction projects. Road signs—in two languages, again—sat propped in brown grass. Only speed limit signs stood on posts: 80 kilometers per hour. Fifty miles per hour. On the highway. Hamish motored among sedans and tiny vehicles—not an SUV in sight—all of which obeyed the speed limit.

  Short and slow and small.

  Christchurch was less the promised Garden City and more like … Parma, a nearby suburb where Erin and her ex-boyfriend, Ben, had enjoyed drive-in movies. That vintage venue stood among lots cluttered with road garbage, overgrown wildflowers, and vacant industrial buildings.

  Hamish pointed to a shopping center featuring stores called The Warehouse and PAK’nSAVE. “At’s the Hub, closest shopping center and grocery.”

  Pippa said, “On special occasions, we get ice cream sundaes at Wendys.”

  Erin twisted to make eye contact. “American Wendy’s doesn’t have sundaes. Just burgers, fries, Frosties, and boring salads.”

  “That stinks,” Pippa said.

  After three uninspiring strip malls, Hamish said, “This is us.”

  He turned onto a quiet residential street where, without exception, houses were small ranches reminiscent of Wheaton’s old rental-house neighborhoods. Stickers on each mailbox read NO JUNK MAIL.

  Unusual plants bordered meticulously manicured lawns. Fences and walls of all sorts—tall and short, wood, brick, and stone—separated properties from one another and the road. Huge bulbs of leaves sat atop skinny, bare tree trunks, as if conjured by Dr. Seuss. Not a mature tree in sight.

  Erin spun Grandma Tea’s ring around her finger and wondered whether she was being punked.

  I hope I
’m being punked.

  Hamish pulled into a narrow driveway sandwiched between two peeling wooden fences. At the driveway’s end sat a tiny gray ranch boasting a single front window. Hamish parked facing the baby-poop green front door. An attached garage to the left created an L-shaped house.

  L for Loser.

  She needn’t turn back the clock to happiness; a mere twenty-four hours would suffice.

  Erin’s flight from Chicago to Los Angeles was a piece of cake, but she had only ninety minutes to locate her connecting flight.

  And she was famished.

  After grabbing a Chipotle burrito, she caught the world’s slowest shuttle to the international terminal, where the world’s longest security line awaited her. She spun her ring around her finger, counting the minutes until her flight was due to depart. She’d flown plenty, but never alone and never halfway around the world.

  “Passenger E. Cerise for Air New Zealand flight 2 to Christchurch. Please proceed to your gate immediately. Doors close in five minutes.”

  Shit.

  Though she would rather stay in America, missing her flight would only postpone the inevitable. And Erin’s mother would berate her via phone until she boarded the following day’s flight. Shouting and waving her arms wildly, she appeared enough of a security threat to entice three TSA employees to her side.

  “They just paged me. E. Cerise.” She thrust her passport at them. “They said my gate is closing in five minutes.”

  A squat, blonde TSA woman crossed her arms. “Were you delayed getting here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Flight delayed?”

  “I—I’m on my own here. I didn’t know about the shuttle, and I had to eat dinner, and I’m traveling alone, and I’m freaking out. If I miss that flight, my mother will kill me.”

  A male agent took her passport. “Erin?”

  “Yes.”

  He unfastened the stanchion and pulled Erin out of line. To the blonde woman, he said, “She’s seventeen, Shannon. Cut her some slack.”

  Gate agents paged Erin again as she removed her shoes and tossed her computer into a gray bin. When her luggage emerged from the other end of the X-ray machine, Erin slung her carry-on over her shoulder, tucked her laptop under her arm, grabbed her shoes, and ran to her gate barefoot.