Chapter 1
Emma
It didn’t go off. My stupid alarm clock just didn’t go off.
It stayed silent because my phone’s dead.
How can you forget to charge it overnight when tomorrow you’re flying to Scotland for a year abroad at boarding school?
How? This probably sounds like a bad joke, but sadly, I have to confirm that it’s not.
I just plain overslept. On the day I’m traveling.
And there’s no way Mum can find out about this or she’ll freak.
She was so doubtful yesterday, after it had been confirmed that, with the stupid ground crew being on strike in France, she couldn’t get back in time to fly to Edinburgh with me.
Like an eighteen-year-old was totally incapable of getting to the airport alone and flying to Scotland.
Mind you, I’d be going into a class with people younger than me, because I needed to start at the beginning of the A-level course, not halfway through.
What can I say? Looks like she was right.
I always plug my phone in before I go to sleep, but yesterday, I forgot.
After all, it’s not that common to spend half the night crying your eyes out because you’ve suddenly realized that going to Scotland for a year might actually be a crappy idea.
Maybe my subconscious was trying to give me one last chance to come to my senses.
Don’t catch the plane, don’t be the new girl at Dunbridge Academy tomorrow, just enjoy the rest of the summer holidays, and start my Abitur at the Heinrich Heine grammar school in September—as if I hadn’t been about to make a major mistake.
But that’s impossible because all my friends know I’m going to be away for a year.
If I bailed now, I’d really make an idiot of myself.
It’d look like I didn’t know what I wanted.
But I know exactly what I want. And for that, I have to get to Edinburgh.
I chuck the last few things carelessly into my toiletries bag while I brush my teeth.
I have to get there. I’ve known it since I found that cassette and lay awake into the early hours of the morning listening to that song on my old Walkman. “For Emma.” The title was like a mocking promise.
That was ten weeks ago now, and deep down, I’m sure I only got a place at this school at such short notice because Mum pulled some strings somewhere.
She’s supergood at that. As a lawyer, she always seems to know someone somewhere who owes her a favor.
And I was totally sure that I was doing the right thing.
Even though Mum didn’t understand why I suddenly wanted to go to boarding school after years of rejecting any such suggestion.
I can’t tell her that I have to find my dad.
That his voice on the tape sounded totally different from the way I remember it.
That it sounded so close, as if his lips had been brushing the mike the whole time he was singing “For Emma.” That I listened to the song with goose bumps and a fluttering heart for a whole night, like my life depended on it.
That “For Emma” wouldn’t leave me, not even once I googled his name, for the first time in years. Jacob Wiley, still waiting for his big break, still just a man with a guitar and no conscience—there’s no way you can have a conscience if you leave your family for a dream and don’t look back.
Jacob Wiley was born in Glasgow and is a Scottish singer-songwriter.
And he’s living back there again, at least according to his Wikipedia entry. He’s in Scotland, so I have to go to Scotland. I knew it the first time I voluntarily pulled up the Dunbridge Academy website.
“Airport, please,” I pant a little later, as I clamber into the taxi.
I want to close my eyes, not to have to look at the time, but unfortunately, it shines reproachfully at me the moment I reach for my phone.
This is going to be seriously tight. I’m such an idiot.
I have to get to baggage check-in and hope it’s still open, then get through security and make it to my gate.
All inside an hour and twenty minutes, after which the plane is due to take off—ideally with me on board.
No idea what I’ll do if it doesn’t work out. I’m sure there’ll be another flight to Edinburgh later on, but do you just get rescheduled if you miss your flight entirely through your own fault?
Mum would know this stuff. But unless I absolutely have to tell her, she’s never going to find out that I’m not even capable of catching my plane. She’d end up interpreting it as a sign that I don’t want to go to Dunbridge Academy. And it’s not a sign. It’s just a stupid, stupid fuckup.
I send her a WhatsApp claiming to be on the way to my gate—which is kind of true.
It’s seven thirty on a Sunday morning, but even now, the Frankfurt traffic is remorseless.
I shut my eyes as the taxi slows down more and more.
Oh, God, I’m so screwed. I’m going to miss the flight and be late to the school.
Right from the start I’m going to be the new girl who couldn’t even make it to the first day of term on time.
My pulse is racing when, an eternity later, I jump out of the taxi, grab my luggage, and pay the driver. I’ve flown millions of times, but Frankfurt airport is and always will be above and beyond, even when you have plenty of time in hand.
I start running. People and their suitcases are standing around all over the departure hall.
They can see I’m in a hurry, but hardly anyone gets out of my way.
My inner thigh muscles are still complaining after training on Friday.
One last coordination and speed workout with the girls in my club.
You’ll love it, Emmi. I was on the Dunbridge athletics team too.
I hear Mum’s voice in my head and pray that she’s right.
My legs are like lead. It’s hard work pushing two suitcases, and I can feel a slight stitch in my side.
It’s harder than normal to pick up my feet, but I don’t stop.
I never stop before I’ve crossed the finish line.
It’s the only thing I ever really persist at.
Keep on running, even when I’m almost puking with exhaustion.
Keep on running, keep on running, no matter where I’m headed.
My dad on the regional express train, in a red carriage, speeding up, faster and faster as I run faster and faster after him. But never fast enough.
Apparently, I look desperate enough that the airline staff open a new window, and I heave my first suitcase onto the belt.
The woman behind the counter raises an eyebrow at the number on the digital display but slaps on the sticky label without a word.
Maybe she’ll have pity on me. I hope she’ll have pity on me.
“You’ll have to hurry—the gate is closing, but I’ll let my colleagues know you’re on your way.”
“Thank you,” I gasp, reaching for my documents, then turn and do the one thing I could manage in my sleep.
I run, as fast as I can.