Mandy Hubbard - Prada and Prejudice

"So, uh, how far is town?" I ask Emily as a servant helps me into the carriage.

"Twelve miles," Emily says. She's sitting on a bench atop the carriage, arranging her skirts.

My heart jumps into my throat.

If we're really twelve miles away, how did I get this far? The carriage takes a left out of Harksbury, so I mentally add a few more miles from where I'd woken up. Fifteen miles?

Who would drive an unconscious person fifteen miles into the woods and drop her off? And even if someone did, is fifteen miles far enough from London for the scenery to look this... rustic?

My only warped explanation is melting away, and as I watch the scenery roll by, a new explanation is nibbling at the edges of my mind.

The carriage rides roughly, every bump jarring me nearly out of the seat. There are curtains pulled open and tied to the side, so we'll have enough light to see by. I can't believe how noisy and drafty the whole thing is. We pass a couple carriages, and there are servants dressed just like the ones driving us. Emily is chatting away about the royal family, something about a ball or a mask or something, and then I get an idea.

"Wait, um, I forget... Who is the king these days?"

She laughs and playfully smacks my arm. "America is so isolated, isn't it? An entire continent away! The king is not truly our ruler, of course. Our monarch is the prince regent."

I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. Last year I had to take world history, including several chapters on the royal families of a dozen different countries. A prince regent... England hasn't had one of those since the early 1800s.

Okay, so they're really committed to their entire act. They probably have textbooks they refer to every night to make sure they get the details right.

It's a feeble excuse and it doesn't make sense anymore. Not when I watch as home after home rolls past, each of them looking older than the last. Not when the roads are so clearly prehistoric, with ruts and mud puddles.

Not when I haven't seen a single piece of ordinary trash, or a lamppost, or a broken-down car. A chill races down my spine. This isn't right. Everything is just... all off and unfamiliar.

I'm sitting in a carriage, for god's sake.

Emily must sense I don't want to talk to her because she leaves me alone as I stare at everything trailing by. It seems to be going faster and faster as the heavy feeling in my stomach grows to the size of a bowling ball.

Even if we were just playing make-believe, there would be something, right? Some clue, some overlap of the real world. But if I admit that maybe I'm not with crazy people, that maybe this isn't fake, what does that mean?

Around an hour later, as we get closer to town, the buildings become steadily closer together, until the carriage rolls to a stop near the sidewalk and I jump out so fast the servant who'd planned to help me nearly falls to the ground.

"Sorry!" I say, and then I scurry over to the shop nearest me and press my nose to the glass. There has to be something: a magazine, an orange extension cord, a Starbucks cup.

But there's nothing. I sprint down the block and look into the next store. I can feel Emily staring after me, her feet rooted to the place I left her.

This entire town... this village... there's nothing out of place. And it's not London at all. I'm far, far away from the hotel, and anything else I know.

I trudge back to Emily, my feet scraping along like fifty-pound weights. I feel as if I've just gone ten rounds in a boxing ring only to emerge defeated.

Emily is twisting a pretty ruffled parasol around in circles and staring at me with her best WTF look.

"Um, so, I have a question," I say. She already thinks I'm crazy.

And she's about to think I'm crazier.

"Yes?" Emily says.

"What year is it?"

She laughs. "Though I am sure your journey felt torturously long, it's but a month since your last letter. It is yet 1815."

1815. Right.

"I mean, not here," I say, motioning in our general vicinity. "I mean in the real world.

In the whole world, and not just your world." I wave my hands around for emphasis.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning," she says.

And then I slump to the ground. Town was supposed to be my saving grace. I was supposed to find a telephone, or a taxi, or something that would make sense. Because since the moment I tripped in these stupid heels, nothing has.

I pull my legs up around me and bury my face in my knees. The skirts of this peach dress are scratchy on my face, hut I don't care. The fabric dampens with my tears.

Emily stands next to me. I can just make out the hem of her skirt in my glittering vision. "Rebecca?" she says, her voice concerned. She's shifting back and forth on her feet; I can see her dress sway with the movement.

I want to yell at her, "Collie! My name is Callie!" But I can't. What if I'm really stuck here? What if I have to be Rebecca forever? Of course, that won't work. The real Rebecca will arrive. In a month, according to Emily. And then what?

God, when did everything turn upside down? I go on a summer trip abroad, and then I start running two hundred years behind schedule?

Somehow I doubt that's quite what they had in mind when they said we'd be studying European History.

How does something like this even happen? It's not like I jumped in a black hole or tried to invent a time machine or... anything. Just BAM, and I'm here. My throat aches and my arms and legs are now a thousand pounds. I don't want to move. Ever.

"Er, Rebecca?" she says again.

I don't want to be Rebecca. I want to curl in a ball and close my eyes, and I want to see cars and smog when I open them up again.

But if I keep acting like this, Emily's going to be watching me. Closely. And I can't let her do that, because she'll start to think dear old Rebecca belongs in the loony bin. I've heard way too many horror stories about old asylums to allow that to happen. So she can't know I'm really Callie Montgomery, twenty-first-century high school girl. Telling everyone I'm a time-traveling freak will only make things worse.

"Uh, yeah, sorry," I say, my voice hoarse. "I'm just worn out, I think. I guess town... uh... changed more than I remember." I climb to my feet and try to wipe all the dirt from my skirts.

"Oh! I'd not thought of that. Yes, it's certainly grown, hasn't it? My home is nearly a full day's ride from here, and I'm afraid I don't visit as often as I'd like. I was quite impressed by the growth in the last few years." There's a note of pride in her voice, like she wants to brag about how large the town is when I'm pretty sure I can see all the way to the end of it from where I stand.

I nod but I don't speak again because I can't swallow the lump in my throat.

I want my mom, to be honest. Even though just thinking that makes me feel like I'm five instead of fifteen.

Emily turns and heads back to the carriage, but I just stand there, firmly rooted to the sidewalk. We can't just go back. Not yet. I'm not done here. There has to be something or someone who can help me.

I take one step and my heel catches on a cobble. I barely manage to stop myself before I face plant.

Oh God. These shoes! What if it's the shoes? That's exactly what happened before.

Maybe I could buy a new pair of shoes and wear them, and maybe that would fix everything.

I turn around and look up and down the walk. It's not like I'll find a Prada shop. But they obviously make shoes somewhere, right?

I stalk past several stores, peering in the windows. Someone makes shoes. They have to.

"Rebecca?" Emily's voice calls after me as I pass another shop. The shoes will fix everything. I'll put on some of those weird slipper-style things and once I walk out of the shop, I'll be back in London. The Prada heels are just cursed or something.