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I love my mother, but I’m looking forward to her leaving on her next trip.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said as she poked her head in and saw me stir—or really, thud back onto my bed. “Did I wake you?”
“Um . . . not really.” My skin felt moist. Like maybe the vapor trail had left a layer of dew all over me. Or maybe I started sweating mid-air.
She came in and sat on the edge of my bed. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she said.
I had to search my brain to remember what she was talking about. Half of me was still back in the Alps.
“I want you to know I trust you,” she said. “You’re a smart, honest girl, and I never should have suspected you of sneaking around behind my back.”
Oh, that. The Professor Whitfield thing. “It’s okay,” I said, knowing very well that while I wasn’t lying to her about w
