One of the four wardrobes in here is smashed up against my bunk and the top of it is level with my bed, so I’ve turned it into a makeshift bedside table down near my feet. That’s where my phone sits now, bleeping away. I shut it off and make my way down the ladder to start getting ready. Everyone on the program is going on a boat tour down the Thames today to Greenwich.
We’re supposed to be upstairs by 10:15. At 9:40, Babe and I are both dressed, so we head to the kitchen together for breakfast. Sahra’s running behind, but she assures us she’ll met us there.
Babe’s sporting a new Canon DSLR around her neck.
“Nice camera!” I admire as we butter our bagels at the counter. I have my Casio digital camera in my purse, but a DSLR—those pictures are on another level.
When we finish eating, the kitchen door opens, and Pilot and Atticus stride in, all ready to go. My heart speeds up. I check my block phone for the time: 10:05.
Pilot grins at us, his gaze landing on me. “You guys ready to do Greenwich?”
Atticus yawns.
“Hell yeah!” I push up from my seat at warp speed to deposit my plate in the sink. “We’ve got—” There’s an enormously loud crash behind me. I gasp, jumping three feet in the air, only to find that it was my chair falling over. Heat flashes up my neck.
Babe laughs next to me. Atticus is cackling. My eyes find Pilot’s. He’s laughing too.
“Dammit!” I grin in spite of myself, annoyed, but absolutely overjoyed to be around people who are laughing. My family’s conditioned me to expect the frustrated sigh.
* * *
The four of us join a massive group of students on a pilgrimage to the nearest Tube station. Pilot and Atticus walk and chat about five feet ahead of me and Babe.
I’m wearing my long, black, puffy winter jacket because it’s the only one I have. Under it, I’m wearing my favorite black jeans and a white, long-sleeve sweater. Over that is my new purse that slings across my chest. There are all these horror stories about how thieves in Europe carry knives and run around chopping off women’s purses—the purses fall off their arms, the thief catches it, and runs. It’s been recommended to me by American society (mostly my aunts, uncles, and parents) that I wear a cross-body purse to make chopping it off more difficult. I’m sure the degree to which America harps on this fear is slightly exaggerated, but, in the interest of better safe than sorry, I have also chosen to wear the purse under my jacket. It doesn’t look too strange because the purse is really small, but it does look a little strange. There’s an extra butt cheek-like thing protruding from the area behind my hip. But, try to cut off my purse now, thieves. You’ll have to find it first!
“So, what did you do last night?” I ask Babe.
“I hung out with my friend Chad. He’s here on the program with us. We’re in the same school at YU and stuff. We got food, and then I went back to his flat upstairs and hung out with some of the people there.” Babe is wearing her pretty green coat and sophisticated beret again. Her lips are painted a bright, cheery red. I feel under-fashioned.
I pause, looking ahead rather than at Babe. “Are you and Chad, like, a thing, kind of?” I ask hesitantly. I’m not sure if we’re at the point in our friendship where boy talk is permissible. But Babe seems nice, and I want to be friends. Friends talk about that stuff.
When I glance back over at Babe, she’s looking at the ground. She considers my question for a few seconds before meeting my eyes. “We’re … I … I’m not sure. Kind of, it’s a long story.” She’s goes quiet.
Guess we’re not there yet. I quickly change the subject as we turn left onto Gloucester Road.
“So what do you study at YU?”
“Hospitality!”
“Oh, cool! What do you want to do when you graduate?”
“I want to work at Disney World. I, well, actually my goal is to make my way up to president of the park!” She smiles at me, excitement building in her voice. Her enthusiasm is contagious.
“So, like, President of Disney World, then?” I clarify, awed by this idea.
Babe walks me through the process of how one would make their way to eventual President of Disney World.
* * *
We get off the Tube—the surprisingly clean London subway system—near the London Eye, and our giant posse shuffles onto a ferry waiting along the edge of the Thames River. Once we’re loaded on, I catch sight of Sahra and flag her over to our group.
The five of us stand together on the upper deck level of the boat. It’s open, like one of those double-decker tour buses you see in New York City, and a scratchy microphone projects the voice of a tour guide. We oooh and ahh as we float under the London Bridge, and past the pickle-like building London calls the Gherkin. I snap pictures of everything.
I want to get a picture of the Flat Three crew. Would everyone be okay with being in a picture together? Do we not know each other well enough yet for me to suggest it? Is it too soon for friend pictures? Is this a stupid thing to worry about? I glance around at the people outside our little circle. Fresh anxiety billows through me at the thought of asking someone to take it.
We pass under another bridge, and I bounce on the tips of my toes as it becomes a backdrop for a potential group shot. I brace myself, mashing my lips together determinedly, and make eye contact with a shorter guy wearing a beanie, standing near Atticus’s shoulder. It’s just a picture.
“Hey, do you think you could take a picture of us?” I ask quickly.
“Yeah, sure,” Beanie Dude responds. I hand him my camera. Flat Three turns and gathers together for the shot. I didn’t even have to ask them. Pilot stands to my left, and when he leans in and puts his arm around me, my insides twirl around. I know it’s just a picture, but he didn’t have to put his arm around me, right?
Beanie Dude counts down, snaps the shot, and hands me back the camera. I beam. I have a real-life picture of this moment. Real-life proof that this happened. Real-life friends I’ve made myself are with me on a real-life trip in a real-life other country where I’m living now. And an attractive, nice, funny boy had his arm around me. I take a quick second to inspect the shot. The framing’s a little wonky, but I’m too triumphant to care.
* * *
Greenwich looks like a giant fancy green park. It’s littered with enormous white marble buildings and structures with columns. Together, the five of us head to the National Maritime Museum (all museums in England are free). Babe, Atticus, and I laugh our heads off taking silly pictures with all their statues. Pilot laughs at us, agreeing to participate in the occasional shot. Sahra hangs back, watching with a small smile.
After the museum, we hike up a steep grassy hill to the Royal Observatory and wander through the exhibits. I take a picture of all our hands touching the oldest rock on Earth on display: 4.5 billion years old. We take turns standing on the prime meridian of the world. I snap pictures of everyone as they straddle both the eastern and western hemispheres. Babe takes the camera to snap one of me. I suck in a deep breath as I plop one foot over the line and then exhale, knowing I’m standing on both sides of the world at once. In my mind, I see the globe I used to play with in elementary school and the raised line that I would trace with my finger, down the world. A weird trill of wonder zings through me. I didn’t think I was going to enjoy these museums … this much.
The five of us are starving as we tromp back down the hill from the Observatory, so we stop at the first pub we find and settle in at an empty table. A waitress comes over to greet us and hand out menus.
“So, are you guys all wanting to travel while you’re here?” Pilot asks as we look over the selection. He’s sitting across from me, smiling with his mouth closed.
“Yes!” Babe and Sahra exclaim immediately in response. My head cocks to the side in surprise.
“I want to travel eventually, but the theater track is super-demanding,” Atticus adds. “I have to be here to see shows most weekends.”
I’m not sure how to respond. I have
n’t really thought about traveling more. I already traveled all the way across the world to get here. We’re in a foreign country right now. I can’t cross the street yet without almost dying. I just learned that street signs are on the sides of the buildings instead of metal poles stuck into the corners of the intersections. I thought we were done traveling, and now we were going to explore the place we’ve traveled to.
But after today’s adventure in Greenwich, I don’t know. I would like to do more of this. I like adventuring with this crew. I’ve had more fun with these people in two days than I had with my roommates all last year. When else am I going to be living so close to other European countries? Italy! I’ve been taking Italian classes since I was fourteen. I could go to Italy.
Pilot’s gaze has fallen on me. I feel it before I see it, because when you like someone, you develop a superpower that enables you to subconsciously hone in on all their movements.
They can rotate to face you all the way across the room, and the second it happens, you know: They’re facing me from across the room, ON GUARD!
With a deep breath, I meet Pilot’s eyes. “Yeah, I really want to go to Italy,” I tell him as our waitress distributes waters around the table.
“Let’s go this weekend, then!” he responds immediately.
My jaw drops.
“Oh my gosh, yes!” Babe chimes in.
This weekend? But that’s, like, now. We literally got here yesterday.
“I’m on board with this,” Sahra adds, picking up her water and taking a sip.
I fumble for words. “Like, go to Rome—for the weekend?” I ask in disbelief.
“Rome for the weekend,” Pilot echoes confidently. I blink at him.
“Okay!” I blurt.
“Rome for the weekend!” Babe raises her glass of water to toast. We all join her, clinking our glasses.
“You guys are going to have an amazing time!” Atticus cheers.
I take a big gulp of my water and drop the glass back to the table. Across from me, Pilot jumps like someone pinched him.
“Whoa.” He holds his hands up in front of him.
I raise my eyebrows. “Whoa, what?”
“Don’t murder the glass!”
My head twitches to the left. “What do you mean, murder the glass? It’s fine.”
“Take a drink again.”
I eye him suspiciously and slowly raise the glass off the table. I take a quick sip and drop it back down. An amused smile breaks across his face. Babe’s starts laughing.
“What?” I demand.
“He’s right!” She giggles.
“What are you talking about?” I laugh.
“You slam your glass down,” Babe explains. “Like a sailor after he chugs a beer!”
“I don’t…” I pick up my glass and take a sip again, concentrating now. I drop the glass back down, and it makes a loud thunk as it hits the wood. My breath whooshes out in surprise. I’ve never paid any attention to it. Realization must dawn on my face because across the table Pilot’s silently chuckling.
“I…” I start, bewildered. “I didn’t even realize. Are your cups, like, silent?”
Pilot picks up his glass. His eyes lock with mine as he brings it to his mouth, drinks, and puts the glass back on the table. It barely makes a sound. “It’s all in the technique,” he says. “Be chill. Be Zen.”
Next to him, Babe takes a drink and puts down her glass experimentally. It makes a muffled clunk.
“See? There, she’s got it,” he says, pointing to Babe.
I pick up my glass and sip again. I watch Pilot with narrowed eyes as I lower it back to the table at snail speed. It makes a small sound as it comes back into contact with the wood. He grins.
“Was that to your satisfaction?” I inquire with a melodramatic flourish.
He squints at me. “With a few months’ practice—”
I cut him off with a scoff, and he breaks into laughter.
6. Nothing’s Standing in My Way
Last night we bought plane tickets to Rome! Two more nights until we go to Italy!
We all start class today. None of my flatmates are in class with me, so as I settle into my seat, I feel like a bit of a loner again, but then the professor struts in. The first thing he does is distribute postcards, one to each student.
“So, as you know, this isn’t going to be our normal meeting day. Starting next week, class is Monday and Friday,” he begins. “We’re going to be delving into creative writing prompts every class, and to warm you up, get your juices flowing, each class you’re going to get a postcard. Write to someone back in America about your experiences here. It’s simple, easy, and effectively gets you putting words to paper. You have ten minutes. Take out a pen and go.”
I gaze at the 4×6 shot of the London Bridge on my postcard, flip it over to the blank side, and start writing. I want it to look nice, so I break out the cursive writing I haven’t used since elementary school.
January 12, 2011
Mom and Dad,
I’m still having trouble wrapping my head around the fact that I’m in London. Yesterday, I rode on a ferry under the bridge on the front of this postcard. I’m in my first college-level writing class, and I’m pretty sure I already love it. The professor’s last name is Blackstairs, which reminds me of a book series I love, and he says we’re going to be doing creative writing prompts every class. I could play with creative writing prompts all day, so I’m overjoyed right now.
Love you guys,
Shane
Soon after I’ve finished, Professor Blackstairs stands. “Time. Great. You feeling good? Postcards away, laptops out. Let’s jump into the fun stuff.”
I slip the postcard into my book bag. It was nice to write those words on paper, even if I can’t actually send them out. The professor hands us all strips of paper, each printed with the first sentence of a well-known book. When he drops mine onto the desk, I snatch it up.
There is no lake at Camp Green Lake.
I chuckle softly, excitement blooming in my belly as a new story starts to lace itself together in my head.
“Write me a short story with this as your opening sentence,” he says. “You have an hour—starting now.”
I yank out Sawyer, open a blank document, and let my ideas spill onto the page. My fingers jet across the keys as I spin a story from the point of a view of a sassy young girl about a camp on the moon where her parents met. I beam at my screen for the next fifty-nine minutes. When time’s up, Professor Blackstairs starts an in-depth discussion about the importance of an opening sentence. We go through loads of examples. The three hours fly by. It’s honestly the most fun I’ve ever had in a college class.
* * *
Babe is in our room Skyping with her parents when I return at three, so I head into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on my Camp Green Lake story and work on a blog post about yesterday’s trip to Greenwich. The kitchen is more social than our room anyway, and I’m trying to put myself out there.
Sahra stops in at about 3:30 to grab a drink before heading back out to get groceries. Atticus storms in at 3:45, stuffs a microwavable meal down his throat, and runs out, sputtering about being late for his internship interview. It’s about 4:00 p.m. now, and I’m staring at my Gmail.
My parents emailed asking for more details about my first few days here. I heave a shaky breath and type up a brief update, describing my new flatmates. I link them to my first two blog posts: “American Moves to London: The First Eight Hours” and the most recent, “What’s Greenwich?” And press send. I yank Horcrux Nine from my bag.
1/12/11 4:04 p.m.
I think I’m going to organize a Flat Three card night. It feels like a good, outgoing step forward toward long-term friendship. That sounds pathetic, but this is where we’re at right now. Last night, there was some tentative talk of us all going out to a pub tonight after our first day of class, since we’re legally allowed to drink here. Maybe tomorrow we can stay in and have a card n
ight. Friday morning, we have class again, and afterward Pilot, Babe, Sahra, and I head to the airport for Rome! INSANITY.
I startle as the door opens, quickly shutting my notebook and dropping the pen to the table. Pilot strides into the kitchen with a long, thin sandwich. My heart runs around like a puppy when there’s a visitor at the door. Please be cool, heart.
“Hey!” He takes the seat across from me and unwraps his food. “You writing?”
“I was.” I push Horcrux Nine to the side.
“Wow, with a real live pen and everything!” He hops up to grab a glass of water. “What are you working on?”
I fiddle with my fingers. “Um, well, nothing really. It’s kinda like a journal, I guess.”
“Ah, nice, that sounds like something an author would do.” He comes back into view and sits across from me. “Have you started writing your book yet?” He smiles.
I blink in surprise, before huffing a laugh. “My book?”
“I hear authors write those,” he adds, as he picks up his sandwich.
I laugh again. “One of my goals this semester is actually to start my”—I raise air quotes—“‘great American novel,’ but it’s a pretty daunting task, so we’ll see.”
“Really? That’s awesome,” he says enthusiastically. “I read some of your stuff last night.” I go still, shock zipping through me as he takes another bite of sandwich.
That was so fast. What does he think of my stuff? I can’t believe he sat down and read stuff that I wrote. What does he mean, he read my stuff? He read my stuff! He read my stuff!
“Really?” I squeak. Is it chill to ask which story he read?
He swallows. “Yeah! Don’t sound so surprised.” There’s laughter in his voice. “How could I possibly resist hitting up FrenchWatermelonNineteen.com? Your stuff was funny. I really enjoyed it.”
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