I’ve been hanging around the kitchen every night after Packed! to work on various writing projects (the Paris blog post and trying to really flesh out an outline for a novel idea about adopted twins in college who learn one of their professors is their birth dad). When I walk into the kitchen, if Pilot’s already there, he suddenly has to leave. If I’m already in there, and he’s coming in, he just grabs something and heads out again.
Babe’s been spending a lot of time on her bed watching various editions of Cinderella. I caught her watching Ever After yesterday, and this morning she was watching the Brandy one. I tried to get her to reconsider coming out tonight, but she says she still isn’t up for it. I AM up for it. Tonight, I stop dwelling on Pilot.
* * *
I check my appearance in our full-length mirror one last time and straighten out my high-waisted black skirt. I paired it with a plain red crop top today, and, inspired by Babe, I painted my lips a matching shade of ruby. Avril Lavigne’s new song “What the Hell” plays on repeat from Sawyer over on the table by the giant window. Sahra’s putting the finishing touches on her makeup. She’s wearing a loose, cream-colored dress that falls right above her knees with blue dangly earrings and cream heeled boots.
“Ready?” she asks in her usual assertive tone. I’m getting used to it now, and I’m starting to respect her for it. She’s confident in a way that I’m only pretending to be, and I don’t think I’m even pretending up to her standards.
“Yep!” I say, pulling a stained finger out of my mouth and popping the top back onto my lipstick. I zip up my boots and grab my purse. Sahra’s first out the door. I glance back at Babe. She’s wearing headphones and watching the animated original Disney Cinderella. I wave goodbye, trying to catch her eye, but she’s engrossed in the film.
We take the Tube to central London. Sahra leads Atticus and me through the streets and to a bright red bar in Soho. The place pulses with music and laughter. We grab drinks (I order a glass of red wine), and the three of us sit on one of the red trendy-looking couches lining the walls. At first we try to chat, but it’s too loud. Atticus perseveres, trying hard to talk over the music, but despite his efforts, our conversations die quickly. There’s a mildly crowded dance floor in the center of the room. The DJ’s playing Top 40 pop music, and after a few conversationless minutes, I’m itching to get up and move to the beat. I tap my foot against the floor to Rihanna’s “Who’s that Chick.”
“Want to dance?” I ask.
“Why not?” Atticus agrees.
Sahra shrugs. “Sure.”
I give myself to Rihanna, twirling and throwing my arms around. Wine sloshes over onto my wrist, but I embrace it, cackling. Sahra dances more conservatively, sticking to one or two basic back-and-forth motions. Atticus busts out hilarious old-fashioned nerdy-looking moves. After a few songs, someone taps me on the shoulder. I whirl around to find an attractive black man in a blue button-up shirt.
I smile at him. “Hi!”
“Hey! My friend would like to dance with you,” he shouts over the music, pointing over his shoulder to another guy. Behind him, a broad-shouldered, freckly, red-faced man built like a rugby player is looking at me. Are we in middle school?
“Um, okay,” I say. Rugby Guy walks over and the two men join our little dance circle. Eventually Atticus goes off to get a drink by the bar. Sahra stays with me and the two guys.
When we’ve danced for ages, Rugby Guy asks if he can talk to me for a few minutes away from the floor. After checking with Sahra via eye contact—and receiving an aggressive go! head nod—Rugby Guy and I find an open spot at the bar. I spot Atticus at the other end, talking to an attractive man-bun guy.
“So, this is really fun! What do you do?” Rugby Guy talk-yells over the music.
I turn away from Atticus to respond. “I, um, I write! What about you?”
“Like books or articles? I’m a lawyer!”
“Cool, um, both, I guess.” I take a sip of whatever wine managed to survive the dance session.
He stares at me for few beats. It starts to feel awkward, so I fumble to make conversation. “Um so, what are your thoughts on Legally Blonde? Was that an accurate portrayal of law school?” I try to smile.
His face lights up. “You are so cute.”
He doesn’t say anything else, so I laugh nervously and pull on a British accent. “Um, so, what kind of lawyer are you?”
“What’s that accent?” he exclaims happily.
I continue, “I don’t know to what you’re referring?” Before I can register what’s happening, he pulls me to his face and we’re kissing. Whaa?
I clutch my wineglass in one hand and the other hangs limply at my side. He’s kissing me, but I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing. It’s wet and warm and—my mind flashes to a time Leo unexpectedly grabbed my head and forced me underwater in the deep end of the pool.
We break apart. That was weird. I look at the ground, eyes wide. I’ve never been so close to another human’s face before, but I did it … I kissed someone. Someone whose name I don’t even know. How anticlimactic.
He takes my limp hand and holds it between us as we lean up against the bar. We make forced small talk for another ten minutes. It’s not much fun because I have to propel the whole conversation, and he responds with quick, boring answers whenever I ask him things.
Finally he asks, “So, could we go out sometime? Can I get your number?”
How do I say, Lol, no thanks, without sounding mean? I slowly retrieve my block phone.
“Um, yeah, hold on a sec,” I say, navigating through to my address book with the stupid tiny buttons. I don’t have my number memorized. I had to put myself in my own contact list. I click on the contact and turn the phone so he can see it. He plugs the number into his phone.
“Thanks!” He puts his iPhone away. “This was fun.”
He pulls me in, and we start kissing again. I let it happen because this is still such a mystery. I want to feel it out, so I’m not floundering when there comes a time I care about the human I’m kissing. This kiss is better. I kiss back for sure this time, and it goes on for a little longer before we break apart. Okay, that was better. That was kind of nice.
1/29/11 10:30 a.m.
It happened. I sit here eating breakfast and writing to you as a kissed human being. It doesn’t technically count as accomplishing a goal on the list because I didn’t really like that guy. But I put myself out there a smidgen, and I experienced the thing! And I feel slightly less left out of general society because of it. Now, I shall relax and begin my reread of Cassandra Clare’s City of Glass—which, yes, I brought to London in my suitcase—as a reward.
* * *
“Morning, Shane! You hear from Rugby Guy yet?”
I slap my notebook closed and look up at Atticus. He comes over waggling his eyebrows and sits across from me with his laptop.
I snort. “No, have you heard from Man Bun?”
“I have indeed. Nathan and I are getting dinner on Sunday.” He grins.
“Wow, that was fast.” I smile at him, before pulling over City of Glass from where I left it on the table.
“Whatcha reading?” he asks, curiously glancing at it.
“City of Glass, one of my favorites!” I tell him happily. “The fourth book in this series is coming out soon and I’m rereading in prep.”
“Never heard of it!” he says cheerfully.
“You’re missing out!” I tease. “What are you reading right now?”
“Currently The Poet by Michael Connelly. It’s creepy as hell, but it’s good.”
“I’ll add it to my TBR!” I proceed to pitch the Mortal Instruments series until he agrees to check them out.
Before heading back to my room to read in the bunk, I decide to ask Atticus if he’d be up for exploring some more of London with me this afternoon or tomorrow. I have to start building my repertoire of knowledge for the potential Packed! article. He politely declines because he already has theater-relate
d plans and then of course, his date.
I head out of the kitchen and freeze halfway down the hall when I hear Pilot’s guitar. We haven’t talked in six days now. Should I see if Pilot would want to come with me? Maybe the only way to fix the weirdness happening between us is to push back against it with forced normalcy?
The door to his room is wide open.
I don’t give myself the chance to chicken out. I walk right up and lean against the doorframe. He’s strumming Lucy, wearing big old-fashioned headphones, and watching his computer screen.
“Hey,” I say a little louder than normal. He startles, dropping the headphones back.
“Hey, I didn’t see you.” He laughs weirdly. Nervously?
He glances down at the computer screen again and back at me. Oh god, is he Skyping with someone? But the door was open!
“Um, sorry!” My heart sledgehammers in my throat. “I wanted to see if you wanted to, um, explore places in London, later today or Sunday with me and maybe the girls? It should be fun. I’m doing research for an article I might get to write for Packed! and I’m working on this list of places I want to go check out and, uh … yeah.”
He blinks. “Um, I actually made some plans with the guys down the hall. We’re going to Bath today and staying till tomorrow, but—good luck, that sounds great.”
An uncomfortable sinking feeling fills my gut. “Oh, okay, wow, um, have fun.” I spin around, bolt into my room, scurry up the bunk, and lie on my bed clutching Horcrux Nine and City of Glass.
That was weird; he was weird.
1/30/11 2:17 a.m.
Pilot left for a trip to Bath today … why didn’t he tell any of us about it? I mean, yes, I guess he’s not obligated to tell me about his life. But he didn’t invite me. Or any of us.
I hate that this is hurting my feelings.
Babe, Sahra, and I are going to explore the city together tomorrow which should be fun.
I got a text from first-kiss Rugby Guy asking if I’d go out with him this coming Wednesday. I didn’t know how to say no nicely, so I panicked and told him I’ll be in Germany.
I can’t get to sleep. The day I landed here in London—it felt like my life lit up with a thousand strands of fairy lights. I’ve been walking around all aglow for the last few weeks, but with Pilot edging away, a bunch of the strands are going out. Blergh.
19. Drifting
“What’s this I hear about you havin’ a boyfriend?” Dad opens.
I got back from Monday class a couple hours ago and have been nervously anticipating this Skype call ever since—it’s our first since I started the internship.
I shift against the wall in my bunk. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“That’s not what I heard from Leo.”
“Well, Leo’s an ass.”
“What’s wrong with you? I’m just askin’ a question!”
“Come on, Shane, don’t talk about your cousin that way,” Mom chides.
I harrumph.
Mom changes the subject. “Tell us about work!” She grins at the webcam. “What did you wear? Who are you working with?”
“I’m working at an urgent care office, and I’m shadowing the receptionist right now, her name’s Wendy, and my roommate Sahra works in the same building at the pediatrics office there.” I pull up a forced smile.
Mom beams. “Wow, Shane, that’s great! You know I’m proud of you, right? I’m so proud of you! I just…” She trails off, putting a hand to her heart. “And that’s so nice that you have Sahra there. Do you two get to take lunch together?”
My heart hurts. “Yeah.”
“You learnin’ a lot?” Dad asks.
I nod vigorously. “Yeah! I’ve already been exposed to all sorts of medical issues and emergency situations.”
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up with curiosity. “Any particularly interesting ones you want to share?”
“Um, no, I mean, well—”
Dad conveniently interrupts me with a new question. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he’s squeamish. We sign off a few minutes later. I feel like I just swallowed a cup of mud. I want to tell them about Packed! I want to tell them how great the writing course is going, that I got another A on an assignment in class today. I love the way they look at me when they hear I’m doing well—the way my dad smiles and my mom’s voice wobbles because any heightened emotion brings her to the brink of tears. I like being their perfect daughter.
It’s inevitable that they find out I lied about all this, but I need it to be after the semester’s over. Once I’ve sorted things out. Dad’s good at being proud. He’s good at providing, protecting, playing games. But he’s not good at being angry. It swallows him up. He goes into sleep mode and someone else takes the helm. I’ve experienced as much when the cousins and I have broken things by accident, or when I haven’t attended to a chore fast enough. Mom and I make Bruce Banner jokes after the fact, but there’s nothing funny about it in the moment.
But it’s going to be okay when I come back to them with a job. He can’t be too mad if I get a job. I close my laptop. Through the window wall, I can see my flatmates in the kitchen, engaging in various stages of dinner. I climb down to join them.
I flop onto the leather couch, not wanting to crowd the cooking area where Babe and Atticus move about chopping things. Sahra and Pilot are eating at the table.
“How’d Skype with the parents go?” Babe calls from the counter as Atticus wraps up the story he was telling when I walked in.
“Fine.” I smile.
“Any change in status with Friday night Rugby Guy?” Atticus asks in a silly this-is-scandalous tone.
“Who?” Babe exclaims, spinning around.
I swallow. It takes all my willpower not to glance at Pilot. I stare at Atticus. “Um, he texted me last night. How was your date with Man Bun?”
“You missed it. I was just telling everyone how great it was!”
“Oh my gosh, that’s amazing!” I smile.
“Shane, who’s this Friday night Rugby Guy?” Babe puts down the knife she’s been chopping vegetables with and crosses her arms.
I glance at Pilot. He’s pushing microwaved lasagna around with his fork. I open my mouth and close it wordlessly.
“Shane made out with some Lawyer Guy at the club on Friday,” Sahra says casually.
“Sahra!” I yelp. I stare at my keyboard now, cheeks blazing.
“Way to fill me in!” Babe accuses.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” I tell her.
“So did he ask you out?” Atticus asks.
“He wants to go out on Wednesday,” I mumble.
“That’s exciting!” Atticus grins.
“Well, I told him: No, sorry, I’ll be in Germany,” I add sheepishly. Out of the corner my eye, I see Pilot’s fork stop moving.
“You’re going to Germany?” Sahra asks.
“No,” I answer guiltily.
“Shane!” Babe giggles and turns to resume her cooking prep.
Atticus breaks into a full-on cackle.
Pilot turns his head and meets my eyes for the first time in over a week. “Why don’t you want to go out with him?” he asks.
My heart rams against my chest. You should ask him if we can talk outside.
I swallow. “I just … didn’t like him.” I can’t make my mouth form any more words. We hold each other’s gaze for an extra second in which I desperately try to communicate But I do like you, can we talk, do you have any interest in me, what happened in Paris? with my eyes. Sizzles and pops permeate the room, disturbing the moment. I look away to find Babe breaking up a blob of ground beef on the stove.
Atticus pipes in from the sink where he’s about to drain his pasta, “Well, don’t worry. I’ll help you draft something to let him down easy.”
20. Spinning
2/15/11
It’s been a while.
Other than interning at Packed!, which is fine (I’m still running basic errands), and doing writing assignments for class, wh
ich is going great, basically three things happened in these past two weeks:
1) Babe and I decided to plan a flat family dinner.
Because all of a sudden the whole flat got super-busy. We haven’t hung out all together in ages (weeks but it feels like ages). I barely see Sahra, Atticus has always been busy, and Pilot’s MIA. Babe and I go out of our way to chat most days, but even that’s been difficult. I guess the combo of internships and class can do that. Babe and I discussed our lack of hangs and decided the way to fix it was a scheduled flat activity: an American family dinner with the works—baked ziti, wine, cards, and beer pong. She started a group Facebook chat to work out what day would be best for everyone.
2) I didn’t speak to Pilot.
After that night in the kitchen when we talked about Rugby Guy, I didn’t even see Pilot for six whole days, let alone exchange words. I was writing in my bunk when I finally caught sight of him walking into the kitchen through the bedroom window. He set his open computer down on the table and chucked a frozen meal into the microwave. For a minute, I debated going in there to “write,” but then I realized he was talking—Skyping again. My heart slunk further down into its metaphorical chair as he shared a laugh with the screen.
3) We scheduled the family dinner.
It might as well be a hundred years from now. When four of us can make of it, one of us can’t, and when three of us can make it, two of us can’t. The date we picked was so far in the future that Atticus suggested we just save the dinner as a big last-day-in-London flat celebration.
So now, it’s scheduled for our last day in London (April 22).
I feel a little like I’ve lost control of my raft. Like, I came to this river with the boat, and I was rowing toward my destination, but somehow I got caught in a tide. How do I reestablish control? Was I ever steering? I must have been. I got myself to London, didn’t I?
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