What Scotland Taught Me

by Molly Ringle

  I slowed him down with a pull to his skinny waist. “This probably shouldn’t go too far. But I want to give you a chance. I came all this way, didn’t I?”

  “That you did.” He glanced down the sidewalk, and then crowded me into the shadows of a small garden, where he kissed me again. “Don’t worry. I won’t push it too far. And I won’t tell anyone.”

  Chapter Nine: Happy Anniversary

  “You were out a long time,” teased Amber as I entered the hostel kitchen. She shared a table with Shannon and Laurence, coffee cups and newspapers scattered in front of them.

  I set my shopping bags on the next table over, and pulled off my coat. “Yeah. We, um, hit a lot of stores and got dinner.”

  “And then there was that lap dance you had to give him,” Laurence added.

  I attempted my usual glare, but apparently my guilt bled into it too thoroughly. Amber and Shannon gasped in excitement.

  “Did you kiss him?” Shannon asked.

  “You totally snogged him!” Amber said.

  Meanwhile, Laurence examined me with serene green eyes, lips curled in a smile. God, how I wished he wasn’t here.

  “Okay. We kissed. But!” I held up my finger to staunch the squeals from my two female friends. “We’ve already talked about Tony. He knows this probably can’t go anywhere. I said I didn’t want it to turn, you know, sleazy.”

  “So, lap dances but not stripteases,” said Laurence.

  “Will someone please stuff something large and absorbent down his throat?” I said.

  Amber shifted, and from her position and the way Laurence suddenly jumped, I figured her foot had just ascended his lap. “Laurence only wants some action, too, that’s all,” she said.

  “Um, yuck,” I said. “Anyway, please don’t make a big thing of this.”

  “We’re not,” Shannon promised. “It’s sweet. It’s fun. That’s all.”

  I glanced once more at Laurence, but between Amber’s foot and my earlier rebuffs, he opted to stay quiet. “Thanks. I’m going to put my stuff away.”

  As I climbed the stairs, I checked my phone texts. Another had arrived from Tony. He sent one every day or two with basic news and greetings, probably meant to assure me I was forgiven for my tactless request.

  Anything up with ghosts? he wrote this time. Keep meaning to ask. Amber’s whole reason for going and all. Let me know!

  At least I could send him a brief report of the sighting at the castle. Maybe it would distract him into a theological theory about why God was inflicting visions upon her. That was Tony’s interpretation of her ghost-seeing--which drove Amber mental. It had nothing to do with God, she’d always sneer. It was just tormented spirits, okay?

  I settled onto my bed and composed a text.

  Dear Rotting Ghost Face,

  Why yes, Amber did see something. Or so she claims. Delusional? You be the judge...

  * * *

  A text arrived in the first week in October, while I munched my lunchtime sandwich at the Monteith Hotel.

  Three cool surprises about Scotland, Shannon assigned.

  While I mused over how to find answers that didn’t include items like How yummy Gil’s hair smells, Amber’s answers came in.

  1. Crumpets aren’t English muffins after all, they’re even better!

  2. I rock at pulling pints, who knew?

  3. Even more psychic activity than I dared hope.

  At least she spared us any remarks regarding Laurence’s handsome physique. That technically wouldn’t have been a surprise about Scotland, anyway.

  Laurence’s answers came next, while I narrowed mine down in my head.

  1. Decent Wi-Fi and cell phone clarity.

  2. Acquiring the power to evict people who suck.

  3. Cider (alcoholic) tasting actually pretty good here.

  Assembling mine at last I typed:

  1. Actual live cobblestones. (OK, not live exactly.)

  2. Awesome finds in music shops.

  3. New words like “chuffed” and “dodgy.”

  As I was rising to return to my sudsy job, Shannon texted us all:

  Thanx guys! Here’s mine. Try not to gag.

  1. Thomas saying he loves my accent.

  2. Thomas teaching me about different flavors of chips.

  3. Thomas promising to show me his home village (near Canterbury).

  OK, so I’m smitten.

  While I did dishes that afternoon, I stole occasional glances at my phone to catch up on the razzing Laurence and Amber were doling out to Shannon about her English “boy toy.” I didn’t type anything myself. Later I could use the excuse that my hands were too soapy to text, but the real reason was jealousy.

  Shannon had found someone, possibly for keeps, and was free to tell the world and let her friends tease her and congratulate her. I had only found someone for a limited engagement, and I definitely couldn’t tell the world, and my friends did tease me, but their teasing carried a dirty edge. I was doing something naughty, because I still had a boy back home who didn’t know. Even if he technically didn’t want to know.

  Which I didn’t know for sure. You know?

  And I liked this limited-engagement guy. He deserved more than a “naughty” label and a snicker from my friends. But who was I to give him what he deserved--and what did I myself deserve after all this?

  * * *

  As Gil still lived with his parents and sister--“right obnoxious buggers who never leave”--he didn’t want to bring me home to hang out. We didn’t go to the pub either, as it was too loud and he didn’t like his coworkers’ raunchy comments about me. And we couldn’t sit around at the hostel: as Gil wasn’t a paying guest, he wasn’t allowed past the front desk. Laurence took great sanctimonious pleasure in telling me this when I asked.

  “By the way, when do I get to meet him?” Laurence added.

  “Please. I know how you’ll behave. I’m avoiding that encounter.”

  “You’re just worried he’ll turn out to be bi and fancy me.”

  “Get over yourself.”

  However, as the October nights grew longer, my friends stayed busy enough to leave little time to grill me for details. Amber and Laurence hung out together constantly, for whatever reason, and though I never saw any actual kisses, she did seem to snuggle up against him a lot. Both gross and bewildering.

  Meanwhile, Shannon kept up her meetings with the university theater group doing Much Ado About Nothing, and fell deeper into infatuation with the English guy named Thomas. She called and texted him even more than she called and texted home. Her skin glowed as if we weren’t in a sun-starved, far-north country. I’d never seen anything like it.

  “When do we get to meet him?” I asked, not meaning to echo Laurence but doing so anyway.

  “Whenever his class schedule stops being so crazy,” she said. “Don’t worry, we’ll find an evening one of these weeks. That is, if you’re not too busy with someone Scottish who shall remain nameless.”

  Indeed. Many of those nights, I ended up taking long walks with Gil, or hanging around with him in places like Waverley Station, one of the only establishments still open after 10:00 p.m. that didn’t require a cover charge. Eventually, for more privacy, we put on scarves and hats and took to shadowed park benches. One of us sat between the knees of the other with a coat wrapped around us both, and with cold nose-tips we kissed and told our life stories.

  I wanted to document these meetings with my camera, but when I got home and showed my travel photos to Tony and my family, how could I explain owning a bunch of close-ups of a bartender with bad shirts? I considered uploading them onto a photo-storage website under a secret screen name, but it wearied me to imagine adding another level of subterfuge to my life.

  I compromised by having him pose in front of buildings, gates, statues, fountains, and scenic views, standing off to one side and not quite looking at me, as if he were just one pedestrian among many. He teased me for this solution, but his teasing landed softly, co
ming as they did with kisses down my neck.

  Infatuation rendered me dizzy. He kissed beautifully, his accent melted my tension and reluctance, and I even viewed his egregious shirts as a hip rock-and-roll statement. When he strolled down the street to meet me, twitchy fingers tapping his thigh, long hair blowing, smile unfolding, I felt grateful and unworthy, as if this honor had fallen by mistake to me. And whenever he kissed me hello, my anxieties scattered on the cold wind.

  Though pleasant while they actually took place, these shenanigans sat like anvils on my brain when I sat down in the hostel’s stairwell at midnight on October 14 to compose an email to Tony.

  Dear Sludge Head,

  Five months ago, at lunchtime, I was at my locker, being ranted at by Wilson. This was his way of trying to get back together with me. He used delightful language involving how many of each other’s body parts we were familiar with, concluding that this clearly meant I should be with him forever. I told him to leave me alone. He grabbed my arm and tried to turn me around. Then this voice said, “Let her go, Wilson.”

  Tony Pavelich, who sat next to me in Physics, stood there looking angrier than I’d ever seen him.

  You were more than my Physics tablemate, actually. You were the cute friend and altar boy I’d been eyeing for years without thinking I’d ever get to act on my daydreams.

  Wilson tried to intimidate you as well, and I was scared, because he’s bigger than you. But you just stood there looking stern and didn’t flinch one bit, and he finally stalked off.

  We walked to Physics together. I told you I hated myself for ever liking someone so gross.

  You told me it was okay. People make mistakes. People change. People start liking other people instead. We sat down at our table. You put your hand on mine and started to say more, but then Ms. Breckridge started class and we had to be quiet.

  As I took notes about mass and acceleration, this corner of notebook paper slid over to me, obscuring my “F=ma” equation.

  You wrote, “My uncompleted sentence: I’d try to get you back too if I was ever lucky enough to be your guy. Compliment. No stalker issues intended.”

  You know how the rest of the day went, you kissyface dork you.

  In fact, you know all of this already, but since I can’t be with you to make any new memories, I’m rehashing an appropriate old one.

  I’m eight hours ahead of you so I get to say it first: happy anniversary!

  Love,

  Edinburgh Rock (which may not sound like a nasty name, but if you had tried Edinburgh Rock, this chalky substance they pass off as candy around here, you’d understand).

  I logged off and trudged back into the corridor to get ready for bed.

  I had done my girlfriend duty and performed better than I expected: I actually succeeded in making myself feel nostalgic and romantic toward Tony. But while brushing my teeth in ice-cold water in the bathroom, I spotted a hickey on my neck, a purple splotch shaped like Great Britain, courtesy of Gilleon Leslie four hours ago. I pushed a section of my blonde frizz over it, my stomach sinking in shame. Some girlfriend.

  Chapter Ten: Drenched Girls, Alive and Dead

  A few days later I huffed and wheezed up the steep grassy slope of Princes Street Gardens, in Amber’s wake. The castle and its charcoal-gray cliff loomed above us. Clouds almost as dark as the cliff encroached upon the sky, dimming the afternoon light. The air smelled like city traffic, crushed grass, and imminent rain.

  “Is this even a trail?” I called to Amber.

  “Sure.” Her red scarf, acting as a ponytail holder in her black hair, fluttered in the gusts. “I need a good lookout point. Here, this’ll work.” She stopped at a wider ledge in the shelter of an oak and plunked herself onto the roots.

  I hunkered down beside her and shoved stray hairs off my face, tucking them back into my fleece hat. “Nice view of the city, anyhow.”

  She planted her foot on the tree trunk. “I’m sure the people who died here appreciated that.”

  Our line of sight extended over the buildings of Princes Street and the Georgian New Town, all the way across Edinburgh’s roofs and chimneys to the steely gray of the Firth of Forth--an estuary that let onto the North Sea. I shuddered at how unimaginably cold that water must be. The wind coming off it was brutal enough.

  “Witch trials, huh?” I said.

  “Yep. This was all water.” She waved toward the valley of greenery below, train tracks now running along its base. “The Nor’ Loch. Incredibly filthy and stinky and disgusting, and the source of drinking water for the city.”

  “Ew.”

  “‘Ew’ pretty much sums up the medieval times. Anyway, it was also where they did the witch dunking. Or actually, ‘douking’ is how it’s written in ye olden books.”

  I shifted to find a more comfortable spot on the root. “Let me guess. If they drowned, they were innocent.”

  “Right. Tied up their hands and feet and dunked them in a chair on a beam, and if they drowned, oh, sorry! Must be innocent. If they survived--witch. Burned at the stake.”

  “Jeez. Bad era to be a woman.”

  “Especially one like me.” She twiddled a long blade of grass between her fingers. “Ghost-seeing chicks would have been called witches in a heartbeat.”

  “So you’re hoping to see some here?”

  “Maybe. When they drained the lake, they found a lot of bodies. Now, the witches would have been pulled out right after the dunking, dead or alive, right? So those other bodies must have been random murder victims. Could be all kinds of ghosts around here, witches or otherwise.”

  “Have I ever told you what a cheerful friend you are?”

  She laughed. “All right. Since I’m only getting the eardrum tingles so far, let’s change the subject. Got another email from my dad.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve been wondering about him. Is he coming?”

  “Not yet. He said work’s been crazy. But he still wants to see me.”

  “No date set?”

  “No.” She grimaced. “I sort of suspect he’s doing his usual gig. You know, avoiding his family like a raging disease.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s got to be frustrating.”

  “Yeah. But hey, he could still come through. Not all men suck, right?”

  “True that.”

  “Speaking of which...” She leaned back, hugging her knees. “You know how we used to say Laurence couldn’t melt ice cream if you put it in bed with him? Well, that just isn’t true.”

  I forgot the Arctic breeze for a second and stared at her. “What?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, the other night while we were up at the castle, it got windy and I started shivering, and he tucked me inside his overcoat. I was nice and warm after that.”

  “Well. It’s a good overcoat.” This news alarmed me. If they were cruising the city at night, cuddling under each other’s coats like Gil and me, did that mean they, too, were making out with increasing fervor? (Like, ahem, Gil and me.)

  “Plus he smells good,” she added.

  “Yeah, he...stays clean.”

  “We have more in common than I realized, too. I mean, living with single parents, for one.”

  “Uh-huh.” As if it were the same thing, Laurence’s mom dying four years ago of cancer, and Amber’s dad deserting the family when she was a baby.

  “We have fascinating conversations,” she went on. “I learn new things every time I talk to him.”

  “Um, listen, you’re not really attached to him, are you?”

  She lifted her dark eyebrows. “Should I not be?”

  “Come on, this is Laurence. None of us are being ourselves while we’re here. He might just be bored, and...well, I wouldn’t want you to get hurt when he decides he’s had enough.”

  She gave a startled, insulted laugh. “You don’t think it’s possible he could actually like me? Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Don’t get like that.” I kicked a pebble down the slope. “This isn’t normal. Normally
, he drives everyone mental. Remember?”

  “He’s intelligent,” she said. “And that’s worth a good argument.”

  I shut my lips and glowered at the rain clouds and the faraway bay. No, I couldn’t believe Laurence would make out with her. He was polite and she was delusional, that was all. But it wouldn’t do any good to tell her she was only feeling warped gratitude toward him, and that she would have to throw herself at him in order to find out how he really felt. And if she did, Laurence would probably respond by asking her not to contaminate him with her microbes.

  Besides, I didn’t know for sure that he bought her plane ticket, and I wasn’t about to ask right now and cause a wider rift.

  Like I ought to lecture people on their crushes and secrets, anyhow. I tried not to think about Gil’s hands roaming underneath my sweater two nights ago on a railway station bench. My memory, not cooperating, instantly provided not only the feel of his cool and callused fingers, but also the sound of the voice over the station’s loudspeakers, announcing a train’s arrival.

  I hadn’t told my friends about this step along the physical intimacy scale; I was allowing them to think we still only kissed. I was beginning to see what people meant by slippery slopes even when I wasn’t literally sitting upon one.

  I ground a clump of dirt into the mud, punching it repeatedly with my toes. My trusty blue Converse shoes were soaked through from the wet grass, my feet chilly as refrigerated apples.

  “It’s going to pour,” I declared. “Any minute now.”

  Amber took a sharp breath. “Headache phase.” She swallowed, rubbing her temples. “Oh yeah. Something here.”

  I rolled my eyes when she wasn’t looking. Fine. We’d freeze, then.

  For all I knew, she could be faking the whole scene. She could have gotten any of these tales out of books and then convinced herself--or just us--that she saw it for real.

  I admit there were a few times ghosts had “shown” her things that turned out to be real. For example, at Laurence’s house once, she said she saw an old lady wearing a long black dress and crouching to look behind the massive buffet in the dining room. Laurence, upon our urging, tugged the buffet away from the wall. Beneath it were some old scrapbooks, which you could see from underneath if you got down on the floor. “They’ve always been there,” Laurence said. “Just old clippings and tea invitations. Nothing important.”