London Prep

by Dodd, Jillian

  “Miss James?” she questions, taking a few steps closer to me as I nod in affirmation. “I’m Ms. Adams, school administrator. It’s nice to meet you.” She shakes my hand. She doesn’t have a firm grip, but it isn’t the softest either. She’s wearing a thick wool skirt, topped with a brown sweater, and her formality is comforting.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, taking my hand back.

  “Now, if you’d like to follow me to the office, we will get you all sorted out.”

  She turns, leading me into the building. It’s just as beautiful on the inside as it is on the outside. I love the old stone walls and thick wooden moldings. She turns a corner, taking me into a room that branches off into offices. A moment later, she has me seated at her desk.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asks, turning on a kettle.

  “I’m all right. Thank you though,” I reply politely.

  She looks a little taken aback by my answer but gives me a nod before proceeding to sit in silence until her kettle rings out, and then she has a cup of steaming water in front of her.

  It’s possible that she already doesn’t like me simply because I don’t like tea.

  “Now then, I won’t keep you too long, as it’s Sunday and I want you to get settled in. I’ve got a packet here for you,” she says, handing me a thick brown envelope, “that I thought we might go through together. First off is your schedule. You’ll be taking Statistics, Latin, Art, and Geography. Those classes run every day and then are shortened on Tuesdays and Thursdays to account for sports. You’ll have to choose one sport, and I’ve included the list of options here.”

  She gestures to another piece of paper on the desk before flipping it over and looking at the next one, moving at a fast clip. “You’ll be expected to attend all classes. If you’re ill, please have your host family contact the school. You’ll need your student card for lunch, as it runs as a charge card. Your class schedule is listed here with buildings and room numbers along with a map. This sheet has your locker information on it. You’re in locker number seventy-five on the main floor, and here,” she says, pointing, “is the combination. We’ve already put your textbooks for classes in it, so they will be there, waiting for you in the morning. Be sure to take the appropriate one with you to each class.”

  I nod my head, following along. So far, all she’s rambled on about is the schedule and locker, and those things are pretty standard.

  “As for your uniforms, we have a school spirit shop at the far end of campus. I’ll escort you there now to get your uniforms sorted out. Pick out whatever you like, and again, it can be directly charged to your student card. We will have it packed up and delivered to your host home this evening so that you’re prepared for school tomorrow. Please read over the list of rules, which includes regulations on the dress code.

  “We have a full-time counselor on staff, and if you’re having trouble adjusting or need someone to talk to, she is the one to contact. We’ve put you with the Williams family, as you already know. This is advantageous to you, as their son, Noah, is also in your year and can help guide you through daily life at Kensington.”

  The mention of Noah makes me perk up a bit, and I’m starting to wonder what he’s actually like.

  I nod my head at Ms. Adams, giving her a smile because, all of a sudden, she has stopped talking and is staring at me.

  “All right then,” she says, getting up. “I will give you a quick tour and then have you on your way to the shop.”

  I stand up, following her out of the office and into the hallway. As she leads me down it, I find lockers, noticing that the aged facade has transitioned into a clean and modern school.

  “If you follow this hallway, it takes you to our sporting facilities.” Ms. Adams points and then continues walking. “In front of us is the common room, and over there is the lunchroom. Everyone in your year attends lunch at the same time.”

  I try to get a peek inside, but all of the lights are switched off, and I end up looking at my reflection in the glass.

  “If you follow this hallway, you will find your locker at the end as well as most of the classrooms. This stairwell here will take you up to the first through third floors. If you go through those doors”—she points again—“there is a connected building, housing the nurse, teachers’ offices, and such. If you continue past that, you’ll find the building for our younger students, but the majority of your time will be spent here.”

  I try to take in all of the information, feeling slightly turned around. I’m silently grateful for the map included in my packet. I follow behind her until we’re standing in front of the school shop.

  “You’re allowed to wear skirts, shorts, or trousers. If you wear skirts or shorts, black tights are required to be worn underneath them. Every day, you need to be in a white button-up, but you may add one of the school jumpers if you’re chilly. Black shoes are mandatory.” She nods to herself as I look over the clothes, not impressed by their fabric choices or design, not to mention the overuse of navy and red.

  “Oh, and please come back to my office on Tuesday morning before classes start and let me know which sport you will be participating in. We can then get you set up for it that afternoon.”

  “Okay,” I reply, taking the packet that she hands to me.

  “Mr. Hughes,” she calls out, causing a man to pop his head out into the shop from an office.

  “Ms. Adams.” He smiles, moving toward us at a snail’s pace.

  “Please see to it that Miss James is prepared for her first day of classes tomorrow.” She gives him a warm smile, and I’m starting to wonder if she just doesn’t like me or if she is more friendly to people she knows.

  “Very well.” He nods, taking my elbow and leading me to a section full of skirts and pants.

  The patterns are classic, and the shirts are plain, but I manage to collect a pile of clothing, adding in some sweaters—or should I say, jumpers—and tights, like she instructed.

  Mr. Hughes smiles as he folds the clothing. “We will have this delivered by evening’s end,” he tells me, and then I’m free to go.

  I take in the fresh air again, feeling the weight of my new schedule and the school rules heavy in my hand.

  I want the distraction.

  3pm

  As I make my way off campus, I decide to go to one of the cafés that Helen recommended. It’s still light out, and having a little me time before going back to the house sounds nice. It’s my last moment of freedom where I can still pretend tomorrow isn’t happening.

  I peek through the window and decide against it. It looks nice, but it’s quiet and small.

  And right now, I don’t want that.

  I want the distraction of people. I want noise and chatter to drown out my thoughts.

  I walk a little farther and find the perfect place—The Queens Arms. I go into the pub, quickly absorbing the vibe coming from within it. The place is packed. There are groups of men sitting at tables, couples at the bar, parties of friends all gathered together. Normally, I would hate sitting at the bar alone. I would hate not being out with, well, anyone. But this afternoon, I couldn’t be more thankful for it. Because for the next three weeks, I’m never going to be alone.

  Back home, my dad’s always at work. Mom is out in the city, at some function or another. It’s normally just me. We do dinners together, but that’s about it. Sometimes, we will go to the park over the weekend or out for brunch, but they’re typically planned events. Planned time. And I already know from the warmth of the Williams’ home that it is lived in. That they spend a lot of family time there together.

  I smile at the bartender and order a cider. He looks me over, and I half-wonder if he’s going to ask for my ID, but he simply pulls out a pint glass and turns on the tap. I try not to let out a visible sigh of relief as he sets the pint onto the bar. I pay him and then look around, trying to find an open table.

  Or even an open seat.

  I walk farther into the pub and am st
ruck by the thick wooden beams that match the wraparound bar. I squeeze past a group of men talking about an upcoming football match—which to the British, means soccer—and smile to myself. I finally spot an open seat farther down the bar that’s perfect.

  I sit down, take a few large gulps of cider, and enjoy the fruity taste lingering in my mouth.

  This is exactly what I needed. Time alone to relax and unwind.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a loud voice says from over my shoulder, causing me to roll my eyes.

  Honestly, can I not have just a minute to myself?

  “Miss?” I say, frustrated, turning toward the voice. I meet the gaze of a cute boy, whose blue eyes narrow in on me.

  “I have to ask you,” he says, “is that cider you’re drinking?”

  “Yeah. Why?” I ask, perplexed.

  “Why? Well, this matters a great deal actually, for two main reasons,” he says, grinning. His light-blue eyes are set against short blond hair, and he cocks his head at me.

  “Really?” I say, biting my lip so he isn’t encouraged by me smiling. “And why’s that?”

  “Well, firstly, cider is absolute shit, and it should be thrown out immediately,” he says seriously, moving in a little closer.

  I can smell beer on his breath, and I can already tell he’s one of those boys who likes putting on a show.

  “And if I won’t do that?” I question.

  “Well then,” he says, leaning on the bar and setting his pint down next to mine, “we’ve made it to my second point. Which is, if you’re going to drink cider—which, again, I point out is fucking terrible—then you must counteract it by not drinking it alone. So, here I stand before you, your moral support for the task.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me, obviously pleased with himself. And I can’t help but smile along with him.

  “Oh, I see. You’ve come to my rescue then?” I take another sip of the supposedly fucking terrible cider, which I’m actually enjoying.

  “I’m no knight in shining armor. The opposite really. I was hoping you’d rescue me. You see those lads over there?” he says, pointing over his shoulder to a table in the corner. A few guys are sitting around it, and at least a half-dozen empty pints decorate their table. “They’re a terrible time, and I was hoping you might take pity on me.” He pouts, giving me sad puppy-dog eyes.

  And I want to give in, but I know exactly what he’s doing.

  “You’re a charmer,” I admit, but I pull back a little.

  “And you aren’t having any part of it, are you?” he says, a laugh escaping his lips. His mood lightens, and he turns back to look at his friends.

  I take in his button-down shirt, how it’s rolled at the sleeves and how the top button is undone. This guy isn’t bulky, but he isn’t thin either. He’s the perfect combination of put together yet adorably undone.

  He looks like trouble.

  But he looks fun.

  And fun is exactly what I need right now.

  He turns back around, his blue eyes locking on mine.

  “I guess we will find out, won’t we?” I urge. Because I really don’t want him to go back to his table.

  “You’re a feisty one.” He grins, taking a sip of his drink.

  I just shrug at him as I look around the pub. “I’m surprised so many people are here. I thought Sundays were meant for afternoons spent with the family and evening roasts.”

  “Well, most do follow that tradition,” he admits. “But if you’re lucky, like me, your dad is off working while your mum is participating in yet another weeklong spa retreat. Alas, here I am, finding myself next to a beautiful woman instead of a roast.”

  “But the question is,” I say coyly, “which would you rather have?”

  “Well, of course, the roast,” he replies jokingly before he takes another drink.

  I just shake my head. “At least you aren’t out alone.” I sigh.

  His eyes follow mine back to his table.

  “What? I don’t see anyone,” he says, pretending to look around the pub, trying to find his friends.

  “Seriously?” I laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, leaning even closer. The smell of his beer mixes with his cologne, and it’s intriguingly intoxicating. “But I can’t seem to find whom you’re speaking of.” He looks deep into my eyes. “I can’t seem to see anything other than this beautiful girl.” He never breaks my gaze.

  “Is that so?”

  He gives me a once-over, forwardly puts his hand onto my leg, and sets his beer down on the bar.

  “It’s quite funny actually. She seems to be seated exactly where you are.”

  “Imagine that.” I grin at him, shaking my head.

  He’s cute.

  “I know,” he admits. “Kind of mad, isn’t it? I was even going to ask her for her name. What do you think? Do I have a chance?”

  His hand is still on my leg, and I look down at it, finding a gold ring on his pinkie finger.

  I decide to continue playing along. “I’m Mallory.”

  “Mallory,” he repeats, licking his lips. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Harry.”

  He takes my hand in his, running his fingers against my palm. It sends a tingle up my arm. His touch, mixed with the cider and the noise of the pub, has me feeling a little dazed. Or maybe it’s the cider mixing with jet lag.

  Who knows?

  Who cares?

  “Since we’re now well acquainted, Mallory, I’m going to try something,” he says, dropping his lips onto mine.

  And I’m surprised.

  Like, really surprised.

  I didn’t expect him to kiss me. Flirt with me? Yes. But actually go in for the kiss? No.

  His lips are soft. The kiss almost tender. Sweet.

  When he pulls back, I search his eyes, seeing desire but also a lingering question. He is cocky but hesitant. And the combination makes a smile pull at my lips. He matches my smile and then firmly presses his lips against mine.

  And I like it.

  He doesn’t push his tongue into my mouth, but it does escape his lips, tracing over my own. The sensation sends a shiver through me, causing Harry to lean away as he pulls his lips from mine.

  “I like you, Mallory,” he says more matter-of-factly than romantically.

  “You like kissing me,” I correct, giving him a curt smile.

  He lets out an easy laugh and then brings his drink back to his mouth. “Are you on vacation here?” he questions, finally taking a seat on the open stool next to me. He downs the rest of his beer and then spins to the side, turning me with him so our knees touch, our legs brushing against one another.

  “No. School,” I barely get out before his lips are back on mine.

  I’m silently grateful for being toward the back of the bar. Because his kisses go quickly from sweet to intense, and I can’t help but lace my fingers through his hair as his tongue slides into my mouth.

  “No shit,” he comments, taking a little break from making out. “Which one?”

  “Kensington,” I reply, the topic of school bringing a flush to my face.

  The fact that I start school tomorrow refocuses in my mind. I think about Helen and realize that I probably should finish my drink and get back to the house before she starts to wonder where in the world I am. I haven’t been here that long, but I don’t want to push it on my first day.

  “And are you a good student?” Harry whispers in my ear, bringing my attention back to him—and his lips.

  “Of course,” I say convincingly because I am, but I end up laughing anyway. “Why?”

  “Well, I’ve always had this fantasy about having a hot tutor, and since you, Mallory, are going to be a student at my school, what do you think? Are you up for the role?”

  As the words leave his mouth, I instantly pull back, freaking out. Because I thought he was a random guy. Not someone I would be going to school with. I mean, I know I’m kissing him, and it’s just kissing, but still!

  “You go the
re?” I barely get out, my body tensing.

  “Unfortunately,” he admits, putting his elbow onto the bar and resting his chin in his palm. “But this could make things interesting.”

  “You’re right about that,” I agree, trying to discern how I feel about it all.

  Not that I get to figure it out, because his lips are back on mine, and I forget what exactly I was so freaked out about in the first place. His lips put me in a good mood, and I decide to tease him some more.

  “Tell me,” I say, pulling away from his kisses, “why don’t you have a girlfriend? Or do you? I mean, you’re handsome and charming. Definitely a player, but I think it might secretly be a ruse.” I laugh.

  “Are you offering?” he says, raising an eyebrow at me, but I don’t give in to his grin. “Well, if you must know, I did have a girlfriend. We recently broke up, and now, I’m desperately looking for someone to mend my broken heart.” He lets out a laugh as I shake my head and decide that I really have to go now.

  “I’ll see you around then,” I say as he orders another round from the bar.

  I’m starting to walk away, but then he pulls me back to his lips. His fingers press into my waist, and it sends butterflies through my stomach. A moment later, I pull back and walk away, leaving him with a fleeting smile and a little wave.

  “See you in class, Mallory,” he calls out, giving me a wink as I finally make it out the door.

  Stubble along his jawline.

  4:30pm

  I practically float back to the house in a daze because, seriously, that boy knows how to kiss. Maybe London won’t be so bad. The school, though dated and a little old-fashioned, is nice. The Williams are kind, and Harry was definitely welcoming.

  I take in the busy streets and passing cars. It’s a lot like New York, but the farther away I move from school and the pub, the quieter it gets. And the lack of noise is nice because my head is completely foggy from the memory of Harry’s lips on mine. He was charming and warm. And the fact that he goes to Kensington School and that I’ll likely see him tomorrow has me almost swooning. Butterflies float around in my stomach, and before I know it, I’ve reached the porch.