Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  “Do you mind if I put some music on in the background while we unpack, the Beatles or something?”

  “Oh my goodness, I love the Beatles. Yes, please!” she gushes, slapping her hands against her lap for emphasis.

  “Awesome.” I turn back to my computer, pulling up iTunes. “A Hard Day’s Night” seeps from my computer speakers. I close my eyes for a second. I’m in England! I do a little chassé-spin dance step toward my suitcase.

  * * *

  I’m working on the last bits of my closet. Roommate #3 has arrived, and she’s intimidatingly tall. We’re thinking there is no Roommate #4 because that bed’s lacking a blue folder. The empty bunk’s about to become a storage area for our many pieces of luggage. Babe’s finished unpacking. She’s lounging with her laptop. The wall near her bed is now decorated with various Mickey Mouse–related snippets and pictures, including a magazine cut out of the phrase THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH written in the flouncy Disney font.

  Roommate #3, Sahra—pronounced Say-ruh—is still unpacking. She has these big dark eyes and tanned skin. Every time she looks over at Babe and me, her straight, shoulder-length, dark brown locks swish out around her face like she’s in a hair commercial. I’m already kind of jealous of her effortlessly cool style. She’s currently sporting fashion-y heeled booties with gray skinny jeans and a stylish, oversize cream sweater.

  Sahra is prelaw, and hoping to Skype her boyfriend before bed later. There’s already a picture of the two of them tacked up on her wall. After initial introductions and a brief conversation, the three of us fell into a comfortable silence as we emptied our belongings into the provided cupboards.

  I hang my last sweater in my now-crowded closet and close the door. We’re expected to be upstairs for orientation at 12:30, which is in approximately thirty minutes. I change into a cute white shirt and black jeans, walk through a perfume mist, brush my teeth, revitalize my curly, wave-ridden blond hair, and spruce up the makeup I did yesterday morning, East Coast time. I’m too tired to calculate how many hours ago that was. I pull the thick rubber bracelet I got for Christmas from my toiletry bag and tug it onto my wrist. I’ve worn it everywhere since, and I felt a little naked without it on the plane. It’s black with neon-green numbers (4 8 15 16 23 42) etched into it. It’s a Lost thing. Lost is the best TV show of all time. Carrying a physical piece of it on my wrist gives me a weird thrill. I want people in the world to ask me about it, so I can spread the Lost love to all the unknowing noobs. I took it off for the flight because it felt taboo to wear it up in the air, since the whole show revolves around a plane crash.

  I step in front of the full-length mirror one last time to inspect my appearance. My sometimes-blue eyes flash ice gray today, and my hair hangs in a poofy blob to my mid-back. I was a vampire shade of gray while unpacking, but a light dusting of bronzer has brought me back to a living human skin tone.

  My laptop (he goes by Sawyer) is still on the table, playing music. The blinds are shut tight across the giant window. I stride across the room and turn to look at Sahra as my fingers close around the skinny, plastic blind-opener stick. She’s cramming what appears to be her five hundredth black dress into her closet. Talk to them like you’re already friends.

  I speak a little louder than necessary to ensure that both girls hear. “Guys, I wonder what our view is like in the basement. What even is this window?”

  Babe leans out of the bunk to smile at me. “Right? Probably to give the illusion that we don’t live in a dungeon.”

  Sahra shoves her closet closed and drops onto her bed. “Open it,” she demands with a conservative smile.

  “Okay.” I twist the plastic thingy. The blinds open to reveal a courtyard. Well, courtyard is a generous word. A laugh bubbles out of me.

  “Ha.” Sahra grins for a moment before opening her laptop.

  Outside the window is about ten feet of concrete sidewalk and then there’s another wall with a giant window. The second window provides an incredibly clear view into a kitchen. Maybe that’s our kitchen. This apartment—flat, British people call apartments flats—is supposed to have a shared kitchen. It would appear the kitchen has a window that peers right into our bedroom.

  We have these blinds here for privacy, though, so I guess this is pretty cool. It’s kind of like we have a spy window into the kitchen. What a weird architectural decision. Who puts a giant window wall in a basement flat that looks into the shared kitchen—

  A boy.

  There’s a boy in the kitchen. A boy right up at the window facing me. How did I not see him immediately? He’s washing dishes with a big, fluffy, yellow sponge. The sink must be right there up against the window.

  He’s a cute boy. A cute boy doing dishes. Is there anything more attractive than a boy doing dishes? I’m totally staring, and after a few moments, he looks up. We make eye contact through the kitchen window across the ten feet of concrete and back through my window, and he smiles at me. I explode.

  Not literally. But you know that feeling like light being circulated through your veins when you see someone cute, and all of a sudden you explode all over with the thrill of said cute person noticing and acknowledging your existence as a human with whom they could potentially fall into a relationship?

  I can’t help it. My brain jumps right to:

  GOAL 3) Kiss a boy you like.

  I smile back at him and then look away so as not to appear to be a weird statue that stares at him. How do I meet this boy? Instinct says to retreat to my computer and hope I run into him later today.

  I steal another glance his way. There’s a dark-haired boy I can’t see very well in there with him, sitting on a black leather couch on the other side of the room.

  Maybe I can play it like I’m going to check out the kitchen? But I don’t want to go over there alone. I might forget words and need someone to fill the empty air. I think my heart is palpitating. I turn back to Sahra and Babe, and sag a bit in an attempt to look chill.

  “Hey, guys, anyone want to go check out the kitchen?” I ask quickly.

  * * *

  The last time I actively put the moves on a cute boy was in eighth grade. It’s what first opened the rift between the cousins and me. Before that we were pals, especially Leo and me—we’re so close in age and his family lives right down the street. He used to come over and hide in my room whenever he did something to upset Uncle Dan (which was a lot).

  When I was thirteen, I worked up the courage to instant message Louis Watson. We ended up IMing on a Sunday during one of the weekly Primaveri family BBQs. I was inside on Uncle Dan’s PC while everyone else was outside in the pool. Twelve-year-old Leo wandered inside, saw me, and told the entire family I was in love with Louis Watson. I was roasted for the rest of the afternoon. It started with Leo, then the rest of the boys, then my uncles, and finally my dad. By the end of the night, I was nothing but a hot, sweaty puddle of embarrassment. That was the last time I spoke to Louis Watson. Today there are no family members here to judge me. I will talk to the cute boy.

  Babe joins me on my kitchen quest. Together, we backtrack down the hall and take a left when we reach the staircase. Be outgoing, be outgoing, whatever you do, be outgoing.

  We come to a stop outside the kitchen door. There’s a keypad. Apparently, we need a code to get in.

  “Did they tell us about a code?” I ask Babe.

  “Maybe it’s on the information in those blue folders they left on our beds?” she speculates.

  Luckily, there are thin vertical windows on both sides of the kitchen door, so the boys inside can see us. A tall Asian boy with close-cropped hair and warm brown eyes pulls the door open. He’s the guy I noticed on the couch.

  “Hi!” he exclaims with a big dorky smile. He’s lanky and sporting an oversize, black long-sleeve shirt with loose-fitting jeans. “Welcome to the kitchen! I’m Atticus.”

  “Hi,” Babe and I chorus.

  “I’m Babe,” she continues.

  “I’m Shane,” I add.<
br />
  The boy who smiled at me through the window is facing us, still by the sink. He meets my gaze and smiles again. Not a giant toothy smile, but a cool, chill half smile. He’s holding a dish towel and leaning against the counter, wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt and jeans. His light brown hair is haphazardly ruffled. He’s fair (but nowhere near the ghost level I’m at); his skin is rosy with what looks like a fresh sunburn. He’s all cool and leaning … and looking cool. What am I doing? Awkwardly standing in the middle of the room next to Babe. I reflexively put my hand on my hip. And drop it because it feels forced. And then I put it back up. And drop it. Oh god.

  “Hey, I’m Pilot,” he says.

  Be outgoing. “Pilot, like a pilot?” The words escape my mouth before I can think them through.

  What?

  “Yes?” he answers, looking mildly confused.

  “Like the first episode of a show!” I continue. Stop talking.

  “Yes, exactly like that!” Atticus chuckles as he flops onto the black leather couch against the wall.

  I almost say: Lost has an amazing pilot! But before I can spit it out, Pilot speaks again, “Yeah, my parents are really, really into TV,” he adds.

  “What?” Babe exclaims in disbelief, at the same time I blurt, “Oh my gosh, I’m really, really into TV!”

  Atticus and Pilot laugh.

  Oh no, that was a joke. My cheeks burn, and I bow my head. Whilst interacting with attractive boys, I have a tendency to experience incoherent babbling and sluggish brain activity.

  I chuckle, keeping my eyes trained on the tiles under Pilot’s feet as the embarrassment wave ebbs. A moment later, the kitchen door opens behind us and Agatha sticks her head into the room.

  “Hey, Flat Three, I’m making my rounds. Orientation is about to start. If you could make your way upstairs, that would be great.”

  3. Breathe, Just Breathe

  It’s now been thirty hours since I last slept. Orientation ended twenty-three minutes ago. We were shuffled outside onto the sidewalk and divided up into groups by four different twenty-something resident advisors. I ended up being separated from everyone. I watched, crestfallen, as Pilot, Atticus, Babe, and Sahra walked off in the opposite direction with a different tour guide. I know it was just a stupid orientation tour, but it felt important in the moment.

  The RA took us around the general area, pointed out the laundromat (I’ve already forgotten where this is), the movie theater (it’s called the ODEON), and brought us to Orange UK (a cell phone place).

  My new phone is a little gray plastic box straight out of 2003. It has real buttons and no flip-top to protect them. When I powered it up, the background was set to a stock photo of a rock garden. There weren’t many options, but I’ve changed it to a close-up of a tiger’s face. Tiger’s face has more of a brave vibe than rock garden. On the way back to the Karlston, we stopped at a cafe where I ravenously ordered quesadillas. Note to self: Don’t order any more Mexican food in England. It’s not their thing. I’m already getting hungry again. The RA mentioned something about a grocery store somewhere close, but the details have already fallen out of my brain. I can’t be expected to remember complicated things like which way the grocery store is while running on zero sleep.

  I’ve now gleaned the code to the kitchen (which was, in fact, buried in the blue folder paperwork), grabbed Sawyer, and settled in at the table to write. I want to write about my experiences in England, so I’ve started working on a blog post about my first few hours here. I have my Horcruxes to house my personal musings, but I have a blog to post more polished writing pieces, like short stories that I’ve finished. While I’m here in the UK, I want to turn it into a study abroad blog of sorts and post short story versions of my adventures.

  I let words drain out of me and into the digital space, until my doc is brimming with all the travel-related thoughts I’ve been wrestling with throughout the day. “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” is playing softly, and my fingers are still dancing across the keyboard when I hear the door open behind me. I straighten, anticipating the need to make conversation. You got this.

  I turn in my seat. The hi I’ve loaded up dies on my tongue when I see Pilot. I glance around nervously as the door clicks shut behind him. Do not be silent.

  “Hey,” I force out.

  “Hey. Shane, right?” He meets my eyes.

  I nod as he walks around the table and sits across from me. “Pilot?”

  “Like the first episode of a TV show,” he drops casually.

  I bring my hand up to cover my face.

  He chuckles. “What are you working on?”

  I look at my laptop and back up to his eyes. They’re green. Like olives.

  “Oh, um, nothing really, just writing. I like to write short stories and stuff.”

  He grins. “Looked like some super-intense typing was going down when I walked in.”

  I grunt-laugh. “I mean, just a rambling account of my first fourteen hours out of the country.”

  “Is writing, like, what you want to do? Be an author or something?” He eyes me curiously.

  I falter a bit, fidgeting with my hair. “Um, yeah, I love reading and writing and stuff, so, that’d be amazing.”

  “That’s awesome. Can I read something you’ve written sometime?”

  I blink in surprise. What’s going on? We’ve exchanged two words, and he wants to read something I’ve written? I look at my computer screen for a second because I can’t handle the prolonged eye contact that’s happening. Is this flirting? He looks and sounds so genuinely interested. This internal struggle needs to end, because of course he can read something I’ve written.

  I look back at him, a smile crawling onto my face. “Um, yeah, sure. I have a blog where I post stuff sometimes.” I pause, trying to maintain eye contact. “Do you write?”

  He smiles. “Yeah, I do.”

  My lips drop into a surprised O. “Really?”

  “I mean, I write music.”

  He. Writes. Music. “Oh my gosh, that’s so cool! Do you play an instrument, then?”

  “Yep, good ole guitar. I’m working on an album; gonna try to finish it while I’m here.” He drums a quick little beat on the table with his hands.

  I push Sawyer over to the side a little. “Whoa, what kind of music do you write?”

  “You know … like, acoustic jazzy stuff.”

  I smile again, trying to imagine what acoustic jazzy stuff sounds like. “That’s great! Is that what you want to do?”

  He looks at the table. “Eh, I mean, I’d love to be able to do something music-related, but it’s more of a hobby. I’m a finance major—I’m doing the business track here.”

  “Oh, well … I’d … I’d love to hear some of your stuff sometime,” I squeak out. He shoots me a modest grin.

  We’re having a conversation!

  “We should all do something in here tonight,” he suggests, clapping a hand down on the table. One side of his mouth kicks up. “A flat bonding activity or something. Maybe get some beers and hang out.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, yeah, we’re legal here! I really want to go to a grocery store and get some food, too. I know we ate on our orientation tour thing, but I’m already starving again.”

  “You want to go now?” he asks.

  Butterflies hustle through my veins. “I, um, I don’t know where the grocery store is or anything,” I stutter.

  “The guy who did my tour talked about it, so I know roughly where it is. I think I’ll be able to find it. I’m good with directions.”

  “I, um, okay?”

  “I’ll go grab my jacket. Meet by the stairs in a minute or so?”

  I stare at him for a second in disbelief. What the heck. I’ve only been here for like four hours. This seems conveniently wonderful.

  “Cool,” I manage. I follow him out of the kitchen and … toward my room. At the last minute, he veers left to the door across from mine.

  “Hey,” I blurt loudly. “We�
�re neighbors!”

  He looks over his shoulder and laughs before heading into his room.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he says in a fake Southern accent as I dive into my room for a coat.

  4. I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here

  We’re walking down the sidewalk in London together. Pilot and me. Me and Pilot. A cute boy who’s being nice to me. Who I held a conversation with. My heart is having a dance party. It’s also wondering, is this, like, a date?

  No, it’s not a date, but it’s like … a something.

  The sun sits low in the sky and the streets are full of people hustling about. Big red double-decker buses swish by every few minutes. I can’t help the stupid smile that plasters itself to my face as I gaze around in wonder like someone who’s never been outside before. When I try to rearrange it into a more relaxed expression, the smile pops back up of its own volition.

  “There are red double-decker buses like you see in the movies!” My voice is thick with delight. “It’s so surreal. I’ve never been out of the country before, and now I’m just here.”

  I look over at Pilot quickly, and then back in front of me, and then back at him, and then back in front of me. How often should I look over? Is it weird to keep looking over or is it weirder not to look over? I look over at him again. He’s smiling in a more subtle sort of way. His eyes shine like he’s excited about London too, but he’s got it smothered under a nice layer of chill.

  We trot quietly down Kings Gate in the general direction of where the grocery store is supposed to be. Pilot has his hands jammed in his jacket pockets. We pass pretty white house with pillars after pretty white house with pillars, all the way down the road until we come to a stop at a busy intersection.

  “Is this where we turn, you think?” I ask.

  I gaze around for the tall metal posts with green signs labeled with the names of the streets that we all know and love in the United States—and come up empty. I already miss my phone GPS.