Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  * * *

  “Do you know what you’re doing for spring break yet?” Babe asks as she twirls some spaghetti Bolognese onto her fork. We coordinated our dinner eating times today, but I finished way before her and am currently working on character bios.

  My eyebrows furrow, and I push my computer screen down a bit so I can see her face at the end of table. “We have spring break? When?”

  “Next week, Shane.” She laughs.

  “What? That’s so soon. Don’t we all have work?”

  “It’s written into everyone’s internship schedule; it’s part of our program,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’m going on a tour of Ireland! And I’m going by myself. It’s going to be great, like an epic adventure!”

  “Wow, good for you,” I say halfheartedly.

  “Yeah, I’ve never gone somewhere by myself before, but traveling alone is supposed to be an amazing experience. And I’ll be on a bus tour, so I’ll meet people, and it should be kind of like a journey of self-discovery, you know. And Guinness was invented there. I think I’ll get to go to the factory.”

  I smile at her enthusiasm. “Well, that’s awesome. Do you know what Sahra’s doing?” I ask.

  “Yeah, she’s meeting her boyfriend in Barcelona to celebrate her birthday!”

  “Wow,” I respond softly.

  I wonder what Pilot’s plans are.

  Why are you wondering? You haven’t spoken in two weeks.

  The door bangs open as Atticus races in with a bag of groceries. “Hey, guys!” he greets us before reaching into the bag and whipping out yet another frozen meal. “I’m running late for a play, but I’ve gotta take ten minutes and eat!” He rips the food from the box and stabs at it with a butter knife.

  “Atticus!” Babe laughs from the table. “That’s so loud!”

  “Yeah, I enjoy drama. What else is new?” he cracks.

  The two of them cackle. I pull my computer back in front of me, so I can stare into space angstily without looking like I’ve just had a lobotomy. What if everyone’s already doing things for break? I’m going to be stuck here alone in London all by myself for a week?

  “We were talking about spring break plans!” Babe announces. “What are you going to be doing?”

  I jump into the conversation. “Yeah, At, do you want to do something together?”

  He turns to me. “Actually, my family is flying out here! We’re road-tripping across the UK, up to Scotland!”

  Babe rinses her dishes in the sink. “Oh my gosh, that sounds great. I’m going to Ireland on a tour, and I’m going by myself. I’m so excited! Traveling alone is supposed to be an amazing experience of self-discovery! And I’ll be on a bus tour so I’ll meet people…”

  Hearing this a second time is depressing. I duck down under the table to grab headphones from my book bag. As I’m digging around, the door opens again. Four of us in the kitchen at once? It’s probably Pilot! I yank my head up to check.

  There’s a loud thud as my cranium slams into the corner of the table.

  I’m catapulted forward with the rebound momentum and topple sideways, crumbling into a heap on the floor. My chair clashes onto the tile next to me.

  The microwave bell goes off as I yell, “Freakin’ A!” and Babe yelps, “Jiminy Cricket!”

  When I look up, everyone’s hovering.

  “What happened?” Atticus asks.

  “Are you okay?” Babe demands. “That was an epic bang!”

  When Pilot steps into view, I cringe. Of course he’s here. The first eye contact we’ve made in weeks, and I’m in the fetal position on the floor.

  “Did you really just use the phrase Jiminy Cricket?” I grumble to Babe, moving to get my legs back under me. “I’m fine. Evil chairs are out to get me, falling every five seconds.”

  As I get to my feet, Pilot shakes his head. “Devil chairs,” he accuses in an exaggerated Southern accent.

  I want to be mad at him, because I am. I want to say something like: Where the hell have you been the last fourteen days? But instead, I loose a flustered huff, pick up the chair, and flop back onto it.

  “These chairs are a hazard to myself and others.” I wince, touching a finger to the bump forming on my head.

  “Sure you’re okay?” Pilot asks.

  “Yeah, fine,” I say dismissively. Atticus is at the table now, stuffing pasta puttanesca down his throat.

  Babe swoops into a seat. “So, Pilot, what are you doing for spring break?”

  I glance at him. Cross my arms. Uncross. Raise a hand to hold up my chin.

  “I’m going with Steve and Quail from Flat Four to Vienna and Amsterdam,” he tells her. Again, looks like we’re not invited.

  Well, ask. Take charge of your raft.

  I open my mouth. “Oh man, that sounds cool. Um, I don’t have any plans yet. Do you think maybe I could join?” I’m already having a hot flash. I can’t believe I just said that. Pilot drops his gaze to the table.

  Oh god, he’s going to say no. I think I’m going to cry. My face is burning. It’s gonna melt off.

  “Uh … I’m sorry, Shane. It’s actually already planned, and it’s just gonna be a guys’ trip. I’m sorry.” He looks up at me. He is sorry. I see it in his conflicted mossy eyes. “If things weren’t—”

  I cut him off, waving my arms around. “Oh my god, of course, I’m sorry. Why would I assume? I didn’t mean to … that was … forget I said anything.”

  You’re fine. No crying. Atticus is looking at me with his head cocked to the side. I shoot Babe a wide-eyed look: Help!

  She jerks into gear. “Wow, well, that’s going be awesome, Pilot! Guess what? I’m going to Ireland! And I’m going by myself on a bus tour…”

  21. Ticking Away

  2/17/11

  TODAY WAS MOMENTOUS. Declan asked me to shadow him while he edited a photo spread of Moscow! We didn’t speak much, but I learned things. I got to watch how he used their software to craft things together for the next printed installment of Packed! For Travel! They release new articles weekly on the site, but only publish a hard-copy issue once a month.

  And then … wait for it: A fancy guest photographer called Lacey Willows came into Packed! for a meeting with Wendy and Donna about a new piece on Istanbul, and Wendy invited me to listen in on the meeting. I sat there smiling like an eager beaver throughout the entire thing.

  In other news, the flat is preparing to go their separate ways for break, which starts tomorrow. I couldn’t bring myself to book a trip alone, so I’ll be here. Everyone at work today wished me an amazing spring break. I kind of wish we didn’t have a spring break.

  In other, other news, this all-consuming crush for Pilot Penn has come to a crux. I think I need to tell him because this unrequited thing isn’t working for me. I hate missing him all the time. I miss him, and I feel like an idiot. He’s so obviously been avoiding me. He materializes in passing from time to time, and it’s like catching sight of a ghost or finding yourself in reach of a butterfly. I step toward him, and he floats out of reach again—he’s on the way to class; going to meet with the guys down the hall; just “headed out.”

  2/26/11

  THINGS I DID ON SPRING BREAK 2/18–2/25: A HIGHLIGHTS REEL

  Went out and bought The Poet by Michael Connelly.

  Read The Poet by Michael Connelly.

  Watched Ratatouille.

  Got shawarma on Shwednesday.

  Stared into space for long periods of time, imagining what everyone else was doing.

  Tried to start my book but kept getting distracted by thoughts of what everyone else might be doing and second guessing every word I put on the page.

  Started a Lost rewatch (got to mid-season two).

  Skyped with the parents more about working in an imaginary doctor’s office.

  2/27/11 11:20 p.m.

  Everyone got back today, thank god. I gave Babe a giant welcome-back hug and gushed with her about all her adventures, trying to live vicariously through them. Whe
n Atticus got back, we spent a beautiful thirty minutes digging into The Poet. He said he’s going to check out the Mortal Instruments series. I’m so excited! I have a reader friend now! Sahra showed me all the stunning pictures she took in Spain and told me she’s in the middle of reading The Da Vinci Code on my recommendation, and she’s tearing through it. Can you believe it? Sahra trusted my judgment. Smart, independent, wise Sahra!

  I stayed in the kitchen all day on Sawyer, going back and forth between character bios, the blank document that is my book, and Twitter—while waiting for everyone’s return.

  After Sahra, I waited for Pilot because it’s time to have the scary talk, so I can stop being sad with every passing day that we don’t interact. He never came.

  Now I’m in bed with Sawyer—it’s 11:30 p.m. We have class in the morning, and there he is through the window. In the kitchen with his computer. Skyping with Amy again! Is that all he does now? Must he do it in the kitchen?

  February 28, 2011

  Mom and Dad,

  Last week was spring break. I spent it alone. I think it’s the loneliest I’ve ever felt. I miss our house. I miss Mom’s perfume. I miss Dad’s milkshakes. I miss Aunt Marie. I miss my obnoxious cousins. Who do they make fun of when I’m not around? I miss having a variety of sauces to choose from when I make pasta. I miss telling you guys everything.

  It’s time to start our writing prompt for the day. Is it weird that I spend the weekends looking forward to this class?

  XO,

  Shane

  22. I Must Dream of the Things I Am Seeking

  The Tube is packed with people today. I’m smooshed up against the rear wall, but I can’t bring myself to care because I had the most wonderful day at work. Honestly, it’s been amazing these past two weeks. I finally feel like things are clicking! Everyone said they missed me when I came back last Tuesday after break, and I’ve been shadowing people every day since. Today, Donna asked if I’d like to sit with her as she organized a piece about Rio. She walked me through her process, and she talked to me like I’m part of the team, not just the intern. She asked me for opinions!

  I step off the train at the South Kensington stop today. It’s Thursday, not Wednesday, but today calls for a celebratory shawarma. Donna cared what I thought about her piece! As I close in on Beirut Express, I throw myself into a little happy twirl, landing with my hand on the door and yanking it open.

  Inside the restaurant, I take a seat at the bar. There’s no one manning the area right now, so I dig Horcrux Nine from my bag, eager to document the day.

  I’m clicking on my pen when I hear someone swish back in behind the counter. “What are we having today, doll?”

  “Oh, I’ll have—” Before me is the copper-haired woman from the plane and Starbucks and Paris. I almost slide off the stool. I drop the pen, grasping at the table so I don’t fall over. “Jesus Christ! Are you stalking me? What’s happening?”

  “How’s it going?” she asks casually.

  I’m so confused. I look behind me and then back at her to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Now she’s holding my notebook.

  “Oh my god, give that back!” She’s riffling through it. “What are you doing?” I throw my hands up in frustration, trying to make eye contact with anyone else in the vicinity, but no one looks at me. She wraps the cover around to a certain page and drops it back on the bar in front of me.

  1/1/11

  COLLEGE, TAKE TWO: STUDY ABROAD GOALS

  1) Kick ass at internship—turn it into a paid summer job.

  2) Make friends you like to hang out with and who like to hang out with you.

  3) Kiss a boy you like. Stop kiss-blocking self.

  4) Have adventures in the city you’re in. You’ve done nothing in New York City during the 2.5 years you’ve been there, you idiot.

  5) Maybe try getting a little bit drunk. Don’t black out or anything, but find out what it’s like in a controlled, self-aware environment. You’re legally allowed to in the UK!

  6) Start your great American novel. You’ve spent an absurd amount of time trying to think of the perfect first sentence. Stop it. Just write.

  I blink at the list.

  “How’s the internship?”

  I struggle for words, flabbergasted. “Fine. Great!”

  “Friends?”

  I roll my eyes. “I have them!”

  “Have you kissed that boy you like?” She winks.

  “Stop winking at me!”

  “Well, have you?”

  “Well, no!”

  “Your novel?”

  “I’m trying.”

  I drop my head into my hands. What’s going on? Am I hallucinating, for real?

  I look back up. “Why are you following me?” I growl slowly, enunciating each word as if she doesn’t speak English.

  “Get on it, darling. Steer the raft.”

  I shake my head. “Who are you? How did you—? Did you just read that in my—?” I hop off the stool, swipe the notebook off the counter, and sprint out into the street.

  I’m out of breath, freaked out, starving, and shawarma-less when I throw open the door to the blue kitchen back at the Karlston. Who do I tell about this? Do I tell people about this … or will that make people think I’m insane?

  “Hey, Shane!”

  I jump, whirling to my right to find Atticus and Babe seated on the couch in front of a laptop, laughing.

  “Holy crap. I didn’t see you guys there.”

  “We’re about to watch Glee. Want to join us?”

  “I…” I breathe in and out a few times, calming my heart.

  “What, did you run home?” Atticus chuckles.

  I shake my head and make a dismissive motion with the hand that’s not white-knuckling Horcrux Nine. “No, I, nothing, okay.” I walk over and flop down next to Babe.

  * * *

  On Glee, Mr. Schue’s class is prancing around and singing “Blame It on the Alcohol.” Babe and Atticus are singing along. I can’t stop thinking about the lady. How does she know where I’m going to be? Did someone hire her? Could my parents have arranged for a babysitter? Has she been mere steps away this entire time?

  The door to the kitchen swings open, and Babe and Atticus seize up mid-note. I look up from the screen as Pilot walks through the door with a girl.

  You’ve got to be shitting me.

  A slim girl with long, brunette locks tags behind him. It’s her. She’s smiling up at him. I still haven’t talked to him. Atticus pauses Glee.

  Guilt seeps into my cheeks. But I didn’t do anything! I haven’t done anything!

  “Hey,” Pilot says, as the door thunks closed. They stand facing us. Amy only glances over before fixing her stare at the floor and positioning herself mostly behind Pilot.

  “Hey,” we answer in chorus.

  “This is Amy,” he says quickly. Dread builds in my chest at the thought of conversing with Amy. I can’t talk to Amy. I can’t.

  “Hi!” I throw up my hand up in a nervous wave.

  “Hi, Amy!” Babe says enthusiastically.

  “Hey, nice to meet you!” Atticus exclaims.

  Amy makes a face almost like a smile, but it doesn’t quite get there. She doesn’t say anything. Is she anxious? She’s wearing tight, skillfully ripped skinny jeans and a white sweater, and she’s naturally pretty in that way that makes me feel insecure about the fact that I feel the need to wear makeup.

  Pilot moves, walking over to the sink, and Amy shuffles up right behind him, grabbing his hand as he fills up a clean glass with water. She leans into his ear and talks softly so none of us can hear. I stare blatantly. I don’t want to stare. But I can’t not stare. Pilot chugs his water and places the glass down in the sink.

  This silence is deafening.

  “Okay.” He turns to look at us again. “I’m off to go show her the—” He’s cut off by an obnoxiously loud rapping at the door. As one, all five of our heads whip toward the sound.

  I leap off the cou
ch like a spooked gazelle at the sight of my dad’s face in the window.

  23. Thunderbolt and Lightning

  Is this a nightmare? Am I asleep? I walk slack-jawed toward the door and open it. My parents spill into the kitchen. My parents are in our kitchen. My feet glue themselves to this spot on the floor. Mom’s in a stylish black jacket, her hair a blaze of bronze waves around her face. Dad’s in slacks and a button-up shirt, dark hair slicked back.

  “Hi, sweetheart!” He sweeps me into a hug.

  When he releases me, Mom swoops in. “Shane, surprise!”

  I say nothing. Have I lost the ability to speak? Mom pulls away. I glance about the room. My flatmates and Amy watch us, unsure of what to do with themselves. Pilot and I make eye contact for a second, and I watch as understanding dawns in his expression.

  A nauseating panic courses through my veins. This is too much right now. This is too much.

  “Shane, who is everyone? Aren’t you gonna introduce us?” Dad throws up a hand and gestures around the room.

  I swallow hard, vocal cords jolting to life at his command. “I, um, um, yeah, um, that’s um…” I glance over at the couch. “These are my parents.” I gesture to my mom and dad.

  “Hey!” my father’s voice booms.