Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  I sob-breathe. “Here is hurting me, Pilot … I can’t choose us because I need to choose me. I’m not ready for this. Here, I’m still in school and I’m still dependent. I can’t break from my shit path. But in 2017, maybe I can do something. I have some money saved, and I’ll break up with Melvin and start over or something. I can figure something out there.”

  “Shane,” he breathes.

  “Pilot, I want to reset. I need to steer my own boat, and I can’t do it with you in my head. Just go back to Amy. This was a mistake.”

  A tear rolls down Pilot’s cheek. “How can you say that?” He scrunches his eyes closed and swipes his palm across his face.

  My mouth quivers as he gets up and leaves. The door shuts quietly behind him. I cross the room and slam my back against it. Nausea fills my gut. I sob freely as I slide to the ground. The chair Pilot was sitting in looms in front of me. I rein in my legs and explode outward, kicking at it. It blows over sideways, right into the chair next to it. The second chair starts to fall as well, and I scream in surprise as both it and Sawyer crash to the ground.

  “No, no, no, no, nononononononono.” I leap up, grasping at the metal legs and throwing the chairs away from my computer. I frantically drag my finger back and forth across the touchpad.

  The screen flickers to life with a huge black crevasse stretching across its center. Even the lit-up parts fade and flicker as if in shock. I hold down the power button to restart.

  “Please please please please please.” The screen goes to black, and then half a buffering circle fades into view on the screen. The top half is blacked out by the same thick, dark crevasse. “Please just turn on,” I beg.

  It buffers and buffers and buffers, but never whooshes on.

  All my half-finished stories. The detailed outline for my great American novel. The three thousand words I threw up onto the page my first day of take two. The cloud doesn’t automatically back up my shit here. It’s all gone. And I don’t have the money to replace it. Am I breathing? I feel like I can’t breathe. I stand and put Sawyer on the table. I think I’m suffocating. I run upstairs and barge out the front door of the Karlston.

  My boots carry me down the sidewalk. The locket is slick in my palm. My insides are fissuring. I can’t be here anymore. I only make it to the corner before I unclasp my hand, flip open the locket to reveal the obsidian-black heart-shaped button within it, squeeze my eyes shut, and bring down my thumb to detonate.

  21. Ford Every Stream

  One at a time, I unscrunch my eyelids. Tears are still sliding down my cheeks. I glance around. Everything looks the same? I’m still on King’s Gate? I sprint down the block to the newspaper stand. It’s still 2011.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.” I stare blankly down the street on the corner of Gloucester Road until someone rams into my shoulder from behind.

  “Excuse me!” I bark, stumbling to the side as they stride on by. It’s a woman in a suit.

  “Not how it works,” she sings out, red hair bouncing behind her. I stare for a moment before chasing after her.

  “You said this was our way out!” I yell to her back, holding up the locket. I’m only a few feet behind her, but suddenly the sidewalk is congested and I’m weaving through tons of people in suits coming toward me, all chattering away on their phones. What the—

  “Come back!” I stumble to a stop, and press down on the obsidian heart again.

  Still nothing. There’s a tap on my shoulder. I whirl, and she’s right behind me.

  “What the hell is going on?” I demand.

  “It’ll work when y’all are ready,” she says simply before rejoining the tide of suited individuals in movement.

  I gasp through tears, stumbling after her. “But I am ready! I’m ready!”

  I press the button again and again, sidestepping and twisting through the crowded pavement.

  “Please, I’m ready! Please! Stop! Everything’s ruined!” I trip over my feet and crash to the ground, scraping my knees against the concrete. My chest caves in on itself as I stumble to my feet again.

  Shoulders convulsing, I press my hands to cover my eyes. Trapped. I’m trapped. I’m trapped here.

  When I lower my hands, the sidewalk is clear. She’s gone.

  * * *

  Headphones are back in my ears. Nobody speaks to me, despite the tsunami spilling down my face. That’s the way it is on the Tube. You can always trust people not to talk to you.

  Shame snakes through me. I made Pilot cry. Wendy doesn’t like me. I killed Sawyer. I didn’t stay late when there was a meeting I could have listened in on. I haven’t made any tea at the office. I have no connection to the internet. I told Pilot to go back to Amy! All my files are gone. I can’t reset. I ride aimlessly, switching lines every once in a while, feeling perpetually nauseated.

  The sky is streaked in darkness when I step outside again. I exited at a stop called Bethnal Green. My eyes are swollen and raw as I roam the sidewalks.

  At some point, I come to a halt, blinking at the building across the street. It’s … a bookstore? There’s a bookstore.

  I swipe my face dry and cross the street. Inside, the air smells of wooden shelves, fresh paper, and a hint of must. I inhale it gratefully. The place is narrow, but there are two floors, and every inch is packed with book-laden furniture.

  I explore thoroughly, slowly winding through the shelves, reading every title, running my fingers over spines. I pick up and caress books I’ve already read. I examine all the different editions of the classics. I haven’t picked up a book that wasn’t medically relevant in so long. When did I stop reading fun books? Two years ago? Before that? How did I let that happen?

  My lip curls up the slightest bit when I finally stumble across the Harry Potter section. It’s been years since I’ve reread them. I miss them. I slide out the British edition of my favorite, Prisoner of Azkaban, and hold it to my heart.

  I stroll around the store with it, hunting for the perfect reading spot. When I’ve scoped out the least visible nook between shelves, I slide onto the floor. As soon as my butt hits the ground, I’m gasping for air again.

  I am stuck six years in the past.

  I drop my head between my knees. This means I’m redoing the last few months of London in an internship where they don’t take me seriously, with no computer, and reliving the nightmare with my parents. I can’t do that. I can’t handle it. I don’t want to. I want out. I want to go home. I want to start over. I’ve lost my one connection to the rest of the world. This phone I have is a piece of crap. I can’t do any of my internet stuff without Sawyer. My body shakes.

  I focus on the book in my hands. Breathe. My favorite book. I have my favorite book. An edition I don’t own of my favorite book. Breathe. I run my fingers over the British cover art. These are the stories that made me want to write stories. These are the stories that shaped my heart. I slowly pull open the cover.

  My breath catches at the sight of a handwritten note. There’s a note in the book. I huff an airy laugh. I’ve heard of people doing this, leaving notes for strangers in Harry Potter books. I heave in more oxygen and dip closer to read the tiny, slanted handwriting.

  Dearest Reader,

  Even in the darkest of times, one must only remember to turn on the light.

  Dreams live up in the highest of mountains; the pursuit is ominous, but without them, we’re just asleep.

  When you need it, Hogwarts will always be here to welcome you home. x

  New tears slip down my cheeks. I read it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. For fifteen minutes, I sit there and read it. Then I swallow hard, sniffle, close the book, and bring it to the register.

  I have a fucking mountain to climb.

  22. Going for the Knockout

  When Professor Blackstairs dismisses us from Friday class, I walk down the block and set up camp at Café Nero. Horcrux Nine sits in front of me, practically empty now. I open to a blank page, sip my latte, and dr
aft a Paris blog post. The train Pilot and I booked to Edinburgh leaves without me on it.

  When I’ve got the writing all sorted the way I want, I walk back to the class building. Inside, they have a couple of old PCs in a tiny crammed room they call a library, down in the basement. The post goes live at three: “The Noob’s Guide to Paris.” I text Babe and Sahra, and we make plans to test out a dance club tonight and explore some new areas of England.

  On Saturday, we do a trip to Bath, and on Sunday, we go to Stonehenge. I bring Horcrux Nine, jotting down thoughts and interesting facts I want to remember.

  Sunday night, I sit on my bunk, scribbling away, until I have another new post drafted, “You Don’t Need a Plane for a Day Trip: Making the Most of Your Weekends Abroad!” When it’s ready, Babe lets me borrow her laptop to type it up and publish it. God bless her.

  January 31, 2011 (take two)

  Mom and Dad,

  I’m not giving in this time. You’ll be upset to hear Sawyer died prematurely. He was the best gift you’ve ever given me and I’m devastated, but I’m going to make do. I guess I’ll be seeing you for our big falling out in about a month. Fingers crossed it’ll be different this time.

  XO,

  2017 Shane

  * * *

  Tuesday morning, I stride into Packed! For Travel! with determination etched into every fiber of my being.

  I eagerly step up to the front desk. “Morning, Tracey! I was wondering if you could give me a list of everyone’s work emails, so I have them on file for any assistance I can offer?”

  She studies me warily for a moment. “Er … okay. I’ll email it to you,” she answers slowly. I thank her, set my things down, and head to the kitchen tea station.

  The first cup I fix is for Wendy. I carefully walk it to her office and knock on the doorframe. She’s wearing a pretty, pink, off-the-shoulder sweater with a white skirt. “Yes, come in!” she greets.

  I step forward. “Hi, Wendy! Good morning! I made you a cup of tea.” I slowly set the cup and saucer down on her desk.

  “Oh my goodness, thank you.” She smiles.

  “I know I did this on Thursday, but I wanted to reintroduce myself again. I think I started off on the wrong foot last week … I’m Shane. I’m so excited to be here and learn, and if there’s anything you can use my assistance with, please ask me. If there are ever any opportunities to shadow you or watch you in action, I’d love to do so. I know I already mentioned this in our interview a couple weeks ago, but I have a blog myself and I’ve turned it into a travel blog. I just love what you guys do here. I’ll send over an email with this info, so it resonates, and you have my email if you need it.”

  Her smile broadens. “Thank you, Shane. I’ll keep all of that in mind.”

  I nod back, grinning. “I’ll be over there if you need me.” I gesture to my table.

  I head back to the kitchen and make another cup: this one for Declan. I bring it over to the editing bay.

  “Hi, Declan! I’ve made you a cup of tea. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Shane…”

  Then Donna. I go on like that, making my rounds, talking to all of them: Declan, Donna, the middle-aged man named George I’ve never interacted with, Janet, and even Jamie, the posh, bleach-blond woman that I avoided the first time because she scared me. I end by taking a cup of tea to Tracey and reiterating my sentiments.

  “Thanks … How did you know about our tea station?” Tracey asks.

  “Um, I saw the chart while I was putting the bagels out on Thursday,” I tell her.

  Now everyone knows my name, my intentions, and that my blog exists. I send them all separate emails with this information. And in each one I sign off with:

  PS: I know I already talked about my blog; here’s a link to one of my pieces: frenchwatermelon19.com/NoobsGuideToParis. I’d love for you to check it out. Notes and constructive criticism are always appreciated.

  At 3:00 p.m., I do a quick lap around the office, checking to see if anyone would like a second cup of tea. Declan asks me where I’m from. Donna jokes around, saying how impressed she is with her excellent cup of tea—she wouldn’t expect that from an American.

  * * *

  When I come in the next day, everyone greets me by name. I bring them all their morning tea without being asked. Donna invites me to come sit with her while she plans out her next work trip: She’s headed to Capri on Thursday. I sit next to her for most of the morning. She talks about traveling and asks me where I’ve been so far.

  Before the end of the day, Wendy stops by my little station and tells me she read my “Noob’s Guide to Paris” piece. My heart does a can-can. She tells me it was “hilarious and charming!”

  Wendy leans forward on my table and says, “You know what? Maybe you should start putting together a piece about studying abroad in London for review. If all goes well, I might reconsider this piece. Maybe it could go live online mid-March and, who knows, maybe be printed in the April issue.”

  My feet dance over the floor under my desk. I can do this.

  Wendy advises me to take another look at their various pieces covering travel to different cities and try to blend my style with theirs. I spend the rest of the day using the company MacBook to do just that.

  * * *

  Thursday, Wendy invites me out to drinks with the rest of the office. Apparently it’s something they do every Thursday. I go. Wendy buys me a drink and talks about her college days, and when she took a gap year to travel. Declan asks me how old I am. When I tell him almost twenty-one, he’s completely taken back—he thought I was in high school. He’s a couple years out of college. Donna tells us a hilarious story about someone she went on a date with last week. Tracey talks to me without a hint of disdain about a singer she’s going to see this weekend: Lily Allen. I know a couple of her songs. She asks me what kind of music I’m into, who I’ve seen live. I’ve only known her to begrudgingly tolerate me, and I’m overjoyed that we’ve connected over something. I start to get a feeling for who these people actually are. They’re creative and outspoken and lighthearted. And I start to feel like I … belong among them.

  * * *

  Babe, Sahra, and I take a trip to Berlin together over the weekend. I bring my notebook. When we get back Sunday night, I write out a new post and borrow Babe’s computer afterward to type it up and publish it. I’m loving crystalizing my experiences this way. I love anchoring my thoughts immediately on paper before they start to float away. I love the triumphant satisfaction that comes with reading it all back once the post goes live.

  * * *

  Little by little, I start to build a draft of the London study abroad piece for Packed. Every day I try to push myself to sample more of London: new lunch places, different supermarkets. When I have time, I ride different Tube lines. I get off at new stops and walk around to new areas. I keep notes. One day, while I’m on the train, I flip the notebook upside down, open the back cover, and start drafting the novel I had outlined in Sawyer. From then on, I flip it over at least once a day to keep working on it.

  For the Packed! article, I’m trying to compile a list of my top twenty-five things to cram into your study abroad experience before you go bankrupt. If I want to travel more this go-round—which I’ve now resolved to do—the remainder of my college-student-summer-and-winter-break job savings will all be gone by (or probably before) the end of this semester. I put together a short blog post with the top five cities I’d like to get to.

  FIVE PLACES I WANNA HIT BEFORE I HEAD BACK TO AMERICA:

  1) Every city I’ve yet to see in Italy (at least Florence)

  2) Dublin

  3) Prague

  4) Amsterdam

  5) Edinburgh

  To be safe, I mention that I’m running low on money for food in an email to my parents. They kindly transfer over a small cushion, and I set it all aside for meals. I’ve been avoiding Skype calls. Since the break, we’ve been communicating strictly over email, with very little detail, and I’ve bee
n prompting them to read my blog to see what I’m up to.

  * * *

  Pilot and I have been mutually avoiding each other. I don’t know what happened with Amy after that day; maybe he did go back to her. Which is fine. I told him to.

  When spring break rolls around, I’ve already made plans way in advance with Babe to take on Florence, Pisa, and Venice. I did ask her if she’d rather go to Dublin alone. She said, “I can travel alone anytime. How often are we going to get to travel Italy together?” We have a grand ol’ time, and I put together a post about our touristy adventures.

  At work, Donna has completely taken me under her wing. This past week, she’s been helping me work out how I want to format my piece, and we’ve talked about her personal life. I have her phone number now. I think we were on track to having a work friendship during London: Take One, but I most definitely was too intimidated by her success and coolness to talk to her casually about life when I was twenty. That instinct is still present to some extent, but it’s easier to tamp it down and ignore it. It’s weird how we have to get a little older to realize that people are just people. It should be obvious, but it’s not.

  23. I Have Confidence in Me