What Scotland Taught Me

by Molly Ringle

  And wouldn’t you know it, my sucky morning wasn’t over. When I shambled into Room 17 and headed for my bunk bed, Amber’s voice accosted me.

  “Where have you been all night?”

  I turned. She lay in her bunk, still in pajamas but with cell phone in hand, as if doing a little pre-breakfast texting. It was 9:30, and she was the only one in the room. Shannon and everyone else were already out.

  “How’d you know I was gone?” I asked.

  “I got up to pee at, like, three A.M., and your bed was empty. I figured you couldn’t sleep and were wandering around the hostel, but then when someone’s alarm woke me up at seven you still weren’t there.” She pushed a button on her phone and set it beside her pillow. “Or every time I woke up between then and now. You okay?”

  “Not really.” I slumped against the ladder, rubbing my face. “All the drinking and gross food last night made me pretty sick.”

  “Ew. That sucks.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Were you in the TV room or something? I didn’t see you in the bathroom.”

  “Study room. On the fourth floor. Then Laurence found me, so I slept on his sofa.”

  “Really.” Her voice sharpened. “He still won’t let me sleep in his room.”

  “Try hurling a few times. See if it softens him up.” I climbed the ladder to my bed.

  Amber sat up, pushing aside her covers. “So did he take care of you? Or just let you sleep there?”

  “He brought me water, if that counts.”

  “Where did he sleep? I assume in his bed.”

  “Uh...” I lay down on my side, letting my sore stomach muscles relax. “He fell asleep on the sofa, too.”

  “How did you both fit?” She sounded like a prosecutor.

  “He lay lengthwise, like you do on a sofa. Next to me.”

  “So you were spooning?”

  “Amber. We did not have sex. We did not kiss. We did not whisper hot secrets to each other. I was sick, and he kept me company, because he’s occasionally nice that way. I still want to slap him most other days. Okay?”

  Her lips twisted downward. She jumped off her bed and snatched clothing from the floor. “It’s frustrating. He’s nice to me too, but never like that.”

  “He would be if you were sick.”

  “I wonder. His gentleman act is starting to chafe. ‘Oh, we’re friends, I wouldn’t want to ruin that. Okay, we’ll kiss a little, but no, I’m not going to make out with you, not right now.’ Not ever, at this rate.”

  “Then give up. Find someone else. Can I sleep?”

  Arms full of clothes, she straightened up and cast me a furious look. “You don’t get it. Laurence and I have something. I’m not ready to give up.”

  “What-ever. Can I please sleep?”

  “Fine. I’m out.” She grabbed her shower bag and stormed out of the room.

  I groaned and rolled over, but she had destroyed my ability to rest. Deciding I’d use the time to check my own messages, I retrieved my phone from its hiding place in my makeup bag, and brought it to bed with me.

  An email from Tony had arrived overnight.

  Hi Fishbrain!

  Haven’t heard from you in a few days. I’ve been studying for a Calc test and writing a Lit paper, but am done now. What have you been up to?

  Well, Tony, a couple of days ago I let a Scottish guy take off my pants. Otherwise, not much.

  I sat up, bunched my pillow against my back, and typed my real answer.

  Had a yucky stomach thing last night. I better tell you, I did end up sleeping next to Laurence on a sofa, but only because I was delirious and he was making sure I didn’t die overnight. I’m sure you’re smart enough not to be jealous about this. And that makes you way smarter than Amber, who seems to think L and I lust after each other or something. Please. I so do not want to be in that little drama, but she keeps enlisting me. Sucks.

  * * *

  By afternoon I felt healthy enough to venture out for groceries. While I walked down Princes Street and bought my food I didn’t bother trying to solve Amber’s issues--those problems lay between her and Laurence; nothing to do with me. Amber had always starred in her own dramas, and never seemed to sustain any injury from my ignoring her when she annoyed me. So I fretted over my own biggest problem: namely, what to do about Gil.

  Though I hated admitting it, Laurence was right about stress playing a part in my illness. My body told me I had stepped over some forbidden line by exploring crotch territory with Gil, and my nerves, in combination with the food and the alcohol, had done me in.

  But I couldn’t just drop him like a hot teakettle. Blowing someone off after getting intimate with them was a jerk thing to do, the exact kind of thing girls are always wailing about when guys do it to them. Besides, I still wanted to be around Gil; I enjoyed having a Scottish friend to show me the city and tell me the cool music news. (Listening to him babble about indie rock now sounded like a safe, comforting activity compared to rolling around in his bedroom.) I just didn’t know how to tell him I needed more time to think about the physical side.

  Fate stepped in to help. Weakened by my night of yuckiness, I came down with a cold over the weekend. I slogged through work on Sunday, my throat flaring in agony as if I’d tried to swallow thistles. When Gil called, I whimpered my condition and begged a day off.

  “Ah, poor thing,” he said. “You do sound quite horrible. I’d rather not catch that.”

  Smart lad.

  The cold bought me a few days, though it also kept me from work. That annoyed my boss, the housekeeper, who reminded me that others had to fill in for me when I kept missing days. I offered to do extra shifts, including some evenings. That supplied me with another excuse when Gil called again.

  “Ah, well,” he said. “Call if you’ve time next weekend. We can meet for coffee and listen to music. There’s some songs I’d like you to hear.”

  “I can do that,” I said. True enough. He likely wouldn’t corner me into having sex in a cafe.

  As for Laurence, I didn’t speak to him for about four days after stomping out of his room. When I saw him at the front desk I merely nodded in greeting and swept past. My conscience nagged me, after all, he was my only true confidante, and he had been sweet to me.

  So I made an overture of peace when I found him in the kitchen one night. He was rinsing a paring knife. An apple lay in slices on a plate beside him.

  “I’ve decided you’re right,” I said. “I should eat better. I at least want to get off caffeine. Any good ideas for breakfast?”

  He looked at me warily, but when he saw I wasn’t being sarcastic, he turned off the tap and answered, “Switch to tea. It has less caffeine. And eggs help with energy. The protein and all.”

  “What about oatmeal?”

  “It’s good. Has fiber.” He dried the knife on a dishtowel. “But you put too much sugar on it.”

  “Oatmeal’s horrid if you don’t add sugar.”

  He bit into an apple slice, and slid the plate toward me. “Horse food. That’s how the English used to view oats, couple hundred years ago. They teased the Scots for eating them.”

  Whew. We were on civil terms again.

  Next up on my conscience list: Amber. Sure, she should issue an apology or two to me as well, but I’d be the bigger person here and make the first gesture.

  “Want to see a movie this weekend or anything?” I asked her, catching her in Room 17 one afternoon.

  “Sure!” She brightened, her smile warming the air between us. “There’s that new one with Brad Pitt. Looks cool.”

  “Excellent.” Things were going to be fine. I breathed in relief.

  “I’ll see if Laurence is working,” she added. “Maybe he can come.”

  The air cooled again. Okay, maybe things were still annoying on that front.

  Shannon, at least, remained her dear overcommitted self. That evening she dashed into our room and flashed me a smile, then plunked onto the floor and began punchi
ng numbers on her cell phone.

  I scooted to the edge of my bed, abandoning my digital camera, whose photos I’d been moodily examining. “Heya. Feels like I haven’t seen you all week.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Been crazy-busy. Now I’ve got to call my folks.” With the phone at her ear, she knelt in front of her suitcase.

  “Have you told them about Thomas yet?”

  She shook her head, and touched her lips to silence me. “Hi, Dad,” she said into the phone. “How are you?” While he answered, she pulled sweaters, shirts, and hair accessories from her luggage. “Uh-huh. Oh, that’s too bad.” She held up her fluffy periwinkle sweater and raised her eyebrows at me in question.

  “Going to meet Thomas?” I whispered.

  She nodded, saying to her dad, “Yeah, you better get back to that. Okay, let me talk to Bri, then.”

  I examined the sweater, and yawned dramatically.

  She tossed the sweater aside. “Hi, Bri. So, what’s up with this detention thing?” She picked up a tight, long-sleeved black top and looked at me for approval.

  I shrugged, and mouthed, “Better.”

  “But you don’t even smoke,” she said. “Right? So why did you steal them?” As her younger sister droned out an answer, Shannon tugged aside the collar of the orange sweater she currently wore, displaying a lingerie strap of rose satin and bright yellow lace, a frilly pink lemonade of a bra.

  I covered my mouth so I wouldn’t squeal in amusement.

  Shannon grinned at me. “I know, I just worry about you,” she told her sister.

  I gave her a thumbs-up.

  Her grin vanished, and she sat down on the floor. Picking at the carpet fuzz, she said to Bri, “What do you mean, ‘love life’? This call isn’t about me. Come on, let’s get your deal sorted out.”

  Sometime later, after acting as advice columnist to every member of her family, Shannon switched off the phone and cast me a sheepish look.

  “Babe, you’ve got to tell them,” I said.

  “They’d worry.”

  “Worry what? That you might finally be happy?”

  Her shoulders drooped. “That I might be happy only if I’m across the Atlantic.” She turned the phone over in her hands. “But that isn’t true. I need them as much as I need Thomas. So I can’t be entirely happy either place.”

  My heart and stomach dipped, as if I’d stumbled on a staircase. Shannon’s life couldn’t fall apart. Not her. She withstood everything, and I always felt better just by observing her. If this trip tore her in two, part of my own life would crumble away like a cliff at the coast.

  “Shan,” I began.

  She looked up, wearing a bright smile. “So, the black top? As long as I keep on this bra?”

  I understood. Sympathy wasn’t allowed. Not today.

  * * *

  Gil and I went out CD shopping as suggested, a few nights later. He babbled, led me around with his arm across my shoulders, and snogged me a few times. Then he checked the time on his mobile phone, said, “Must run,” and dashed off for his bus. I felt guilty for feeling relieved. I also valued him for being a gentleman and not pressuring me into the next date. Of course, beneath that, I felt hurt and snubbed. Didn’t he want to get partly naked with me again?

  Apparently so. A few days later, as we had lunch in a Pizza Express crammed with tourists, he wrinkled his nose at the crowd and said, “Perhaps next time we could go to me house again.”

  Uneasiness twisted my gut. I thumbed tomato sauce off my lip. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Just to warm up. Avoid the tourists.”

  I nodded. No bright solutions occurred to me, no handy excuses.

  He suggested a day next week. I agreed, panicking silently.

  Again I was saved by the vagaries of my own body. When my period started the day before our date, I almost sang with joy. Aunt Flow was the perfect excuse. No guy would go near her.

  I let Gil lead me all the way up to his room and start kissing me before I said, “Oh, uh, I ought to tell you. It’s that time of the month. So I can’t really...”

  His hands retracted from my waist as if I had turned into a stinging nettle. “Ah, right. Too bad.”

  “I’m sorry. I should’ve said earlier.”

  “Nah, can’t be helped.” He flopped onto his bed, pulled me down by the elbow, and dragged a weekly music newspaper across our laps. “Have you seen this? The Valentines’ bassist got kicked out.”

  And thus Mother Nature bought me four or five days more.

  Chapter Twenty-One: Thanksgiving Wishes

  A heavy bout of homesickness struck in late November, with the arrival of the first major holiday we’d be spending away from our families: Thanksgiving.

  “They just don’t do it here, do they?” Shannon fretted when we all met for a café lunch one weekend.

  “No Pilgrims,” Amber said. “No helpful Indians.”

  “Probably no idea what stuffing is,” said Laurence. “Or if they do make it, it involves sheep’s blood somehow.”

  I gazed gloomily out at the clouds smothering the daylight. “Sure gets dark here early these days.”

  Shannon followed up by texting us that evening: Three things you miss about home.

  I glanced at the ugly green ceiling of Room 17, smelled the stale cigarettes, and wondered how could I confine myself to three things. I typed in the first to occur to me.

  1. My own room.

  2. Lofty.

  3. Driving.

  Lofty was our family dog, her name a joke: the poor mutt only stood as high as our shins.

  Laurence’s answers arrived soon after mine, presumably from down at the front desk where he was working:

  1. Driving.

  2. Fridge to ourselves.

  3. The dumb movies Dad watches.

  Then came Amber’s (and I wouldn’t doubt if she was sitting next to Laurence at the desk):

  1. Tomato cheese soup at the Blackberry Deli.

  2. Driving.

  3. The Christmas lights in my room.

  From her position at Thomas’ flat, Shannon rounded out the mope session with:

  1. My sewing machine.

  2. My siblings’ art projects.

  3. Driving.

  At least the one common answer got us all smiling in emoticons and shooting new remarks back and forth.

  Guess we’re typical Yanks, in love with our cars, I said.

  Crazy country, driving on the wrong side and scaring us off from trying it, Shannon answered.

  God I miss that feel of the gas pedal, the engine roar, the swerves... said Amber.

  Is this a phallic gearshift thing? Laurence typed.

  We organized a Thanksgiving dinner for the Americans in the hostel--which gave me another excuse to not see Gil. It was a pleasant if nostalgic evening, everyone sighing over their cider about holidays back home.

  When I did see Gil a couple of nights after that, he behaved gallantly. No pressure, other than a few kisses and embraces that felt probing somehow, as if he were testing for a reaction. He said nothing about whatever he detected, though.

  The days grew colder, wetter, and incredibly short. By early December, it was light only for about seven hours, and with the clouds, most of that was twilight. As if to offset the diminishing sunshine, Edinburgh festooned itself with Christmas lights, which did brighten things up but also kept my homesickness flowing.

  One evening Gil showed up at our rendezvous spot glowing with cheer. He wore a red and green elf hat with jingle bells at the tip, flopping over to his neck.

  “Cute,” I said.

  “Oh, aye. Me head was getting cold, so I dug this out of my cupboard. But guess what?” He slung his arm around me and we started walking. “I’ve got an interview next week. I met a bloke at the pub who does sound effects for radio and television, and he left his card and had me call him. So I did, and now I’m to talk to him about working there.”

  “Congratulations!” I stopped and hugged him on the street
, under a brightly strung garland with Gaelic lettering. “Have you done sound effects before?”

  “Only a little, if the bands wanted it mixed in. I’d of course rather be working with musicians, but at least it’s the right direction.”

  “I’m very happy for you.” I laced my arm through his, and squeezed his hand.

  “So next week then, before the interview, will you come shopping for a suit with me?”

  “You’re really going to buy a suit?”

  “Aye. Thought it was time I owned a respectable outfit, don’t you?”

  I glanced from his elf hat to his sneakers with the reflective orange swatches on the heels. “I would never say that.”

  * * *

  Another unexpected event presented itself a few mornings later. Amber sat across from me in the kitchen with a cup of tea, gazing at her cell phone while I squinted at the foggy sun illuminating the castle.

  “Dude,” she said. “Dude!”

  I refocused on her. “Dude?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “My dad says he can come see me tomorrow.” She stared at me. “Dude.”

  “Hoo boy.” I spooned up a bite of oatmeal. “Will you go?”

  “Sure. If he shows, I mean.”

  “Think you’ll tell your mom?”

  “Guess I have to. Only after it’s over, though. Then she can’t talk me out of it.” Amber looked at me, biting her lip. “You have tomorrow off, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Will you come with me? I mean--you’re probably busy...”

  I had said I’d meet Gil, but lately I seized on any reason to postpone those meetings. “Nothing big. I’ll come.”

  “I’ve been such a stress case about this. I know I’ve been a bitch to you. The whole Laurence thing--believe me, I know I have father-figure issues, though that’s only part of it. Still, I’d feel so much better if you came.”

  I smiled. Amber’s frankness did have its pleasant side. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”