The Wonder of Us

by Kim Culbertson

  “Nice touch,” I say, “since they both sit out on the edge of the water.” We locate our boat and join the queue for the next available departure.

  Aboard, Neel finds us seats on the top level and motions for me to take the one closest to the railing. As we wait for the rest of the passengers to find their seats, I study the gray rolling Thames, my eyes scanning the stone buildings along the London riverside. My brain is like a ticker tape. Shakespeare walked along this river. Winston Churchill walked along this river. Virginia Woolf walked along this river. I feel Neel watching me. “What?”

  He tugs one of my braids. “Nothing. I’m having fun, actually.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself.” I let my hand fall next to his on the plastic seat, keeping my eyes on the water.

  He twines his fingers through mine until we’re holding hands, and there it is again. That happy ache of my wobbly tooth heart. “Always a possibility.” The way he says it makes me think he might have the feeling, too, or some version of it.

  The boat starts moving. Max, our river guide, is the canned sort of funny you get from the guides on Disneyland’s Jungle Cruise. I love the guides on the Jungle Cruise, so this works out for me. Plus, he has a British accent, so double win. I laugh at all his jokes. All of them. And he reads me as a receptive audience (or maybe thinks I’m a bit of an idiot); either way, he starts to wink at me a lot during his talk. As we travel down the river, he points out the Houses of Parliament, the Abbey, and the London Eye, each paired with a joke that’s even more fun because of his accent. We pass under Waterloo Bridge, known as the Ladies Bridge, because, as Max tells us, it was built entirely by a female workforce during World War II. It’s the only bridge in London to come in under time and under budget. “Well done, London girls,” Max drawls into his mic.

  “Probably the twelfth time he’s said that today,” Neel whispers. “And he’s playing up that accent, by the way.” I shush him. Don’t dis the British Jungle Cruise.

  Max points out the Shard, the tall glass skyscraper, shooting like a blade into the sky. “The Tower of London has nothing on this Tower of Power and Riches. Don’t look too closely, they might charge you.” I laugh, but Neel lets out a bored groan.

  “Jealous?” I tease.

  “Annoyed.”

  I take his picture and text Riya, captioning it: neel’s annoyed face.

  She texts right back: tell him you will force him to go on the eye during high tourist time if he doesn’t behave!

  I show Neel. “Behave yourself. Or heights. Crowded ones.” He disappears downstairs to get us some snacks.

  While he’s gone, Max points out Shakespeare’s Globe and a pirate ship that was used in Pirates of the Caribbean. Neel returns and hands me a bag of potato chips. “Crisps?” he offers, just as Tower Bridge and the Tower of London come into view. I sit up, gaping at the Tower. I’m not always a gore girl. I mean, I like a good dungeon story as much as the next history nerd, but I don’t usually saturate myself with all the gory history details. History = horrid bloodshed. Got it. Except sometimes the stories are just too interesting and political to pass up, and the Tower of London fascinates me. Lots of historical blood soaking into that ground.

  I munch my chips. “Worcester Sauce flavor?” I study the bag. “Surprisingly delicious.”

  “You should try the prawn crisps.”

  “Maybe next time.” The Tower grows closer. “I know it had creepy torture stuff, but is it true that the Tower of London had a zoo?” I ask Neel.

  “Not exactly a zoo. More a menagerie. Dating back to the thirteenth century. It was a sign of wealth and power for the kings.” He frowns. “Sad, actually, though, for the animals. Some were made to fight.”

  I nudge him. “Well, hello, Tour Guide Neel.”

  “Took enough tours there as a lad.” He brightens. “Oh, this is a—what do you and Riya call them. History bits?”

  “History tidbits,” I correct.

  “Here’s a history tidbit I remember from one of my tours. Also in the mid-thirteenth century, the King of Norway gave King Henry III a polar bear, which he called a ‘white bear,’ and it was tethered to a long leash and allowed to fish and swim in the Thames.”

  “No way. Poor bear.”

  “A polar bear in the Thames. Can you imagine?”

  I watch the Tower grow closer. “Historically, men—and yes, mostly it’s been men,” I insist when he starts to interrupt, “have made brutal, stupid choices in the name of power. Take the Lighthouse of Alexandria. Mostly built with slave labor. Sometimes, studying history makes me ashamed to be a person.”

  Neel gives my hand a squeeze. “It’s why we study it, right? To not repeat it.”

  “How’s that working out for us?”

  He considers this for a moment. “I like to think we’re improving, even if it’s in slow increments.” Neel settles against the back of the bench seat we’re sharing and puts his arm around me, starting into a story about the lions that were moved to the London zoo in the 1800s. I settle into his arm. It’s a good story, but I’m not really listening. My ears are buzzing with the weight and heat of his arm, with his nearness, and I wish everything—history, the future—could simply disappear into the tumbling gray waters of the Thames.

  It’s late afternoon by the time we exit the Tube at Leicester Square Station. We’re on Clue #5, having snapped our “Temple of Artemis” photo outside of St. Paul’s for Clue #4 (reverent, angelic faces). During our too-quick tour of the Tower of London, Neel kept checking his watch as I lingered over the crown jewels or spent too long reading a plaque in the Armouries. “She’s given you a whirlwind task today, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically when I grumbled about having to leave. “We still have four more clues.” Outside, he adds, “I guess you’ll have to come back for a proper visit next time.”

  I tried to play it cool in the wake of his invitation when I said, “I just might do that,” but I’m pretty sure he saw the spark of hopeful smile I tried to hide from him.

  Now we stroll toward Leicester Square Gardens to find the statue of Shakespeare. Our clue: “While not the King of the Gods, like our pal Zeus, this man is often considered the King of the English Stage, while we are ‘merely players.’ Find his statue in Leicester Square Gardens.”

  Up ahead, I see a leafy green area. “I think this is a cool tie-in: Shakespeare and the Zeus statue.”

  “How so?”

  “The Olympics were first played at Zeus’s temple. I think the tie-in is that the Olympics are a sort of spectacle, a show, like Shakespeare’s plays.”

  Neel considers this, nodding. “I think it’s brilliant how much you love the wonders.”

  I flush at his compliment. “Maybe, but it’s not like I can control it. It’s just what I love. You wouldn’t be as impressed if I was hardwired to love collecting stuffed penguins.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that. The penguin is a majestic creature.” The sky above us shifts between gray clouds and patches of blue sky. It sends shadows drifting across his face as he walks.

  I step out of the way of a man pushing a bicycle. “Don’t forget we’re also hardwired to dislike things.”

  “Name something you dislike.”

  “Mushrooms.”

  “No!” he cries, taking an exaggerated step away from me.

  I tug him back by his sleeve. “Sorry, but they are disgusting, weedy little things, and I loathe them.”

  “Right. I guess it’s just something we’ll have to work through.” He stops in the middle of the path and pulls me into him for a kiss, the press of his mouth turning my limbs light and fluttery. I’ve heard that everything disappears during a staggering kiss, but it’s the opposite for me with Neel—everything intensifies, rendering the world sharp and clear. I’m acutely aware of the breeze on my neck, the filtered light through the trees, the splash of the fountain ahead of us, the shuffle of people walking past us.

  I just don’t care about any of it.

  In the gard
ens, we find Shakespeare, stopping in front of the fountain with his stone likeness as its centerpiece. He appears slightly bored, leaning casually on a column, as if saying, Yep, I write plays and stuff. Whatevs. He’s pointing to a stone sheet of paper that reads: There is no darkness but ignorance. “Riya wants a theatrical shot for this one.” I point at the scroll the same way Shakespeare does. “Deep thoughts with Shakespeare!” Neel takes a picture, and then I wave him over. “Now one with both of us. Shakespeare selfie!” He leans in close to me for the shot.

  While I check my phone to make sure the picture came out okay, Neel studies the splashing water. After a moment, he says, “For me, it started with numbers.”

  “What did?”

  “Like you were saying earlier, about things we can’t help loving. For me, it was maths. And that morphed into wondering about all the stuff we use as humans, all the resources and supplies that need calculating and figuring. So I’m studying economics, which, as it turns out, most people find terrifically boring.”

  “You’re not boring to me.” Maybe close proximity to fountains makes one prone to gushing?

  I can’t see a blush through his dark skin, but I can feel it, the heat from him at my words. He leans his shoulder into mine. “Thanks. I did not expect the trip to turn out this way.”

  “I know.” My stomach twists. What am I doing?

  When Riya said to go on a scavenger hunt so I can fall in love, I’m pretty sure she meant with London and not her cousin. Ugh. Fall in love. What a stupid expression. That’s not what’s happening. None of this feels like falling. It feels like panicking. Is there a difference? Maybe falling in love feels like room-closing-in-on-me panic? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never felt like this before. Not with my other crushes. Probably because they never kissed me in London. Never talked to me about real things. Shakespeare lounges in front of us, leans so casually there with his fancy beard. Mr. Love himself. Parting is such sweet sorrow and all that.

  Shut up, Shakespeare.

  I turn abruptly, and it catches Neel off guard. “Well, I guess we should go find Clue Number Six. Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Must be a garden. Where’s the nearest garden? I mean, other than this one. Let’s read the clue.” My hands shake as I open the envelope.

  Neel narrows his eyes at my mood swing. “You okay?”

  I swallow hard. How many times a day does someone ask this question and get a watered-down version or all-out lie for an answer? Are you okay? Yep. Sure. Fine. What if we answered someone honestly? What if right now I said, Actually, Neel, speaking of gardens, I seem to have grown some strange, messy feelings for you in the past couple of weeks that do not fit into my life right now, and you kissing me and being interested in what I care about isn’t helping matters. This is confusing, not just geographically, but also because of my best friend, who happens to be your cousin, because she and I aren’t in the best place right now. And even if she sent us out together today, she was pretty mad the other night when she caught us kissing. There was yelling. So, maybe this is actually a terrible idea. Except I really, really like the kissing.

  What if I just said all that?

  Instead, though, like legions of cowards before me, I say, “Totally fine,” and read him the next clue.

  Later, as we walk along the Serpentine, the water lit with a sudden emergence of sunlight, Neel explains that the bridge we’re about to arrive at separates the Serpentine part of the lake in Hyde Park with what’s known as the Long Water in Kensington Gardens, and Clue #6 links the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to Kensington Gardens. Eventually, we turn left and head into the heart of the gardens, with their rectangular dark-watered pools, potted plants, and meticulously manicured rows of flowers and shrubs. My heart stills. Something about a garden, the purposeful part of it, always relaxes me. No wonder they have been gifted to royalty and tended for centuries, these places crafted solely for beauty and contemplation.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Neel looks concerned. “You’ve gone quiet all of a sudden.”

  Around us, people stroll through the park, sprawl on the grass, read on benches. I would actually live right here, in this park, like a hobbit, if they’d let me. “What does Tour Guide Neel know about Kensington Gardens?”

  He knows I’m avoiding the question, but doesn’t press. “Let’s see. The Kensington Gardens were once private property of the palace—”

  “Buckingham Palace?”

  He shoots me an amused look. “Kensington Palace.”

  “You guys have a lot of palaces; it’s hard to keep them all straight.”

  “Yes, are you going to be interrupting the tour this whole time, or shall I continue?” I give him my best listening face, and we wander in a loop, the light in the park dimming as the clouds roll back across the sky. Neel expounds on the Royal Parks and points out some of his favorite spots. I almost die of excitement because I swear I spot Daniel Radcliffe working out with a personal trainer, but Neel assures me it’s just a guy who looks vaguely like shaggy-haired Daniel in the fourth Harry Potter movie, probably cross-training with a schoolmate, and not the famous movie star and a lucky trainer. We pass them up close and Neel’s right. “He’s about ten years too young, that lad.” Neel chuckles at my disappointed look, and we wind back toward the Long Water, stopping to take our photo (dreamy garden faces) next to an especially vibrant, multicolored bank of flowers.

  “Okay, Clue Number Seven.” I open the envelope labeled “Colossus of Rhodes,” but it’s empty. I hold it out to Neel. “There’s no clue.”

  He hesitates. “Right. About that.”

  “You don’t want to dis Helios. He’s the god of the sun. London’s got enough cloud cover.”

  “Let’s keep walking.” As we continue along the lake, Neel explains to me that Riya removed the seventh clue back in Iceland. That clue was the one that would lead me to her new school. A statue in a niche of the building bears a resemblance to the Colossus of Rhodes’s Helios. “It’s actually where she got the idea for the scavenger hunt in the first place.”

  I stop. “So, she was going to take me on this fun historical hunt all over London, butter me up, and then say, Surprise, here’s my new school?”

  Neel looks almost sick to his stomach now. “Yeah, I guess that was the basic plan.”

  Tears threaten my lashes. “Oh.”

  He takes a step toward me. “I’m sorry, Abby.”

  But he’s misinterpreted the tears. I’m not sad or frustrated or mad. Riya knew it would be impossible to tell me this news, knew that no matter the packaging, it would be another blow in a year full of them. So she did the only thing she could think of: She created a day of history-geek fun tailored to me to ease the inevitable shock.

  Friendship has a funny way of sneaking up on you.

  “I’m fine,” I insist when Neel moves in to hug me. And this time, I’m not lying.

  The focus of our last two days in London must be fun.

  History is Abby’s great love, and theater is my new great love, so we need some of each. But mostly, after the way everything’s gone down, I want to burn some fun memories into Abby’s brain. So I organize two unbelievable days. Yesterday, we geeked out at the Harry Potter studio tour and then saw Matilda at the Cambridge Theatre. When we emerged into the glittering lights of the West End after the show last night, I couldn’t help gushing to Abby about my orientation at school, about how excited I am to move here in less than two months. She curled her hand through mine and said, “I would be, too. Look at this place.”

  This morning, we soaked in some historical faces at the National Portrait Gallery, went shopping on Oxford Street, and finally, we find ourselves now gawking at the Rosetta Stone in the British Museum late on our last afternoon together. Abby is about to lose it in front of its massive historical splendor. She turns to me, her eyes bulging. “I mean, do you know what this thing did? Do you know its impact? I’m freaking out right now. I’m standing right in front of it! I could touch it. I mean, I wouldn’t
—” She glances nervously at the guard. “And it’s behind glass, but I could, you know, because it’s right here!”

  The guard can’t help but grin at her enthusiasm.

  “Right. It’s like Siri for hieroglyphics. Rosetta Stone,” I pretend to ask the jagged block of rock inside the glass, “what is the hieroglyphic for ‘Where is the nearest vintage shop?’”

  Abby pinches her lips together so tight they turn white at the edges. Glancing apologetically at the guard, she unfolds the glossy British Museum map. “You’re tormenting me on purpose.”

  I unwrap a piece of mint gum and pop it in my mouth. “I’m teasing you on purpose.”

  She fake reads the map. “Because I’m being overly dramatic about the Rosetta Stone?”

  “Yes. And I have history overload and want to go find some cute shoes.”

  Snapping the map closed, she motions me to the next room, muttering, “You should be more excited about the Rosetta Stone,” but her mouth twitches with a smile, giving her away. As a truce, I promise her that forever and ever I will be more excited about the Rosetta Stone. I will throw small dinner parties for it and make sure to serve its favorite kind of tea and biscuits, because it’s been here a long time and has picked up all sorts of British habits. “I’m holding you to that,” she tells me as we make our way into a room with carved stone panels. “And so is the Stone.”

  “Deal,” I assure her. “But for the record, I’m a little disappointed it couldn’t deliver on the shopping question.”

  That night, we pack our things, preparing for our trip to Heathrow tomorrow morning, where we’ll meet my parents and head back to California. We sort through most of our bags, but finally need a packing break, so I take Abby up to the roof of the building to a wrought-iron bench overlooking the city. Lights glow through a low-hanging fog and the scent of rain hangs in the air. I spread out a towel along the damp bench and cover us with a soft cashmere blanket Neel said we could use.