by Phil Stamper
“Ha. You say that now. Don’t you realize you’re in Europe? You can fly anywhere for cheap.”
A shallow breath. One country at a time.
“It’s overwhelming,” I say. “This is only my second time in Europe, and really we never did any traveling when I came last year, unless you count staying with my extended family outside of Dublin. I’m from Kentucky, so, it’s all foreign to me.”
“The place with the chicken, right?”
I cringe. A state with a two-hundred-year history rendered down to a piece of mediocre fried chicken.
“It’s more than that,” I say. I keep my eyes open, looking around the car. “I don’t hate it there. It’s the farmlands—cute houses, fields, open spaces, and bright stars the moment the sun goes down. I’m the only one who left. Of that side of my family, that is.”
“So let’s say your plan works out and you get to live here for a while. Do you think you’ll ever go back?” Pierce’s draped arm drifts closer. So close his fingers graze my shoulder, making me shudder.
“No.” I wouldn’t. “I’ll figure something out. There’s just nothing for me there. I’d like to tour in a symphony someday, but I don’t know. There are plenty of gigs out there. I’ll find something.”
At that last bit, I turn to him. His face is inches from mine. The edges of his lips perk up, and I pull back on instinct. His eyes flicker to the train map, and my gaze follows. We’re just three or four stops away. We’re supposed to get off at Green Park; that’s why I’m so surprised when Pierce jumps up at Gloucester Road.
“But this is Glow-chester Road?” I say.
“It’s pronounced Glah-ster, but never mind that. You never got to see Big Ben, right? Without all the scaffolding?”
“Right.”
“Let’s get off here. I can show you Big Ben, the Abbey. 10 Downing. Let’s be proper tourists. Then it’s a straight shot to Sondheim Theatre, where we can go surprise Shane after his audition—what do you say?”
My face feels hot. Really hot. Like in eighth grade, when Megan and I split a bottle of NyQuil because we thought it’d get us drunk (but it really just made us sleep for fourteen hours). My anxiety levels are off the charts.
This was not in the plan.
I’m carrying a suitcase.
There are going to be a lot of people up there.
My brain also chooses this time to remind me how long it’s been since I’ve had a shower.
He smiles—not a beaming smile, but a smirk. The doors have opened. I grab my bag and suitcase, while Pierce reaches out to me. My shoes feel glued to the ground. There’s something in his eyes—a sparkle? A twinkle? Reflection of the dingy train lighting? Okay, probably the latter, but fuck it. I’m going to see this city. I’ll follow that smirk anywhere.
12 MONTHS AGO
DIARY ENTRY 1
This assignment feels a little juvenile. (Note to self: erase that later.) I’ve been sitting in our Airbnb for like twenty minutes staring at this blank page. In my creative writing class last year, Ms. Hardin always said how sometimes writing whatever you’re thinking will jump-start your brain. Even if it’s crap. This is crap, but I’m trying to jump-start my jet-lagged brain, and it’s going to have to do. Okay. Back to London.
There’s no place like this. I mean, I haven’t seen that many places. Like, I went to New York on that school trip once, and when I was really young my parents made me board a bus with about forty other people from our megachurch to do that awful March for Life event in DC. I can’t look back on that mess of flyers and hymns and virtue signaling and not do a full body cringe. We trashed the city. When no one was taking our flyers, we were told to let God take them, and threw them into the air. God, of course, took them nowhere, and they melted into the soggy streets of Chinatown.
Wow, maybe diaries are therapeutic. That felt good.
Anyway, I’m going to have to delete all this. I don’t know if Mr. Wei is super Christian, but pissing off the righteous is not a good way to start my final school year.
So wait, London. We’re here! I’m tired. And also, it’s PRIDE. No one told me, not even Shane. We haven’t seen anything—no parades or anything like that—but we toured the city today, and the amount of rainbow flags I saw blew my mind. I think we have one bar around town that has a printed rainbow flag in its window—it’s not a gay bar, but it’s at least queer-friendly. God, the people of Avery hated when that flag went up. Here it’s like there are entire neighborhoods where I’d be welcome, whether I came in draped in rainbows, with painted nails, or holding hands with a guy.
It’s like a shock to my system that I feel all over. I didn’t know anything like this existed. I mean, I knew—we do have the internet in Avery—but I didn’t know it’d feel like this.
Right, so, I need ten diary entries about my summer. We’re here for a full week, so I want most of them to be about this trip to London. I’m auditioning for the Knightsbridge Academy of Music in a couple of days, and we get to spend the full week with my cousin Shane and Aunt Leah. We haven’t seen much of the city, really. Just whatever we went by on the drive in, which was actually pretty great. Rolling hills, sheep everywhere, stone fences, and there’s nothing stranger than riding in a car that’s on the wrong side of the road.
I think even that was a little too much for my parents. They’re not the big-city type, but I see how it’s wearing on them. Mom hasn’t been back to Europe since she was six years old, when her parents’ divorce left her on a plane with her dad, off to a new life in America. Even during those six years, her parents rarely left her town, except when her dad would take her into Dublin, where she’d sit at a pub with a cheese toastie, coloring in a book while her dad drank a pint, and together they listened to whatever folk band was playing. It was a mini-tradition, worth the hour drive.
But it’s been like forty years, and London isn’t Dublin, so I guess she doesn’t feel so comfortable here anymore.
FOUR
The steel doors open, and we’re suddenly getting shoved across the platform. I mean this literally. It’s supposedly a weekend, but über-professionals keep darting around the two of us to line up at the stairs. We aren’t exactly walking at a leisurely pace, but one can only move so fast when they’re tethered to a suitcase. As we approach the steps, Pierce darts ahead, through the crowd. I can’t see where he’s going, but I stick to the path—there’s only one way out of here, but this seems like the worst possible place to get separated.
I wonder where Pierce went, but then I spot him. The back of his head, at least. He’s carrying half a stroller up the stairs, while the frazzled mother takes the front end, stepping backward up the stairs. People shuffle around them, but they don’t seem annoyed, like this is commonplace or something.
I’m a few steps behind them, but I feel Pierce’s energy with every step—he’s saying “no worries” over and over again. And when they reach the top, she thanks him for the millionth time before she disappears into the sea of gray.
He waits there for me, and we carry on.
“Well, that was trusting of her,” I say.
“I wasn’t going to drop her baby.” He pushes my shoulder. “It happens a lot here. Fucking buggies everywhere.”
“… Buggies?” I try not to laugh.
“Um, prams? Pushchairs?”
“There can’t be this many Britishisms for ‘stroller.’ ” I roll my eyes. “I refuse to believe it.”
We file through a dark, low tunnel. White tiles line the walls and arc across the ceiling, while dingy concrete lies under our feet. Against a small semicircle painted on the wall is an older man sitting on a stool with a harmonica in his hands. The eerie chords sing out. It’s a bit painful to listen to. His ragged breathing sounds louder than the music, though I wouldn’t exactly call this music.
I take a deep breath. He may be terrible at this, but he’s got bigger balls than I’ll ever have, performing down here. That’s a place you’ll never see me.
“
Looks like Gloucester Road’s got B-listers busking this morning.”
“Busking?” I ask, though I know it’s another word we don’t use in America.
“God, don’t you know proper English?” He chuckles—I notice the dimple again. “Street or tube musicians. Or really any kind of performer.”
“Do you guys ever do that?”
“I have before, but I don’t have a license or anything. Our friend Dani’s quite into it. I think she likes it more than any of the performing she’s forced to do for class.”
We take a sharp left, and I see signs for the Circle and District lines, yellow and green, respectively. My palms are sweaty—actually, everything is a bit sweaty, and it’s getting harder to catch my breath. The crowds are getting to me. So I try to relax, thaw my body. Deep breath in, deep breath out.
Either way, I know I can handle it. My chest rises with the realization. I walk onto another train and file to the back, where we’ll have the most room. (Okay, I file to the back because that’s what the signs say to do and I can’t not follow the rules of posted signs.) Pierce reaches for the bar over my head, and I physically fight the urge to pull him into me.
A few stops later, I hear the train operator say one word I very much recognize: Westminster.
We’re here.
Pierce takes the stairs two at a time—I take them one at a time, lugging my suitcase behind me and panting. Then I take out the shiny new Oyster card Pierce got me to exit the station. In my prep for this move, I learned that their train card is called “Oyster” because with their card, the world is your oyster. So adorable I could vomit.
We file through the turnstiles, and even with my bag, I slip through like a damned local. It warms my heart a bit—no one likes feeling like a newbie here. Exhibit A: the two old ladies struggling to enter their paper card into the turnstile.
Freaking tourists.
We walk through the gates, and I start to feel funny. Not sick, but a little overwhelmed with the moment. I’ve been here before, but even still, I find it hard to prepare myself to stand before things I’ve mostly seen on TV and in movies. I sense that it’s close. Tourists are everywhere. Pushing into me, running by me.
My breaths are shallow and fast, and I know that’s not good. I can’t pull in the air I need. Pierce grabs my hand and guides me through the crowd.
I’m in a haze, but I follow him to a spot between two newsstands—neither seems to be selling news, just souvenirs. We get to the edge of the sidewalk, and for a moment no one’s around us, just the metal backs of the carts and the black cabs and double-decker buses. It’s surreal.
He’s looking at me, and I him. And I can’t help but think how cute he is. Instant infatuation. An instant connection. It’s never like this—gripping me by the chest and wringing my heart out like a dish towel. And for a second, the briefest second, I pull closer to him.
I don’t know what I’m doing, so I stop. He raises an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” I say, then blame it on my weakness in the moment. “I get overwhelmed in crowds.”
That eyebrow of his stays up, so I divert my gaze a few inches south of his eyes. To be honest, direct eye contact can be overwhelming too. But then I realize I’m looking at his lips, so I look down even farther—no, not there.
He takes my chin and lifts it slightly. I settle on looking at the bridge of his nose. I want to be in this moment, but something’s holding me back. I want to enjoy this closeness, the softness of his touch on my elbow.
But everyone’s staring at us. Or at least, it feels like they are. Maybe they are, probably they aren’t. But besides all that, we’re in the way, and that alone makes my chest feel itchy. Not to mention, this closeness has revealed a gaping hole in my heart I never knew was there.
Once, I thought I had a crush on Skye. It was more that we hung out all the time, and he’s the sweetest kid in the world. Cute face, piercing eyes. But that crush had a pretty normal trajectory. It started off slow, grew to an annoying but not life-threatening high, then passed around the time he started getting crushes on every girl he came into contact with.
I pull back, giving enough separation for three or four tourists to push through us. This opens the floodgates, and dozens more pour through the gap between us. I take in a sharp breath and pull my free arm across my chest—they’re way too close. Everyone is. I take a few steps back, into the sharp elbow of a Super Important Businessperson.
I can’t do this.
My free arm folds across my body as I stomp away. Not far, but away. Around the corner, under an awning, anywhere. In Avery, I always had a way out or a place to hide. I knew that little town like the back of my hand. But London’s scary as hell. Construction lines the street like castle walls.
“Marty! Wait, I …”
It’s hard to hear him with the chaos around me. Families herd their children left and right of me. I arch my shoulders in and close my eyes. Breathe in. Out.
In.
Out.
Pierce stands beside me. I feel him there. When I open my eyes, I see his hand hovering above my shoulder. He’s unsure whether he should touch me or not. He decides not to, so I lean against the stone wall and avoid his gaze.
“Are you …?” He drifts off.
Okay? I hate that question. No, of course I’m not, and I don’t know why, so I can’t really explain any of it.
Though “Are you okay?” is better than “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” which was Megan’s personal favorite attack back in the days of me hiding in the corner of the gym during mandatory pep rallies.
Pierce clears his throat. “Are you aware how much shite I’d be in if I had to tell Shane I’d lost you on the streets of London?”
He hunches to meet my downward gaze. Smiles, so I know he’s joking.
“Sorry, mate. I didn’t realize—I could have taken you to a better spot. Is there anything I can do?”
“It’s nothing. It happens sometimes; it’s really nothing.”
He leans against the wall next to me, then bumps my shoulder with his. “Whenever you’re ready, mate. I know a quieter place around the way.”
We’re close again. And this time I just sit with the knowledge that maybe there are people here who understand me … or are at least willing to try to.
FIVE
Things are better now. There’s a lingering feeling—a catch in my breath, an ache in my core—but for a brief moment I can push it out of my mind.
We stand on the sidewalk across the street from the parliament building, and Pierce resumes a monologue about nothing in particular while I collect myself. I appreciate it. A hush has fallen over the city. (Proverbially, that is. In actuality, it’s a madhouse.) The view’s a lot to take in. Everything’s so ornate. I scan the lower parliament building, all golds and tans. It is lined with an intricate, gold-plated facade that must’ve taken ages to design and build—and I know it well from doing Dad’s old, super-cool-but-also-kind-of-dated 3D puzzles.
A black gate lines the area, protecting the important Brits who live—or work? probably work—there from the massive onslaught of tourists. But jutting out from behind the gate is one of the more impressive things I’ve ever seen in real life. Big Ben.
“Last time you were here,” Pierce says, “you probably couldn’t even see the clockface. Big Ben was almost fully covered by scaffolding. Did you even take pictures?”
“We stayed in the cab,” I say, remembering the car ride. The five of us staring awkwardly at each other in one of those cabs where the seats face each other. “I’m kind of glad we did, because it’s so much cooler this way.”
What I don’t say is, “And they deserved the bad view.” If they’re not going to appreciate the things that made London special to me, they don’t get to appreciate anything about it. Now entering Pettytown, population: me.
This view? It feels like it’s all mine.
Big Ben is essentially a clock attached to a mini-skyscraper. London’s a low, sprawling
city, so this is one of the taller buildings I’ve seen, in this area, at least. It stands out from the buildings, among the hundreds of commuters and tourists.
I read once that an establishing shot in a movie is the first thing you see in a new scene that tells you where you are. The montage of the Chrysler Building and Statue of Liberty for New York or the White House and Lincoln Memorial for DC. Looking up at my tall friend Ben here, I find the term resonates with me.
This feels like it could be—no, this is—my establishing shot. I’m not in Kentucky anymore. I’m a billion miles away, and I don’t know whether to do a little dance or pull an armadillo, curl into a ball, and never get up.
“It’s a wonder, innit?” Pierce says as he puts an arm around me. The movement makes me feel like I’m about to spontaneously combust, but in a good way. “Technically, that’s not Big Ben.”
I tilt my head up, side-eyeing him. He has no idea the research I’ve done. How many online guides I’ve read, the Google searches that led to twenty open tabs about things I didn’t even care about.
But I did this so I could be prepared. So I would never feel like the tourist. So I would never be the butt of an Ignorant American joke. I know the answer to the trick question behind his words.
Yes, the tower is not technically Big Ben.
And that’s when I realize I haven’t responded. I’m developing a bad habit of not responding when I’m around him. It’s concerning, but I’m not exactly concerned.
The glint in his eyes borders on cockiness, and I realize there’s a sort of power in letting someone think they’ve pulled one over on you. I let him have it.
“So why does everyone call it Big Ben?”
He lifts his arm the length of the building. “That’s Elizabeth Tower, but that …” The bells toll as he points to his ear. “The bell is called Big Ben. Quick, name the pitch.”
“It’s an E.” I nudge him in the side and he hunches over, laughing. “It’s maybe a quarter tone sharp, but it’s an E.”
“I knew you’d be one of those perfect-pitch freaks.”
