Again, But Better(2)

“How interesting. Am I to assume you’re friendless as well?” Red-haired woman brings me back to the plane.

I shake my head in disbelief, glancing down at my list, and back up at her. “Oh my god.”

“Why don’t you have friends?” She cocks her head to the side.

I exhale a flustered breath. “I … I have friends at home, just not at college, because I did it wrong.”

Not a lie. They’re just not close friends. More like acquaintances I met through Leo back before puberty. Nowadays, Leo and I don’t talk anymore, so, by proxy, Leo’s friends and I don’t talk either.

Did Leo ever even count as a real friend? Do cousins count as friends?

“I didn’t know you could do college wrong.” The woman rolls her eyes.

I hold back a scoff, thinking back to the list I jotted down in Horcrux Eight last month:


HOW TO DO COLLEGE WRONG:

1) Don’t make friends outside your dorm room.

2) Don’t get involved in extracurriculars you might enjoy.

3) Don’t talk to people in your classes.

4) Stay in bingeing every show the internet has to offer.

5) Pick a super-hard major to please your parents.




“Well, you can.” I add in calmer tone, “I’m going to London to fix it.”

“London’s going to give you friends?” She sounds way too amused.

“It’s a fresh start!” My voice tightens.

She raises an eyebrow. I bob my chin up and down, more for myself than the lady, before turning back toward the window.

“Well, it’s a doable list. I believe in you,” she finishes.

Her unexpected encouragement strikes a chord in my chest. I glare out into the darkness with glassy eyes. Fear roils around in my stomach, making me all twitchy and uncomfortable.

When I first saw the Literature and Creative Writing program on the YU London study abroad site, my heart left my body, got in a plane, and scribbled out YES in giant, building-sized letters across the sky. The idea of leaving my current life behind: bio, chemistry, physics, the MCATs, even my family, and starting over with a clean slate—it was everything.

Last week, it was all that got me through vacation. This past Sunday, the fam and I were in Florida, fresh outta church (to quote my father: Just because we’re on vacation doesn’t mean we skimp on church—we’re good Catholics), Dad caught me alone, reading in a little cove away from the hubbub of everyone else. To my horror, he snatched the book out of my hands. “What are you doing? Get in the water! Talk to us! Spend time with your cousins!”

I scurried over to sit on the edge of the pool where the cousins were socializing. My ten cousins are boys ranging from age eleven to nineteen. Joining them by the pool at any given time means subjecting oneself to verbal assault.

Maybe verbal assault is dramatic; more like volunteering as a human joke target.

It wasn’t always like this, especially with the oldest, Leo. But it’s like this now. They’ll start talking about drinking: Shane, do you even go to parties? Why the fuck do you come home every other weekend? Roaring laughter. Antisocial! They start talking about relationships: Shane, do you ever talk to people other than your parents? Why don’t you ever have a boyfriend? Sometimes I try to chuckle along with them. I’ll treat them to endless eye rolls, cheeks burning, lips sealed in a tight line. But I keep quiet because I’m outnumbered. Super-fun times.

I close my new notebook. I take a second to admire the See You in Another Life word art I doodled across the front of it earlier while I was waiting to board, before shoving it back into my book bag. I pop the buds dangling around my neck back into my ears and set the Beatles to play on my iPod. My parents have been playing them for as long as I can remember, and their songs have become sort of a default calming mechanism. Four hours left. Four hours till new first impressions. New classes. New surroundings. New country. Try to find sleep, Shane.





2. Make a Change



I didn’t find sleep, but I did find the taxi line outside the airport, so here’s to that. Now, London hurtles by my window as we barrel down the wrong side of the road en route to my new home, the Karlston.

According to the So You’re Going to Study Abroad pamphlet I reread five hundred times: Once off the plane, I was to collect my bag from baggage claim, find a buddy from my flight who’s also headed to the Karlston, and share a taxi with them. Unfortunately, I’m allergic to finding a buddy. I’ve failed this task on countless occasions. At the baggage carousel, I determinedly positioned myself close to a college-age girl in a blue peacoat—and then stood there for five minutes trying to stifle the current of self-doubt cycling through me as I mentally rehearsed what I would say. Some variation of: Hi! Are you headed to the Karlston? Hi! I’m headed to the Karlston. Hi! Me, you, Karlston? Before I worked up the nerve to open my mouth, her suitcase came out onto the conveyor belt. I watched as she tracked it around the carousel with her eyes. And I watched in silence as she pulled it off and wandered away.

So, I’m alone in this taxi with no one to split the fifty-pound fee. I’m going to count that as my outgoing dress rehearsal. Once I get to the Karlston, I’m talking to new people. I’m starting conversations.

Outside the window, we’re passing store after store that I’ve never heard of. Different. Already everything’s so different, and I can’t help but feel the distance. I’m 3,450 miles away from everyone I know.