Again, But Better(3)

Yesterday, my parents watched with solemn expressions as I walked away from them toward airport security. It made me feel like I was going away to war or something.

Out of habit, I reach into my bag and grab my cell to check for messages. It’s dead. I let it fall back in. It was doomed to become a useless brick while in England anyway. My LG Voyager isn’t new enough to support international calling. According to So You’re Going to Study Abroad, I’m to buy a cheap plastic one like the fugitives do on TV.



* * *



The taxi rolls to a stop on a street lined on both sides with pretty, white, sophisticated-looking buildings with columns. Fancy. I drag my bags up four steps and into the one labeled THE KARLSTON.

Inside is a quaint lobby with burgundy carpeting. To the left is a typical curved lobby-style desk, and to the right is a little table with two people sitting behind it: a pale blond woman in her thirties and a balding black man in his fifties. They introduce themselves as the London program heads, Agatha and William. Agatha gives me my apartment keys. I’m in Flat Three, Room C. William directs me to a door on the left, past the desk, so that’s what I waddle toward with my luggage.

I pull open said door to find stairs. I’m at the top of a carpeted stairway leading into the basement. Am I going to live in the basement? I heave in a breath.

This is fine. You’re doing it. College, take two. Don’t blow it.

I have three bags: a book bag, a carry-on, and a giant black suitcase. I secure the book bag high on my shoulder, grasp the carry-on in my front hand, and prepare to drag the giant suitcase behind me.

I take a single step down before something snags behind me. I fly forward.

“Shit!” I sacrifice the carry-on and lunge for the handrail, holding on for dear life as my bag continues on without me. It comes to a thundering stop at the bottom of the twenty or so steps. After a moment, I push against the wooden beam, back into an upright position.

I turn to see my puffy winter jacket snagged on rail at the top of the staircase. Way to almost die before you’ve even made it to the room. Leo’s voice echoes in my head: Can you do anything without causing a scene?

With a huff, I pry myself free and slowly thump the rest of the way down with my remaining luggage. I sidestep the fallen carry-on and assess the area at the foot of the stairs. There’s a hallway to my right, to my left, and behind me, parallel to the staircase.

“Are you okay?” a voice calls from above. I spin to find a curvy girl with dark skin and bright hazel-brown eyes standing in a bold green peacoat at the top of the landing.

Why does everyone have fashionable coats? Are peacoats a thing? She’s wearing a white beret over her shoulder-length dark hair that flips out at the ends like a girl from the sixties. She looks so put together and sophisticated, and not at all like she just got off a plane.

I feel the sleep deprivation as I struggle for a moment to answer her. “Um, yeah, I’m fine.”

Beret Girl starts down the staircase with her giant red piece of luggage.

“I just … I tripped, and my carry-on fell…” I mumble. Don’t mumble.

“I thought maybe you had fallen. The noises were epic!”

My cheeks get hot. I clear my throat. “Cool … um, I’m fine, though. No worries!” I pick the carry-on up off the floor and start down the hallway parallel to the staircase.

“Where are you headed?” the girl asks, now dismounting from the last step. I turn around again.

“I’m in Flat Three, Room C. I’m taking a wild guess that it’s this way, maybe?”

“Oh my goodness, no way, me too!” She shoots me a giant grin. I feel my own smile perk up.

At the end of the hall, we find ourselves between two light wooden doors: 3B is to our left and 3C is to our right.

I twist my key in the 3C lock. With a bit of pressure, it swings open, thumping lightly against the wall. My eyes dart around, surveying the space. We’re on the long wall of a rectangular room with gray carpeting. There are three windowless walls, two of which have bunk beds pushed up against them. There’s a bunk bed directly across from where I’m standing and another to the left of the doorway. Four portable, light brown, cupboard-like closets have been smooshed against the walls wherever space allows. The third wall is outfitted with a full-length mirror and a door to the bathroom. The fourth wall is a window. Well, it’s not a full-on glass wall. It’s about 40 percent wall and 60 percent giant window. The blinds are currently closed and a kitchen-sized table sits in front of it. We drag our things in and let the door click shut behind us.

“I love it,” Beret Girl exclaims, forgetting her bags by the door and moving past me toward the lower bunk. “My name’s on this one!” She holds up a blue folder she swiped off the bed.

I move my bags against the wall and walk over to look at the folder on the other bottom bunk. Not me. I hop up on the ladder to look at the folder on the top bunk. No name up here. I must be the bed above Beret Girl. Exchange names, Shane.

I turn from my perch on the ladder of the second bunk. “Hey, I’m Shane, by the way!”

The girl looks up from the floor where she’s already unloading clothes into one of the two giant drawers under the first bunk. “I’m Babe!”

“Babe like the pig in that movie with the talking farm animals?”

Babe looks up, still smiling. “I love that pig.”