Again, But Better(48)

“Atticus!” Babe laughs from the table. “That’s so loud!”

“Yeah, I enjoy drama. What else is new?” he cracks.

The two of them cackle. I pull my computer back in front of me, so I can stare into space angstily without looking like I’ve just had a lobotomy. What if everyone’s already doing things for break? I’m going to be stuck here alone in London all by myself for a week?

“We were talking about spring break plans!” Babe announces. “What are you going to be doing?”

I jump into the conversation. “Yeah, At, do you want to do something together?”

He turns to me. “Actually, my family is flying out here! We’re road-tripping across the UK, up to Scotland!”

Babe rinses her dishes in the sink. “Oh my gosh, that sounds great. I’m going to Ireland on a tour, and I’m going by myself. I’m so excited! Traveling alone is supposed to be an amazing experience of self-discovery! And I’ll be on a bus tour so I’ll meet people…”

Hearing this a second time is depressing. I duck down under the table to grab headphones from my book bag. As I’m digging around, the door opens again. Four of us in the kitchen at once? It’s probably Pilot! I yank my head up to check.

There’s a loud thud as my cranium slams into the corner of the table.

I’m catapulted forward with the rebound momentum and topple sideways, crumbling into a heap on the floor. My chair clashes onto the tile next to me.

The microwave bell goes off as I yell, “Freakin’ A!” and Babe yelps, “Jiminy Cricket!”

When I look up, everyone’s hovering.

“What happened?” Atticus asks.

“Are you okay?” Babe demands. “That was an epic bang!”

When Pilot steps into view, I cringe. Of course he’s here. The first eye contact we’ve made in weeks, and I’m in the fetal position on the floor.

“Did you really just use the phrase Jiminy Cricket?” I grumble to Babe, moving to get my legs back under me. “I’m fine. Evil chairs are out to get me, falling every five seconds.”

As I get to my feet, Pilot shakes his head. “Devil chairs,” he accuses in an exaggerated Southern accent.

I want to be mad at him, because I am. I want to say something like: Where the hell have you been the last fourteen days? But instead, I loose a flustered huff, pick up the chair, and flop back onto it.

“These chairs are a hazard to myself and others.” I wince, touching a finger to the bump forming on my head.

“Sure you’re okay?” Pilot asks.

“Yeah, fine,” I say dismissively. Atticus is at the table now, stuffing pasta puttanesca down his throat.

Babe swoops into a seat. “So, Pilot, what are you doing for spring break?”

I glance at him. Cross my arms. Uncross. Raise a hand to hold up my chin.

“I’m going with Steve and Quail from Flat Four to Vienna and Amsterdam,” he tells her. Again, looks like we’re not invited.

Well, ask. Take charge of your raft.

I open my mouth. “Oh man, that sounds cool. Um, I don’t have any plans yet. Do you think maybe I could join?” I’m already having a hot flash. I can’t believe I just said that. Pilot drops his gaze to the table.

Oh god, he’s going to say no. I think I’m going to cry. My face is burning. It’s gonna melt off.

“Uh … I’m sorry, Shane. It’s actually already planned, and it’s just gonna be a guys’ trip. I’m sorry.” He looks up at me. He is sorry. I see it in his conflicted mossy eyes. “If things weren’t—”

I cut him off, waving my arms around. “Oh my god, of course, I’m sorry. Why would I assume? I didn’t mean to … that was … forget I said anything.”

You’re fine. No crying. Atticus is looking at me with his head cocked to the side. I shoot Babe a wide-eyed look: Help!

She jerks into gear. “Wow, well, that’s going be awesome, Pilot! Guess what? I’m going to Ireland! And I’m going by myself on a bus tour…”





21. Ticking Away




2/17/11

TODAY WAS MOMENTOUS. Declan asked me to shadow him while he edited a photo spread of Moscow! We didn’t speak much, but I learned things. I got to watch how he used their software to craft things together for the next printed installment of Packed! For Travel! They release new articles weekly on the site, but only publish a hard-copy issue once a month.

And then … wait for it: A fancy guest photographer called Lacey Willows came into Packed! for a meeting with Wendy and Donna about a new piece on Istanbul, and Wendy invited me to listen in on the meeting. I sat there smiling like an eager beaver throughout the entire thing.

In other news, the flat is preparing to go their separate ways for break, which starts tomorrow. I couldn’t bring myself to book a trip alone, so I’ll be here. Everyone at work today wished me an amazing spring break. I kind of wish we didn’t have a spring break.

In other, other news, this all-consuming crush for Pilot Penn has come to a crux. I think I need to tell him because this unrequited thing isn’t working for me. I hate missing him all the time. I miss him, and I feel like an idiot. He’s so obviously been avoiding me. He materializes in passing from time to time, and it’s like catching sight of a ghost or finding yourself in reach of a butterfly. I step toward him, and he floats out of reach again—he’s on the way to class; going to meet with the guys down the hall; just “headed out.”