Again, But Better(7)

“I, um, okay?”

“I’ll go grab my jacket. Meet by the stairs in a minute or so?”

I stare at him for a second in disbelief. What the heck. I’ve only been here for like four hours. This seems conveniently wonderful.

“Cool,” I manage. I follow him out of the kitchen and … toward my room. At the last minute, he veers left to the door across from mine.

“Hey,” I blurt loudly. “We’re neighbors!”

He looks over his shoulder and laughs before heading into his room.

“Well, I’ll be,” he says in a fake Southern accent as I dive into my room for a coat.





4. I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here



We’re walking down the sidewalk in London together. Pilot and me. Me and Pilot. A cute boy who’s being nice to me. Who I held a conversation with. My heart is having a dance party. It’s also wondering, is this, like, a date?

No, it’s not a date, but it’s like … a something.

The sun sits low in the sky and the streets are full of people hustling about. Big red double-decker buses swish by every few minutes. I can’t help the stupid smile that plasters itself to my face as I gaze around in wonder like someone who’s never been outside before. When I try to rearrange it into a more relaxed expression, the smile pops back up of its own volition.

“There are red double-decker buses like you see in the movies!” My voice is thick with delight. “It’s so surreal. I’ve never been out of the country before, and now I’m just here.”

I look over at Pilot quickly, and then back in front of me, and then back at him, and then back in front of me. How often should I look over? Is it weird to keep looking over or is it weirder not to look over? I look over at him again. He’s smiling in a more subtle sort of way. His eyes shine like he’s excited about London too, but he’s got it smothered under a nice layer of chill.

We trot quietly down Kings Gate in the general direction of where the grocery store is supposed to be. Pilot has his hands jammed in his jacket pockets. We pass pretty white house with pillars after pretty white house with pillars, all the way down the road until we come to a stop at a busy intersection.

“Is this where we turn, you think?” I ask.

I gaze around for the tall metal posts with green signs labeled with the names of the streets that we all know and love in the United States—and come up empty. I already miss my phone GPS.

“I think…” He squints across the way. “It’s another block down.”

I turn away from the street to gaze at him warily. “You only sound, like, sixty-two percent sure about that.”

He raises a hand to stroke his chin and glances dramatically from right to left. “I’d say I’m more like thirty-seven percent sure.”

“Where are the street signs?” My head swishes from one corner to the next. There are no poles. This is so disorienting.

The So You’re Going to Study Abroad pamphlet did extensively delve into a phenomenon called culture shock. At the time I scoffed, because come on, it sounds dumb. But dang, I guess it’s starting.

“Okay, I’m, like, forty-three percent sure now that we go straight for another block,” Pilot decides.

I smile and shrug. “Okay.”

I look to my left and take a few steps forward into the street.

“Shane!” Pilot grabs my arm and heaves me back as a car races by a foot from my face.

My lungs suck up all the air in a ten-foot radius as adrenaline spikes through me. Pilot drops his hand from my arm as I spin to face him, mortified.

“Holy shit, I forgot about the cars coming from the other way. Oh my god!” I bury my face in my hands for a second.

Four hours in, and I’ve almost gotten myself hit by a car and killed via a flight of steps.

“Don’t worry. I almost died a few times after I got here yesterday.” Pilot starts crossing the street. I silently scurry after him.

“But I mean, I didn’t, because I remembered and looked both ways before actually stepping out into oncoming traffic.” He turns around as we reach the curb to smirk at me.

I shoot him a surprised grin. “Shut up!” I burst, reflexively whacking him in the arm. A half a second later, I stare at my own arm aghast. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. I have this habit of smacking people sometimes—”

He laughs, interrupting me. “You have a habit of smacking people?”

“No.” My voice rises a few pitches. “I mean, not smacking people. Jeez.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, hitting people, lightly, sometimes.”

His eyes narrow. “Is this a serious problem? Do you go to meetings for this?”

I bite back a laugh. “No!”

“Uh-huh.” He’s still smirking at me.

“Why are you smirking?” I protest.

He continues to smirk.

“Stop,” I squeal. Before I realize it, I’ve whacked him in the arm again. Oh god. I stutter to apologize.

His smile widens as he jumps away in mock horror. “There she goes again with the violence. I just saved your life, and this is how I’m treated.”

I bury my face in my hands, laughing.

We come to the end of another block and turn right down whatever nameless road we’ve reached. I’m having trouble focusing on anything other than Pilot. How close we’re walking. How he’s looking at me with his lips pursed like he’s suppressing a grin.