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3. Breathe, Just Breathe
It’s now been thirty hours since I last slept. Orientation ended
twenty-three minutes ago. We were shuffled outside onto the
sidewalk and divided up into groups by four different twenty-
something resident advisors. I ended up being separated from
everyone. I watched, crestfallen, as Pilot, Atticus, Babe, and
Sahra walked off in the opposite direction with a different tour
guide. I know it was just a stupid orientation tour, but it felt
important in the moment.
The RA took us around the general area, pointed out the
laundromat (I’ve already forgotten where this is), the movie
theater (it’s called the ODEON), and brought us to Orange UK
(a cell phone place).
My new phone is a little gray plastic box straight out of
2003. It has real buttons and no flip-top to protect them. When
I powered it up, the background was set to a stock photo of a
rock garden. There weren’t many options, but I’ve changed it
to a close-up of a tiger’s face. Tiger’s face has more of a brave
vibe than rock garden. On the way back to the Karlston, we
stopped at a cafe where I ravenously ordered quesadillas. Note
to self: Don’t order any more Mexican food in England. It’s
not their thing. I’m already getting hungry again. The RA
mentioned something about a grocery store somewhere close,
but the details have already fallen out of my brain. I can’t be
expected to remember complicated things like which way the
grocery store is while running on zero sleep.
I’ve now gleaned the code to the kitchen (which was, in
fact, buried in the blue folder paperwork), grabbed Sawyer,
and settled in at the table to write. I want to write about my
experiences in England, so I’ve started working on a blog post
about my first few hours here. I have my Horcruxes to house
my personal musings, but I have a blog to post more polished
writing pieces, like short stories that I’ve finished. While I’m
here in the UK, I want to turn it into a study abroad blog of
sorts and post short story versions of my adventures.
I let words drain out of me and into the digital space, until
my doc is brimming with all the travel-related thoughts I’ve
been wrestling with throughout the day. “Lucy in the Sky with
Diamonds” is playing softly, and my fingers are still dancing
across the keyboard when I hear the door open behind me. I
straighten, anticipating the need to make conversation.
You got
this.
I turn in my seat. The
hi
I’ve loaded up dies on my tongue
when I see Pilot. I glance around nervously as the door clicks
shut behind him.
Do not be silent.
“Hey,” I force out.
“Hey. Shane, right?” He meets my eyes.
I nod as he walks around the table and sits across from me.
“Pilot?”
“Like the first episode of a TV show,” he drops casually.
I bring my hand up to cover my face.
He chuckles. “What are you working on?”
I look at my laptop and back up to his eyes. They’re green.
Like olives.
“Oh, um, nothing really, just writing. I like to write short
stories and stuff.”
He grins. “Looked like some super-intense typing was
going down when I walked in.”
I grunt-laugh. “I mean, just a rambling account of my first
fourteen hours out of the country.”
“Is writing, like, what you want to do? Be an author or
something?” He eyes me curiously.
I falter a bit, fidgeting with my hair. “Um, yeah, I love
reading and writing and stuff, so, that’d be amazing.”
“That’s awesome. Can I read something you’ve written
sometime?”
I blink in surprise. What’s going on? We’ve exchanged two
words, and he wants to read something I’ve written? I look at
my computer screen for a second because I can’t handle the
prolonged eye contact that’s happening. Is this flirting? He
looks and sounds so genuinely interested. This internal
struggle needs to end, because of course he can read
something I’ve written.
I look back at him, a smile crawling onto my face. “Um,
yeah, sure. I have a blog where I post stuff sometimes.” I
pause, trying to maintain eye contact. “Do you write?”
He smiles. “Yeah, I do.”
My lips drop into a surprised
O
. “Really?”
“I mean, I write music.”
He. Writes. Music. “Oh my gosh, that’s so cool! Do you
play an instrument, then?”
“Yep, good ole guitar. I’m working on an album; gonna try
to finish it while I’m here.” He drums a quick little beat on the
table with his hands.
I push Sawyer over to the side a little. “Whoa, what kind of
music do you write?”
“You know … like, acoustic jazzy stuff.”
I smile again, trying to imagine what acoustic jazzy stuff
sounds like. “That’s great! Is that what
you
want to do?”
He looks at the table. “Eh, I mean, I’d love to be able to do
something music-related, but it’s more of a hobby. I’m a
finance major—I’m doing the business track here.”
“Oh, well … I’d … I’d love to hear some of your stuff
sometime,” I squeak out. He shoots me a modest grin.
We’re having a conversation!
“We should all do something in here tonight,” he suggests,
clapping a hand down on the table. One side of his mouth
kicks up. “A flat bonding activity or something. Maybe get
some beers and hang out.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, yeah, we’re legal here! I
really want to go to a grocery store and get some food, too. I
know we ate on our orientation tour thing, but I’m already
starving again.”
“You want to go now?” he asks.
Butterflies hustle through my veins. “I, um, I don’t know
where the grocery store is or anything,” I stutter.
“The guy who did my tour talked about it, so I know
roughly where it is. I think I’ll be able to find it. I’m good with
directions.”
“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.
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