Love from London (16 page)

“Out.” Arabella pushes Asher playfully until he’s almost to the front door. Toby is near-snoring on the couch in the empty room. “Don’t pull any of your crap with my friend, okay?”

Asher shrugs her off. “I was just offering to do Love’s headshots for her.”

I perk up. “Really?” I’ve never had headshots before. When I did voiceovers back in Boston, the radio station asked for one and I handed in a poor-quality black and white eight by ten of my Hadley Hall facebook photo.

Arabella concedes. “He’s not a bad photographer, to be honest.” She pauses and sighs. “Are you going to do it with him?”

I blush. “I’m thinking about it, yeah.” The three of us stand in the draft of the open door.

Asher doesn’t waste any time, “Fine — I’ll stop by some time and we can do it then.”

Do it. Do it. He must know I’ve never done it. Headshots or otherwise. But I catch my breath, heart racing and say, “Sure — I’d appreciate that.” Like he’d be doing me a favor.

He leaves without a double-kiss and Arabella bolts the door. “Good riddance.” She goes over to Tobias, pulls a blanket from the back of the couch onto him, removes the wine glass he’s still clutching in his hand and motions for me to join her in the kitchen.

Outside, the clock chimes four o’clock and I know I’m going to wake up feeling worse if I sleep than if I just stay up until it’s time to meet Chris first thing.

“Want to walk back to LADAM with me and have breakfast with Chris?”

“Are you going to The Greasy Spoon?” Arabella asks.

“We are,” I say. The Greasy Spoon, so named for its typical English cooked breakfasts of eggs and beans and toast and sausages, is a no-frills, cozy place near school. The booths at the back are a perfect place to memorize lines or read or alternate underlining critical theory texts with spoonfuls of cocoa. “That way he can just hop on the train to the airport afterwards.”

Arabella makes a sad face. “I would. I want to…”

“Let me guess, Tobias would be upset to wake up and find that you’re not here.”

“Don’t be a bitch,” she says. “You know you’d do the same thing.” I look at her and raise my eyebrows. “Fine — maybe you wouldn’t.”

“I’m not being bitchy —I’m being honest. Chris is here all the way from Boston and your boyfriend you see
all the time
is wasted and asleep and you’re too afraid to leave him for all of an hour?”

“It’s more than an hour, Love. You’ve got to factor in the Sunday Tube schedule, and then getting a place at The Spoon, and…”

“Whatever — let’s not get into the math and physics of it. I just thought it’d be nice to have you along. I know you miss him.”

“I do. But things are rocky with Toby right now and I don’t want to make them any worse.”

I hop down from the kitchen counter where I’ve been perched and stretch. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Arabella shakes her head. “It’s the same old, same old. We have this bad pattern set up. He starts to pay less attention to me and I poke at him until he finally notices me but then I’m so frustrated that I treat him poorly so then he acts like a dickhead.” I nod. “It’s just a down cycle, that’s all.”

“Sorry. I hope it gets better.”

“It will,” she says. Then like she needs to prove it to me and to herself she adds, “It will.” Arabella switches off the lights and we go into her room.

“Don’t mind me,” I say to her after we’ve brushed our teeth and are sitting on her bed. She’s snuggled under the covers and near-asleep. “I have a lot of reading to do for PMT’s class.”

“Sounds good,” she mumbles. “Hey — you think anything will happen with you and Nick Cooper? He’s never interested in our group but —”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, book-marking my page with my thumb.

Arabella pulls the duvet up to her chin so she’s almost covered by it. “No, nothing bad. Just that I thought you’d be pleased to know he’s like the least incestuously involved with our lot of friends. And I could tell he liked you.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say without either lying or sounding too-interested in Nick so I say, “He’s nice and everything and maybe at another point in my life I’d been really psyched to get to know him but there’s something I need to…” Then I notice that Arabella is solidly, soundly asleep. So much for a confessional or cover-up. I’m spared of both. And the truth is, if I hadn’t met Asher, I’m sure I would have gone for Nick Cooper. But I did meet him, and I can’t undo that.

At The Greasy Spoon, Chris tells me Alistair the American is joining us for breakfast, that he definitely has a crush on him. Alistair waves to us from outside the front window and sits down.

“Oh, here,” Chris says, remembering something and hands me slip of paper in the porter’s shaky scrawling script that reads
“Please tells Miss Bukowski that she has a confirmed place in The Choir.”

After the round of watery orange juice cheers and congrats, Chris tells me, “The bad news, is that some girl named Millie’s dad got made redundant.” Translation: got fired. “Therefore he can’t pay the school fees anymore. Therefore Millie’s out of St.Paul’s/LADAM and off The choir.”

“Thus giving you the chance to take her spot,” Alistair says. He pours more coffee for me and for Chris, going so far as to add a teaspoon of sugar to Chris’s and stirring it for him.

“Actually, I’ve got to run,” Alistair says, slugging back his coffee. “But I’m sure we’ll get a chance to hang out at some point. In LA, maybe?”

I make a he’s crazy face to Chris. “When I am I going to LA?”

Chris kicks me under the table. “Our road trip, you know?” He takes a sip of iced water. “Love, don’t be shy, tell Alistair our plans.”

Thank God for drama improv and other near-rhymes. “Right — well, as you know, being American and all, there’s just so many colleges to look at and you can’t tell what a place is like without seeing it…”

Chris overlaps with me. “So Love and I are in the midst of planning this big college tour, as I think I mentioned…”

Alistair nods, “Sounds good. I’d be happy to show you both around Santa Monica any time. If you’re looking at UCLA, that is.”

Another kick from Chris. “Oh, I am,” I say and nod vigorously. “It’s in my top five.”

“You made me a huge liar,” I say to Chris after Alistair ’s gone.

“Oh you’re already lying to Arabella, what’s one more?”

“Not fair,” I say and stab a piece of fried egg with my fork. “Was it really so necessary?”

“I didn’t want to come off as a desperately seeking long-distance love kind of person.” He chews his food. “Also, it is possible — I mean, we do
have
to tour colleges. We could take a trip together.”

“Yeah, um, I’m sure my dad would go for that.”

“Why not? I’m like the perfect chaperone for you,” Chris says, scooping up a piece of egg. It wobbles as he gestures with the fork. “My parents don’t care where I wind up as long as it’s impressive.” Chris shakes his head. “Serious pressure. I guess it’s better than just signing the check away.”

The multiple dollar signs of tuition loom ahead. “I’m going to have to get some aid — or a job — or both,” I say. Then I think about my dad. “I’m sure my dad sees the college tour as a real father-daughter experience. Plus Mable — maybe she’ll come, too, and…”

“Fine,” Chris says. “I get it. You’ll have the all-American experience of picking exactly the right place to spend the next four years of your life with your perfect unit.”

“Hardly perfect,” I say, not so much complaining as stating the obvious yet again. “It’s not like my parents have been married for twenty years and we’re all piling into the minivan to check out the Ivies.”

“Close enough,” Chris says.

I eat the rest of my breakfast and fold an empty sugar packet into thirds then in half. “Blech. I don’t even want to think about TCP. It all feels really far off.”

“That’s only because you’re here. I swear we get reports and stats from Dandy-Patinko and the college counseling office every day. It’s enough to make me want to forget the whole thing.”

“Do you know what your top choice is yet?” I ask and then, like I’ve sworn in the middle of a class (Harriet Walters did last year, she said
fuck
in the middle of a history class and then managed to gloss over it, but it was big news for a day or so). “Wait — ignore that. Ignore me. I’m in serious danger of getting sucked into the whole prep school pit of potential placement.”

“Not to mention the fact that if I don’t hurry up I’ll be late and in mucho troublero.”

“Nice Spanish,” I say.

“I take Russian, what can I say?”

We say goodbye, hugging, outside where the rain (the London rain) has started to spit down at us.

“You look exhausted,” Chris scolds me.

“You, too,” I say back.

“Well, this was a quick trip — I never got over my jet-lag and it’s already time to head back. Then he looks at my face, searching for details.“Think we’ll be lucky in love?”

“Who knows,” I say. “Part of me wants to come back with you —”

“No you don’t. Enjoy yourself — Hadley’s got nothing going on right now. Aside from the midwinter slush and sex quests, there’s only college shit…” He pauses, reaches for his carry-on, and adds, “I almost forgot to give this to you. You dad would be mad.”

I hold a heavy envelope with my name and class year (class II — senior year I’ll finally be a class I) on it. “Let me guess — more college prep?”

“What else? Note the silly quiz that tells you Cosmo-style whether you’re meant for a small, liberal arts school or a rowdy Big Ten.”

“Nice. Listen, Chris, thanks for schlepping all the way over here. And for comforting me.”

Chris shrugs. “I feel like I didn’t do enough, really. And I feel guilty for last night.”

“Well, don’t — especially not about last night.” I can’t help but smile. “And with all the other crap — Mable, and everything — I’m not sure how much more I can talk about it. It’s scary and I’m worried, but talking about it doesn’t seem to make it better. It actually just makes it worse.” My eyes fill up with tears. “I’m tired and sad you’re leaving and it’s raining.”

“How poetic. I fully expect to read a tome from you at some point.”

“You will — LLS.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, it’s leftover fifth grade camp. It’s code for Long Letter Soon.”

“Good.”

I watch him heft his bag onto his left shoulder, his carry-on in his right hand, and wave as he walks to the Tube stop, down the stairs, and out of sight. I stand for a second singing Clementine’s
Like the London Rain
in my head while the real thing falls around me, and then head home.

Home= an acronym HELL ON MY EMOTIONS.

My door is ajar (like the lousy Dixie cup riddle my dad used to ask me — when is a door not a door? When it’s — say it with me — ajar. But in that version there wasn’t a random Goth girl looking through anyone’s personal belongings). Goth barely raises her eyes when I come in, she just takes one of my Frank Sinatras and leaves.

“Bring it back when you’re done!” I yell after her.

“Will do!” she agrees.

I’ve never met her before. The attitude here is that we’re all in the same proverbial boat of angst and art and therefore should commune as one, with unlocked doors (which Chris clearly took liberty in doing), unspoken arrangements of long term sweater and cd sharing, and the right to crash, drunken or otherwise, on the floor or bed of your choice.

All I want to do is write my paper for PMT and do my vocal exercises for Choir practice tomorrow in peace. Instead, I will do both in Piece’s.

“I’m out of here!” I announce to no one in particular except yet another drunken artiste in dark trousers and Robert Smith-style hair and charcoal-rimmed eyes (not in a sullen, I’m a French-style ingénue married to Johnny Depp, more in the I drank too much Foster’s and wound up stealing someone’s palette to ridiculous effect).

If truth be told, I guess part of me wants to be like this. I want to feel loose and mellow and mutter
yeah, sure
or
whatever suits you
or the ever-popular
diamond days
(like cool, but cooler). The trouble is, I’m not. Maybe I’m too Hadley or maybe it’s just innate — but either way, I want my living space to be somewhat clean, slightly private, calm enough to work in.

So I, as the English say, do a runner. Do a bunk. Well, kind of — really when people say this it’s more like skipping out on something without paying or whatever, which in a way I am. Part of me feels guilty, especially when I bump into Fizzy and Keena by the front stairwell.

Our voices echo as they chide me. “No — don’t tell us — you’ve finally decided to give in,” Keena says.

“Say it isn’t so,” Fizzy tugs at her hair.

I ignore them for the moment and comment, “Hey — are you using the tanning bed or something? Your skin is browner than it usually is.”

Keena shakes her head. “I’d never use an artificial sun source — don’t be daft. But I did jet off to Majorca for the weekend. I swear the slightest exposure and I go from half-Indian to mostly.”

“With your Mum?” I ask her and Keena looks caught off guard, then shakes her head.

“Did you notice we were gone?” Fizzy squints at me and tugs on her frizz.

“I wasn’t around much. My friend, Chris…” They raise their eyebrows. “My very gay, very good friend Chris came to visit rather suddenly and we just…well, I…”

“Never mind,” Keena says. “Are you headed to Arabella’s?”

“I think so,” I say. “Don’t hate me for it, okay?”

“Can you even do that? I mean on your exchange?” Keena asks, suddenly channeling her mother, PMT’s, authoritative voice and manner.

My bag slides off my shoulder and I slump a little, thinking. “Good question. I guess it’s up to the Pieces, since they’re my
locos.
”

“Oh, just do it, who cares,” Fizzy says. She braids and unbraids the tassles on her scarf and moves towards the hallway. “I’ve got to finish my paper — it’s a dog’s dinner at the moment.”

I clear my throat and nod, “Mine’s a mess, too.” I start down the stairs and then turn back. “Actually, I just got an idea. Would you guys be up for a study break at Pizza Express this week? Nothing too time-consuming, just to get some time together.”