My eyes drift across a stack of books to an empty teacup sitting on the coffee table. There’s an open book atop it and framed photos on every surface. It’s cozy. And very different from my mother’s decorating style. She believes that a home should be a place to display beauty, and even though every corner of our house is decorated meticulously well, it doesn’t really say anything about us as a family. Well, other than we have an affinity for neutral colors and modern, sleek style.
“I love it,” I comment, my eyes falling on a folded-up newspaper. The crossword section lies open and is partially filled in.
A smile comes to my face. I can already tell a lot about the people who live here, just by this room.
“Upstairs are the bedrooms,” Helen states after taking me through the kitchen and dining room. “We’ve got Mia’s room, where you’ll be staying, on the left. Next to that is Noah’s room, and across from that is the bathroom you will use. A little farther down the hall on the right is the master bedroom.”
I nod, trying to follow along.
“Why don’t you head up there and get familiar with the place? Settle yourself in and have a rest. I’ll pop up with some lunch in a bit, and then after that, you can make your way to school. I haven’t a clue why Gene and Noah aren’t here, but I suppose you’ll meet them later anyway.”
I nod in agreement. All of the flying and talking and driving has me tired—not just physically, but mentally. And lying down for a bit actually sounds really nice.
“Thanks,” I breathe out, relieved she didn’t ask for me to stay downstairs with her.
I grab my duffel and head up the narrow staircase, finding the door to Mia’s room. Her bed catches my attention first. There is a black-and-purple bedspread, which contrasts against her white walls. Well, what white you can find. There are photos and pictures everywhere. My gaze lands on the wall next to her door. It is covered with hanging string, zigzagging from the ceiling halfway down her wall. She has Polaroids attached with clips on each level, and I find photos ranging from groups of girls to pictures taken out in the city.
It’s nothing like my room at home with its neutral silver and cream colors. All my art is abstract and matching, opposed to this room, which is an eclectic mixture of color, art, knickknacks, and, well, memories.
I decide the first thing I have to do is rinse off the plane ride in the shower. Even if you get on a plane, sparkling clean, you always get off of it, feeling dirty. There’s something about the dryness of the air pumped in, mixed with stiff pillows, that has you staring in the bathroom mirror after your flight, wondering how you’ve managed to go from cute to disgusting in a matter of seven hours.
I try to be gentle with my hair, but my nails dig into my scalp. Everything is starting to feel real. It almost felt like a ruse or a prank my parents were playing on me. Even at the airport, on the plane, I really didn’t have to accept what was actually going to happen. I didn’t let it bother me. But now, being here, in a stranger’s home … well, reality is setting in.
And it has me slightly freaked.
Because I don’t want to try to imagine how things will go or what it will be like, living with this family. My parents know me. They know I love coffee brought to me in bed. They know that I absolutely love pasta, but I hate tomato sauce unless it’s freshly made. Even at some of the nicest restaurants in New York, I won’t touch the sauce because the tomatoes aren’t sweet enough. My parents know those things about me and love me. My dad laughs when I practically growl at him on days he wakes me up to run with him.
Because he loves my quirks.
And now, here I am, in my “new home,” trying to decide how much effort to actually put into this program. I don’t want it to mess with my grades or my future. And I’m nervous, because there are so many questions and possibilities.
Do I develop relationships that could help me in the future?
Do I not give a fuck and just pretend this is a long vacation?
Am I going to get attached if I make friends?
I let out a really long and dramatic sigh. The possibilities are overwhelming.
I don’t really want new friends. Or a new family. If I ever decide I need contacts in London, I’ll make them then.
I smile to myself and make my decision. No. I would rather try and do what the brochure says and immerse myself in a new culture. And I plan to do that by finding the closest local pub after my meeting at school and pretending I’m old enough to be served a pint.
Because why not?
I’m only here for a few weeks, and I might as well make the most of it. Have some fun. But then I think to Helen downstairs and how kind and welcoming she is, and my stomach knots up a little. I’m conflicted, and I don’t like the feeling.
Whatever.
I get out of the shower, brush my hair, and then give it a quick blow-dry. It’s a blessing and a curse that my hair is fine. On the upside, it’s quick to fix. On the downside, it won’t hold a curl to save its life. It always falls in a straight sheet almost to my shoulders.
I shuffle through my bag, pulling out my toothpaste, toothbrush, and perfume. I give my mouth a nice rinse before applying some fragrance to my wrist and transferring it to the other and then up to my neck. I decide, instead of napping, I should get this school stuff out of the way, so I just throw on a clean pair of jeans and a cute sweater. When I come out of the bathroom, dressed, I find Helen walking up the stairs with a glass of juice and a sandwich in hand.
“You look lovely and refreshed,” she says, leading me back into Mia’s room. She places the plate and juice down onto the desk before turning toward me.
“Thanks. I thought about the nap you’d suggested, but I’m afraid if I go to bed now, I won’t ever wake up,” I say with a laugh.
“I understand. Get some food in your belly, and then I will give you directions to campus and let Ms. Adams know that you will be headed that way.”
“Sounds good,” I reply, sitting down in the chair and taking a drink of the juice. It tastes a little more like orange Fanta than the fresh-squeezed juice I’m used to, but I don’t say anything.
Once I finish the snack, I’m on my way out the door with a set of keys to the house and directions written out on a piece of paper. I tried to tell Helen that, growing up in the city, I have a pretty easy time finding my way around, but she insisted on giving me written directions regardless. She also marked a few cafés on her makeshift map, telling me that I must stop for a scone and tea after.
School is only a few blocks away from their home, and it doesn’t take much to figure out that the building I’m standing in front of is Kensington School. It’s an imposing structure with classic lines, looking as if it could have had a former life as a house built for nobility, its borders guarded by an iron gate.
Honestly, it’s beautiful.
Greenery grows up one of the stone walls, and I walk through a brick archway into a central courtyard. There is a large oak tree in the middle with a circular bench built around it. The walls of the building climb up into the sky, and I take a moment to appreciate it.
My school in New York isn’t anything like this. It’s modern and industrial. It professes to promote creativity and the future, doing away with traditions and aged character. I love that about my school. It’s progressive and new.