Two days prior to the flight:
"Does anyone remember our first unit the secrets of the French court? Eh, how about Mary, Queen of Scots? The bloody queen?"
The air vent was most likely louder than any of the noises our class made. Mr. Graham frowned and continued.
"Now remember that Queen Mary was a very powerful queen in her time-um-she first married at the age of 18..To uh.. The king--well prince of France I suppose he was." Mr. Graham, a tired and fragile old man drew in a heavy breath before continuing his never ending lecture. The point and merit of this speech I could not yet make out. His gray beard clung around his face like a sloth on a tree. His plump stomach stuck out throwing his weight backwards to compensate. My foot bounced below me with jumpy anticipation. The laces and applets of my shoes beating softly against my white converse. My eyes flying every now and again to the generic white and black clock that adorned the speckled cream wall. It perplexed me that even at the last week of senior year, Mr. Graham was still fitting in a little old review for the "heck of it." Half the class was absent now that testing and projects were over. Graduation had commenced the week prior, and there was no attainable reason why any normal person should show up anyway. Though I was apparently not normal, and felt a nostalgic attachment to the school I spent four long years at. I was also already packed and ready for my plane flight to England, so there was no real activity out of school that I desired to endure. Living in the same damn city for 18 years has it's draw backs, and for me, every aspect made me want to hop on a plane and skrt skrt far, far away. However not only that I'm feeling nostalgic, but this would be the third year in a row that I would have a perfect school record. Thanks to appendicitis in 9th grade, my complete high school record was unfortunately discombobulated. Yes, I guess I am quite the square, but there's nothing wrong with that. Nothing remotely wrong with being a little too introverted, well as introverted as you can be in New York City, too busy for boyfriends, and too much of a puss.
In truth, I don't like America. There's something so disturbing about the people and government here, everything really. That's why I've chosen a University far, far away from America. England, and not only that, but Oxford. Ever since I was a little girl I've wanted to travel to the UK. I've always wanted to live in England. What's not to love? There's pretty accents, remarkable monuments, good food, few populations of Americans--perfect.
"Frankie, do you remember Mary, Queen of Scots, maiden name?" Mr. Graham looked at me expectingly as he had just pulled me out of my thoughts.
"Stewart." I breathed out with little hesitation.
"Yes, indeed. Mary was born Mary Stewart, but would later change her last name to a French-spelled version: S-T-U-A-R-T." Mr. Graham was truly a proud teacher. He loved his knowledge almost as much as he loved long 60 minute lectures about his knowledge.
The bell took no one but Mr. Graham by surprise. The majority of the class was staring at that same damn clock, breathing in sync with the ticks, and as everyone hauled themselves towards the door, Mr. Graham huffed my name.
"Yes?" I said glancing towards the door but stopping in place.
"Take care." He smiled sheepishly
A partial smile occupied my lips and I returned his comment.
The auburn brick outlined by the maroon painted details of my high school were the few parts that reassured those who walked by that Ridgewell High School was in fact a high school rather than a correctional facility. And fortunately, Mr. Graham's class neared the front of the school which allowed home bound students like me to evacuate quickly. Those whose sixth and final period situated itself in the back of the school—or worse the middle—had to endure the romantically inclined students, the overly excited friends, or the stoner-hippies prancing around. I could list a thousand different personalities at Ridgewell and list only one of those that I like: the ones who mind their own goddamn business.
I trotted off the gum polka-dotted sidewalk lining campus and scurried across the bare, black street. The cars hadn't piled against it today because of 'construction work ahead.' I walked home everyday, something almost all sensible New Yorkers did. Only the pretentious, Upper East side kids drove cars. What else is a car good for in the city except a sign saying "look I'm rich" or "I'm a taxi?"
My apartment was only two blocks away five or take, and I made it a point to avoid other peers of mine observing my entrance into our building. My building is an old hospital that was cheaply renovated into apartments. The best thing about a hospital is it has a morgue, and the good ole' morgue is the community laundry room. My mom makes fun of my severe fear of paranormal activity, but accepts the fact i'll only ever enter a morgue when I'm dead—even then I'll be looking over my shoulder. My setup is on the second floor: two painful flights of steep steps or a rickety elevator ride. Choose your demon. I personally head for the stairs and glide hastily through the narrow stairwell dressed in pale mint green. The lights are horror move material; the yellow circle lights two yards from each other along the ceiling. I don't spend too much time outside my apartment room.
I jam the thick, bronze into the matching knob and jolt the door open. My apartment intentionally does not match the rest of our complex. Each room has a different color. My room is yellow, a choice I made to add more sun into the room. My mom has a salmon pink bedroom. The wall that is our kitchen is like green. Then our living room, 3 small conjoined walls, is clementine orange. My mom, Nancy, scatters ported plants in just about any corner. The window in our living room is kept open always and plants live on the window sill caged in by the four black window bars. We have a couch and a garage sale TV. Nancy doesn't spend much money on technology. What she does spend money on is traveling. Nancy loves traveling. Her parents had cozy jobs as professors at the University of Florida, and they traveled the world with her each summer. Nancy has been to Costa Rica, Italy, France, Japan, and Britain, the place I've been dreaming to travel my entire life.
I plunked down on the beige couch, kicking my feet up. I just wanted a nap, and the dampness of the day heightened my exhaustion. I gifted myself with a little slumber.
