Chanel Cleeton - I See London

“Thanks,” I mumbled, wrapping the scarf around my neck. I stood back, studying my appearance in the mirror. She was right—it was better.

When I turned around, Fleur was gone.

“You look great,” Noora called out from her side of the room. “I like the dress.”

“Thanks. Do you have class this morning?”

She shook her head, her silk hijab swinging with the motion. “I have my first class in the afternoon. I’m just going to spend the morning reading a bit. What class are you headed to?”

I had my schedule memorized, printed out, and tucked in my planner in case I forgot. Introduction to International Relations, British Literature, History of Mathematics (yep, they were actually going to give me math credit for that one), Introduction to Political Science and Creative Writing.

“Intro to International Relations with Graves.”

Noora wrinkled her nose. “Have fun with that. It sounds like the kind of class that makes me glad I’m an Art major.”

It was the class I was most looking forward to. At the International School you didn’t declare your major until sophomore year, but I’d known I wanted to study IR since my sophomore year of high school.

I rushed out of the room, hurrying through the hall and down the stairs, weaving my way through the groups of students standing in the lobby. I left the building, trying to settle the nerves in my stomach. I had to make a good impression today. The International School was small; it was likely I would have the same teachers throughout my four years here. Being late was not an option.

King’s House was the main residence hall at the International School. The building housed most of the dorms along with the cafeteria, several staff offices and a common room that contained several leather couches, a large flat-screen TV and a pool table. The other residence building, Queen’s Hall, was a few streets over. Our classes were all held one street away from the main residence hall.

I made the trip in seven minutes, barely walking through the classroom door in time for class to start. I sneaked into the back of the room. The room was small, but filled with students. I counted about forty in all. There was only one empty seat.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Samir lounged in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, right next to the only open chair. He grinned. “Miss me?”

“Hardly.” I rolled my eyes, sliding into the seat next to him. “Are you even supposed to be in this class? Aren’t you a sophomore?”

“Junior.”

My eyes narrowed. “Why are you in an intro class? What’s your major?”

He beamed at me. “IR.”

“Bullshit.”

He laughed. “I speak the truth.”

“You’re a junior and you’re just now taking Intro to IR? How is that even possible?”

“It used to be at eight. I don’t do morning classes.”

“You don’t do morning classes?” I didn’t bother to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

“I like to keep my mornings open…for other activities.” He winked at me.

I shook my head in amazement. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

“You love it.”

I laughed. He was so ridiculous I couldn’t even stand it. “Does this whole persona you’ve got going normally work for you?”

“All day…and night long.”

I mock shuddered. “I feel like I need to take a shower.”

He tossed me a wolfish grin. “I might be able to help you with that. After all, I know what you look like without a towel on. All that creamy white skin…”

My cheeks flamed. Please tell me we didn’t have a seating chart. No way could I handle this proximity to him for the rest of the semester.

“Okay, it looks like it’s time to start.” My head jerked up at the sound of our teacher’s voice. He stood at the front of the room—somehow I had completely missed his presence. “If you’re in here, then you’re supposed to be enrolled in Introduction to International Relations.” The professor, Dr. Abbott, a tall man with a British accent, paused for a moment. No one got up and left. “Good. Let’s begin.”

I spent the hour furiously scribbling down everything he said. International Relations—as the professor explained it—studied the relationships between countries. He walked us through introductory concepts, handing out the syllabus and going over his expectations for the class. For an hour he talked about some of the world’s major conflicts; it all sounded like a giant soap opera to me. Even Samir’s presence couldn’t distract me.

I was hooked.

Few people spoke in the first class; instead the professor just lectured while we all took notes. Well, some of us took notes. It was easy to tell the students who were really into the subject and the ones who wished they were anywhere else.

Samir didn’t bother picking up his pen.

“Good class,” Samir commented as class came to an end.

I tossed him a skeptical look. “Were you even paying attention?”

He grinned. “Can I help it if I was distracted by the great pen shortage? The suspense of whether you would run out of ink was way more compelling than anything Abbott had to say.”

I stared down at my desk. Four pens stared back at me.

Was that unusual? It seemed prudent to have back-ups. For my back-ups to have back-ups.

“There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.”

He grinned at me, an almost goofy grin that seemed totally at odds with his cocky persona. I waited for him to say something, waited for a joke that never came. Instead he just stared at me. Not the stare that made me feel like he’d seen me naked, but another stare. One that made me feel like he saw through me, one that felt impossibly more intimate.

We hovered in the doorway for a moment. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Fleur leaving one of the other rooms. Guilt and nerves filled me. Time to move on.

“See you around,” I offered lamely before heading toward my next class.

Samir stood in the doorway for a moment and then he turned and walked off with Fleur.

* * *

By Friday I had somewhat settled into academic life at the International School. My Intro to IR class did have a seating chart, so I ended up stuck sitting next to Samir. Surprisingly, after the first day, he wasn’t so bad. He backed off and I kept repeating the same mantra over and over in my head—

He’s your roommate’s boyfriend.

My class schedule was full—fifteen credit hours—but for the most part, the classes were interesting. My professors were nice enough. Just like the student body, the faculty was a diverse group. I had five professors total, each from a different country.

I also had a ton of reading to do for the weekend.

After classes got out on Friday afternoon, I took the Tube down to Westminster. I was still learning the way the complicated system worked, trying to feel like a real Londoner. Luckily the color-coded lines helped a bit. I took the green line down a few stops from High Street Ken. When I left the station, I turned my head, struggling to get my bearings. Then I saw it.

The Houses of Parliament were one of the most awe-inspiring things I’d ever seen. They dominated the landscape, proud and strong. I crossed the street, standing in a grassy square opposite the buildings. I basked in the moment. This was the epicenter of history and politics. Greatness happened here. And somehow I was a part of it.

I hadn’t totally chosen the International School on a whim. When I received that horrid letter from Harvard, I panicked. I didn’t have a backup plan—not a good one, anyway. I had no desire to stay in the same town where I’d lived my whole life, feeling like I never quite fit in. I wanted a chance to do something different. If I couldn’t make one of my dreams happen, I wanted a chance at another one.