the amount of rainbow flags I saw blew my mind. I think we have one bar around town that has a printed rainbow flag in its window—it’s not a gay bar, but it’s at least queer-friendly. God, the people of Avery hated when that flag went up. Here it’s like there are entire neighborhoods where I’d be welcome, whether I came in draped in rainbows, with painted nails, or holding hands with a guy.
It’s like a shock to my system that I feel all over. I didn’t know anything like this existed. I mean, I knew—we do have the internet in Avery—but I didn’t know it’d feel like this.
Right, so, I need ten diary entries about my summer. We’re here for a full week, so I want most of them to be about this trip to London. I’m auditioning for the Knightsbridge Academy of Music in a couple of days, and we get to spend the full week with my cousin Shane and Aunt Leah. We haven’t seen much of the city, really. Just whatever we went by on the drive in, which was actually pretty great. Rolling hills, sheep everywhere, stone fences, and there’s nothing stranger than riding in a car that’s on the wrong side of the road.
I think even that was a little too much for my parents. They’re not the big-city type, but I see how it’s wearing on them. Mom hasn’t been back to Europe since she was six years old, when her parents’ divorce left her on a plane with her dad, off to a new life in America. Even during those six years, her parents rarely left her town, except when her dad would take her into Dublin, where she’d sit at a pub with a cheese toastie, coloring in a book while her dad drank a pint, and together they listened to whatever folk band was playing. It was a mini-tradition, worth the hour drive.
But it’s been like forty years, and London isn’t Dublin, so I guess she doesn’t feel so comfortable here anymore.
FOUR
The steel doors open, and we’re suddenly getting shoved across the platform. I mean this literally. It’s supposedly a weekend, but über-professionals keep darting around the two of us to line up at the stairs. We aren’t exactly walking at a leisurely pace, but one can only move so fast when they’re tethered to a suitcase. As we approach the steps, Pierce darts ahead, through the crowd. I can’t see where he’s going, but I stick to the path—there’s only one way out of here, but this seems like the worst possible place to get separated.
I wonder where Pierce went, but then I spot him. The back of his head, at least. He’s carrying half a stroller up the stairs, while the frazzled mother takes the front end, stepping backward up the stairs. People shuffle around them, but they don’t seem annoyed, like this is commonplace or something.
I’m a few steps behind them, but I feel Pierce’s energy with every step—he’s saying “no worries” over and over again. And when they reach the top, she thanks him for the millionth time before she disappears into the sea of gray.
He waits there for me, and we carry on.
“Well, that was trusting of her,” I say.
“I wasn’t going to drop her baby.” He pushes my shoulder. “It happens a lot here. Fucking buggies everywhere.”
“… Buggies?” I try not to laugh.
“Um, prams? Pushchairs?”
“There can’t be this many Britishisms for ‘stroller.’ ” I roll my eyes. “I refuse to believe it.”
We file through a dark, low tunnel. White tiles line the walls and arc across the ceiling, while dingy concrete lies under our feet. Against a small semicircle painted on the wall is an older man sitting on a stool with a harmonica in his hands. The eerie chords sing out. It’s a bit painful to listen to. His ragged breathing sounds louder than the music, though I wouldn’t exactly call this music.
I take a deep breath. He may be terrible at this, but he’s got bigger balls than I’ll ever have, performing down here. That’s a place you’ll never see me.
“Looks like Gloucester Road’s got B-listers busking this morning.”
“Busking?” I ask, though I know it’s another word we don’t use in America.
“God, don’t you know proper English?” He chuckles—I notice the dimple again. “Street or tube musicians. Or really any kind of performer.”
“Do you guys ever do that?”
“I have before, but I don’t have a license or anything. Our friend Dani’s quite