THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Five
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Five
I wished I knew why Frank had to tag along to O’Hare. It wasn’t like I was his daughter. Maybe he felt obligated to support Mom or something, and at least he kind of distracted her from asking me if I had forgotten anything for the millionth time. Of course, it didn’t help that we got a late start and the traffic came to a near-standstill once we merged on to 190. By the time we finally pulled up to Departures, I was itching to jump out the door, but Frank said to wait a second.
“We got you a cell phone, sweetie,” my mom said, turning around and handing me a little box with a picture of a red flip phone on the cover.
“It’s all set up with prepaid minutes and an overseas SIM card,” Frank added. “Don’t worry, it’s already charged too.”
“And I want you to call me as soon as you get to your dorm, alright?” Mom’s worry lines deepened above her eyebrows. She always swept her hair over them, but I could still see the furrows beneath her bangs. Whenever she was afraid of crying, she’d start fretting instead.
“Thanks. That’s so nice,” I said, trying to look appreciative while thinking, Great, a leash. But I knew the phone was expensive and they didn’t have to do it. It might come in handy.
Cars started honking at us to move.
“I’d better go, Mom.” I reached again for the door as I stuffed the phone box into my backpack.
“Wait, one more thing.” She dug around in her giant purse, then turned and handed me a white bank envelope. “That’s three hundred in British pounds. I got it out on Friday. I want you to put at least fifty of it in your bra or your shoe just in case someone steals your wallet.”
“Honey, no one’s gonna steal her wallet,” Frank said, looking a little amused at the bra and shoe suggestion.
“You don’t know that!” Mom said, her voice getting higher. Cars started honking again, and I could see an airport attendant approaching us.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate it. And thanks, Frank. I’d better go now so I can get through security.”
I hopped out and pulled my enormous suitcase from the trunk, suddenly wondering if I had overpacked. Too late now! I slammed the trunk shut.
Mom rolled down the window and shouted, “Love you, sweetie! Remember, call me when you get there!”
“Love you too, Mom!” I waved goodbye as I watched them pull away from the curb. Then I dragged my rolling bag into the airport. Now, finally free, my adventure could begin.
###
After my plane took off, I amused myself by reading, eating snacks, and watching the in-flight movie until I finally drifted off to sleep. I awoke to the pilot announcing we were coming in for our landing at Heathrow, 11:30 a.m. local time. I rubbed my blurry eyes and tried looking out the window to find Wickwood and Ruxbury University, but it was hard to tell. The countryside was a wide expanse of green, crossed here and there by narrow roads, each just like the other, all tiny tributaries leading into the river of London streets. Excitement began to kick in, and by the time the plane’s wheels hit the runway, little butterflies were dancing in my stomach.
Down the boarding bridge and into the terminal, I paused and took it all in. The sea of white tile and glass. The faint scent of leather. British accents echoing over the intercom. I squeezed my hands in delight. I’m here! I’m really here! I practically skipped my way to baggage claim, grabbed a pastry and some coffee from one of the oddly-named restaurants, and found my way to the taxi stand. Along the way I noticed the exchange rate at one of the service desks. Yikes! I definitely appreciated the money Mom had given me—almost six hundred bucks. Maybe I should tuck some of it into my shoes. Just in case. I looked around for a restroom, but was dissuaded by the thought of cramming myself and my bags into a stall and getting pinned between the toilet and the partition while trying to cram a wad of bills into my sweaty sock. Nevermind. I’ll be fine. Mom’s just paranoid.
As the taxi drove west toward the university, the noonday sun was brightening the road. There wasn’t much to see for all the walls that lined the way. Still, I got that special thrill when the driver made the last turn and there, emerging from behind the trees was that castle-like building from the website, complete with red spires, a white archway, and a square clock face at the top. I soaked in the scene with awestruck fascination, absorbing every detail until it disappeared behind a set of brick and glass rectangular towers that I guessed were the dorms. The driver pulled up to the largest one.
“Here we are, miss.”
While he retrieved my giant suitcase from the trunk, I fumbled around in my backpack, trying to guess the right amount of money for the fare.
“That’s twenty-five quid, miss.”
I looked up, like a deer in the headlights. What was a quid? I only had pounds!
He seemed to sense my confusion. “Twenty-five pounds.”
“Oh.” I rummaged in the envelope, pulled out thirty, and handed it over. “Thanks,” I said, expecting a reply, but he simply took the money, nodded, and got back in the car. I watched him drive away, wondering if it was his first day or something. Nobody at Barker’s Burgers got away with that level of customer service—not even the busboys. Whatever. I brushed it off and grabbed my suitcase, making a beeline for the glass doors of the building.
I’d been hoping for a sign to confirm I was in the right place, but there was nothing posted to the door or windows. Still, I could make out the shape of a reception desk through the glass, so I kept pushing through.
A beam of light pouring through the east window into the lobby dazzled me for a minute. I paused to blink the blindness away, and when I opened my eyes again, I could see the front desk was occupied by a sloppy-looking goateed guy about my age in a white tee and unbuttoned oxford, reading a book in his lap. The computer chair he sat in was leaned all the way back, a feat he had achieved by folding one leg across his knee and propping the toe of his shoe against the counter.
Though I couldn’t tell if this guy was an employee or just some student who had claimed the comfiest seat in the lobby, I approached him anyway, rolling my suitcases over to the desk and standing directly behind the computer monitor that stood on the counter. And then I waited.
The guy licked his finger and turned a page while I watched. He’ll look up now. Right?
Nothing.
I waited a moment more. Maybe he’s near the end of the chapter. I’d better not be rude. I tried to lift my chin a little to peer over his shoulder and confirm my suspicion. Instead, I saw the heading of a new chapter at the top of the page, which quickly disappeared from sight as he wet his finger again and flipped a new page over it.
Well. Wondering if he thought I was just another student with some idle question he could easily ignore, I decided I should announce myself. Politely.
“Ahem,” I said, clearing my throat.
“Next building.”
What? I looked around me, wondering if he was addressing someone else, or if I’d heard the words at all. The room was empty and silent, save the whirring of the computer’s hard drive. I looked back to the guy, who was rubbing his nose on his sleeve while turning another page. Ugh, gross. I tried again.
“Excuse me?”
“Laundry’s in the next building.”
I let loose a little sigh of relief. At least he was talking.
“Oh, um, I’m not looking for the laundry. I’m here for check-in.”
He glanced up, looked me over for a moment, then returned to his book. “Not here you’re not.”
Again, unsure if I had misheard him or misunderstood, I replied, “Sorry, I mean, I’m a study abroad student.”
“Good for you.”
Sarcasm. Nice. I squared my shoulders. “Well, I just arrived from the airport and the schedule says I’m supposed to check in here for the summer program and get my room key.”
Desk Guy flipped another page. “Actually, check-in was yesterday, so you’re wrong.”
I would have taken incorrect, mistaken, or even lost without even batting an eye. But wrong? That set me on the defensive every time. I felt my jaw tightening even as I tried one last appeal.
“Look, the university scheduled the flight, not me. So, there’s gotta be something up here that says where I can get my key. You can look that up, right?”
With a grunt, he rolled his head around, looked at me and pursed his lips, as though realizing I wasn’t going away. I thought I heard the words “bloody tourists” escape his lips as he slid a scrap of paper into his book and rolled himself toward the computer on the desk in front of him.
“Name?”
“Lucy Steppenwolf.” Finally, I’m getting somewhere.
He clicked around for a few moments, then leaned back.
“Sorry, your room’s been given away.”
“Uh, what?”
He sighed with annoyance and repeated slowly, “Your room’s been given away.”
I felt a little panic rising up in my throat. Think, Lucy. What would Mom do? I tried visualizing every time the Boss Lady had received the wrong order at restaurant or had a coupon declined. Be firm and state the facts, she always told me. People can’t argue with the facts. When I finally found my voice, Desk Guy was reaching for his book again.
“Wait! Please? I know I was on the list.” I dug in my backpack, produced my carefully assembled itinerary, and laid down my confirmation letter on the desk. “See, that’s my confirmation. This is the address of the summer residence, right?”
He glanced at it, unimpressed. “Yes. But it’s Monday, and check-in was Sunday night. You’ve missed it, so your room was given to a waitlisted student. You’ve also missed orientation, by the way,” he said, pulling his book into his lap.
“Well, I mean, I have to stay somewhere!” I could hear my voice becoming pinched and panicky. I began to imagine having to sleep on a bench or worse, get another taxi and go back to the airport. And then the call I’d have to make to Mom… No! I can fix this. I will fix this. The clerk was already checked out from the conversation, nose-deep in his book again. Clearly, no amount of distress on my part was going to inspire action on his. I forced myself to take a couple of deep breaths and ratchet down my tone from “shrill” to “urgent”.
“Excuse me,” I began again, making a little wave with my hand. “Is there a manager I can talk to? Like the RA?”
“RA?” he asked, lifting his eyes.
“Residence advisor?”
“You could speak to your study abroad advisor.”
“Fine. Where do I find him?”
He sneered at me. “Look, I’m not your tour guide. If you don’t know who your advisor is, you should have gone to orientation.”
Honestly, I wanted to punch him, right through the book to that snooty, soul-patched chin of his. But the pain from my gritted molars checked me. I’m not gonna get any further with Mr. Helpful. Time to try something else. I noticed the clock on the wall—12:30 p.m.
I’d better call Mom before she starts getting worried. I glanced again at the clerk, who now had his back to me, unpeeling a candy bar like a banana and folding down the wrapper pieces on each side, pinning them under his fingers. He took a bite, and little ribbons of caramel strung from his mouth to the bar, layering themselves over his scanty soul-patch. I watched in disgust as he chewed the sticky mouthful. Fine. You win this one, Desk Guy. But I’ll be back.
