Page 8 of In For a Penny
After the orientation cocktails dieddown a bit, a group of us—led by my new obnoxious friend, Oliver—decided to go to the pub down the street to get to know each other better. Though I was a bit apprehensiveat first, I am happy to report that the group of students from my class are pretty amazing. Oliver introduced me to a couple of people he went to university with and invited them and other students with whom we clicked to the pub across the street.
I think I’m going to like it here. Unlike most of the people from the group of friends I left behind, no one seems to be interested in talking about parties, drugs, or money. It’s refreshing. I can see myself creating a friendly support group with what seem like well-adjusted individuals. They’re warm and welcoming.
I’m in the middle of what Ithinkis a conversation on British royals with one of Oliver’s university friends, Chloe, but I’m having serious trouble understanding a word she’s saying. It could be because she has a heavy Northern England accent, which I had never heard before tonight, or it could be the fact that I’ve had three vodka sodas and two beers on top of the two glasses of wine I had at orientation.
What can I say? We’re going pretty hard.
Though I am feeling the effects of the alcohol—understatement of the century—most of my classmates seem to be fairing quite well. I’m pretty sure that I’m going to need to start training my liver and build up my tolerance.
God, what did Chloe just say about school? I didn’t understand a word she just said.
My class seems less competitive than what I imagined an American grad school class would be. From what I’ve heard, pretty much everyone in U.S. schools competes for the best internships and jobs, making the whole experience very cutthroat. So far, my classmates seem genuine and open. It’s nice. Are they real humans? Londoners don’t have the best reputation for being the nicest people, but honestly, whoever thinks that has clearly never been to New York City—not that I’m throwing shade here; it’s just reality.
Who was I surrounding myself with before London?Are people actually nice like this? Is this real?
No one has made a single passive-aggressive or snarky comment all afternoon. Granted, I’ve just met these guys, so there’s still a chance that they’ll end up being massive assholes, but they seem like better individuals than my so-called friends.
The nightisyoung, though.
Back in New York, my social circle sure had loved talking about my breakup and the drama surrounding it. It was exhausting. So much gossip. So many passive-aggressive comments. So much pressure to be perfect and bounce back as if nothing happened, but careful not to move on too fast at the risk of being called a whore.
Additionally, so much of my world was about who your family was and what they did. Meeting someone new within our social circle was like going to the doctor for the first time. They focused a lot on your family history first and then looked at you as a whole, second.
Not that there was anything wrong with my family, but I didn’t appreciate the social pressures of living in a society where stuff like that mattered. Plus, I’m an immigrant, which put even more pressure on me to act perfect and in accordance with The Rules.
London is my fresh start. I guess coming here is starting to look less and less like a mistake.
I feel like I can finally breathe.
We order another round as I feel my stomach growl and my head spin.
I need some pub food ASAP. I need to soak up all the alcohol I’ve been pounding back since this afternoon STAT before I embarrass myself and pass out face-down on this table. I see the waiter and drunkenly flag him down. “Can I get some chicken nuggets or something?” I ask, aware that I am slightly slurring my words.
The waiter stares at me like I just spoke gibberish. I’m pretty sure chicken nuggets are a universal concept, so I’m not sure why he’s staring at me like that. I’m on the verge of gettinghangry.
“Miss, we only have chicken goujons?” he says in the form of a question.
“Whatthe fuckare chicken goujons?” My hand flies to cover my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I’m not usually this rude, I promise. It’s the vodka. And the beer. And the wine.”
My new friends laugh at me, not unkindly.
I just want food, dude.
“Would you please bring the lady some chicken goujons?” Oliver asks. “Thanks, mate.”
The waiter rolls his eyes and walks away.
“Chicken goujons are like chicken tenders. Don’t worry. I’ve got you, babe.”
I groan. “Please don’t call me ‘babe,’” I beg, wondering idly how long his interest in me will last. Men usually grow bored with me after some time. “And it’s your fault I haven’t eaten. You didn’t let me finish my sandwiches, so I guess you do owe me.”
He laughs, and our table joins in on the fun. I’ve suddenly become the butt of every joke for the time being, but it’s not in an unfriendly way. Our group just seems to be automatically comfortable with each other. I look at the people around me and sigh happily, taking them all in.
Chloe Graham, one of Oliver’s university friends, is a year older than me. She’s short, wears large square glasses, and seems like a nice girl with a quick wit—from what little I’ve been able to understand. It’s easy to tell, just from my short interaction with her so far, that she can be an incredibly loyal friend.
The cute, tall, skinny guy sitting to my right’s name is Michael from Munich. I can tell he has serious rebound potential with his curly brown hair and hazel eyes hiding behind round hipster tortoise glasses. He’s easily half a foot taller than me and has a gorgeous smile with perfect teeth. I also never thought a German accent could possibly be sexy, but I stand corrected.
Down, girl.
