I Saw Her Standing There ➵ Kit Connor

1 | Seventeen

THE FUNNY THING ABOUT THIS SITUATION—and it only took moving to New York City to realise it—is that the "American Dream" only exists to people who don't live here.

My keys are fumbling to fit into the lock of my new flat, but I keep glancing behind me to see if my luggage is still sitting on the steps. Mum wouldn't let me get on the plane without promising not to get robbed. 

You be careful out there, Love, she'd said, pinching my cheeks. Those Americans will get you when you least expect it.

I'd shrugged it off with a laugh, but after dragging my belongings through crowded streets and smelly subway stations, I realised she might have been right.

The flat I managed to get is in one of the nicer areas of Brooklyn, shadowed by a line of blooming maple trees and staircases, but I still can't get the sense of unease out of my stomach. There's something about this place that makes me want to rip out my hair, go dancing in the street, or curl up into a ball and cry. It doesn't take more than a turn of the lock for me to realise that it's not New York—it's me.

Grabbing my luggage, I hauled myself into the building, shutting the door with my foot. My "American Dream" was a big white sign that sat on the rolling hills of California, but the film industry in Britain meant nothing to the shiny silver of Hollywood. It was false assumption that Americans had dreams at all, because one quick look outside would only provide lifeless expressions and overworked bodies.

My flat was almost the same. Bare walls, empty cabinets, and a sprinkle of furniture that needed to be replaced. Leaving my things by the door, I made my way to the small couch in the centre of the living room and crashed on top of it. The plane ride here had been exhausting, stressing, and bloody terrible. I'd been sat between a crying baby and a snobby teenager. When one wasn't whining itself to death, the other was begging its mother to be fed.

Finally, after all this time, I'd be able to rest.

But before I could close my eyes, the sound of guitars and cymbals came blasting in through the walls. The shock alone almost sent me rolling off of the cushions, but I managed to catch myself on the backboard.

Oh, yeah, I'll tell you somethin', the music screamed. I think you'll understand.

The true horror of the situation wasn't the song itself, but the idea that it wasn't coming from my building. The wall across from me was almost vibrating with the ruckus, shaking specks of dried paint onto my floor.

"You've got to be joking me." I frowned, standing back onto my feet. "Americans."

Storming towards the door, I made my way back outside, following the thunderous noise. A few people on the pavement tossed me odd looks, but my concern was on getting my rest. Knocking my neighbour's door down was starting to seem like the only option.

Pressing their doorbell, I waited impatiently in the sharp autumn air.

And when I touch you, I feel happy inside, the music sang. It's such a feeling...

I pressed the bell again.

I can't hide!

No response.

I can't hide!

To my disappointment, it suddenly dawned on me that my neighbour couldn't hear the doorbell through their incredulous choice in music. There was no hope—and no point, either—to keep loitering outside. My options were limited; One, I could attempt to sleep with the rock and roll madness, or two, I could leave and hope they'd stopped by the time I returned.