From England, With Love

London Calling

I've been here for a week now. In England.

It's very different in this country – especially the weather. I have been finding myself having to wear more clothes than I have before in my life, it's restrictive.

It is September, beginning of the school year. I have a scholarship at a Sixth Form in a town near London, for sport. Renting a flat near the school, I have been coming to this place for the last few days and have not yet gotten used to it. The mornings are freezing, but the afternoons are warm, it irritates me. The others seem fine; they just wear hoodies and take them off later in the day – but then there's me, in my coat, resisting the urge to put a scarf on.

I say 'they' as though they are some foul creatures, which they're not. My classmates have been good to me so far. Despite being a little wary of me at first, it didn't take them long to bombard me with questions about Thailand, or Tokyo, as someone had asked, before being hit over the head by their friend. They're funny, in an odd way, yet I hesitate to talk to them. I may be an outgoing person, but I admit I am nervous.

I am sat in the Common Room, currently. I have a free period and I'm gazing somewhat blankly at a biology textbook. Opposite me is one of my classmates, Jack, who is updating his blog on his phone.

We bonded over that, running.

"Bell's about to go," he says, glancing at the clock and sliding his phone into his pocket. I nod, not sure how to respond. How do you reply to such an observation?

"Hey, Ae," he says, and I look up. "How're you coping?" He asks, turning his eyes toward me but not making contact.

"Um, okay thanks." I say back.

"Sweet," he responds.

Our relationship follows this formula. He asks me how I am and I tell him I'm fine. I can tell he's not entirely sure about me yet, but I appreciate his efforts to make me feel welcome, even if they're inevitably awkward.

The bell rings, in five short bursts, and I gather my book and head toward the door. I pause. I turn and wait for Jack who reluctantly leaves his chair, stuffing his hands into his jacket and taking lead. Still unsure of where I'm going in this school, I like to follow, not direct.

As soon as we leave the Sixth Form centre, we are bombarded with noise – children as young as eleven running around and screaming for what appears to be no reason, older students in groups walking more calmly, glaring at the smaller ones as they barge past them, gossiping wildly about the latest drama. I understand most of what they say, but the speed at which they talk and particular phrases sometimes go over my head. They intrigue me somehow; it's sort of like being in a zoo... but it's a school.

We walk in and out of corridors, passing between open space and building before reaching our science class room. I gaze out onto the field, looking with longing at the football pitch – no matter the country, a football pitch is a football pitch, and that was where I wanted to be. Even on a grey day such as this, I longed to go to it. Football is a universal language, or so they say.

Entering the class, I sit between Jack and a girl. I can't remember her name but she's nice enough. When we first met, she punched me on the shoulder and I panicked, I thought she hated me already. However, as I found out, 'that's just how she is'. The lesson starts and the teacher calls the register, checking the pronunciation of my name for the nth time. You'd think, it being literally two letters long, that it would be relatively easy to figure out, but wonders never cease.

The content itself is not hard, and the teacher speaks clearly. The class environment is very different here, less formal. It's odd, but it's not bad. I don't say anything unless to answer a question, aside from the couple of times Jack turns to me to see if I'm 'okay'.