“We’re moving to London.” It came up suddenly, like seeing a shark in the water. Rare, but not impossible, it happens, and fear swallows you whole. And this? This happened. My parents just let it out. No explanations, no build up. Nothing. Excitement inundated me. That might not be the right word. Maybe fright, apprehensiveness, nervousness, but I’m pretty sure I had cried myself to sleep for at least a week. It had hit me like a bus. No… a train. A high-speed train hurtling towards me. I didn’t know how this could happen to me, of all people in the world. Me. Moving? To London? My parents told me it would be a great experience. That I would be able to tell all my friends about it and meet new people. I could pretty much have died then. A little maudlin, I know.
So leaving empty drawers and closets, a kitchen with no food, and family and friends wasn’t exactly the best memory I can recall. Oh, the memories I’ve written. A safari in Africa, seeing wild lions and zebras only feet from my body. My first year at camp Rim Rock. Those are the memories I wanted to remember. I wasn’t tearing out those pages anytime soon. As I walked on to that enormous plane, I had no idea on what journey we were about to embark. I had no idea of the memories we were going to make; that I was going to make.
I put in my headphones. Blocked out the world. Everyone. I guess I was a little too caught up in the thought of running away and not having to move. I didn’t want to be stuck in a different country. Who does? Who wants to be forced to leave friends? And family? I didn’t want to leave them. Neither did my sister or brother. We constantly thought about it. Will they talk to us? Will we stay in touch? And the most daunting question of all: Will they forget us? As soon as the slightest thought of it crossed my mind, my eyes would well up.
Seven hours. The longest seven hours of my life. My dad told me to look out the window. Building after building, I almost thought we were in New York. The London Eye glistened with lights, and Big Ben stood proudly. Soon enough the announcement came. As we landed, my eyes starting tearing up. I quickly grabbed a tissue. I didn’t want anyone to see that; to see that I was torn apart, slowly crumpling up like a crushed piece of paper, soon to be thrown in the trash.
As we walked into the airport and climbed in the taxi, I had no idea what to expect. What is the house going to be like once all the furniture comes? What is school going to be like? Will I really make friends? Will I fit in? Thoughts raced through my mind like cars on a highway, and I was standing in the middle of the road, with cars racing past me. After the twenty minute car ride my face was wet, my eyes bright red from rubbing tears away. We ran the few feet it took to get to the hotel entrance in the pouring rain. My parents said it rained all the time there. That’s just perfect.
The taxi driver unloaded our bags for us. We didn’t know what to do when we sat down in our rooms. One room for my mom, my sister, Sarah, and me, and one for my dad and brother, Matthew. Two beds. Ugh. I’m sleeping with mom. A TV, a couch, a bathroom. Didn’t seem too much like a totally different planet. Only a few slight changes in the book’s scenery, the books setting; its story.
Only ten minutes from the hotel. We entered the gates and introduced ourselves to the guards. “Welcome to Virginia Park.” The gates contained a moderate sized neighborhood. A tall tower claimed the middle of the park. It used to be an asylum. My parents had looked it up. Brick houses lined the cobble pathway laid out in front of me, where cars were driving up and down. Worn, dried out grass made up an area to the right, where a small playground occupied the corner. As we drove in to our little street, Upper Walk, a brick house sat idle right in front of us. Windows, a garage, a driveway, and a small white door under an arch stared me right in the eye, inviting me in. I’ll admit, I wanted to be invited. I wanted to be able to call this place home. To be able to draw this picture in my book. I thought to myself, why had I been so scared?
“Welcome home, guys.” Everything around me slowed down. Everything. We walked up to the door, pulled out the key, and waited. Slowly my dad opened the door. The new house smell washed over us. I took it all in. The long hallway leading to a small TV room, soon to be the man-cave, a room to the right, soon to be the dining room, a stairway and bathroom to the left, the kitchen at the far left of the hallway, and a large room connected to the dining room, which would become the living room. Four bedrooms and a bathroom inhabited the upstairs. This is it. This is where we’ll live for two years. This is where we’ll invite friends over, have Grandma visit for Thanksgiving, throw parties, make dinner, sleep, eat, watch TV and movies, order pizza when we’re too lazy to cook, and call home. Where we’ll spend time, walk in, and then walk out for the last time. Over these two years, all of these memories would be written in my book.
Everything felt so out of place, yet so together; so right but so wrong. Everything was empty. No furniture, no rugs, not even a chair in sight. Just lonely wooden floors waiting to be accompanied by other objects. I don’t remember much about this day. I know I should, considering it was my first time in my new home abroad, but I just can’t bring everything together. All I remember was us all going upstairs, putting our bags in our rooms, and going in to Sarah’s room. I’m not even sure why. All we did was lie down together. We talked for a little, but people couldn’t say much, as we were so exhausted. But we all just wanted to be together, even my brother, surprisingly. It seemed as if this whole adventure had brought us together, and it had barely even started.

Before I continue sharing my memories any further, there’s something you need to know about me. I’m good at remembering things. I remember being at Zion Preschool and having Michael be mean to all the girls. I remember my first year at Spirit Gymnastics, and I remember being so proud of myself for skipping level 3 and go straight to level 4 Novice. I also remember going to the beach and spending hour after hour doing handstands and cartwheels in the sand, while people walked by my parents and told them how cute their little freckled-five year old was. All these memories were written down in my book. But these are the ones with stars on them, the ones with drawings and bookmarks to help me remember them. Many of my memories have been lost. In fact, many of my very proud or exciting memories have been lost as well. I don’t remember my first day at Germantown Academy, my 8th birthday party, or when I first started getting freckles. I don’t remember the first time I did a handstand, or the first time I went swimming. These are the memories that have been smeared, smudged, and ripped out, unable to be brought back to me.
Now that I have told you this, I must tell you something else. My two years in England are a blur. I don’t remember even half of it. I don’t remember the first day of school at TASIS, how I met my best friends, or who the first person to talk to me at school was. My memories are scattered. My pages have been ripped, torn, and crumpled. Every now and then I find a scrap of paper with a sentence or two written on it, reminding me of what happened in that exact day, and that exact moment. This doesn’t happen very often, so I will share with you the memories that I do remember, and you must treasure them.

I could barely contain my excitement. Finally after five months I would be able to see them. My friends, my family, my neighbors. Everyone! As we flew over New York I looked out to be greeted by the beautiful lit up skyline. Cars driving back and forth, on the right side of the road, not the left. We were back. Of course only until New Years, but it felt amazing already. A two hour car ride took us home. Five people in a taxi almost jumping up and down awaiting the arrival. The car in the driveway, the grass in the yard still green, the stone house calling to us, wanting us to come in, just like it had been before. Almost nothing changed. I reopened the birthday party invitation from Hannah yet again.
Friday, 6 PM, Pizza and a Party! I stepped out of the car in front of her house later that night. This would be the first time I had seen anyone from school since I moved. Walking down the stairs to the basement was tantamount to the most nerve-racking time of my life. Would they judge me? Would they think I’m different? The same? No one really paid any attention to the brown-haired, freckled, eleven year old girl walking down those stairs. Hannah raced over to me as soon as I came into her sight. Hugging, laughing, and talking with her consumed the first thirty minutes of my being there. People glanced quickly at me from the sides, not confronting me or saying a simple, “hi!” Nervousness swept over me yet again, just like it had when I heard the big news. Just like it had when I began my floor routine in my first gymnastics meet. Just like it had when I took my first steps at sleep away camp. My neighbor Markie showed up as well, and no one knew her. I don’t even think anyone knew me anymore. Sitting on a leather chair with her consumed the rest of the night for me. Did no one remember me? They had to. It had only been five months, right? Or had I been stuck in a dream, and years had passed. People had moved on. I was no longer a friend, no longer a companion, just a memory. My book went in to detail of them. Of our lives at school shoved together. Our friendships. Their writing only skimmed the surface, and was most likely smudged and torn. They obviously weren’t very good writers.

After being completely rejected at my own friend’s birthday party, I was in desperate need of friends and tired of being alone. Emily Noles and Kate Russell showed up as the answer to that problem. They say friends come from the most unexpected places, and that completely applies to my situation. You see everyone has their “enemies” in school. The people that they just plain don’t like. At all. Emily was one of mine. Also a new student at TASIS that year, I didn’t know much about her. I’d heard the rumors. “She’s a slut, she’s a whore. She’ll only be friends with you to get to someone else.” Naturally I believed them. Stupid me for doing that. I spent five months hating her. She spent five months hating me. And the worst part? We’d never even had a real conversation, and were placed in the same advisory.

Kate’s story on the other hand, turned out different. Not entirely, but the details changed. Being a student at TASIS for a year already, she befriended Emily. The two of them grew to be inseparable. So when Emily’s rumors were spread, they connected to Kate. She became associated with the words “slut,” “whore,” and other names that really should not be shared at this time.

How you become friends with someone is hard to remember. I don’t remember how I became friends with people I met almost nine or ten years ago. That’s natural. But not remembering how I became friends with Emily is kind of sad. Maybe not sad, just unexpected. We’re so close, that you think I would know how we came to be friends only two years ago. I do in fact remember how I became friends with Kate. Be prepared for a slightly unexpected story, though. Kate and I had never been close. We took Spanish together and fate put our seats together in Spanish class. It wasn’t really fate. Our teacher Mrs. Arcos did. But I do believe in fate. That everything happens for a reason, whether the reason be big or small, good or bad. We chatted sometimes in class, not much though. Now the super weird and unexpected way we grew to become best friends. Vocabulary, Chapter 4: House and Family.

“Caroline?” I heard a little voice ask in the seat next to me. I turned to see Kate’s big, brown eyes looking at me, questioningly.

“Yes?”

“Can I call you, ‘hija’?”

For those of you who are unaware, hija means daughter in Spanish. I’m not 100% sure how others would have chosen to respond to this question. My mind thought of different responses. “Why?” “Is this a joke?” “You’re kidding, right?” But oddly enough, I chose the most unoriginal, plain, simple answer.

“Sure,” I said hesitantly.

As if wallpaper being ripped off a wall, a new side of Kate became known. It was decided I was Hija and she was Mamasita. How that even became normal for us? Who knows? But even to this day we use those same names, just like we had when we first became best friends two years ago. Ever since then, she and I have been inseparable. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her, or without Emily. That is the power of friendship. The power of just having someone there for you. To help you, guide you, and be plain stupid with. Emily and Kate helped me. They helped me not feel so alone anymore, and not be so annoyed at moving, not so annoyed at school, at everything.

Living in Europe had its advantages, and being close to everything was one of them. Only a two hour train ride to Paris, a short flight to Italy, Spain only hours away, and Greece calling to you in the south. In my time in England, I have stepped in many countries soil. Spain, Greece, Italy, France, Jordan, Egypt, Mauritius, Cyprus, Scotland, Barcelona, Portugal, the Netherlands, and many more. You get the gist. Travelling has opened my eyes, so for that reason, I am utterly thankful.
You, as a reader, may not believe this. You, possibly, could be the type of person to have been cooped up all our life and not able to see the world and all of its beauty. And I assure you, it is beautiful. On the other hand, you could be a reader who has seen everything. I am one of those people. I have pictures and stories written down in my life book. My pages have been filled multiple times. I add pages here and there, tweaking the details I already have written down. I’m not going to go into detail on my travels. That would take too many pages, too many words. I will only say one thing. Experiences have been thrust upon me that never would have had we not moved. I have learned about cultures and people. I have learned to be thankful and kind. I have learned to be forgiving and respectful. As I have already stated, I am thankful, but I want you as a reader to be thankful as well. You should be able to go out and explore, and see the world for what it’s really worth. That, my friend, is what really opens your eyes.

Now I shall leave you. I have many memories, many experiences from my past two years in England. I have become attached. England is a part of me, a part that can never be forgotten. My friends are wedged into my heart. Eleven pages in a story may not help you understand. I have not told you everything from my book of course, though. Some memories aren’t worth sharing. They teach us nothing, and convey no meaning. I remember my first soccer game for TASIS, but what will that teach you and me? I remember falling off of the beam in gymnastics and hurting my foot, but what will that teach you and me? The stories chosen to be told, chosen to be read on this paper, are my most important memories.

Your book and mine do not match up. Neither do mine and my friends, or my family’s books. We all are different. Sure, some of us have the same storyline. My family and I all went to England. We all travelled together. We all did this and that. But what about what’s behind the scenes. What’s behind that smile we put on our faces. Behind the houses we live in. Behind everything we do not tell. That is where the stories change. That is where people and their lives change. And these have changed my life.

So I bid you farewell. It has been a good time, being able to share a fragment of my life with you. I hope you take a piece of me, a piece of my story with you. Will it help you later in life? Who knows? Will they teach you something? I do hope so.