Just starting a new story. I hope you enjoy, and if you like where it's going, please drop a review!
I remember when I was eight, I stole a dart from my older brother's dartboard. Behind closed doors, I rushed into my bedroom when my parents were at work and my brother was out with friends. I closed my eyes and threw the dart at a world map mounted on my wall, promising myself wherever it landed would become my destination. I ended up hitting somewhere in the Pacific, then the Atlantic, and it wasn't until the third time I hit land.
And, like a miracle, I hit Seattle.
I went downstairs and began to research that city I had heard of a few times. A big city in the United States. I was so enraptured in what I was doing that when my brother came home, I didn't notice until he'd been standing behind my shoulder for a minute or two, reading everything I'd been typing into the search bar.
"What are you doing?" he finally asked.
I jumped, then turned and tried to look innocent. "Nothing." I suddenly remembered his dart was still upstairs on my wall. I'd forgotten to return it to him!
"Do you want to go there?" he said.
I hesitated. I didn't want him to tell our parents.
He smiled. "Artie? Do you want to get out of this house?"
I still didn't say anything.
He ruffled my hair and crouched down by my chair. He was very old; that's what I thought. He was sixteen and he knew what he was doing. Back then, sixteen was like an adult. "I want to get out of this house, too. I will when I graduate. And when you're older, I promise I'll come back for you." He stood back up. "Do you want me to make you anything to eat? I think we've got some sandwich stuff."
"Allistor?" I asked.
He was already getting out bread and lettuce and turkey by the sink, and he didn't look up. "Mhm?"
"Do Mum and Dad love us?"
"Fuck!" Allistor was slicing a tomato. I guess my question startled him and he'd slipped and cut his finger. He ran it under the sink, looking at me. His eyes were many things at once: apologetic for cursing in front of me, but almost hurt by the question. "They do. Arthur, of course they do. Don't ask things like that."
He gave me a sandwich. I told him about throwing his dart. He wasn't angry. He laughed and promised me he'd take me to Seattle one day. He'd never been to the United States before. We could go together. I liked talking about the future with him, even if it wasn't realistic. But when you're eight and your brother is sixteen and you both are dying to get away, anything can be possible, so long as you have a dream. So long as you have hope.
Allistor ended up leaving that year. He went off as a foreign exchange student to Germany.
He never came back for me.
This is the memory I am thinking of as I sit on a plane to Seattle, sandwiched between a snoring man and a woman who is wearing too much perfume. I will be in America for one school year, staying with a host family named the Hondas. I have e-mailed the son, Kiku, who is my age—seventeen—and I know that the whole family is Japanese. But Kiku told me both of his parents are second-generation Japanese, so they really act quite a bit like Americans. They can all speak Japanese, but they don't do it that much at home, so it shouldn't be a problem at all. They seem really nice.
Getting on the plane had been strange. Neither of my parents came to see me off. I told them I could get to the airport myself, since they were both working like usual, and my mother told me to call her once I'd landed. She didn't say she'd miss me.
When Allistor went to Germany, my father dropped him off at the airport, only because I'd wanted to say goodbye to him and there was no possible way an eight-year-old would be able to get home from the airport alone. My father said a quick farewell to Allistor and patted his shoulder, then waited in the car with some paperwork while Allistor and I said our goodbyes in the parking lot.
"I'll call you," he promised, pulling the handle of his suitcase up. "And I'll write you letters. The post always makes you smile when it says your name, right?"
"I'll miss you," I said.
He smiled, sadness making him look older than sixteen. "I know. I'll miss you too." He pulled something out of his jacket pocket. "This is for you."
It was a silver cross on a necklace. He wore it to church sometimes, and I'd always admired it. Once he let me wear it to a Christmas service.
"Thank you," I said. I hugged him, tears welling up in my eyes. He embraced me, his mouth near my ear, and said, "I'm going to find a better life in Germany. I am going to build a future. Just wait. Wait through this, okay, laddie? I promise I won't leave you here forever. I will come back." He pulled back and smiled again, grabbing his suitcase. "Goodbye, Artie." I waved as he walked toward the airport, tears blurring my vision. I got back into the car, my lip trembling. My father told me to stop crying.
But I couldn't.
I couldn't.
And now, for some reason, I can't stop crying again. I hate crying—I despise crying—but I can't stop. The woman next to me offers me a tissue. It is heavily perfumed like her, and I say, "Thank you. I apologize for being such a disturbance."
She smiles kindly. "It's all right." She is older than I am, probably about the same age as my mother, but she seems like a good person. A warm person. Yes, that's it. She seems like a warm person, whereas my mother brings to my mind images of frozen wastelands and desolate landscapes. I manage a watery look of appreciation.
By the time the plane lands, I am dry-eyed again. Strange. I don't think I have cried in quite a while. I used to cry a lot when I was younger, especially in the period after Allistor left for Germany. But then I realized it was pointless and my parents thought it to be weak, so I stopped.
The woman gives me a comforting squeeze on the shoulder and an encouraging smile as everyone scrambles around for their carry-on bags. "Have a nice evening."
"Thank you," I reply. "You too."
The Hondas are waiting for me by the baggage claim area. I shoot my mother a text, then turn my phone off and introduce myself to the Hondas. Mr. Honda is a quiet man, but there's something gentle in his eyes, a light I could never see in my own father's eyes. He tells me he is glad to meet me, and I know he means it. Mrs. Honda is sweet and small and bubbly, asking about my flight and whether I'm hungry and how I'm doing and about a million other things.
Kiku laughs. "Mom, don't overwhelm him!"
I smile politely. "It's very nice to meet you all."
On the car ride back to the airport, Mr. Honda turns on the radio and hums along to American music, and Mrs. Honda is trying to talk to him about school supplies, rolling her eyes when she realizes he hasn't been paying her a bit of attention. Kiku was right. They are a very American family, in the best sort of way. Kiku takes out his phone and shows me pictures of their cat, some tabby-type thing they named Kotori Mewnami (Ko for short).
He is easy to talk to, and I find myself relaxing. The whole family is easy to talk to, and for the first time in seventeen years, I allow myself to be swept away into an easier world. A world where your parents act like they care about you and you get to have a family pet and there are photo albums and hugs and birthday celebrations.
I know I am lucky. I have gotten an excellent host family. Now, underneath my happiness, there is some disappointment. Disappointment that this is not my family. Kiku is not my brother, and the Hondas are not my parents. For a year, they will be. Then what?
But I block this out. I ignore it and enjoy the ride.