"Team?" I stop mid-throw, my arm outstretched with a shirt in my hand. I poke my head out of the closet that I'm currently standing in and search for a culprit, reaching up and tugging a piece of dust from my long bleached blonde locks. I see nothing, so I retreat into my closet and continue to throw piece after piece of clothing onto the ever-growing pile on top of the open suitcase I've left out for my self.
"Team?" The voice comes again and this time I press my ear against the far side of the closet, listening through the paper thin walls to the familiar tapping of heels against the hallway tiles. I peek my head out of the closet again; just in time to see a woman standing in the doorway. Her hands crossed over her chest and a glare being cast in the direction of my version of "packing". "What're you doing?" She walks further into the room and throws herself on my bed. "I see you're no more a packer than I am." I eye her up and down, taking in the blue blouse, the khaki skirt and the Manolo Blahnik heels.
"Em," I scold her as I step out of the closet and hover over her on the bed. "What have I told you about borrowing my shoes?" She ignores my question and simply slides them off my feet and tosses them on the pile of clothes. I give her a curt nod as a thank-you and throw myself on the bed next to her just as she sits up and begins rubbing her temples fiercely.
I prop myself up on one elbow and glare at her. "Headache?" She nods her head so hard I'm afraid her brains might fly out and end up all over my clothing. "Where are your glasses?" I'm still glaring at her. She shrugs. I stand up and grab her wrist, pulling her out of my room and down the hallway. I walk over to her writing desk, spotting the glasses and 'a-ha'ing as I do so. I pick them up and inspect them, making sure that she didn't do any damage because, knowing Mafalda Laramie as well as I do (and, seeing as she's my mother, I know her pretty well) in the past thirty minutes of writing she'd thrown her glasses against the wall at least ten times. It was something she'd always done when she had a writers block. At least she'd done it for as long as I could remember.
I always called my mom Em. Once again, one of the many things I just remember always occurring in our family. It probably had something to do with the fact that mom just wasn't fitting for her teenaged ways and sense of style. It probably also had to do with the fact that Mafalda was a much too hard (and yes, much too ugly) name for any three year old to mutter. So Em it was, for the beginning letter of the word mom and the name Mafalda.
Upon inspecting the glasses close enough and deeming them accept to wear, I walk up to Em and place them on the bridge of her nose before stepping back and loosely holding my two pointer fingers and thumbs in a loose rectangle. I "snap a mental photo" as Em makes a silly pose with her arms thrown above her head. We both collapse into a fit of laughter at our stupid little routine and I fall perfectly into the crook of Em's arm where I've always seemed to fit.
"I'm going to miss you, you know?" She wouldn't look at me; I knew it was because she had tears in her eyes. I nod my head and gaze out the window of our four story walk up much the same as she was. Now we both had tears in our eyes. I wipe my hand across my face briskly and pull away from her death hold.
"Alright, I've just got to pack and then we can go." I say it firmly, making sure that I, too, am ready for the trip of a lifetime. I turn on one heel and leave Em to finish her writing – but not before I take a long pause in the 'hallway of memories' as Em and I have always called it. The hallway is a lost cause to everyone that enters the house except for Em's old friends and me. In the hallway there are tons and tons of pictures – some in frames, some just loose and pinned to the wall or even taped – of all the memories that Em had had before me. I have a top four favorite, all four of which are the only four framed; each in its own thick black frame. The first of my favorites being a picture of Em, her hair teased high and bleached blonde just like mine is right now. Across her face is a look that spells out 'this is the best night of our lives' and around her shoulders the one and only Bruce Springsteen's arm is slung. Every time I see it my breath catches in my throat and I find myself imagining what it must've been like. Across the bottom of the picture the words 'To my babe: the Boss' are scrawled in some type of chicken scratch.
The next picture is one that I don't really know much about; aside from the fact that it always makes Em bust out into song and dance when she looks at it. I gaze at the picture quickly, ready to move on to my next two favorites just as Em steps up behind me and begins shouting in my ear. "IIIIII I just died in your arms toniggggght." I flinch just slightly and debate on whether or not to plug my ears with my fingers or not, but before I can even make up my mind her little song and dance is over. "Van Eede." She says slowly, running her hands over the picture one time before ushering me along to the next one.
"I love this one," I reach up and touch the face of the infamous Morrissey who's got his arm slung around Em's shoulders just like the Boss had done, but this time Mom's in a better outfit (at least to my standards) and definitely a little older. I look closer to see if there's a bulge beneath her tattered Smiths shirt, but I can't make anything out. I pull back before Em spots me attempting to find my fetus self in the picture.
The next one is another great: Robert Smith, lead of The Cure. I feel a pang of jealousy wondering what Robert Smith must be like in the flesh. His hair is teased just as high as Em's and both of them have got unknown liquids in plastic cups. Em is raising hers to her lips so I can't see her lips. But I can definitely see Roberts and the way they're curling at the corners as though he knows a secret, perhaps my secret. I finally turn to Em, who is still staring at the picture, obviously nostalgic as can be (which often happens when she walks down the hallway of memories). I pat her on the shoulder, allowing her to continue remembering, and walk into my room – closing the door behind me. I throw myself on the bed, not prepared to leave New York City for the next three months. I gaze up at the wall, spotting the only 'picture of memories' that I have. One of my best friend, Lily and I, standing outside Em and my apartment building on Avenue B the day that we moved in; both Lily and I have on matching pairs of overalls that, in my opinion, are a complete fashion no-no.
Just as I'm about to become half as nostalgic as Em is most likely being, the door to my room bursts open and in storms Lily, her black hair flowing behind her and her green eyes bearing holes into my soul. She instantly rushes to the suitcase, slamming it shut and sitting down hard on it before zipping it beneath her weight. "Toothbrush?" She starts the list. Having already been on tons of vacations, Lily clearly is more equip for what to bring than I am.
"Check." I say lazily.
"Address?" I walk to my desk and pick up a piece of paper with some address that I can't understand scrawled across it. The address, although I can't read it, is apparently going to lead me to a family that will allow me to live with them for the next three months in London, England (that is, if I take good care of their child.) Mom's friend, Bethany, set me up with the job through a 'friend of a friend.' I didn't particularly sound like a good idea to me, but I've been nannying for almost a year now – straight out of high school, at least. And I never had a problem with staying at anyone else's house. It was probably just the idea that it was 3,000 miles away and across an entire ocean that intimidated me.
Lily continued on with the list as I freely daydreamed about the rest of my summer; three whole months in good old London, England. There was so much to do, so much to see. I began to wonder if British boys were as hot as their accent made them sound. I wondered if they really had teeth like Austin Powers or if they were kissable, sweet, hot guys?
"Team," Lily was snapping her fingers in front of my face. "Do you have the PPP?" I gaze down at the bright post-it attached to the address and nod. Lily quickly snatches it from my grasp and gives it the one over.
She plops down on my bed in a defeated manner, "You really think he's number one?" I look over her shoulder at the name I have scrawled across the top line of the post it. I shrug my shoulders.
"I dunno, he would definitely be the coolest." I pause for a second and chew at my lip. "Team Springsteen." Lily and I scrunch our noses up at the sound of it.
"Disgusting." She says. I nod my head in agreement.
"But," I pause for dramatic effect. "Mom busted out the song and dance on him again today," I point down the list to the name 'Van Eede' and Lily wiggles her eyes at me.
"I dunno, dude." She cocks her head to the side. "I still say you've got the same nose as Morrissey. And that would be awesome." She gawks at me for a second more before I pull the post it out of her hand and shove it into my carry-on bag. "Plus, it can't be the Boss, because your dad obviously lives in England and the Boss definitely isn't in England."
I shrug again, zip up the pocket to my carry on and throw it over my shoulder. "I guess we'll have to see. I have three months to figure this all out." The post-it Lily and I are currently talk about is labeled "the Potential Papa's Post-it" Or the PPP as Lily and I had shortened it to somewhere over the past two years. Incase you haven't noticed, Em was quite the groupie in her time. Yet, the only thing (other than pictures, of course) that she had to show for it was me. And that's where my summer vacation came in. Upon my incessant begging, questioning and sneaking about – Em had finally booked me a trip to London, England where – she swore – with the proper head on my shoulders I would be able to find something, anything about my father. We had come to a firm understanding: she would confirm anything for me that was true, but no hints were to be given. I had a job, a place to live and three months before I had to return home and if I returned home with nothing, it was over. I could no longer nag Em about my father.
"Correction," Lily said. "You have a month to figure it out, then I'll be there for two whole weeks to party, put the pieces together and leave with your PP all sorted out." I smiled brightly at her and pulled her into a tight hug.
"I'm so going to miss you," I sobbed out a muffled sentence into her hair.
