Read Again, but Better for Free Online

speeds up. I check my block phone for the time: 10:05.
    Pilot grins atus, his gaze landing on me. “You guys ready to do Greenwich?”
    Atticus yawns.
    “Hell yeah!” I push up from my seat at warp speed to deposit my plate in the sink. “We’ve got—” There’s an enormously loud crash behind me. I gasp, jumping three feet in the air, only to find that it was my chair falling over. Heat flashes up my neck.
    Babe laughs next to me. Atticus is cackling. My eyes find Pilot’s.He’s laughing too.
    “Dammit!” I grin in spite of myself, annoyed, but absolutely overjoyed to be around people who are laughing. My family’s conditioned me to expect the frustrated sigh.
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    The four of us join a massive group of students on a pilgrimage to the nearest Tube station. Pilot and Atticus walk and chat about five feet ahead of me and Babe.
    I’m wearing my long, black, puffy winter jacketbecause it’s the only one I have. Under it, I’m wearing my favorite black jeans and a white, long-sleeve sweater. Over that is my new purse that slings across my chest. There are all these horror stories about how thieves in Europe carry knives and run around chopping off women’s purses—the purses fall off their arms, the thief catches it, and runs. It’s been recommended to me by American society(mostly my aunts, uncles, and parents) that I wear a cross-body purse to make chopping it off more difficult. I’m sure the degree to which America harps on this fear is slightly exaggerated, but, in the interest of better safe than sorry, I have also chosen to wear the purse under my jacket. It doesn’t look too strange because the purse is really small, but it does look a little strange. There’san extra butt cheek-like thing protruding from the area behind my hip. But, try to cut off my purse now, thieves. You’ll have to find it first!
    “So, what did you do last night?” I ask Babe.
    “I hung out with my friend Chad. He’s here on the program with us. We’re in the same school at YU and stuff. We got food, and then I went back to his flat upstairs and hung out with some of the people there.”Babe is wearing her pretty green coat and sophisticated beret again. Her lips are painted a bright, cheery red. I feel under-fashioned.
    I pause, looking ahead rather than at Babe. “Are you and Chad, like, a thing, kind of?” I ask hesitantly. I’m not sure if we’re at the point in our friendship where boy talk is permissible. But Babe seems nice, and I want to be friends. Friends talk about thatstuff.
    When I glance back over at Babe, she’s looking at the ground. She considers my question for a few seconds before meeting my eyes. “We’re … I … I’m not sure. Kind of, it’s a long story.” She’s goes quiet.
    Guess we’re not there yet. I quickly change the subject as we turn left onto Gloucester Road.
    “So what do you study at YU?”
    “Hospitality!”
    “Oh, cool! What do you want to do when yougraduate?”
    “I want to work at Disney World. I, well, actually my goal is to make my way up to president of the park!” She smiles at me, excitement building in her voice. Her enthusiasm is contagious.
    “So, like, President of Disney World, then?” I clarify, awed by this idea.
    Babe walks me through the process of how one would make their way to eventual President of Disney World.
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    We get offthe Tube—the surprisingly clean London subway system—near the London Eye, and our giant posse shuffles onto a ferry waiting along the edge of the Thames River. Once we’re loaded on, I catch sight of Sahra and flag her over to our group.
    The five of us stand together on the upper deck level of the boat. It’s open, like one of those double-decker tour buses you see in New York City, and a scratchymicrophone projects the voice of a tour guide. We oooh and ahh as we float under the London Bridge, and past the pickle-like building London calls the Gherkin. I snap pictures of everything.
    I want to get a picture of