I was four thousand miles from my hometown—Nashville, Tennessee. According to the converter application on my mobile phone, that was about 6,400 kilometers away from anything familiar. But what kilometers were I wasn’t really sure.
I got off of a plane in London. London, England. My family, my friends, and everything I loved were all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. Back in Nashville. Across the pond. I had never felt more lost, or more afraid in my entire life. My knees knocked as I walked across the floor of the airport, pulling my rolling hound’s-tooth luggage behind me. My mother had bought it for my trip.
“They’re more fashionable in England than we are here,” she had said.
Funny. Because I didn’t see anyone else pulling hound’s-tooth luggage. Everyone in England had normal, pattern-less luggage. Except for me. I glared at my bag as I dragged it across the tiled floor, overcome with the urge to find a river and toss it into it.
“Frankie!” someone yelled over the hum of the crowded airport.
That’s my name, I had to remind myself. At home, I was Francine Summers. ‘Fran’ for short—sometimes Fanny. But there—in England, where the word ‘fanny’ meant something completely different—I was Frankie, the singer-girl.
I looked up and spotted a boy in a flannel shirt, leather jacket, skinny jeans and unbuckled boots. He grinned at me, waving a sign that said ‘Spanky Franky’ in green block letters. I smiled and hurried toward him.
“Robbie!” I cried, my voice shrill. I ran to him so quickly that my rolling bag bounced on the ground. Robbie was the only familiar thing in the whole country—all blue eyes, black hair, and long legs. Cute or, as the English say, fit. My sneakers left the floor as I leapt toward him and wrapped my arms around his neck.
Three years ago, I had been in New York for a high school chorus competition. Robbie was in the audience, talent-scouting. He had money—a ridiculous amount of it—and he wanted to start a band.
“You should join,” he told me as he scribbled his phone number and email address onto the soft skin of my inner arm. “We could really use a voice like yours.”
I shook my head. “I couldn’t,” I had replied with an apologetic smile. “I’m not really band material. But thank you.”
Robbie looked at his feet. “Ah. You can’t blame me for trying, though,” he had sighed. “But, if you ever change your mind, just give me a ring. I’d be happy to have your vocals.” With that, he smiled and walked away.
Seven months later, there I was. In London. For the first time. The lead singer in a band called ‘The Robbies’.
I woke up in Robbie’s apartment. I opened my eyes just as I rolled off of the sofa and fell to the floor. I reached out for something, anything to stop the fall. My unsteady hands clasped a nearby CD tower, which toppled over. Robbie’s CD collection spilled out—crash! boom! bang!—onto my head.
“Frankie!” Robbie hurried across the room, his face distorted with concern. “Are you all right, mate?”
I looked up at him. My body trembled, still caught in the webs of my nightmare. My head was filled with headlights, the sounds of screeching, and the smell of tires burning on asphalt. My stomach writhed as if I was riding a roller coaster.
“Are you all right?” Robbie repeated. He scooped the CD’s off of the floor and began to return them to the CD tower.
I blinked in the sun that poured from the nearby, curtain-less window. “What time is it?” I managed to squeak.
He smiled. “Here, it’s nearly eight o’clock,” he told me. “But it must be about 3am where you’re from.”
I frowned.
“I was going to let you sleep. I figured you might be jet-lagged, so I thought I’d introduce you to the rest of the band tomorrow.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to sleep,” I assured him. “I think I need to clear my head.” I pushed myself off of the floor and pulled my hooded sweatshirt over my head. “I’m going to go see the sights. I’ll be back later.”
“Okay.” Robbie frowned. “Ring me if you need anything.”
I slowed to a stop at the corner of the street, my hands buried deep within the pockets of my hoodie. I blinked at a pile of rust and bolts that I was sure had, at one time, been a motorcycle. It sat at the edge of the sidewalk, a ‘For Sale’ sign swinging from one of its handlebars. A lump formed in the back of my throat. I pulled my hand out of my pocket and ran my fingertips over the rusted metal. The sounds of screeching tires came back to me again, as loud and as vivid as they had the day I first heard them. I clenched my bottom lip between my teeth, resisting the urge to scream.
I’m okay, I told myself quickly. I’m okay.
I could see it all clearly, as if it was happening over again: My twin brother, Thomas, threw his head back and let out a roar of laughter. I grinned as I watched the road pass under me through the haze of the dirty motorcycle helmet he had lent me, just for the night. He pushed the bike to go faster and faster, until it was practically flying over the slick, wet asphalt. We turned the corner, still laughing, and slid into the other lane. That’s when I saw the headlights, heard the honking of the horn. And then crash. I flew backwards through the air, like I was being pulled by a rope that was tied to my waist. Then, everything was black.
I took my hand away from the handlebar and adjusted back to the present. I was standing upright on the streets of London. I wasn’t flying through the air, or crashing into a car. Everything was fine.
“Miss?” someone said over my shoulder. I turned around. The man looked me over, confused. “Are interested in buying the Triumph?”
“Oh.” I shook my head. “No, sorry. I was just…” My sentence faded away, the words vanishing on my tongue like cotton candy.
The man shrugged. “I don’t blame you,” he laughed. “It’s not worth anything, anyway. It’s an absolute bloody mess.” He dug into his pocket and found his car keys. “Well, cheers!” He disabled his car alarm and opened the driver’s side door.
I looked back at the motorcycle and saw Thomas. “Wait!” I breathed, holding up my hand. “How much do you want for it?”
The Triumph became my obsession. Whenever I found the time (between rehearsals, showers, and looking for a day job) I went to visit it there; on the corner of Bruton Street, near Berkley Square. I got lunch from a nearby deli and ate with the bike, staring into the rust and faded paint. I always saw Thomas there. He stared back at me, frozen like a photograph.
“Frankie?” Robbie walked around the corner, pulling his jacket tighter around him. He smiled. “Is this where you’ve been hiding? This is where you spend all of your time?”
“Not all of it,” I replied. I took a long sip from my paper coffee cup. “Just lunchtime.”
Robbie sat down next to me. “How very ‘Breakfast At Tiffany’s’,” he commented. He looked at the motorcycle and then at me. “You’re not actually going to buy this monstrosity, are you?”
I shook my head. “I can’t afford it,” I sighed. “I don’t have a job or an apartment…”
“You mean a ‘flat’,” he corrected, chuckling.
“Right.” I nodded. “The owner is only asking two hundred pounds for it. He says it’s ages old, and it doesn’t even run anymore. But I still can’t afford it.”
“This might be a stupid question, but why on earth would you want it?”
I frowned. My gaze dropped into my coffee and the wisps of steam that rose up from its black surface. “My brother, Thomas…” I gulped. “He used to fix motorcycles.”
“Used to?” Robbie’s eyebrows knitted together over his crystalline blue eyes.
“Yeah.” I paused, looking back to the Triumph. “He died. A few months ago. That’s why I came here. To get away from it.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Frank,” he said. “So the Triumph…?”
I shrugged. “I guess it would just make me feel more at home,” I explained. “It would make me feel like Thomas was still around, you know.”
“Yeah.”
“So, I’m going to get a job,” I decided. I stood up and dusted off the seat of my jeans. “And I’m going to fix up that bike.”
I walked away, coffee still in hand. Robbie blinked after me, stunned.
I walked around the street corner, excited to see Triumph, to eat lunch on Bruton Street. It had been several weeks since I had been able to make the trip. I had been too busy between finding a job and working with Robbie and the band. But, I was sure it had been worth it. At last, I had a flat of my own and enough money to buy the bike. My heart pounded against my chest.
I stopped in my tracks. The street was empty. The Triumph was gone; the ‘For Sale’ sign lay on the edge of the sign walk, covered in footprints and grime. I picked it up and ran my fingers along the edges.
“Oh.” The owner of the motorcycle stepped out of the building. He smiled at me as he locked the door behind him. “Hello again.”
“Hi,” I grunted, feeling dizzy. “What happened to the bike?”
“You mean the Bucket-O’-Bolts?” he laughed. “I sold it last weekend, to a couple of blokes from across town.”
“What?” I choked.
“I tried to tell them that it didn’t run,” he went on. “They said they didn’t mind. They actually walked the heap of rubbish home.”
I blinked. “No,” I mouthed in disbelief. I didn’t believe it. After all that work. It couldn’t have been sold! “Did you get their names, by any chance? Can you tell me what they looked like?”
He shrugged. “I can’t remember their names,” he admitted. “And they looked pretty much like every other bloke in London. Sorry.”
I ran my hands through my hair. I was so close to screaming that I could actually feel it in my throat. “Never mind,” I muttered instead. “Thanks anyway.” I turned on my heel and walked away.
“Crazy yank,” the man sighed behind me.
Months passed. I worked during the day and rehearsed with the band in the evening. I didn’t have the time to run all over London, trying to hunt down the Triumph’s new owners. Aside from that, I probably didn’t have enough money to buy it from them. They would, no doubt, want to turn a profit. And I was lucky to have come up with the original price. Still, I found myself looking up whenever I heard a motorbike, hoping to see Thomas smiling back at me.
“Happy birthday!” Robbie cried as I opened my apartment door and stepped into the hallway.
I smiled at him as I zipped my coat under my chin and locked the door. “Happy birthday to me,” I sang, flinging out my arms. “Happy birthday to me…”
Robbie laughed. “We don’t sing that here,” he informed me. “You’ll get ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ and you’ll be happy with it.”
I chuckled. “It’ll take some getting used to, but I think I can adjust.”
“The band and I are going to take you out to dinner,” he said as we started down the stairs that led to the street entrance. “But first I have a present for you.”
I clapped. “Brilliant! I love presents.”
“Oh. I think you’ll really like this one.” Robbie beamed. He pushed the door open and led to out to the street.
There it was. The Triumph. It sat by the side of the road, freshly painted and shining under the purple-white light of the streetlamps. I clapped my hand over my mouth. Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes.
“Really?” I gasped. My voice trembled. “Seriously?”
Robbie nodded. “I fixed it up for you,” he said. “A token of appreciation for agreeing to join the band.”
I ran my hand over the new leather seat, the shining handlebars, the gleaming cherry red paint. I could see Thomas in it again. His happy face shone from under the lacquer and polish.
“Thank you,” I screamed, wrapping my arms around Robbie’s neck. “Thank you so much.”
Robbie laughed. “Well, don’t just stand around thanking me,” he said. He stooped to pick of two helmets that were sitting next to the bike and held one out to me. “Take us for a ride on it.”
I swallowed the lump that was caught in my throat, pulled the helmet onto my head, and straddled the bike. Robbie sat down behind me. I squeezed the clutch and started away from the apartment building. Robbie punched his fist into the air and let out an excited cry as we tore through the busy streets. The engine roared. The wind flew over my shoulders, tangling the strands of hair that weren’t covered by my helmet.
“This is for Thomas!” Robbie yelled at the top of his lungs.
“For Thomas!” I repeated, beaming.
