Plus, while Andrew’s out working, I can start my thesis. Maybe one of the Marshalls will let me borrow a computer. And I can do some research at the British Museum. Or whatever it’s called.

Yes, honestly, it’s much better this way. I’ll really get to know Andrew and his family, and I’ll get a good solid start on my thesis. Maybe I can even get it done before I get home! That would be so great! My parents will never even know there was a slight delay in my actual graduation.

Mmm…I smell something coming from the kitchen. I wonder what it is. It smells good…sort of. It doesn’t smell a bit like the scrambled eggs and bacon that are my mom’s specialty. Really, it’s just so kind of Mrs. Marshall to make breakfast for me. I told her she didn’t have to…She seems so nice, with her sandy-brown bob. She told me to call her Tanya-though of course I never will. Her eyes got kind of wide when I walked in and Mr. Marshall introduced me. But whatever it was that was freaking her out about me, she didn’t let on.

I certainly hope she didn’t guess about my underwear. Or lack thereof. What if THAT’S why she’d stared at me like that? She’s probably thinking, Of all the girls in America for my son to bring home, he had to pick a slut. I knew I should have worn something different getting off the plane. And I’m so cold in this stupid dress, I know I must have had some nipple action going on. Maybe I should change into something a little less…thin. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll change into some jeans and my beaded sweater set-even though I was saving that for evenings, when I thought it might be a bit cooler…

Little did I know it’s evening cool here all day long.

Okay. Wow, whatever Mrs. M is cooking in there sure smells-strongly. I wonder what it is? Also why it seems familiar.

You know, my MDF bed isn’t so bad. It’s kind of cute, really. It’s like the kind of bed Ty Pennington would make for some kid who has cancer on that Extreme Makeover: Home Edition show.

Only his version would be shaped like a heart ventricle, or a spaceship, or something.

Okay, there, I’m ready. Just give the hair a little toss, and-hmm, too bad there’s not a mirror in here. Oh well, British people clearly aren’t as vain as we are in the U.S. Who cares if my mascara is smudged or whatever? I’m sure I look fine. Okay. I’ll just throw the curtain back, and-

“Oh my,” Mrs. Marshall says brightly. “I thought you were going to have a bit of a lie-down.”

Had that been what she’d been saying to me a little while ago? I couldn’t really understand her. Oh, why did Andrew have to go off to work? I clearly need a translator.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m just way too excited to sleep!”

“Is this your first time in England, then?” Mrs. M wants to know.

“It’s my first time outside of the U.S. ever,” I say. “Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.” This is a slight lie. What she’s cooking just…smells. Still, it will probably be delicious. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Oh no, dear, I think I’ve got it under control. How are you liking your bed, then? Not too hard? It’s all right?”

“Oh, it’s great,” I say, slipping onto a stool at the end of the kitchen counter. I can’t tell what’s sizzling in the pans on the stove in front of her because they all have lids. But it sure smells…a lot. The kitchen is tiny, more of a galley than an actual kitchen. There is a window at the end of it that looks out onto a bright, sunlit garden bursting with rose blossoms. Mrs. M looks like a rose herself, all pink-cheeked and shiny in jeans and a peasant top.

Although the peasant top doesn’t appear to be from this season’s crop of them. In fact, it might actually be a peasant top from all the way back when peasant tops first made an appearance in serf-free society, way back in the days of Haight-Ashbury!

Now I know why Andrew thinks it’s okay to go around in a break-dancing jacket. But while some vintage pieces-like Mrs. Marshall’s blouse-are great, other examples-such as Andrew’s jacket-aren’t. Clearly the Marshall family needs to be brought into the vintage-know.

It’s a good thing they have me to help. I’ll have to be very sensitive to the fact that they don’t have a lot of money to spend on clothes. But I’m living proof you don’t have to spend a lot in order to look great. I got this sweater set on eBay for twenty dollars! And my stretch Levi’s are from Sears. And okay, they came from the juniors department…but how thrilled was I at being able to fit into something from the juniors department?

Not that, in our weight-obsessed society, this is something to brag about. Why should women have to fit into child sizes in order to be considered desirable? That is both sick and depressing.

Although…they’re nines! I fit into a nine! I never fit into a nine, even back when I was the age I was supposed to wear one.

“That’s a very pretty top,” Mrs. M says about my sweater set.

“Thanks,” I say. “I was just admiring yours!”

She laughs when she hears this. “What, this old thing? It must be thirty years old if it’s a day. Very likely older.”

“That’s neat,” I say. “I love old clothes.”

This is so cool! Andrew’s mother and I are bonding. Maybe later we can go shopping, just Mrs. M and me. She probably doesn’t have many opportunities for girl talk, having three sons and all. Maybe we can get manis and pedis and go to Harrods for champagne! Wait-do people in England get manis and pedis?

“I just can’t tell you how great it is to meet you, after hearing about you for so long,” I say. I’m not trying to suck up, either. I really mean it. “I’m so excited to be here!”

“How nice,” Mrs. Marshall says, looking genuinely pleased for me.

I can see that her fingernails are square and strong-looking and completely without polish. Well, she probably doesn’t have time for frivolities like manicures, being a busy social worker. “And what do you look forward to seeing most here, then?”

For some reason my mind flashes to the picture of Andrew’s naked ass. I can’t believe I thought of that! It must be the jet lag.

I say, “Oh, Buckingham Palace, of course. And the British Museum.” I don’t mention that the only parts of the museum I’m interested in touring are the rooms where they keep the historical costumes. If they even have any rooms like that. I can see boring old art back home anytime I want. I’m moving to New York City after Andrew gets his master’s, anyway. He already agreed.

“Oh, and the Tower of London.” Because I hear that’s where they keep all the fancy jewels. “And…oh, Jane Austen’s house.”

“Oh, you’re a fan, are you?” Mrs. Marshall looks a bit surprised. Clearly none of Andrew’s previous girlfriends had such sophisticated taste in literature. “Which one’s your favorite, then?”

“Oh, the A amp;E version with Colin Firth, of course,” I say. “Although the costumes in the Gwyneth Paltrow one were really nice, too.”

Mrs. Marshall looks at me a bit oddly-maybe she can’t understand my Midwestern accent any easier than I can understand her British one. But I’m really trying to enunciate clearly. Then I realize what she means and say, “Oh, you mean of the books? I don’t know. They’re all so good.” Except there aren’t nearly enough descriptions of what the characters are wearing.

Mrs. Marshall laughs and asks, “Would you like to help yourself to some tea? I’m certain you must be parched after your trip.”

What I’d really like, of course, is a diet Coke. But when I ask if the Marshalls have any, Mrs. Marshall gives me another odd look and says she’ll have to pick some up at “the market.”

“Oh no,” I say, mortified. “Really, it’s all right. I’ll just have some tea.”

Mrs. Marshall looks relieved. “Oh, good,” she says. “Because I don’t like the thought of your putting all those nasty, unnatural chemicals into your body. They can’t be good for you.”

I smile at her, even though I have no idea what she’s talking about. Diet Coke does not contain nasty chemicals. It contains lovely and delicious carbonation, caffeine, and aspartame. What’s unnatural about that?

But I’m in England now, so I will do as the English do. I pour myself some tea from the ceramic pot sitting by the electric kettle and, at Mrs. M’s urging, put milk in it, because that is apparently how British people drink it, instead of with honey or lemon.

I’m surprised to discover that it’s actually quite good that way. Which I mention out loud.

“What’s good?” A sandy-haired boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, wearing a dark-rinse jean jacket with acid-washed jeans (ouch-although beneath the jacket he’s got on a Killers T-shirt, which redeems him a bit), has come into the kitchen, then freezes when he sees me.

“Who’s that?” he wants to know.

“What do you mean, who’s that?” Mrs. M demands tartly. “This is Liz, your brother Andy’s girlfriend from America-”

“Oh, c’mon, Mum,” Alex says, grinning. “What do I look like? That’s not her. She’s not-”

“Alex, this is Liz,” Mrs. M interrupts even more tartly. She doesn’t look as much like a rose now. Or I guess she does, just one whose thorns are showing. “Say hello to her properly, please.”

Alex, looking sheepish, sticks his right hand out. I shake it.

“Sorry,” he says. “Pleased to meet you. It’s just that Andy said-”

“Alex, please take this out to the table,” Mrs. M says, shoving a handful of knives and forks at her youngest son. “Breakfast will be ready soon.”

“Breakfast? It’s nearly time for lunch, isn’t it?”

“Well, Liz hasn’t had breakfast yet, so that’s what we’re having.”