Sitting through classes will be fine. At least, I hope so. But meeting 30 strangers, trying to somehow blend into a group of British girls who’ve known each other, and their city, all their lives….

I suck in a breath and, quietly enough that the Chaimowitzes won’t hear me, I let out a tiny sigh. Whatever. I can do this, I will do this. I’ve always known this was the plan, that homeschooling and online schools wouldn’t last forever, and that Abba and Ima wanted me to go to a “real” school before it comes time for seminary, and then shidduchim. Living in the wilds of India might be a great opportunity for zechusim, for kiruv and chesed and hosting guests, but it doesn’t offer much in the way of community.

And I won’t be totally alone in England, either. Besides for Bubby and Zaidy and the aunts and uncles and everyone, my brother Yaakov has been there for a year already, dorming in a yeshivah not too far from my grandparents. At least that.

Finally, finally, we reach the front of the line. The uniformed official behind the glass looks bored. He’s the only one on duty, apparently — all the other glass cubicles are empty. No wonder everyone’s moving so slowly.

The Chaimowitzes step forward, and I hang back. They’re together; I’ll go through on my own. Mrs. C. looks back, a question mark in her eyes. I stand my ground; if I can move across the world, I can handle passport control on my own. I don’t need anyone holding my hand.

“Next, please.” I get waved forward with a casual air, like the guy at the counter has all the time in the world. My head is hurting now; it’s been a long, long day. London’s five hours behind India; back home, it’s past midnight already.

“Enjoy your stay,” the man says, sliding my passport beneath the glass.

I spot the Chaimowitzes near baggage claim. They’d had a carry-on with them on the flight, but now they have a larger suitcase parked alongside it.

“Very efficient luggage collection system here,” Mr. Chaimowitz says approvingly, nodding with satisfaction as if he, personally, is responsible for the efficient running of the airport.

“Ashira, your grandfather is here, in the arrivals hall,” Mrs. C. says, waving her phone in my direction.

Zaidy. My stomach flutters. I haven’t seen him since before Covid — the year after, we went to my other grandparents for Pesach, and last year, my baby sister was born, and we hadn’t traveled anywhere. Yeah, we talk all the time, but still. Last time I saw them, I wasn’t even bas mitzvah.

And now, I’ll be staying with him and Bubby… for the rest of my school life.

Don’t think. Just do this.

“Oh — wait,” Mrs. C. says suddenly, holding up her buzzing phone. “That’s our Uber. Wow, that was quick.” She scans the carousel. “Do you see your suitcases yet, Ashira?”

“They don’t wait long, those taxi drivers.” Mr. Chaimowitz shakes his head. “Mustn’t miss him. Is that yours?”

He points to a glittery pink fabric tote bag that’s just tumbled onto the conveyor belt. It’s hardly big enough to fit my collection of hair accessories.

“No, Howie, of course it’s not that, don’t you remember? Ashira brought those two huge suitcases with the colorful paint design, matching her rucksack,” Mrs. C. says, and I take a second to process — rucksack, knapsack, right. The British speak a whole different language, apparently. You’d think with a British mother, I’d talk the talk, but Ima had moved to the States before seminary, went to school and worked and gotten married there, and she kind of sounded like Abba and his family by now.

“We really have to go,” Mr. Chaimowitz says, nervously. “Is her grandfather waiting just out there?”

Mrs. C. looks worried. “Yes, but….”

Oh, they’re worried about leaving me. As if I can’t handle baggage claim on my own. I nearly roll my eyes, restraining myself just in time.

“It’s fine,” I tell them. “I’m good with the suitcases. Don’t miss your ride because of me.”

The Chaimowitzes look uncertain.

“I’ve traveled alone before. It’s really fine,” I say. Okay, an intercity bus in the States is a little different from navigating an airport in a foreign country, but really, I’m turning 15 this year. And Zaidy’s right outside.

Mrs. Chaimowitz looks anxiously from her phone to her husband to me. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asks. “It’s just getting your luggage and going through those doors — your grandfather is right there.” She flutters her hand again.

“Not a problem,” I assure them.

When the Chaimowitzes disappear through the double doors marked Nothing to Declare, I permit myself a whew of relief. Nothing against them, but… I could do with a few minutes just to be, before I need to get out there and face… well, whatever I have to face out there.

The cavernous baggage claim area is almost empty now. The conveyor belt seems to be moving even slower. And the floor is dusty and grimy, but I am so, so tired.

Just another few minutes… and another….

A parade of suitcases marches along the carousel. I see a mauve one with a purple ribbon waving merrily from the handle. Two black ones, both slightly worse for wear. A long, thin item, encased in thick layers of bubble wrap. Blue, brown, more black….

As the mauve suitcase makes another appearance, a woman in high-heeled booties rushes over and heaves it off, tottering slightly. I notice, vaguely, that her carry-on and purse are the exact same shade of mauve.

There’s still no sign of my own suitcases, with their neon-paint-splattered design. Neither of them.

The black suitcases come around again, followed by the bubble-wrapped monstrosity.

I watch the dwindling selection of suitcases disappear around the bend, and then cruise past again.

Once. Twice. Three times.

The conveyor belt empties.

And still, I am waiting.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 944)