Prada and Prejudice

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It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a teen girl on a class trip to England should be having the time of her life.

At least, that's what I thought. Instead I'm miserable. It took me two weeks to convince my mom I was responsible enough to go on this trip instead of staying with my dad for the rest of the summer, eight days to rush-order a passport, and precisely twenty-four hours to regret it. It's my first full day in London and instead of seeing Buckingham Palace or Big Ben or the Thames, I'm sitting in Belgaro's cafe inside my hotel, wishing someone, anyone, would give me the time of day.

The point of this trip was to tour all of London's historically significant sights as a precursor to European history. Sophomore year starts next month, and it's supposed to be the Year We Pad our College Applications. At least, that's what the pamphlets said.

Last year, I never would have felt this desperate. My best friend Katie and I never wanted to be one of the in-crowd zombies. In fact, we made a sport of heckling the A-list.

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