The Chaos of Standing Still

by Jessica Brody

  And, apparently, also a comedian.

  “Thanks.” I force a smile and bend down to pick up my fallen phone. I’m about to swipe it on to check the message app, when he says, “Where you heading to?”

  He really wants to do this? Right here in the middle of the moving walkway junction between gates A32 and A34?

  I can hear Dr. Judy’s voice in my head, reminding me that my actions affect people. Even if I don’t want them to. Strangers don’t know what happened to Lottie. They won’t understand my desperate need to avoid human interaction (her words). So my best bet is to just be polite.

  I clear my throat. “San Francisco. You?”

  “Miami. Well, at least, trying to. Or not trying to. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

  I’m not following. But I don’t want to get involved. I have my own ambiguity to deal with. “Well, good luck with that,” I say, forcing a smile that Dr. Judy would be proud of.

  I count the seconds that social propriety requires me to wait before I can turn and leave, but I must miscalculate because he’s staring at me like I’m supposed to say something else. Then, to my surprise, he’s suddenly reaching for me, finger outstretched toward my face, and I fight the instinct to swat his hand away like a hovering fly.

  He points to—but doesn’t touch—my chin. “I think the carpet might have taken a little bit of your skin as a souvenir.”

  I rub at the raw flesh. It screams in response.

  “Does it hurt?” he asks.

  I adjust my backpack on my shoulders and stand up straighter. “I’ll be fine . . . thanks.”

  Then, without bothering to count another second, I stride off in the direction of the customer service counter, wisely opting to skip the next moving walkway.

  Politely exchanging destinations is one thing. Comparing pain thresholds with a complete stranger is a whole other ball game.

  Besides, he’d definitely lose.

  The Reinvention of Lottie

  Lottie Valentine was always reinventing herself. She went by Charlotte for most of her life, until one day, in the middle of eighth grade, she announced that she wanted to go by Lottie instead. Apparently, she’d read the nickname in a book or something and decided she liked it much better. She made an official proclamation to the entire class. “From this day forth, everyone shall call me Lottie.”

  And everyone did.

  That was Lottie. She made a decision and it was so.

  It wasn’t just her name, though. She was constantly changing her hair, her clothes, her favorite shade of lipstick, her signature scent, even her aspirations. She’d come to school dressed like a punk rocker, claiming that she was going to be a rock star when she grew up, and then the next week, she’d come to school dressed in overalls claiming she was going to be a potato farmer so she could eat all the french fries she wanted.

  After that it was a psychologist, a personal shopper, a veterinarian, an astronaut (until she realized how much math was involved), and a little over a year ago, she told me she was going to be a flight attendant. I told her I’d heard that before but she swore to me this one would stick.

  “A flight attendant’s life is so glamorous!” she waxed poetic. “And free! Nothing to tie you down to one place. Think of all the exotic places you get to go. And the people you meet. You could have a boy in every port!”

  It’s anyone’s guess what might have come after that. Librarian? Beekeeper? Bus driver? Or, who knows, maybe flight attendant really would have stuck.

  I’ll never know, because two weeks later a fuckbrain with faulty brakes decided to get behind the wheel with more alcohol in his blood than blood.

  That was the final reinvention of Lottie.

  “Are you gonna move up?” a voice snaps from behind me. It’s only then I notice that the line has moved and I’m still standing in the same spot. I turn around to mumble a less than heartfelt “sorry” to the impatient man behind me and then step up, immediately returning my gaze to the young, female flight attendant I’ve been staring at for the past five minutes. She’s leaning against the wall of gate A44, whispering into her phone, her hand covering the mouthpiece. Her whole body seems to be hunched toward the conversation. I watch her eyes dance as she lets out a playful laugh.

  I marvel at how much she looks like Lottie. The same crimson gold hair and button nose, the same pole-shaped body and wide-set eyes, even the same flirtatious laugh.

  “See,” I hear a voice say. “A boy in every port.”

  I don’t turn around at the sound of this voice. I know it’s not coming from behind me. It’s coming from my own head.

  “Why are you even waiting in this line?” the voice whines. “You already checked the information screens like four times. The flight is delayed. What more can they tell you? Let’s go find that cute boy with the Muppet shirt.”

  I glance at the twenty or so people who stand between me and the two overworked employees at the customer service counter. She’s probably right. I’m probably wasting my time. The screens gave me no estimated departure time, which probably means there isn’t one. But I can’t bring myself to step out of line. I need some kind of answer. And right now, those two harried employees are my only hope of getting one.

  When I turn back to the redheaded flight attendant, I see that she’s no longer on her call. She’s now biting her lip as she taps something into the phone.

  “I bet she’s sexting him,” says the voice excitedly. “I bet he’s a pilot. Flight attendant–pilot relationships are soooo cliché yet soooo hot. But what’s the deal with that awful pantsuit? What happened to the heyday of airline travel when stewardesses wore sexy dresses and cute hats?”

  The flight attendant looks up, as if she too can hear the voice, and her eyes land right on me. I quickly avert my gaze, searching for anywhere else to look. I spot a dark haired boy, who looks to be about ten years old, sitting in a nearby chair. He’s slouched forward with his chin resting against his chest. For a moment, I think he might be sleeping, but then his head snaps up, and I notice the small handwritten sign hanging around his neck by a thin cord.

  UNACCOMPANIED MINER

  The sign looks like it was scribbled out in a hurry, hence the misspelling. I attempt to stifle a laugh, but I must not do a very good job because he too looks straight at me. We share a look of commiseration before he drops his head back down.

  That poor kid. He looks about as miserable as I feel. If there’s anything worse than getting delayed in an airport during a snowstorm, it’s getting delayed in an airport during a snowstorm as an unaccompanied minor.

  “Forget about him,” the voice interrupts. “What’s the flight attendant doing?”

  I sweep my gaze across the gate to the wall, but it’s now occupied by an agitated-looking family with four kids. My flirty flight attendant is gone.

  The impatient man behind me clears his throat, and I realize there’s another huge gap in front of me. This guy must think that I’ve never waited in a line before. That I don’t know how it works. I mumble another “sorry” and move up.

  “When I become a flight attendant, I’m going to work for one of those international airlines where the flight attendants still wear cute minidresses. None of this pantsuit garbage. I mean, really, what is that?”

  I think it’s called feminism, I silently tell the voice.

  “Pshaw. Feminism is a woman’s right to dress sexy if she wants to. Pantsuits deprive us of the innate sexiness that is our God-given right.”

  I know there’s no use in arguing. Lottie always wins. Even in death.

  I realize you’re supposed to tell your therapist everything. That’s kind of the point of having the therapist. Otherwise, it’s just money down the drain. It’d be like going to the dentist but never opening your mouth to show him your teeth.

  But there are a lot of things I haven’t told Dr. Judy. For instance, I’ve never told her about the blame list I keep on my phone. I’ve never told her about the one unread text messa
ge.

  And I’ve certainly never told her that I still talk to my dead best friend.

  Because, c’mon, I’m not crazy.

  “Wanna hear something crazy?” was how Lottie started pretty much every conversation.

  “Always,” was always my response.

  “Emmett totally just asked to touch my boob.” She nodded across the crowded party at a tall, slender guy currently engaged in what looked like a very heated conversation with a Disney princess. I couldn’t tell which princess. They all kind of blended together in my mind.

  It was my seventeenth birthday, and since I was born the day before Halloween, Lottie decided to throw a birthday/Halloween bash in my honor. I was convinced that the wall-to-wall people currently standing in Lottie’s backyard had come for the Halloween half of the event. Not my birthday. If the invitation had simply read Ryn’s Birthday Bash, I don’t think we would have gotten quite this large a turnout. I didn’t know that many people.

  But Lottie knew everyone. Or at least, everyone knew Lottie.

  I didn’t mind getting upstaged by a pagan holiday though. I was used to it by now.

  Everyone had dressed up. Per usual, Lottie’s costume was the most creative. Mine was the most unoriginal—a hippie. I had already vowed that next year I was going to let Lottie dress me.

  “He did not ask to touch your boob,” I countered her bold accusation.

  She nodded emphatically, taking a gulp from her red plastic cup. “He did. I swear to God. He said, ‘Hey, Lottie! I just spun the wheel and I got Right Hand on Red!’ ”

  I burst out laughing and stared down at Lottie’s costume. She was dressed as a Twister board. She’d taken a skintight white minidress (which, of course, she looked amazing in) and taped rows of red, blue, yellow, and green circles on it. The red dots were unmistakably positioned across her chest, while the blue, yellow, and green dots were stacked respectively underneath.

  “Can you believe the nerve of that guy?” she said, shooting an evil look in his direction. But I knew she secretly loved it. Lottie was the most flirtatious person I’d ever met. She flirted with everyone. Guys, girls, teens, adults, babies, even old ladies in the park. It wasn’t weird. It wasn’t inappropriate. It was Lottie. She was just shiny. And it’s a known fact that people are attracted to shiny things.

  “So,” I asked, “are you going to let him put Right Hand on Red?”

  Lottie bumped me playfully with her shoulder. “Of course not. What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  “The kind that tapes large red targets to her boobs.”

  Lottie giggled. I could tell she had already passed tipsy and was rounding the bases toward full-on drunk. “Besides, I have my eye on a new mystery man tonight.”

  I laughed as I took in the colorful grid of dots on the front of her dress. “Let’s just hope this mystery man doesn’t spin Left Hand on Green.”

  The Denver airport feels like a bargain bin of different kinds of people. Every age, gender, ethnicity, race, religious affiliation, and fashion sense seems to be represented. As I continue to wait in line at the customer service counter, I distract myself by watching people. I spot a young woman dressed in full-on hippie garb (complete with flower headband) glide by on the moving walkway, and it makes me think of that last Halloween party Lottie threw. I wonder what happened to Lottie’s Twister dress. It’s probably packed in a box in her parents’ basement along with the rest of her stuff. The thought of anything belonging to Lottie winding up in a boring cardboard box reminds me of just how disorderly the universe really is.

  There’re only five people in line in front of me now. I’m not sure how long I’ve been waiting here, but I figure I’m at least using up time. My fingers itch to swipe on my phone. To check the clock. To ask Google the myriad of questions that have been piling up in my head. Things like:

  How much do flight attendants make?

  What are the age restrictions for flying as an unaccompanied minor?

  When was the game Twister invented?

  But I refrain because, last I checked, my battery was at 21 percent. I never let it go below 20. That’s when the little battery icon turns red, and I can’t deal with the battery icon turning red. All of that toggling On and Off Airplane Mode during our choppy descent must have sucked up a bunch of juice.

  I have a charger cable in my backpack but I’d have to get out of line to use it. And I’m too close to quit now.

  So I clutch the phone in my hand, rubbing my thumb back and forth against the sharp edges of my Tardis case.

  A woman at the counter starts yelling at one of the airline employees, ranting something about how they can’t call it customer service if they refuse to actually serve you. I watch her take out her phone and press a button on the screen. She holds it up like she’s taking a photo.

  “I’m filming you right now,” she warns. “And I’ll send this video to your supervisor. I’ll do it. So tell me again what you just said.”

  “Ma’am,” the employee replies, desperately clinging to what little patience she has left. “Please put that away.”

  “Why?” the woman shrieks, panning the phone this way and that like a crazed documentary filmmaker. “Afraid of what your supervisor will think? Afraid the corporate office will see how you really treat people?”

  The frazzled energy in this small, confined space is starting to make my breathing erratic. If my phone battery weren’t so dangerously close to the red zone, I’d blast some music in my ears.

  “Fine!” the woman yells, stuffing her phone back into her purse. “But I’m calling my lawyer. I’ve had about enough of this bullshit.” Then she stomps away from the desk.

  Four people.

  I hear another commotion to my right, and turn to see the Unaccompanied Minor boy getting ushered away by an airport employee in a dark suit.

  “Oh, come on!” the boy yells. “This is preposterous!”

  “Sorry,” the employee says without looking sorry at all. “Airline policy.”

  “This is the perfect example of common sense tripping over the frivolity of bureaucratic red tape,” the boy argues. “I am fully capable of using the lavatory myself.”

  The employee ignores his protests and proceeds to escort him toward the men’s room. I feel horrible for that kid.

  There’s another throat cleared behind me, and I instinctively take a step forward.

  Three people.

  “I really need to get to Detroit tonight,” the next passenger is saying. “Is there any other flight you can get me on? I don’t care if I have to go through Honolulu—I just have to get there tonight.”

  My stomach seizes in panic.

  Tonight?

  Why wouldn’t he get there tonight? It’s barely three o’clock. Is there a chance the flights might not leave until tomorrow?

  No. That’s not possible. I can’t stay here. I’ll get out there and shovel that runway myself if I have to.

  The thought of staying the night in Denver makes my head buzz.

  The thought of having to spend tomorrow—New Year’s Day—around this many people is simply unbearable.

  The thought of watching the clock strike 10:05 a.m. in any other time zone is—

  The gate agent sighs. “I will check, but as of now, there are no flights leaving Denver. Can I have your confirmation number?”

  Confirmation number. Right. I’m going to need that.

  Which means I’m going to have to turn my phone back on.

  My pulse instantly kicks up a notch. I try to steady my breathing, warning myself not to get too excited. I’m only going to pull up my confirmation number. Then the phone is going off again.

  I click the button and swipe my finger across the lock. But the sight of the screen suddenly makes me dizzy.

  Oh God. This is all wrong.

  The home screen. It’s a mess! Everything is in the wrong place. All my folders are gone. The apps are scattered haphazardly in no particular order. The weather app is fr
aternizing with the calendar and the clock. The camera is comingling with the notes app and the music app. The camera is not supposed to be next to the notes app or the music app! It’s supposed to be safely tucked away in the Photography folder with the photos app and the photo editing apps.

  I desperately swipe right three times, my throat tightening with every jumbled, disorganized page.

  What is happening?

  Did my phone reset somehow?

  Do I have a virus?

  Do phones get viruses?

  I would ask Google, but I can’t even find the Web browser!

  Then my gaze falls on the messaging app and my heart sputters to a dead halt.

  The little red badge with the number 1 is gone.

  No unread messages.

  I feel my knees get wobbly. I’ve never fainted before, but this must be how it starts.

  I jump out of the customer service line. The impatient man behind me must be rejoicing. I stumble over to a rare empty chair and collapse into it, staring blankly at my phone. At the mess of icons. At the sad, empty message app.

  I can’t breathe.

  Oh my God, I can’t breathe!

  Hot moisture stings my eyes, blurring my view of the anarchy.

  Then the phone vibrates, and I let out a yelp, blinking the incoming tears away.

  Incoming Call flashes across the screen.

  And the number displayed on the caller ID is my phone number.

  The Reinvention of Ryn

  Lottie tried to reinvent me once. It didn’t go over well. She took me to the mall and bought me all kinds of clothes on her father’s credit card. He was an investment banker who made up for hardly ever being home by paying the Visa bill and never asking questions.

  Standing in that dressing room, surrounded by the carnage of Lottie’s discerning taste, I looked good. The dresses were all the right length. The colors all coordinated. The stripes weren’t too stripy. But that was with Lottie sitting in the corner offering commentary like a sports announcer. Once I got home and stood alone in the context of my real life—my room, my mirror, my music on the speakers—all the clothes looked off somehow. Out of place. Like I had raided someone else’s closet. A girl much more adventurous and daring and interesting than me. A girl who wore stripes.