The Chaos of Standing Still

by Jessica Brody

  “So, in other words, pretend to be normal so people leave me alone.”

  “Well, I suppose that depends.”

  “On what?”

  She rested her hands atop her pen. “On whether or not you want to be left alone.”

  Desperate to get away from all the people, I decide to wander. I take a random escalator up from the shopping rotunda and find myself in some kind of hidden balcony that overlooks the A gates. It’s surprisingly empty. I’m the only one here.

  I find an outlet nearby, under a bench of seats, and plug in my phone. The first thing I do after I see the little charging icon is set up a passcode. I definitely learned my lesson with that one. Sure, it will create one more step between question and answer, but it’s worth it. I never want to feel that vulnerable and exposed again.

  I lean on the railing and stare down at the two long rivers of people flowing on each side of the moving walkway below. Most of the people seem resigned to their fate and are sitting on the floor. Some are still trying to get to places. Imaginary destinations with imaginary deadlines.

  I breathe in the emptiness of my little hideaway, and for the first time in several hours my shoulders part ways from my ears.

  How long before other people discover this place?

  How long before the river down there floods and pushes the excess up here?

  Being this high, watching over everything, I’m reminded of the tree house that Lottie used to have in her yard. Back when she was Charlotte and I was Kathryn and neither of us could drive and the world was a safe place.

  It wasn’t really her tree house. It came with the house that Lottie’s parents had bought from a family with two boys. Apparently, they had built the tree house with their father. Lottie used to joke that the only thing her father could build was hedge funds.

  I never understood what that meant.

  I don’t think Lottie did either.

  We used to have slumber parties up there when we were kids. I would draw and Lottie would gossip or try on makeup or dance around to whatever pop song was popular at the time

  Lottie always had contraband in the tree house. Stolen Double Stuf Oreos and bags of Doritos and bubble gum with sugar in it. Over the years, it continued to be Lottie’s hiding spot. Except the smuggled goods became less innocuous. Tiny airplane liquor bottles swiped from her father’s carry-on after he got home from a business trip. Adult DVDs acquired from some guy in the mall parking lot. Lipsticks shoplifted from the drugstore down the street. Lottie insisted that because they were all cheap lipsticks in shades no one should ever wear, it was okay.

  When Lottie’s mother found the stash a month after the accident, I told her it was mine. The gaudy makeup. The liquor bottles. The DVDs. All of it.

  Two weeks later my mother decided to move us to San Francisco.

  A week after that my sessions with Dr. Judy started.

  I should probably tell my mother the truth one of these days. So she doesn’t continue to think I’m an alcoholic pervert with horrible taste in lipstick.

  I tear my attention away from the people below and stare at the bank of information screens on the wall to my right. I run my eyes down the long list of (allegedly) departing flights.

  Boston, MA

  1240

  4:45 p.m.

  DELAYED

  Detroit, MI

  541

  3:50 p.m.

  DELAYED

  Ft. Lauderdale, FL

  3672

  4:02 p.m.

  DELAYED

  Miami, FL

  211

  3:32 p.m.

  DELAYED

  San Francisco, CA

  112

  3:31 p.m.

  DELAYED

  No estimated departure time for any of them. It’s like the whole world has been put on an indefinite pause.

  I check the clock on my phone. 3:56 pm. God, I’m hungry. When was the last time I ate? I was still in Eastern Standard Time.

  I sit down and riffle through my backpack until I find a crushed granola bar at the bottom. It’s less of a bar now and more just granola. I search the crumpled wrapping for an expiration date, but I can’t find one.

  Do granola bars expire?

  I type the search into my phone but find inconclusive results. Apparently, there’s a differing of opinion out there about the safety of consuming expired granola bars.

  Normally, I wouldn’t chance it, but I’m that hungry.

  I rip open the package with my teeth, shake a few trampled morsels onto my hand, and toss them into my mouth.

  “Eew. You’re really going to eat that?” Lottie chimes in with her culinary expertise.

  It’s not like I have a lot of options here, Lottie.

  “And to think, you could have been eating a burger right now.”

  Veggie burger.

  “Yeah, about that. Since when are you a vegetarian?”

  Since I got food poisoning from a hot dog.

  She sighs, and I can almost feel her hot breath on my ear. “Yeah, that sucked big-time.”

  I pop another handful of granola into my mouth. It’s crunchier than it probably should be.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t go with that guy,” she continues to gripe. “Do you know what the odds are of finding a Doctor Who fan who is also cute?”

  One billion to one? I guess.

  “Exactly! And you let him walk away!”

  Technically, I did the walking away.

  “Even worse! Have I taught you nothing, Ryn?”

  “No, Lottie,” I whisper aloud to the empty balcony. “You taught me everything.”

  “Then what are we still doing here? Let’s GO!”

  I shake my head. I need to stay here and watch the screens. There could be an update about my flight.

  Lottie huffs. “Yeah, ’cause there are no other information screens in the entire Denver airport. It’s just these. Hidden way up here where no one can find them.”

  And I have to charge my phone.

  I pour another helping of granola into my hand and shovel it in, grimacing as I chew. Something tastes off about this mouthful. That definitely didn’t taste like granola. Oh God. It might be mold. What if it’s mold?

  “So you’d eat mold just to get out of spending time with a cute guy?”

  I drop the granola bar onto the seat next to me and start typing into my phone again.

  Can granola grow mold?

  The answer, disturbingly enough, is yes. Apparently, pretty much anything can grow mold.

  Even mold.

  “Doctor Who, Ryn! He likes Doctor Who!”

  Yeah, and I don’t, I remind her.

  “Your biggest flaw, in my opinion.”

  Well, I didn’t ask your opinion, did I?

  I didn’t mean for that to come out as harsh as it did, and I instantly regret it because Lottie falls quiet. You would think being that she’s a figment of my imagination I could control when and where she makes her appearances.

  You would think.

  I tip my head back and pour the remaining questionably moldy granola into my mouth, trying to warrant a reaction, but the chatterbox in my head is still chatterless.

  I crumple the wrapper and toss it toward the nearest trash can. It misses by about two feet.

  Resting my phone on my chest, I kick my feet out in front of me and lean back in my chair, trying to get comfy. It would be nice if these stupid armrests weren’t between each seat, so I could lie down, but other than that, it’s not so bad. I could stay up here until my flight takes off. No problem. I think I even saw a restroom on the other side of the escalator.

  I let my heavy eyelids sag. But just before they close, my phone starts to vibrate. I know immediately—from the string of seven notifications in a row—that it’s my mother texting.

  I unlock the screen and read through them one by one.

  Mom: The weather channel says the storm is getting worse.

  Mom: Why aren’t you texting me ba
ck?

  Mom: Before I forget, do you want me to pick up anything from the supermarket?

  Mom: Have you eaten anything today?

  Mom: You need to eat.

  Mom: The Denver airport website says there’s a bagel place in Terminal C.

  Mom: But you’ll have to get on a train to get there.

  I’m about to tap out a response when I notice a flicker of activity to my right. I whip my gaze toward the screens, and that’s when I notice the change.

  Flight 112 to San Francisco no longer has a big fat DELAYED stamp next to it. It now says:

  AT 7:41 P.M.

  I look at my phone. That’s less than four hours from now.

  I’m going to be getting out of here in less than four hours!

  Thank God.

  My stomach, obviously not satisfied with my meager offerings, lets out another low rumble, as if to say, “What else you got up there?”

  I glance at the screens again, just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.

  Nope. We have liftoff at 7:41 p.m.

  Which means I have nothing else to do between now and then except kill time.

  Fine, I think with a huff, standing up, yanking my charger from the outlet, and flinging my backpack over my shoulder. But I’m not doing this for me, Lottie. I’m doing it for you.

  I expect this to bring her back. It’s just the kind of incendiary remark that she loves to respond to. But as I ride the escalator back down into the chaos, in search of a route to gate B89, Lottie remains suspiciously silent.

  Stranded Passenger Bingo

  “Open it! Open it!” Lottie bounced up and down, which I didn’t think was the brightest idea, given that we were in the tree house and who knew how stable this construction was. I doubted the previous owners of Lottie’s house had gotten all the proper permits and inspections.

  I carefully peeled back the wrapping paper of the small rectangular gift. I’d never been a ripper. I’d always been a peeler. It drove Lottie crazy.

  “C’mon!” Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. “Molasses melts faster than this.”

  “I don’t think that’s the phrase.”

  “The phrase is, ‘Rip it already!’ ”

  The Halloween/Ryn’s Birthday Bash was over. All of the guests had gone home, and Lottie had dragged me up to the tree house. I was worried she wanted to drink more and that I would have to restrain her, because she was already pretty intoxicated. But as soon as we made it up the ladder, she didn’t lunge for the tiny liquor bottles like she usually did. She lunged for something else.

  My birthday gift.

  I peeled off the last strip of shiny silver paper and stared down at the object in my hand.

  “Um . . .” I hesitated. “It’s . . .” I looked up at her. “You shouldn’t have?”

  Lottie burst into uncontrollable fits of drunken laughter. It lasted a good twenty seconds. At one point she actually hooted. “You should have seen your face! Oh my God. You would have thought I’d given you a dead horse head.”

  “I don’t think you have to specify that the horse head is dead. Once they disconnect it from the body, the dead is implied.”

  This made her laugh more and stagger backward a bit. I reached out and grabbed her by the arm to steady her.

  She half sat/half fell onto the ground and crawled over to her stash. She selected a miniature bottle of Grey Goose, unscrewed the top, and tipped her head back. Most of the vodka went into her mouth. The rest dribbled down the front of her white Twister dress.

  I never knew how Lottie’s father acquired so many of those tiny bottles. And I never asked. He always just came home from his business trips with loads of them, and Lottie always just lifted them from his bag.

  She grimaced at the taste of the alcohol, then tossed the empty bottle haphazardly over her shoulder, and settled into a cross-legged position.

  “So,” I began again, shaking my gift. “Why did you get me a Doctor Who phone case?”

  “It’s a joke! Because I know how much you loooove Doctor Who.”

  I lowered down next to her, setting the Tardis phone case on the floor. “Yeah,” I responded dryly. “Totally love it. It’s a grown man who travels through time in a big blue box.”

  She leaned forward to swat at my leg but missed by about a foot. “Ryn Ryn. You have no imagination.”

  Ryn Ryn. She called me that only when she was drunk. Sometimes she added a cheesy effect to make it sound like an old-fashioned ringing phone.

  Her failed swatting effort caused her to tip forward, and I caught her just in time. “And you have no tolerance.”

  She gave up trying to stay upright and collapsed with her head in my lap. I pulled her long red hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. I always loved that hair. Envied that hair. It was the most vibrant shade of red I’d ever seen. Like a brilliant sunset. Most people thought it was straight from a bottle. Lottie never corrected them. She just let them go on thinking whatever they wanted.

  But I knew the truth.

  Lottie would never let any chemicals near her perfect hair.

  “Ryn Ryn?”

  “Mmm?” I murmured.

  Her voice changed then. Grew more sober. “I have a serious question to ask you.”

  I stared down at her grave expression. “What?”

  “Why don’t you like Doctor Who?”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. Lottie tried to act offended. “I’m dead serious! This is a very important matter. I’m not sure we can continue to be friends. It’s just too big of an issue.”

  “You only started watching it because of your crush on Mr. Bowman in the eighth grade.”

  “What does that matter?” she asked. “I still loved it once I started watching it.”

  Of course, the crush was totally inappropriate, being that Lottie was thirteen and Mr. Bowman was twenty-seven, but propriety had never been Lottie’s strong suit. When Mr. Bowman referenced the show in science class, Lottie immediately went home and added it to her Netflix queue. It was the most interest she’d ever shown in science in her entire life. By the time the semester ended, Lottie had moved on to her next crush, but she was still hooked on the show.

  “Why, Ryn?” Lottie pestered. “Why don’t you love it like I love it?”

  “There was an entire episode about farting politicians,” I reminded her.

  She tried to push herself up, but it didn’t work out too well. Her head plonked back down into my lap, and I continued to stroke her hair. “It was a metaphor!” she slurred. “About politicians being full of hot air.”

  “Ahhhh!” I said, faking an epiphany.

  “You get it now?”

  “I get it now.”

  Her eyes started to sink closed. “Now you like the show?”

  “Now I like the show.”

  She giggled hot air into my paisley hippie skirt. “You’re such a bad liar.”

  “I guess I don’t have as much practice as you.”

  That made her giggle harder. “Wanna hear something crazy?”

  “Always.”

  “I totally let Emmett put Right Hand on Red.”

  I gasped in mock outrage. “You did not!”

  “I did. And I might have let him explore some other colors too.”

  “His Disney princess must have loved that.”

  Lottie frowned. “Huh?”

  “Never mind. What about the mystery man you said you had your eye on tonight?”

  She pulled her legs up to her chest and snuggled tighter against me. “He turned out to be a wanker.”

  “A wanker?”

  She nodded. “A big wanker.”

  “So where’s Emmett now? Why didn’t you bring him up here?”

  “It’s your birthday. I wanted to spend it with you.”

  I smiled in the darkness of the tree house.

  “And besides,” she went on, “I had to give you your big present.”

  I glanced at the phone case next to my leg. “Thanks,” I deadpanned. �
��I’ll cherish it always.”

  “Ryn Ryn?” she asked after I was sure she’d fallen asleep.

  “Mmm?”

  “The phone case was a joke, you know?”

  “I know, Lottie.”

  “You don’t have to use it.”

  I chuckled. “Thanks for the permission.”

  “I know you probably won’t use it anyway.”

  I leaned back on my hands. “Nope. Probably not.”

  I clutch the phone case tightly in my hand and step off the escalator onto the main floor of the A terminal.

  “There you are!” a voice shouts. I look around, even though I’m positive the voice is not talking to me. Who would be talking to me? I don’t know anyone here.

  “Over here!” it calls out. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  I stop a few feet from the second escalator that will take me down to the train platform and look left and right. My gaze finally lands on a pair of long, scrawny arms waving wildly in the air. I turn around, certain whomever the voice is summoning has to be standing right behind me, but the only person there is a harried-looking businessman pushing past me to board the escalator.

  “This is my sister. We’re traveling together.”

  The voice is now directly in front of me, and I can see it belongs to a young boy in jeans and an oversize sweater. I recognize him from gate A44. He was slouching in a chair with a misspelled sign around his neck. I peer down to see the sign is still there. And it’s still misspelled.

  UNACCOMPANIED MINER

  He’s standing next to an airline employee in a dark blue suit with a name tag that reads SIMON.

  “Sis, where have you been?” The boy sounds annoyed now.

  I’m still confused as hell, convinced a guy with a camera is going to jump out at any minute and tell me I’m going to be on YouTube.

  “What?” I ask.

  The boy shoots me a look. “I was just telling Simon here that he doesn’t need to accompany me anymore because I’m traveling with my sister who’s older than sixteen and, according to the airline’s company policy as stated on their website FAQ page, as long as I’m traveling with someone older than sixteen, I’m not considered an unaccompanied minor.” He glares back at Simon. “Minor. M-I-N-O-R. Not M-I-N-E-R. I don’t work in a coal quarry.” He turns back to me and lets out a huff. “Amateurs.”