The Chaos of Standing Still

by Jessica Brody

  My throat catches fire.

  No. I have to get out of here.

  I can’t stay here.

  I can’t be here tomorrow.

  “Don’t they have special tools and trucks and stuff for clearing the runway?” I ask, glancing frantically between Muppet Guy and the cashier. Neither one looks particularly helpful. “Why would the board say we’re leaving if we’re not leaving?”

  “Sweetie,” the cashier says, her voice taking on an odd syrupy cadence that makes my skin crawl. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you’re stuck here. We all are.” She pulls the crumpled sheet of paper from her apron pocket again. “May I interest you in a game of bingo?”

  I collapse into a chair at one of the tables and numbly sip my soda. Muppet Guy lowers into the seat across from me, holding on to the plastic number eleven we received for our order.

  Eleven used to be my lucky number.

  Back when I used to have things like lucky numbers.

  Back when I believed in luck.

  “Look,” he says, trying to be helpful. “What does she know? She’s just an employee at a restaurant. She doesn’t work for air traffic control. If the board says your flight is leaving at 7:45—”

  “7:41,” I correct.

  “Right. If the board says that, then it’s true.”

  I appreciate his efforts, even if they’re not making me feel any better.

  “So,” he says, sipping his drink. “Are you coming or going?”

  I blink and look up at him. “Huh?”

  “San Francisco? Is it home?”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling stupid. “Yeah. Home, I guess.”

  “Home, you guess?”

  “It’s where my stuff is.”

  He chuckles. “Okay.”

  “And you? You said you were going to Miami? Is that home?”

  “Noooo.” He elongates the word, lowering the tone of his voice to the point where it could almost pass for the voice of the Muppet on his shirt. “Not home. Los Angeles is home. My parents are in Miami. I’m flying out to meet them.”

  “That’s nice.”

  He releases a strange noise from the back of his throat. It’s the first sound I’ve heard from him that can’t be described as “jovial.” “Nice. Sure. I guess that’s one way to put it.”

  “You don’t want to go to Miami?”

  “I don’t have a problem with Miami. I just don’t want to be anywhere near my parents.”

  “Oh.” I fall quiet, sensing that I’ve inadvertently crossed some sort of line. The kind of line you don’t cross until you’ve known someone for at least a full day.

  I’m incredibly grateful when he changes the subject. “I should probably ask your name, huh? So I don’t have to keep thinking of you as Phone Girl.”

  A ghost of a smile cracks the concrete surface of my face.

  “Is that funny?”

  I take another sip of soda. “I’ve been thinking of you as Muppet Guy,” I admit softly.

  He peers down at his shirt, as if he forgot what he was wearing. “Ah. Right. Well, as creative as those names are, I have another idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  He opens his mouth to answer, but just then the cashier arrives with two trays. “Here we are!” She sets down a monster double bacon cheeseburger in front of my dining companion and a much daintier-looking veggie burger in front of me.

  It’s only then that I notice the cashier has a name tag pinned to the front of her red apron.

  I stare up at her in disbelief “Your name is Siri?”

  She gives me a hard stare. “Yeah. So?”

  “Nothing,” I say hastily, “It’s just—”

  “The name was fine until those douchebuckets at Apple decided to make it synonymous with information,” she snaps, indicating I’ve hit a sore spot.

  She and Troy should really get together. They could commiserate for hours over their beefs against Apple.

  Siri goes on. “Now everyone thinks it’s so funny to ‘Ask Siri,’ ‘Ask Siri,’ ‘Ask Siri.’ ” She groans. “You don’t know how many customers I get every day asking me stupid shit like, ‘Hey, Siri, what’s the weather in Palm Springs?’ or ‘Hey, Siri, what’s the Broncos score?’ They think they’re sooooo clever. My parents joke that they should have just named me 411.” She tucks the tray under her arm and scowls. “I still don’t understand what that means.”

  “You could always ask Siri what it means,” Muppet Guy suggests, and I hide another hint of a smile behind my cup.

  “Oh, you two are hilarious,” she says. “You should have a Web series on YouTube.” She stalks away, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  “Hey, Siri!” Muppet Guy calls after her. “Can we get some napkins over here?”

  “Get ’em yourself!” she calls back.

  He stands. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “I suppose you did.” But my amusement fades the moment he leaves and I’m left alone with our food. I eye his giant double patty burger a mere foot away and try to swallow back the bile that rises in my stomach. The dark, grilled meat is hanging off the side of the bun. A small pool of red-tinted juice has formed on the plate next to it.

  I hold my breath, but it’s too late. I catch a whiff of the cooked beef and suddenly a slew of images are flickering across my vision.

  Regurgitated hot dog pieces floating in the toilet.

  Lottie’s brain splattered against the dashboard.

  10:05 a.m.

  10:05 a.m.

  10:05 a.m.

  Forever and ever and ever . . .

  “I hope it doesn’t bother you if I eat meat,” Muppet Guy says, returning with a pile of napkins. He slides back into his seat. “If so, I can order something else.”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s fine.”

  It’s so not fine.

  What are you doing here?

  You shouldn’t be here.

  “Relax,” Lottie whispers seductively, and I almost sink in relief at the sound of her voice. “It’s just meat. It’s not like he’s consuming a live cow in front of you.”

  Where have you been? I hiss silently back to her. You convinced me to come meet this guy and then you totally abandoned me.

  “Awww,” she coos, the sarcasm thick in her tone. “Did you miss me?”

  I can’t do this alone.

  “I hate to break it to you, Ryn Ryn. But you are alone.”

  Are you drunk? I ask her.

  “Are you?” she asks with a gasp.

  You only call me Ryn Ryn when you’re drunk.

  “That was when I was alive. Now that I’m dead I can call you Ryn Ryn whenever I want.”

  I watch Muppet Guy take a big messy bite of his burger, ketchup oozing out the side and meat juice running down his chin. He grabs for a napkin and lazily wipes the juice away. I avert my eyes and focus on my veggie burger. I’m still starving, but my appetite seems to have evaporated in this mile-high climate. I set my phone down next to my tray, grab the plastic knife that came with my food, and start cutting my burger into perfect quarters.

  “Anyway,” he says, chewing and swallowing, “I was about to tell you my brilliant idea.”

  “God, he’s so cute,” Lottie pipes in. “Look at those blue eyes. With his skin tone, that’s very rare. You should totally find some janitor’s closet to make out in. There’s probably even beds in one of the first-class lounges . . .”

  I clear my throat. “Yes, you were.”

  He takes another bite, chews, swallows. “I was thinking instead of introducing ourselves, which is so totally normal and boring, let’s make up new people to be.”

  “Oh, I really like him,” Lottie approves.

  “New people?” I ask dubiously.

  “Yeah. You know, we’re mysterious strangers, stuck in an airport on New Year’s Eve. We’re never going to see each other again. We could be anyone we want.”

  I finish cutting my burger and pick up one of the pieces
. “I guess so, but why?”

  “I don’t really feel like being myself today,” he says by way of explanation. I wait for him to elaborate, but he just takes another bite of his burger.

  His suggestion instantly makes me suspicious. What is he hiding? Why doesn’t he want to be himself? Is he a serial killer on the run? Is he wanted in forty-nine out of fifty states?

  Then again, if he doesn’t have to be himself, that means I don’t have to be myself, either. It gives me a free pass to lie. To forget about busted dashboards and unread text messages and Doctor Who phone cases.

  I’m not sure why I didn’t think about it before. Lottie used to reinvent herself all the time. Why can’t I?

  It’s the ultimate sales strategy

  Be someone else entirely.

  And let’s face it. It’s probably the only way I’m going to get through this meal.

  “Okay,” I tell him. “I’m in.”

  Deflating the Universe

  By my tenth visit to Dr. Judy’s office, I had played with all the busy toys and deemed the expanding ball my favorite. It was constructed out of hundreds of interlocking plastic pieces in various colors that collapsed in on themselves. You could squeeze it into the size of a tennis ball or expand it to the size of a basketball. I liked it because it felt like I was holding the whole universe in my hands. The ever expanding and contracting universe. It was about the only thing I felt I had control over. Because the real universe didn’t seem to want to cooperate anymore.

  Dr. Judy still let me keep my phone on me, but I usually just placed it in my lap, leaving my hands free to fidget with the toy.

  Ten sessions, and I still hadn’t talked about Lottie. Dr. Judy hadn’t asked about her since my first visit. And that was fine by me. She kept to safer topics. My parents’ divorce. The move from Portland to San Francisco. How I was liking my new school. It felt like the world’s most expensive small talk.

  My mom, who was footing the exorbitant bill, didn’t know much about it. When she picked me up, she would simply ask, “How was your session?” and I would say, “Good,” and then she’d switch to talking about paint samples or flooring or a new lamp she had her eye on.

  Both my parents are good at that. Filling entire car rides with conversations that don’t matter. That you won’t even remember in the morning.

  I kept waiting for Dr. Judy to broach the subject again. To mention Lottie’s name. But she never did. It was like some unspoken rule between us. A silent agreement. I’ll keep coming to these stupid things if you promise never to talk about the real reason I’m here.

  I couldn’t decide who was getting the better end of the deal.

  “How did you handle the divorce?” she asked me as I contracted the universe back into a single dense atom.

  I shrugged. “How anyone handles a divorce, I guess.”

  “How does anyone handle a divorce?” She sounded genuinely interested. I’d learned that about her. She was really good at making your statements sound like groundbreaking discoveries in the field of mental health.

  “I was upset.”

  “You were upset.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t want them to split up. That’s only natural. But I guess it was better than some of the other divorces I’ve seen.”

  “What other divorces have you seen?”

  I inflated the universe back to its massive, immeasurable size. “You know, people at school. People on TV.”

  “How were those divorces different?”

  I yawned. “They were dramatic. Lots of yelling. Lots of fighting. Battles in court. The works.”

  “And your parents’ divorce wasn’t like that?”

  I shook my head. “In truth, it was kind of anticlimactic. I kept expecting there to be more of . . . you know, more of that other stuff. But they barely even raised their voices. They used a mediator instead of lawyers. They both signed the papers willingly. They pretty much agreed on everything.”

  “Sounds very civil,” she remarked.

  Universe contracted. “I guess.”

  “Is that how everything is done in your family?” she asked.

  Universe expanded. “Define ‘everything.’ ”

  She smiled. “Are your parents usually very civil about things? Do they not show emotions often? Do they not grieve outwardly?”

  Universe contracted. Secret agenda uncovered. “Is that what you’re getting at? That I don’t know how to grieve? Because my parents never taught me?”

  She feigned innocence. She was really good at that, too. Acting like everything that surfaced in this room was purely accidental. A fluke. “Children do learn coping mechanisms from their parents.”

  I set the universe down on the coffee table with a clunk and picked up my phone. “What coping mechanisms did they not teach me?” My voice was laced with irritation.

  “Let me ask you this,” she said, derailing my question. “Did you cry when Lottie died?”

  The room cooled to an inhabitable temperature. A whole ice age confined to this small space.

  She broke the agreement.

  She said her name.

  Aloud.

  She conned me.

  I stared at the abandoned universe on the table. It was in a sad state of in-between. Not quite an atom, not quite a vast, infinite cosmos. Like God had simply run out of air.

  I swiped my phone screen on and stared down at my messaging app.

  One unread message.

  One unanswered question.

  One piece of her still left. Still alive. Still existing in the world.

  “Not everyone cries,” I muttered.

  “You go first,” Muppet Guy says, popping a fry into his mouth.

  I shake my head adamantly. “Nuh-uh. No way. This was your idea. You go first.”

  He sighs. “Fine. My name is . . . uh . . . Reginald.”

  “Reginald?” I repeat dubiously.

  “What? You don’t believe me? You think someone wearing a Muppet shirt can’t be called Reginald?”

  “Okay,” I allow. “Reginald what?”

  “Oh, right, last names. I need a last name. Reginald . . . Schwarzenegger.” And then, upon seeing my expression, he adds, “And no, there’s no relation. But I get that a lot.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. The new me is already way better at acting normal, and I haven’t even invented her yet.

  “Your turn,” he says.

  I take a deep breath. “Nice to meet you, Reginald  Schwarzenegger. My name is . . .” I rack my brain for something good. For something creative. Something that won’t make me feel like the uninspired dud that I always feel like.

  “Jezebel Jeweltupple! Lacey Leroux! Vivica Van Derzendanzen!” Lottie throws her suggestions into the hat.

  “Lottie,” I say quickly.

  “Lottie?” he echoes, and I immediately regret choosing that. The sound of her name on his lips . . . it’s wrong. It’s so very wrong.

  “Lottie?” Lottie screeches in disgust. “Why would you use my name? That’s so morbid. Jeez, Ryn.”

  She’s right. It is morbid. I had the chance to reinvent myself. I had a Get Out of Jail Free card and I chose to rip it up. I chose to lock myself in my cell and throw away the key. What is the matter with me?

  Muppet Guy opens his mouth to say something else, but I hastily interrupt him.

  “You know what? I just forgot. That’s not my name.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “You forgot your own name?”

  I let out a nervous laugh. “It happens. I’m a little insane like that.”

  “Okaaay,” he says, taking a sip of his soda. “What is your name?”

  “It’s . . .”

  C’mon, think.

  Anything is better than Lottie.

  I glance down at my burger for help. “Vege . . . Vege . . .”

  Spit it out!

  “Veg . . . ina.”

  Okay, maybe not anything.

  Soda shoots out of Muppet Guy’s mouth like a gey
ser. He coughs. “Your name is Vegina?”

  My face warms to roughly the temperature of the sun.

  “Wow,” Lottie muses in my head. “You are really bad at this.”

  I laugh too in an attempt to cover up my stupid, stupid answer. I consider trying to change it again, but Muppet Guy looks far too amused. Maybe this is the new me. Maybe the new me doesn’t get embarrassed by words that sound like body parts. Maybe the new me is bold and sassy and likes making boys laugh.

  Maybe the new me is more like Lottie.

  “Yup,” I say confidently. “Vegina. Do you have a problem with that?”

  He schools his expression, and is actually brave enough to take another sip from his straw. “Okay . . . Veg . . . ina. Do I even dare ask your last name?”

  I shrug. “That’s up to you.”

  He grins. “I’ll take my chances. What is it?”

  I glance around the small restaurant, searching for another piece of inspiration. I catch sight of a Starbucks across the small extension terminal.

  Muppet Guy follows my gaze. “Yes?” he prompts.

  “Starbucks,” I say, satisfied.

  He looks skeptical. “Your name is Vegina Starbucks?”

  I nod. “Yes. I’m heir to the Starbucks fortune. I’m worth like a gazillion dollars.”

  He lets out a low whistle. “Wow. I should have let you pay for lunch.”

  I nod. “You should have.”

  He leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying his game. And I admit, I’m kind of enjoying it too.

  Or, at least, Vegina is.

  “So,” he says, “if we were to walk over there right now and ask for a latte, they would have to give it to you for free.”

  “Yes, but Daddy really doesn’t like me doing that.”

  Reginald Schwarzenegger bursts into another fit of laughter. “You’re funny, you know that?”

  His words puncture me, letting all the air seep out. Any confidence I’ve built up over the past two minutes is deflated like a popped tire. Lottie was always the funny one. Not me. I was only funny in relation to her. She started the joke and I piggybacked on it like a comedy freeloader. She set the ball and I spiked it. Without the setter, the spiker is a pretty pointless position.