Layover

by Amy Andelson

  I lick the sticky icing off my fingers as I finish my second glazed doughnut. Sure, my stomach hurts a little (okay, a lot) from the sugary goodness, but back home Mom would never let me overdose on sweets like this. And definitely not this early in the day. As instructed, every morning Rosie makes me scrambled eggs (one yellow, two whites) and gluten-free toast, Monday through Friday. And as instructed, I take my two little white pills, Monday through always. Susan says to think of taking my pills like brushing my teeth. Like it or not, it’s just something I have to do.

  It hasn’t always been two white pills. There have been blue pills, and pink pills, and for a while I was taking up to four different ones a day. Some of them would make me sleepy, and some of them would make me so hyper, it was like I’d had six Shirley Temples in a row. Mom says it’s such a relief that we’ve finally found the right dose for me. I guess I feel relieved about it, too. I just want to feel normal.

  Wait! My pills. Where did we put them? Uh-oh. I unzip the front pocket of my backpack, but all that’s inside is a very, very brown banana. Ick. I close my eyes and try to remember everything Rosie and I packed yesterday. We carefully placed my underwear, and pj’s, and the new one-piece bathing suits Mom got me, in the suitcase. And then we put in my toiletry case, and zipped everything up. My toiletry case—with my toothbrush and toothpaste and retainers and nose spray and all the rest of my medicine. Which means my pills—the pills I take at breakfast time and bedtime—are on their way to Bora Bora. I feel sweaty.

  “You guys?” I look at my brother and sister, my voice shaking.

  “Yeah, Pops?” Flynn ruffles my hair.

  But then I realize—if I tell them about my missing medicine, they’ll make me go back to the airport and this will all be over. “I—I forgot what I was gonna say,” I stammer. I took them this morning. I’ll be okay. I’m sure of it. I know Mom and Dad and Rosie are going to be mad, but this is my family, too, and don’t I get a say on whether we all stay together? It’s not fair for them to just pull us apart. I need us together. Whatever it takes.

  “Your friend Neel is taking his sweet time,” Amos says to Flynn as he gets up from the curb. Earlier, Amos asked Flynn if Neel is her boyfriend, and she said no. But it sounds like maybe he is. Or maybe she wants him to be. Flynn smiles as a black SUV pulls up. Neel leans out the window and smiles at us. He is so cute, and not at all like the boys in the city. And now I get why Flynn wants him to be her boyfriend.

  “Barlow,” he says with a slight smile.

  “Khan,” I reply, trying desperately to keep my cool. Amos, Poppy, and I quickly hop into Neel’s Land Rover, as if Dad and Louisa were actually on our tail. I slide into the front seat, and I can’t decide if I’m supposed to hug Neel. Instead I just buckle up. I look over at him and realize how utterly strange it is seeing Neel outside camp—outside the only context we have for each other. It’s not as if I haven’t wondered what his life is like out here in Los Angeles. I’ve spent more time than I’d ever like to admit scrolling through the filtered photos on his Instagram feed. And now here I am, sitting in his car. No filters. Just Neel—in swim trunks, a faded blue T-shirt, and slip-on sneakers. With his messy hair and easy smile. I immediately remember what drew me to him. And suddenly I feel…nervous.

  “You’re rolling deep,” he says as he gestures to Amos and Poppy in the backseat.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say. “Neel…this is Amos and Poppy. Amos, Poppy…this is Neel.” Poppy slides down her cat-eye sunglasses and dangles her hand out, as if she were a movie star from another era.

  “Pleasure to meet you, darling,” she says in her best grown-up voice. I’m nervous Neel won’t play along, but luckily, it seems like he remembers everything I’ve already told him about Poppy.

  Without missing a beat he replies, “And where might I take you today, young lady?”

  “Beverly Hills! Where else?”

  “You got it.”

  Neel speeds up. We have an entire glorious day before we’re supposed to arrive in Bora Bora—before Jack and Louisa even realize we’re missing. I roll down my window and hold out my arm, caressing the gentle breeze. This morning in Manhattan feels like a lifetime ago. The snow and skyscrapers have morphed into sunshine and strip malls. Even though I grew up in Northern California, I’ve never really been to Los Angeles. As I look out the window, I can’t tell if this city is ugly or beautiful or both.

  I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, my hair back and my face bare—my hangover from last night still clearly hanging over me. I curse myself for snoozing through my alarm so many times this morning. At least I brushed my teeth. Any reasonable girl would have at least put some makeup on while we were waiting for Neel, but the trouble is, all my toiletries are en route to Bora Bora.

  All I’ve got with me are the contents of my overstuffed backpack: Billy Budd (school reading), East of Eden (me reading), Sour Patch Kids, Aquaphor, my Warbys, and a scarf. I look down at my gray T-shirt, black skinny jeans, and white Converse—my unofficial uniform as of late. Not my best look, but I guess not my worst, either. Like I said, I overslept. Not to mention, I didn’t exactly plan on seeing Neel Khan today. I pull my hair out of a braid and run my fingers through its dark brown waves. It’s so long these days Poppy says I look like a mermaid.

  Amos, slouched in the seat behind me, catches me fidgeting in the mirror. He’s been silent since we got in the car. I hope he’s not regretting this. But then again, anyone with some semblance of sanity would probably be questioning what in the world we’re doing here. In Los Angeles. In Neel Khan’s car.

  I mean, what are we doing here? How well do I even know Neel? I’ve watched enough Dateline to know that there are a lot of ways this could go. Okay, maybe I’m being a bit dramatic, but the reality is, we are going to have to go home eventually. And eventually I’m going to have to admit that this whole crazy thing was my idea.

  But then I look over at Neel, and he’s even cuter than I remember. And I know that whatever is happening here, in this car, is right. It’s like I’ve been researching risk my whole life, and it finally feels like it’s time to let go and just be fearless for a little while.

  “I can’t believe you guys ran away. That’s pretty baller,” Neel says. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” I smile, hoping he means that as a compliment. “So does this mean I’m considered an accomplice?” he asks.

  “That all right with you?” I say, trying to sound like this all isn’t the biggest deal in the world. The thing I always liked about Neel was how unserious he seemed. But not in an uninteresting way. It’s like he knows how messed up the world is but he isn’t going to let it get in his way. Neel’s dad is some big Bollywood movie producer, and his stepmom is his Swedish former au pair. “A true LA story,” as he calls it. His dad is always traveling back to Mumbai, and it sounds like now that she’s off the clock, the last thing his stepmom is interested in is looking after him. So Neel’s alone a lot, like me. But he doesn’t seem bothered by it. He says it’s freeing—like not having his parents around is maybe even a good thing.

  On my first day off from camp last summer, I wandered around the small hick town just north of Yosemite. There wasn’t much to see, so I finally sat down on a bench, exasperated and annoyed. And then I just started crying. Because the last time I had been to Yosemite I’d probably been Poppy’s age, and I’d been with my mom. And sometimes, the memories and the grief—it all feels like too much. Because I miss my mom in a way that’s hard to understand, and most of the time even harder to feel. But it’s there—the missing. It doesn’t go away, and maybe I don’t even want it to.

  As I was sitting there on the bench, quietly crying to myself, someone suddenly sat down next to me. It was Neel. He said he was in the mood for a snack, so I suggested ice cream, and then off we went. We spent the rest of the afternoon walking in the woods, and I tried not to feel like the worst person in the wo
rld because, in my head, I was pretending that Neel wasn’t my best friend’s boyfriend. I pretended that he was my boyfriend.

  Eventually we had to head back to camp, and just as we were about to walk into the mess hall, Neel stopped and looked at me. I held my breath, and wondered if he was going to kiss me. He leaned in, and then paused. “You know, you’re the coolest girl here, Barlow,” he said with a smile. And before I could even respond, he opened the door, and we were flooded with all the noise and chaos of dinner. Meredith waved us over, and as I watched Neel sit down and put his arm around her, everything I hoped we’d shared that afternoon melted away.

  The strange thing is, even when he was dating Meredith, I felt somehow that there was something between Neel and me. Or maybe it was all in my head. It’s just that I need to believe someone else is out there who gets me. Someone more simple, less complicated. Someone…other than him.

  “Turn up the tunes!” Poppy commands from the backseat. Neel and I both reach for the volume, and our hands touch. His fingers linger on mine. Or maybe I imagine that part. But either way, it feels…electric.

  I should have just said no. But it was all happening so fast, and she was standing there, with her Please don’t disappoint me, Amos eyes, and the only thing I could say was yes. I catch Flynn’s eye in the rearview mirror, and then look away. Even though I try not to think about it, I know how much I’ve disappointed her.

  I should have told her I was leaving. But all summer in Amagansett, it was like every time I sat down to write her a real email, or at least something other than a reply-all to the latest from Poppy, I’d let myself get distracted with anything and everything. I’d stay out too late at a bonfire looking for girls to make out with, or lose myself in a long sail along the sound. Because every time I tried to tell her why I was leaving, it felt like a lie.

  And so I went away to look for the truth. I felt this need to get out of town—to leave the city behind. It was time to simplify. I was leaving a lot: I’d been friends with some of these guys since we were practically preschoolers, and we were finally going to be upperclassmen. I’d also earned a starting spot on varsity lacrosse for my junior year, which was no small feat. But life is full of leaving people behind—or being left behind.

  I’m sure the kids at Andover think I’m weird, and I don’t blame them. I’m the guy who showed up on their revered campus and couldn’t give a shit. They’re all rah-rah, bowing down to their hallowed halls like they’re in some cult. Like they need to make sure their high school experience is everything they’ve been told it should be. To be honest, it’s kind of nice being the outsider. I don’t have to pretend to care about their private jokes, and they certainly don’t have to worry about filling me in on the latest gossip, or saving a seat for me in Paresky Commons. I’ve become friends with a few of the international kids, and other than smoking the occasional joint with them, I spent most of first semester studying. To be honest, I’m usually happy wandering the five hundred acres of perfectly groomed lawns with just me and my thoughts. I’ve been reading a lot of David Foster Wallace, and trust me, that guy has a lot more to say about life than most kids at that school.

  Tryouts are coming up for lacrosse, and I’m looking forward to getting back out on the field. They’ll make me pay my dues, that’s for sure, but I don’t mind a little grit. A coach from Brown has already contacted me to say he’d like to come see me play once the season starts. I know I should be excited about it (Louisa certainly is), but I feel like I’m in no place to decide anything. How the hell am I supposed to choose a path, and charge full speed ahead, when I have no clue where I’m actually going?

  And now, here we are in LA, heading who knows where. I don’t know what the deal is with Flynn and this dude, but I already know I don’t like him. He’s driving around like he owns this town, and for all I know, maybe he does. I’m trying not to watch them up front playing with the radio. I’m really just along for the ride. I feel like I owe it to her. Because the truth—the real truth—is that I left New York because of Flynn.

  This is the best day ever! Flynn’s friend Neel is taking us on a driving tour of Beverly Hills, and honestly, it’s everything I hoped it would be. Except it’s not very hilly. The houses are huge, and every one is a different style. There’s this one that looks like an actual witch’s house, and one that looks like it was made out of toothpaste, and Neel even showed us where Jennifer Lawrence lives. Oh! And then there’s this one humongo house on Sunset Boulevard, where the whole front yard is full of giant Santa Clauses!

  There are reindeer jumping across the street in front of Saks Fifth Avenue, which isn’t even on Fifth Avenue here. It’s on Wilshire. Next to the real Regent Beverly Wilshire, from one of my all-time favorite movies, Pretty Woman. Neel also showed us the fountain from Clueless, the one Cher walks by in the super-sad montage. And Phyllis Nefler’s house from Troop Beverly Hills. All the landmarks, really. There are guys on the street selling star maps, and I beg Amos to buy me one, but he says we have to draw the line somewhere.

  It’s kind of funny seeing all the holiday decorations and lights, because it doesn’t feel like Christmas at all here. Maybe because of all the palm trees. Or maybe because from the backseat, I can see that Neel’s car says it’s eighty-two degrees outside.

  Flynn reaches over and takes Neel’s sunglasses off, and puts them on. Amos rolls down his window, and the warm air feels so good that even he relaxes. Why doesn’t everyone live in LA? Maybe I can get Mom and Dad to move here instead of getting divorced. Then maybe Amos will come live with us again. And then maybe Flynn will be happy again. I can’t imagine anyone could ever be unhappy in California. Whatever we do, we have to find a way to stay together—to stay us.

  Neel parks his Land Rover on a side street off Sunset Boulevard. We unload, and follow him down a pink path lined with palm fronds, and Poppy is practically frothing at the mouth as he leads us the “back way” into the mythic Beverly Hills Hotel. He sure knows the way to that girl’s heart. The air smells like flowers, fancy perfume, and maple syrup. An older man in a sports coat opens the door for his much younger companion, impeccably clad in a white suit. Definitely mistress, I say, but only to myself. I hear the faint sound of a piano coming from the restaurant. It’s typical hotel music—Frank Sinatra or something. It’s supposed to be lovely and benign, but I can’t help but be bothered by it. I wonder if I’ll ever want to play again. As we walk in from the side entrance, I look at our grubby airplane clothes.

  “Are we dressed okay?” I ask Neel.

  “We’re not eating up here,” he says, as he guides us past the Polo Lounge, and continues to a staircase just beyond the restaurant. He takes the steps two at a time, as if it’s his own house. As we descend, we all steal a glance through a window, beyond which is a fifties-style coffee shop.

  “Did you see that?” Poppy cries. “Taylor Swift is sitting at the counter!”

  “No she isn’t,” Amos scoffs.

  “Yeah, it was definitely her!”

  “It wasn’t,” he snips. Well, it’s good to know Amos still takes pleasure in being such a contrarian.

  We follow Neel past the gift shop, hair salon, and spa and out the back doors. He leads us down another set of stairs, and straight past a sign that says HOTEL GUESTS ONLY, to the swimming pool. The pool itself is massive. The water is the brightest blue, and the green-and-white-striped lounge chairs contrast perfectly with the pink backdrop of the hotel. It is quintessential Beverly Hills.

  Neel goes over to the hostess, who looks barely older than we are. They exchange a few words I can’t quite hear, and then she escorts us to a row of cabanas on the far wall. I don’t need to turn my head to know that Amos and Neel are transfixed watching her impossibly short white tennis skirt graze the top of her perfectly toned and tan thighs. I pull at my T-shirt, thinking of my own vampire-pale skin, and for a split second wonder what I’m doing here
.

  “You have your pick today,” she chirps, and Neel turns to me to make the call.

  “Ummm…” I scan the nearly empty row of cabanas, and Poppy pipes in, “That one!”

  “You heard the lady,” Neel tells the hostess. She giggles, and tells us she’ll be back with some menus. And maybe I’m imagining this, but she may have even winked.

  The hostess returns a minute later with menus and more witty banter. She somehow manages to flirt with friendly nonchalance, and I wonder if they teach that at whatever junior college she goes to.

  “Can I get a hamburger?” Poppy asks. It takes Amos and me a second to realize that she’s talking to us—because to her, we’re the adults here. Amos and I look at each other—both knowing full well that Louisa’s answer would be unequivocally no.

  “Sure, Poppy,” Amos acquiesces. So he’s playing it like that. Poppy is on a special diet. Louisa claims it’s because gluten aggravates her condition, but Amos and I have always suspected that Louisa’s just so vain that she can’t handle the thought that her precious daughter wasn’t blessed with her flawless frame. Either way, I’m not going to let Amos be the only good guy here, so when Poppy says, “And fries,” and looks at me, I nod.

  “These prices are steep—we have to share,” Amos says as he takes a closer look at the menu. “We’ve only got a hundred and fifty-nine dollars left.”

  “And twenty-three cents,” Poppy adds.

  “Don’t worry, bro,” Neel says. “I got this.”

  “It’s fine. I’m not that hungry anyway,” he replies. Seriously? Is Amos really so stubborn that he would rather starve than owe Neel money?