Layover

by Amy Andelson

  “C’mon, Amos. We need to save what we can,” I say, wondering how far we really can make it without the safety of Dad and Louisa’s bank account.

  “Fine, but we’re going to pay you back. Eventually,” Amos says to Neel.

  “Sure, man. No worries,” Neel says.

  “So does that mean I can get a milk shake, too?” Poppy asks.

  “Now you’re pushing it…but okay, just don’t tell Mom,” Amos says, giving in. And we can’t help but smile.

  Don’t be that girl, I think as Flynn salivates over that douchebag Neel Khan and picks at her twenty-seven-dollar Caesar salad (which, for the record, I’ll pay him back for). She’s changing, I can tell. I know I’ve only been gone a few months, but something’s shifted. She’s more withdrawn, and at the same time clearly trying so hard to be noticed. Like she’s got something to prove. Some kind of agenda. Just like everybody else. C’mon, Flynn, don’t be like everybody else.

  Last night Rosie mentioned she’d stopped playing piano, too, which is insane, considering that she used to practice for so many hours a day it almost sounded strange in the apartment when it was just plain old quiet. When Flynn first moved in, I could tell she was self-conscious about practicing when Poppy or I was home. But eventually, she started playing more and more. I didn’t want her to feel nervous, or like she had an audience, so I would pretend to get a snack, and just linger in the kitchen so I could really hear her. Man, can she play. Sure, she practiced all the time, but it was something more than that—real talent, I guess. Soon enough, Poppy started making requests: everything from show tunes to Selena Gomez. Louisa is practically already filling out Flynn’s Juilliard application for her, which is certifiable since she’s only a sophomore, but still, Flynn would be stupid to give it up.

  And what’s with this running thing? Flynn’s always been allergic to exercise. It’s like she’s philosophically opposed to the whole idea. She’s always been more…lethargic. Like a house cat. While all the other girls on the Upper East Side were starving themselves into their skinny jeans and SoulCycling their Saturdays away, we would park ourselves on the couch and binge on good doughnuts and bad TV. Our marathon sofa sessions were epic, and one of the things I missed most at boarding school.

  When I’d think about those memories, I’d look around my dorm room—the white walls empty, the navy sheets balled up on my twin bed—and everything would just feel too quiet. That’s when I would text Mia. I wouldn’t even have to wait for a response. She’d just be there, at my door. We pretty much hooked up all of fall semester. I could tell from the first time I saw her that Mia’s the kind of girl who doesn’t give a shit. She knows all the kids at school have about a million and one theories about all those scars on her body. But she walks around like she doesn’t owe anybody anything. And I’ve got to admit, it’s pretty hot.

  I guess you could say we’re “friends with benefits”—except we’re not really friends. We barely say hi when we pass each other in the West Quad in between classes, but that’s fine with me. Mia isn’t asking me to like her, isn’t asking me to need her. And she knows the same goes for me. Not everything has to be so complicated.

  I lie back on the lounge and let myself feel the heat of the sun, grateful to be away from the bitter cold of school and the crazy of the city. But then my mind wanders back to what will happen when we don’t step off that plane in Bora Bora. Jack and Louisa will lose their shit, and poor Rosie back home will be hysterical. But then there’s a giant splash, and suddenly I’m soaked in water. The kid cannonballed into the pool right in front of me.

  “Barlow, get your ass in here!” Neel calls out to Flynn.

  “I don’t have a bathing suit,” she says coyly, and I think I could be sick. I watch as she gets up and delicately dips her toe in the pool.

  “Just wear your bra and underwear,” he goads. And from the way she’s biting her lower lip, I can tell that she’s actually considering it. “Why not? It’s practically the same thing,” the perv says, continuing to pressure her.

  “Do it!” Poppy cajoles.

  “Flynn,” I retort.

  “Can I go in, too?” Poppy persists.

  “No. No one’s going in the pool,” I say, sounding like a father, just no father I ever had. “Besides, don’t you have to wait like thirty minutes after eating, or something?”

  But Flynn doesn’t even look back at me. She just peels off her T-shirt and jeans. I feel like I should look away, but I can’t avert my eyes. I’ve never seen Flynn in her underwear before. She dives in, and finally I can breathe again.

  Swooooosh. I let myself sink to the bottom, and just stay there. Sinking. It’s so quiet and still—like a womb. I hold my breath until I feel like I’m going to burst, and then, swoooosh, I push myself back up. It’s bright and loud again, and as I catch my breath, my eyes refocus, and I see that Neel and I are standing face to face.

  “Hey,” I manage to say, despite my panting. He steps closer to me. Now we’re nose to nose. But before I even have time to figure out what’s behind his smile, he splashes me. “Hey!” I shout, as I splash him right back. As I try to swim away, he grabs my arm. His grip feels good, strong. I look down at my polka-dot bra and striped underwear and pretend that I don’t care that he’s seeing me like this, even though I totally do. Neel ducks his head back underwater and swims off to the deep end—he moves so gracefully, I can see why he’s the star of his school’s water polo team. His back looks like a sculpture, the muscles taut and distinct.

  I wonder how many girls Neel has hooked up with. Probably a lot. It wouldn’t be hard for most people to have more experience than I’ve had (a few make-outs, most of which were during Truth or Dare and hardly count). I don’t know why I’ve been such a prude my whole life, or what I’m really waiting for. Even the idea of hooking up with random guys has always made me feel kind of sad. Not that I’m some romantic sap. It just seems sort of strange to be that reckless with your emotions.

  But now it’s as if everyone around me is not only making out, but, you know, doing more than that, too. Like it was some assignment over summer vacation for every girl at Spence to have sex. Literally. It’s all anyone talked about the whole month of September—suddenly there was a divide between the girls who have done it and those who haven’t. I never even asked Meredith if she and Neel went all the way. I think she thought it was because I was secretly judging her, but really it was because I was jealous. I worry what Meredith would think about me being half-naked in the pool with Neel right now, but she broke up with him and already has a new boyfriend.

  I’m not really sure what to do with Neel just, like, looking at me, so I duck back underwater and swim over to the ledge by Poppy and Amos. “Come in, Pops!” I call out. I don’t even bother asking Amos, because I can’t stand the thought of him rolling his eyes at me one more time today. I don’t know why I need his approval. Or why even though I’m mad and hurt and confused, I’m still happy we’re here, in Los Angeles…together.

  If Flynn’s in her underwear, I guess it’s okay that I’m in mine, too. I pull at my undershirt as I sit on the steps of the pool. I lower myself down one more. Now my legs are fully underwater. I think about going down one step farther, but maybe I’ll stay here another minute longer.

  Some French kids who look about my age race past me and jump right into the pool, like it isn’t the biggest deal in the whole world. I tell myself to just breathe in slowly…and out slowly. In…and…out. Susan tells me to do this when my mind starts speeding super fast. Sometimes when I’m at school, I feel like I could just scream. Like, there was this one time last year, I got back to the classroom a few minutes late from recess, and when I sat down at my desk, I knew something was different. My box of pens is always, always on the top right corner, and my mini pack of Kleenex is always, always on the top left corner. I keep my two sharpened pencils that Mac gives me from the Carlyle in
the drawer below, right next to my Paddington Bear ruler. I know I’m way too old for Paddington, but Rosie gave it to me for my birthday, and Flynn says it’s the thought that counts.

  I like having everything on my desk a certain way. When everything is in order, it just makes more sense, you know? But when I got back from recess, I saw that my box of pens was in my desk, my Kleenex were all crumpled up, and my pencils and eraser were missing. I felt like I was choking or something because it was getting really hard for me to breathe. I looked around at the other kids, and they all just sat there, pretending not to watch me, pretending not to laugh.

  Then Ms. Friedman came in, and when she asked me to sit down, my body froze. All the kids started really laughing, and Ms. Friedman walked over to me and asked me what was wrong. But when she saw my desk, she knew. It wasn’t like this was the first time. She took me to the attendance office and I texted Amos, and twenty-seven minutes later he was there. By then it was lunchtime, so he sat with me on the playground, and we shared the sushi and edamame Rosie had packed for me. He had to go back to Collegiate to take a chemistry quiz, but I promised him I’d be okay for the rest of the day. And the thing is, I was.

  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be the same as the other kids. The way they can run around on the playground even when their shoes are untied. Or how the other girls can just sit together at lunch—laughing and telling secrets. But whenever I try to get the guts to go up and talk to them, I think about all the times they’ve laughed at me, and I just feel safer staying right where I am.

  Flynn swims over, takes my hand, and leads me off the steps and into the water. “One, two, three!” she says, and we dunk our heads. And it’s not a big deal at all. I can’t believe I was wasting all that time, waiting on the steps. We do handstands together, and see who can hold her breath the longest, and even though our fingers are starting to look like prunes, there is no way I’m ever getting out.

  Neel catches Flynn by surprise and lifts her up on his shoulders. She screams out a little too loudly, I guess, because a hotel employee comes over and asks for our room number. Neel says we’re not guests, and the man tells us in a super-serious voice that we need to leave the property immediately. Flynn kicks Neel, and he lowers her down. I just stay perfectly still. I really hate getting in trouble.

  But Neel doesn’t seem freaked out at all. He just calmly brushes back his black hair, and tells the man that he must be new at the hotel because they haven’t met yet, and that he’s sure that if they had, he would know who Neel’s dad is. And then it’s the weirdest thing—because the guy from the hotel starts apologizing to us! He’s all, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Khan.” He asks if we could use some more towels or anything else, but Neel looks at Flynn and says, “No worries, man. We were just leaving, right?” And Flynn nods and takes my hand, and off we go.

  I pull my wet hair back into a ponytail with the thin black rubber band that is always around my wrist. My skin smells like chlorine, like summer. We’re back on the road, heading to see the Hollywood sign (per Poppy’s request), but first we have to go pick up a friend of Neel’s at some sneaker store.

  “Pull over!” Poppy hollers from the backseat.

  I whip around. “What’s wrong?”

  “Look! The lights!” she says, pointing out her window. I look across the street and see the giant structures that make up the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Perched in front is an installation of rows and rows of old streetlights.

  “We have to stop!” Poppy insists.

  “I don’t think we have time for a museum right now,” I tell her.

  “It’s better at night when it’s all lit up anyway,” Neel adds.

  “But it’s an LA landmark. I see it all over Instagram. I just need one photo. Pretty please?” she begs.

  “Do you mind?” I ask Neel.

  “How about this,” he says as he makes a U-turn, and pulls up in front of the museum. “I’ll drive around the block, you guys get your photo on, and meet back here.”

  “I promise we’ll be quick!” I say, as Poppy, Amos, and I jump out of the car. We run up to the exhibit, and weave through the lampposts. It’s super crowded with couples taking cheesy selfies and kids running around in circles. And somehow, despite the fact that lampposts are really so ordinary, there’s something enchanting about the exhibit. Poppy instructs me to twirl around a post Singin’ in the Rain–style while she snaps a Polaroid.

  Suddenly, Amos jumps out from behind a lamp. “You’re it!” he yells, tagging Poppy, and runs off. I try to escape, but Poppy gets me quickly, and races away. I look around for Amos, but he seems to have disappeared in the mix. Suddenly, I spot him from behind, and I stealthily slink over, and tap him on the shoulder.

  “Got you!” I scream, and run off before he can catch me.

  The three of us have spent a lot of time running around museums and being around art. While most New York families spend their Sunday mornings at brunch, the Abernathy-Barlows can be found at galleries and museums all over the city. Louisa says it’s good exposure. Sometimes Louisa invites Amos and me to the fancy opening parties. I don’t know why she thinks it’s appropriate for us to be there among all the adults, but no one seems to mind or notice.

  It was last year that we were at a rooftop party at the Met, honoring some artist or charity, it’s hard to keep track. It was your standard cocktail soiree—white tent, passed appetizers, a jazz quartet, and a magnificent view of Central Park and the lights of the city. I wore a velvet dress that had been my mother’s.

  I stood next to my dad, while he spoke with people I didn’t recognize, but who seemed to know him well. I glanced around the scene, and caught Amos’s eye on the other end of the party. He appeared to be stuck in the same situation with Louisa. He half-smiled at me, and tilted his head toward the exit. I slipped away from my dad unnoticed, and wove through the crowds. I got to the doors, where I found Amos, waiting for me.

  “Tuna tartare or mini moo shu?” he asked as he offered me the appetizers.

  “Moo shu,” I replied.

  We went back down to the museum, which had stayed open for the guests to enjoy that evening. It was eerie and beautiful to walk around the massive Great Hall, which ordinarily is filled to the brim with tourists, but that night was empty except for Amos and me. Our footsteps echoed as we wordlessly headed through Egyptian Art, quickly passing the tombs and mummies.

  We arrived at the Temple of Dendur, and just held our breath for a moment. It felt like stepping into another realm. It was magical to be in the space at night and all alone. We walked up the steps to the main platform. It felt ethereal, as if we were floating above the reflective pool that surrounded the structure. We sat down on the ledge, and gazed at the ancient relic and giant sphinx sculptures.

  “Holy shit, it’s beautiful here,” Amos said.

  “It’s my favorite in the whole museum.”

  “Me too,” Amos replied. And we just took in the space for a while. But then Amos turned to me. “So, are you going to the Gold and Silver Ball?” he asked, referring to the black-tie charity event that happens every winter. The party had basically become our private school prom—one of the most important events of the year.

  “I don’t think so…” My voice trailed off.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you kind of have to be asked,” I replied. “And that hasn’t exactly happened.”

  “It will.”

  “I don’t know. All of my friends are already fielding offers.”

  “Flynn, you’re better than those girls.”

  “Aisha’s been asked by three different guys.”

  “Seriously. You’re smart, and cool…and pretty.”

  Suddenly I felt strange. Amos had never complimented me like that before. “You don’t have to say that,” I said with a shrug.

  “I wouldn’t sa
y it if it wasn’t true.” I felt my cheeks instantly flush. “I’ll go with you,” he offered.

  It caught me off guard. I laughed awkwardly. “That’s pretty lame if I have to take my brother,” I replied.

  “But I’m not really your brother,” Amos said, looking straight at me. We were the only two living breathing things in the enormous space, but somehow I felt like there wasn’t enough air.

  “What are you, then?” I asked.

  At that moment, a security guard walked in, his boots clanking on the marble floor. I turned away from Amos. “We should probably get back to the party,” I said, and stood up.

  “Yeah.” Amos got up, too.

  I can’t help but wonder now what would have happened if Amos had answered the question back then. We ended up going to the dance with a big group, but I never forgot that offer.

  “Flynn!” I turn to hear Neel yelling, as he stands through his sunroof, waving us down.

  “Come on, guys!” I call out to Poppy and Amos, and we run back to Neel’s car.

  I can’t believe Neel pulled that do-you-know-who-my-father-is bullshit back at the hotel pool—and that it worked. I also can’t believe Flynn even suggested I call Clay earlier. Yeah, right. There is no way I’m calling him. Not like it would be weird to see him. At least, I don’t think it would be. I guess I’d have to make up some excuse about our whole running-away situation, but Clay is so clueless, I bet he wouldn’t even ask.

  It’s not like I’d call him right now anyway. Because we’re currently standing in a massive line outside some sneaker store on La Brea. Neel assured Poppy that the stop was on the way to the Hollywood sign, and that we’d still get there in time for the sunset. But now we’ve been waiting for twenty minutes, and I can tell Poppy is getting nervous that this is taking too long. Flynn and Neel snake their way to the front to find Neel’s friend, while Poppy and I hang back.