Layover

by Amy Andelson

I pull away from Neel abruptly, accidentally biting his lip in the process. “Have you seen my sister?” I cry, frantically scanning the scene.

  “She was with us a second ago,” Neel offers, as if that’s any consolation. My eyes search the crowds, but everything blurs, and the only thing I can feel is a giant pit in my stomach. Poppy is nowhere in sight.

  Holy moly, we’re wanted. I’ve dreamed about being famous my whole life; I just never thought it would be for something like this. I really hope Rosie didn’t see it. She’d be so worried—there aren’t enough candles in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. This isn’t good.

  Even though Flynn was freaked out, she sure seemed to get distracted pretty easily by Neel. It’s getting to be kind of gross. And I can’t believe she wouldn’t let me buy that little piece of colored glass I wanted. I added to our runaway fund, too, for the record. It’s not like I don’t have my own money. I get an allowance. Mom and Dad give me twenty dollars every week that I don’t have an episode. I’m allowed to spend it on pretty much whatever I want. That’s why it’s called an allowance. After making me wait around that place for long enough, she sure rushed us out fast. It’s fine by me. Aside from the pretty glass, I didn’t really like that store. It kinda reminded me of the one next to the comic book shop on St. Mark’s Place that Amos always takes me to. That place gives me the creeps, too.

  Now Flynn’s following Neel around this outdoor food fair–type thingy. I’m getting hungry, but no one has said anything about lunch. I’m trying to keep up with them, but my legs are shorter than theirs, and there are so many people, and carts, and dogs, and strollers.

  I’ve almost caught up with Flynn when I spot the cutest little puppy I’ve ever seen. I bend down to pet the little guy, and just as I’m reaching out to rub behind his floppy little ear, he takes off! He just runs away! I start to chase him because I don’t know who he belongs to, and he’s headed out of the farmers’ market and into the street. He’s running away! Who knows what could happen? I’ve gotta go get him.

  So that happened. I saw my dad. Which doesn’t necessarily need to be a thing. Except it was. Because this time felt different. Not because of the new-age LA bullshit. I mean, the dude invited me to a breathing workshop this afternoon. But because I was different. I don’t need him to wipe my ass anymore, or make me macaroni and cheese, or take me to the park to teach me how to toss the ball back and forth. And since I wasn’t constantly expecting those things from him, I wasn’t disappointed. In the clarity of Clay’s sobriety, I was actually able to see him. And who knows, maybe he could see me, too.

  Just as I start to feel guilty for all of Clay’s unreturned phone calls, I round the corner about a block from our agreed-upon meeting place, and there’s Poppy, looking disoriented and oblivious. Instinctively, I race toward her. She spots me, and her face lights up.

  “Amos!” she exclaims, running toward me.

  “What are you doing? Where’s Flynn?”

  “She’s right over…” Poppy looks around, as if realizing for the first time that she’s alone. “I dunno,” she says, suddenly perplexed.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” I say, alarmed.

  “We were together…and then we weren’t. And she and Neel—”

  “They left you?” I scoff.

  “Well, there was this cute puppy, and no one was looking after him…Oh! And we made the news!”

  “Wait, what?”

  “There you are!” I hear Flynn exclaim from across the street. She runs toward us, with that putz pulling up the rear.

  Flynn grabs Poppy, kneels down, and imploringly asks, “Where were you?”

  “No, Flynn, where were you?” I ask, pulling her up so we’re standing face to face. It comes out pointed and like an accusation, which I’m happy about, because it’s exactly how I mean it to sound.

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing?” Whenever Flynn attempts to sound indignant, it always comes off as immature instead. I study her for a second, shaking my head, and then I see it.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “What?”

  “On your nose.”

  “None of your business,” she snaps.

  “Did you pay for it?” I press.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, then it’s absolutely my business. How much did it cost?”

  “Relax, Amos,” she says. And then she hands me three measly twenty-dollar bills. That’s it. Sixty dollars. That’s all we have left.

  “Are you insane? Flynn, you—”

  “All right, guys,” Neel interrupts. “Let’s just put this all into perspective,” he says, as if his perspective is anything I’d ever consider. All I want to do is bitch this kid out, and if it weren’t for Poppy, I probably would.

  What timing. I swear, Amos is so f-ing aggravating with his moral platitudes. Back in Neel’s car, I tell him about the article, and he doesn’t even freak out. He just looks at me straight on and says, “Guess they didn’t take our email so well. Hate to say I told you so.” Like I’m the dumbest person in the world. “Did you think Jack and Louisa would just wish us well, and say bon voyage? Come on, Flynn. Grow up.”

  Amos can be so self-righteous sometimes. I bet that’s one of the reasons he left—he was so disgusted and disappointed with me and everyone else he knew in New York that he had to go find a whole new place filled with all new people he hadn’t yet deemed fatally and irreversibly flawed. He has such fixed ideas of what’s right and wrong, cool and uncool, interesting and banal. Doesn’t he ever get tired of being so judgmental all the time? But the thing is, even after everything, I can tell you that when Amos is on your side, there’s no better ally in the world.

  Like at my piano recital two years ago. I was going to play Chopin’s Scherzo No. 3, and Madame Locke (she insisted we call her Madame even though I know for a fact she was from Poughkeepsie, not Paris) had selected me to close the show. It sounds like more of an honor than it actually was, since most of her students are young kids. I guess as those things go, though, it was kind of a big deal. I tried not to make a whole to-do about it, but I was excited and nervous—mostly because Madame Locke had made the mistake of telling me that one of her little eight-year-olds had a father who sat on the admissions committee at Juilliard, and that he would be attending our recital in the Versailles Room at the St. Regis.

  So I practiced and practiced, and even let Louisa take me to the fifth floor at Bergdorf’s for a new party dress. “Something smart and sensible,” she told her personal shopper. “But ladylike. And of course, age appropriate,” she added. That evening I blow-dried my hair for once, and pinned it back in a half-up and half-down way I know my mother loved. I wore her locket, fastened tightly around my neck, for luck. But still I felt jittery butterflies in a way I always did when I was performing in front of other people.

  The performances go in age order from youngest to oldest so the little ones can go home to bed during intermission. I felt sicker to my stomach with each ascending age group. By the time they got to the twelve-year-olds, I was sure I was going to puke. I scanned the crowd of proud parents and grandparents perusing the program and readying their cameras, looking for my own. But my dad and Louisa were nowhere in sight. Mom would have been here, I couldn’t help but think, front and center. I tried not to let myself fall down this rabbit hole into the inevitable well of tears that lay below. I told myself to think of something else—anything else—fast. Like the first few bars of my piece. And then all of a sudden I realized…it was gone. All of it. I couldn’t even remember what piece I had prepared for the evening.

  I broke out into a cold sweat. Feeling like I was about to faint, I decided to bolt. At the very least, I could show Juilliard the professional courtesy of not passing out in front of everyone. Everything was blurry, but somehow I made my way from my seat in the second row out the back doors. As I
emerged into the much cooler air of the lobby, I felt a hand grab me. I turned around. It was Amos.

  “You came!” I breathed.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he reassured me. “Besides, Real Housewives is a repeat tonight.”

  I smiled.

  “What are you doing out here?” he questioned. “You’re not a flight risk, are you?”

  “They’re not coming, are they?” I had to know.

  “Louisa got called in. Something about an artist having a meltdown.”

  “Story of life,” I replied, sounding so bitter it surprised me. “And my dad?”

  “We came together. But he’s still outside, finishing a call.”

  I struggled to take steady, laborious breaths.

  “You’re going to kill it,” Amos said as he stared knowingly into my eyes. And then he did the funniest thing. He started humming my piece and prancing around the lobby. He knew it by heart. And with that, it all came rushing back to me. I threw my arms around him and felt the color come back into my cheeks.

  I went back to the doors of the ballroom and peered in. Ava Adahm was finishing her sonata. I was next. I kissed Amos on the cheek and marched down the aisle toward the risers. And as I did, I heard Amos call out behind me, “You got this, kid.” Amos is not just a good friend to have. He’s the best friend. And sometimes I wish we could go back to a time when it was simple enough for me to just call him my brother.

  “What about this one?” I say to Flynn as I hand her a bedazzled yellow-and-gold dress to try on.

  “That’s a sari. Very cool, but probably not the right look for the night,” she tells me.

  We’ve torn apart Neel’s stepmom’s closet for the past hour—like we’re looking for a hidden treasure. Neel’s stepmom must be really small for a grown-up, because some of her dresses are even too short for Flynn! Flynn said she wanted to wear something festive to Neel’s friend’s party tonight, and even though I think she looks so perfect in everything, she claims she still hasn’t found “the one.” The only reason I even get to go to the party is because Bebe is off, and no one wanted to be stuck staying home with me. And anyway, at this point we’re so far past breaking Mom and Dad’s rules, what’s one more?

  Flynn slips on a navy-blue strapless dress and looks at herself in the mirror. She messes with her hair, stands on her tippy-toes, and checks herself out from just about every angle. She sighs, annoyed. I’ve never seen her like this. Not over a dress, at least.

  “What do you think?” she asks me.

  “The maybe pile?” I say, even though I know she’d rather it go in the no pile. I continue to dig through the costume jewelry that’s spilling out of the drawers. I’ve got about a hundred bangles clanking on my wrists, and so many strands of pearls that the weight is starting to strain my neck. I put on a pair of bug-eye sunglasses and stand next to Flynn in the mirror. I rest my hand on my hip the way all the famous people do when they’re on the red carpet, but I know I’m not fooling anyone. I’ll never be the girl with the super-sparkly dress.

  Usually I sit in my mom’s dressing room while she’s getting ready for an auction. While she debates which black blouse to wear with which black slacks, she tells me about the art she’ll be selling that night. There’s nothing my mom loves more than beautiful things. Sometimes I think she’s disappointed that I’m not beautiful the way she is. She always tells me that I’m smart. And unique. But she never says beautiful.

  Flynn holds up a tiny red party dress, and says, “Can you imagine Louisa in this?”

  “I think my mom would die,” I say, and suddenly it’s like there’s no air in the room. I can be such an idiot! No wonder I wasn’t invited to Tatiana’s sleepover party. “Not die,” I say, freaking out. “I just meant…”

  Flynn just smiles and says, “It’s okay, Poppy.” But how could it possibly be okay? I used the words mom and die in the same sentence. I feel the tears welling in my eyes, and I know I shouldn’t be the one crying because I’m the one with the mom who’s still alive, but I can’t stop them from coming out. I am trying to be better about controlling my emotions, but it’s not easy. Flynn comes over and puts her arm around me.

  “I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t.”

  “Let’s not cry over an ugly red dress,” she says, gently stroking my hair. I wish I could have met Flynn’s mom. I know from the framed picture of her Flynn keeps on her desk that they look alike. Flynn’s mom doesn’t look anything like my mom. She’s more…natural. The picture is really pretty—it was taken at Flynn’s birthday party when she was a little girl. She’s about to blow out the candles, and her mom is right next to her—smiling as Flynn closes her eyes, about to make her wish. Sometimes Flynn talks about her mom. Like, I know that she used to play the piano, too, and that she grew vegetables in their backyard, and that she liked to ride horses. I want to know more about her mom, but I don’t know if it’s okay to ask. I’ve never known anyone with a dead mom.

  We keep searching the closet, and just as I think we’re never going to find something, I see it. “Flynn, this is it! This is the one.”

  As we walk barefoot down the beach to the party just a few houses over, I try my hardest not to pull at my dress, but it’s so short and so tight that it keeps riding up my legs. I’ve never worn anything like this—something so unabashedly sexy, something that requires so much…confidence. All the other dresses I tried on felt like costumes with their fringe and fake jewels. But this one is simple. Just black. Just short. Just tight.

  “I can hear the music!” Poppy says as she skips up to me. She looked so fragile after that silly dead-mom comment, so I’m happy to see she’s moved on from it. She can be so sensitive sometimes. It’s what I love about her, but it’s also what worries me most. How is she possibly going to cope with growing up, with junior high school, and now with Dad and Louisa’s divorce?

  Of course, I would never tell her about the pang in my chest that I feel whenever people make stupid comments about their moms. It’s worse at school—lately it feels like every day I have to hear everyone complaining about how much they hate their mothers, how they’re ruining their lives, how they just don’t understand. I know, I know. We’re teenage girls. Defying your mother is some rite of passage on the path to becoming a woman. I wonder if I would fight with Mom now, if she were still here. Back then she was my best friend. She was my favorite person in the whole world. But back then was a while ago.

  “It’s the next house,” Neel says, gently resting his hand on my lower back.

  “And you’re sure it’s okay for us to come?” I ask.

  “For sure. It’s going to be chill. You’ll see—Sawyer super gets it,” Neel reassures me.

  “Super…,” Amos says ironically, a few steps behind. Neel pretends like he doesn’t even hear him, and I decide to do the same. I take a deep breath as I dust the sand off my feet and slip on my Converse. Because tonight isn’t about Amos, or dead moms, or living in the past. Tonight is the night I lose my virginity to Neel Khan.

  This party is a shit show, and I can’t say I’m surprised. I immediately take Poppy’s hand and hold on to it tightly. I know she wants to prove to us that she can hang with the older kids, but I also know that she gets scared in big crowds. As we make our way through the house, I realize I’ve already lost Flynn and Neel, which I can’t say I’m surprised about, either. I’m sure they assumed that I would be babysitting Poppy tonight. Which is cool with me, considering she’s probably the most interesting person here.

  I scan the crowd—and I’m mildly amused and offended by the scene, which, to be fair, is how I am at most social gatherings these days. Sawyer’s house is all right. Unlike Neel’s place, it looks like people actually live here. There are stains on the carpet, the furniture is dated, and there are ugly Christmas decorations everywhere. There’s a golden retriever with a Santa hat roaming around that seems to
be the designated mascot for the evening.

  “Amos?” Poppy says, pulling me down to her ear level.

  “Yeah?”

  “I kind of gotta go…you know?” Obviously. I don’t even try to look for Flynn for this task. I lead Poppy down the hallway and ask a girl in passing where the nearest bathroom is. She points to the last door on the left. I turn the handle, but it’s locked. We wait. And when the door opens, a guy in one of those dumb slouchy beanies and a girl in a dress that looks just as desperate as the one Flynn is wearing emerge, inconspicuously wiping their noses.

  I look at Poppy, who is thankfully oblivious. What were we thinking, bringing her here? I poke my head into the bathroom to make sure they didn’t leave behind any party favors, and then assure Poppy that I’ll be waiting for her right outside. She nods and goes in. Once I hear the door lock, I shove my hands in my pockets and lean my head against the wall. Maybe I should just take Poppy back to Neel’s now.

  “You in line?” I turn to see a girl with long red hair and thick-framed glasses that make her hazel eyes look like they take up half her face.

  “Just waiting for someone,” I reply. This girl looks like she’s too smart to be at a party this dumb. I watch her as she pulls a joint out of her jean jacket and lights up. She raises her eyebrows, offering it to me. I look at the bathroom door, still closed, and quickly take a hit.

  “Thanks,” I say, exhaling. After a minute, Poppy reemerges, and the girl with the red hair and the glasses looks all sorts of confused. I just shrug as Poppy takes my hand, and we continue on through the party. The house somehow got even more packed in the past ten minutes, and as we push our way through into the kitchen, it strikes me that it really doesn’t matter if you’re in an apartment in Manhattan, a dorm room in Massachusetts, or a beach house in Malibu: all high school parties are exactly the same. I can’t help but laugh at the irony. This whole time I’ve been fooling myself, thinking I could escape high school by changing the scenery. High school is high school. No matter where you are.