Layoverland

by Gabby Noone

  Of course Caleb goes to Brentwood. They’re a town rumored to be so rich, they built a Starbucks inside the high school with leftover tax dollars.

  “Yo, what is this kid wearing?” someone at the bottom of the bleachers yells. “He looks like a motherfucking Minion!”

  Several students turn their heads to stare. What feels like the entire gymnasium erupts into laughter. There’s a clarity to this memory. It’s not fuzzy at all, unlike the ones belonging to my other assignments. Each glaring student’s face is perfectly etched into his subconscious.

  We turn our heads and look to where Past Caleb stands. He looks about half a foot shorter, with a slightly paunchy belly and acne covering his cheeks. He’s wearing a neon-yellow T-shirt underneath a pair of denim overalls. He does indeed look like a Minion.

  Caleb, of right now, puts his head in his hand, half obscuring his eyes so he can’t see the memory. He’s absolutely mortified.

  I’m thrilled.

  “Why . . . did you . . .” is all I can get out between my gut-busting laughs.

  “I don’t know!” Caleb says, his cheeks resembling two vine-ripened tomatoes. “I mean, I do know. My mom bought me the overalls. She told me they were cool and . . . hip.”

  “When was your mom last in seventh grade? 1993?”

  “Uh. Approximately. She has really good taste though! I just, I hadn’t really thought about clothes my whole life. I wore a uniform to school up until then.”

  “And you paired the overalls with a yellow shirt because . . .”

  “I honestly don’t know,” he says. “It was my favorite T- shirt, but not after that. It took a little while for me to live that down. By a little while, I mean . . .”

  The memory changes again. Now Caleb is older. He looks like he does now, except, I have to admit, his outfit doesn’t suck. He’s wearing nice black jeans and a blue chambray button-down shirt, the short sleeves rolled up just slightly. It’s a better outfit than what 99 percent of boys wear to school, which still isn’t saying much.

  “Bello!” one jock-looking boy yells to him in the hall. “What’s for lunch, Caleb? Bah-na-na?”

  “Hilarious,” Past Caleb mumbles, trying to put on a good-natured smile.

  “Well, hey, at least you grew out of the overalls. That’s something,” I say to Present Caleb next to me. “I mean, you even started dressing too normal.”

  I gesture to his now permanent basketball shorts outfit.

  “I know you’re so obsessed with my stupid shorts and sandals, but I swear to you, this is not how I usually dress, okay? It was just that the night that I, you know”—he swallows—“died, my judgment was just so . . . so . . . poor. . . .”

  Our setting changes again, way too soon. I can’t let him think about that night just yet. This is only the first of thirty sessions that I need to drag out.

  Now we’re in a dining room again, except this one is huge, with a table that could fit a dozen people and upholstered white chairs that look like they’re begging to have food spilled on them. A past version of Caleb that looks identical to Present Caleb is unlocking a liquor cabinet in the corner of the room and reaching for a bottle inside. He pulls out some kind of fancy-looking whiskey and stares at it in his hands.

  Before I can even open my mouth, his memory flashes instantly. Now we’re outside, standing in the driveway, and he’s opening the door to a silver Range Rover.

  Wait.

  Does this mean he was drunk the night he crashed into me?

  “Stop!” I yell.

  His memory flashes to darkness and we’re floating in nothing.

  “What?” Caleb asks. “Everything okay, Bea?”

  “Yeah. It’s just, um,” I say, closing my eyes and swallowing. “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. We kind of skipped over the Catholic school portion of things. Let’s take it back there for a second. Cool?”

  “All right,” he says.

  I can’t decide if dragging this out over the next month will be the easiest thing I’ve ever done or the hardest.

  19

  “Do you want to grab some lunch?” Caleb asks me when our session ends and we’re driving back toward the airport. “Or we could . . . Well, I guess there’s really nothing to do around here except eat lunch.”

  “Ummm,” I say. “I’m not really hungry yet.”

  My stomach audibly grumbles. A look of realization passes over Caleb’s face.

  “Oh,” he says, cheeks reddening. “You just don’t want to eat . . . with me. I get it. That’s totally cool. Honestly, no pressure. I wouldn’t want to eat with me either after seeing what I was like for the past four hours.”

  He gives a self-effacing laugh and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “No. It’s not that,” I say, hitting the brakes on the golf cart and pulling the keys out of the ignition. “It’s just . . . we can’t hang out while I’m working on your case.”

  “Oh,” Caleb says, following me out. “Is that a rule?”

  There are Sadie’s warnings that I not get too close to anyone. And of course, there’s my self-imposed rule, which is: Do Not Become Friends with Your Murderer, Especially While You’re Trying to Emotionally Torment Him.

  “Well, not officially,” I say, walking across the tarmac to the airport entrance. Caleb catches up to me.

  “If you don’t want to eat lunch with me, you can tell me.”

  “No,” I say immediately, surprising myself. “That’s not it.”

  “What is it then?” he asks with an incredulous smile. “Because I kind of thought that we were becoming, I dunno . . .”

  “Friends? Not this again,” I say. “It’s nothing. I’m just being paranoid because . . . I haven’t spent time outside of the hangar with any of the other souls I’ve guided.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess none of them were as youthful and charming as me,” Caleb says, opening the door for me.

  “What’s with all of this?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.

  “What do you mean ‘this’?”

  “Here,” I say as we walk back inside the airport, “and please don’t take this as a compliment, you seem kind of confident and forward about stuff, too forward I would say, but in your memories . . .”

  “Hey,” he says, raising a hand. “You said you wouldn’t talk about my memories outside of the hangar.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “Never mind.”

  “But I’m curious. What did I seem like? A total loser?”

  “Yeah,” I admit.

  “Well, who isn’t a loser in middle school? I’m sure if we looked at your memories, for instance . . .”

  “Actually, I was very cool in middle school. Thank you very much.”

  “And things just went downhill from there?” he asks, giving me a sidelong glance.

  He’s right. My actual nickname was Queen Bea until the eighth grade, when I refused to have sex with my boyfriend of two weeks, who I hadn’t even kissed yet, so then he started a rumor that my parents didn’t believe in vaccines and I was single-handedly responsible for a county-wide measles outbreak.

  “You know, you should be nice to me, Caleb,” I say, the corners of my mouth turning up. “I’m the only one who can help you here.”

  “But when I say nice things to you, you freak out.”

  “So maybe then you should just be quiet,” I say, approaching the departures counter to hand in my keys and sign out for the day. “Everyone appreciates a boy who can keep his mouth shut.”

  “Unbelievable,” Caleb says, shaking his head.

  “Stay here for a second,” I say, pointing behind the stanchion and rope in front of the counter.

  Behind the counter, Todd is slumped over with his head in his hands.

  “Hey there,” I say. “How are you holding up without your, um,
coworker?”

  “Who?” he says, without lifting his head.

  “Sadie.”

  “Oh, her? I’m fine without her. Fine. Totally happy for her that she’s moved on forever. She totally deserves it. Totally.”

  He makes a sound through his nose that’s half sniffle, half snort.

  “How was it with that one?” he says, glancing over at Caleb. “I assume he’s moving along today, given your impressive track record so far.”

  “Actually, no,” I say so only Todd can hear. “I think I’ve got a complicated case on my hands. He might take a little while.”

  “Happens to the best of us.” He shrugs, lifting his beefy shoulders in the orange vest that’s too small for his frame.

  He collects my keys and signs me out for the day. I head back toward Caleb.

  “You’re free to go,” I say, and start walking, but he keeps pace with me.

  “I was thinking,” he starts. “Wouldn’t this whole process actually be much more efficient if I got to know you? Like, if we were comfortable around each other, wouldn’t my memories surface more easily? And then I could move along faster?”

  “You know enough about me,” I scoff.

  “No, I don’t! You’re kind of an enigma, honestly.”

  “I’m an enigma? That’s so cool,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to be an enigma.”

  “C’mon, Bea!”

  “I’m supposed to be mysterious,” I say seriously, stopping to look him in the eye. “It’s like if I were your doctor or your teacher or your therapist.”

  “I get that,” Caleb says, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s just I’ve never had a doctor or a teacher who was a sixteen-year-old girl.”

  “How do you know I’m sixteen? Maybe I’m sixty-one. That’s a real possibility here. Todd over there is probably, like, eighty.”

  “I’m just guessing that you’re sixteen. But I know you’re definitely not sixty-one, because we arrived on the same plane, Bea.”

  “Did we really?” I say, walking again. “Or was that your mind playing tricks on you? As we learned today, memories can be quite fickle things.”

  He gives me an exhausted look.

  “I’m actually seventeen,” I admit. “But thank you for thinking I’m sixteen. Good to know all those antiaging creams weren’t a waste of money.”

  “Okay, since you know my earliest memories, what are yours, huh? How was your first day of middle school? Where was your middle school even?”

  “Nope. I’m not telling you that. That’s not how this works,” I say. “You’re not the one helping me move on, okay? I have no obligation to share that stuff with you. I will answer superficial questions only.”

  “Fine then,” he says. “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Holographic lavender,” I answer immediately.

  “So . . . purple?”

  “No, holographic lavender.”

  “That’s not a color! Bea, look, I’m just trying to get to know you. Stop trying to mess with my head by making up some fake color.”

  “I’m not trying to mess with your head! I decide to let my guard down and be honest with you for one minute and all you can do is deny the existence of my favorite color. Typical. If you’re such an expert on what constitutes a real color, then what’s your favorite, Caleb?”

  “Red,” he says.

  “Red?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “No one’s favorite color is actually red past, like, the age of five,” I say.

  “This is ridiculous. Fine. Next superficial question, Bea. What’s your favorite food?”

  I purse my lips for a moment.

  “Salt-and-vinegar potato chips,” I admit.

  “No way. That’s such an old person food. That’s like saying your favorite food is butterscotch. Maybe you are sixty-one. Salt-and-vinegar chips are one of those foods you see in articles like, ‘Millennials Are Killing the Salt-and-Vinegar Potato Chip Industry.’”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I’m single-handedly keeping the industry afloat. Or was.”

  Caleb’s face falls.

  “Anyway,” I say, looking up and realizing we’ve walked all the way from the waiting area to the food court. “That’s enough questions for me.”

  “Wait,” Caleb protests. “I’m sorry, Bea. I didn’t mean to insult your favorite color. Or your disgusting favorite chips. C’mon! The day is young. We should do something. Besides lunch.”

  “What kind of something?” I ask, crossing my arms.

  “I don’t know exactly. Let’s go on an adventure.”

  “Here?” I ask, gesturing to all the busted neon food displays and artificial plants that somehow look dead even though they’re made of plastic.

  “Yeah! I bet we can figure something out.”

  “Why?”

  “Honestly? I think I’m starting to lose my mind. I need to stay occupied. I went to the newsstand last night and all of the books had blank pages. All of them. And the newspapers? The only thing printed in them was daily reports of how many people had moved on to Heaven. And if I have to spend another night in my room watching stock footage of sunsets and breakfast and airplanes, I will start clawing at the walls.”

  “Fine,” I say, surprising myself again. “An adventure.”

  This is so breaking my self-imposed rule of Do Not Befriend Your Murderer.

  CALEB AND I find ourselves walking aimlessly around the airport in circles like we’re just two bored kids wandering around a mall. Which is all to say, our “adventure” is kind of a bust, but I don’t even know why I’d want it to be a success anyway. Maybe because I feel like I’m starting to lose my mind as well and would do anything to break up the constant sameness of the airport.

  “Do you think it’s weird that everything is written in English here?” he asks as we walk past the bar sign that reads IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK ANYWHERE! “Most airports have signs in multiple languages.”

  He looks ahead of us like he’s staring at an equation he can’t figure out.

  “And why does everyone speak English here? I wonder if this means that there are a bunch of these airports. Maybe only people who live in English-speaking countries get flown to this one? But that wouldn’t make sense because plenty of people don’t speak English but live in countries where English is the dominant language—wait.”

  Caleb stops in his tracks. I walk ahead of him for a step, then turn around and pause.

  “What?”

  “Do you know any Spanish?” he asks with an intense stare.

  “Um,” I say. If by “any” he means enough to consistently get straight Cs in Spanish class for the last five years. “A little. Why?”

  “I’m not fluent,” he says, sticking his hands out. “But I’m pretty good. My mom’s Mexican and she would speak it around the house. Plus, I was in AP Spanish.”

  “That’s cool,” I say, squinting at him slightly.

  “Sorry. Non sequitur,” he says. “My point is: maybe communication is different here. It could depend on each person. Maybe everyone else sounds like they’re speaking English and all the signage is in English because that’s the language we as individuals know best. But if we, as two people, both understand another language, that could exist here too.”

  “I’m not really following,” I admit.

  “Lemme just try something.”

  He swallows and takes a step closer to me. My body freezes.

  “Me. Llamo. Caleb. Cómo. Estás?” he says, slow and loud like he’s speaking to an old person with a hearing aid.

  “Um, I’m . . . bueno?” I say with a confused laugh.

  “You heard me in Spanish?” he asks with wide eyes.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hm. Let me try something harder. Um . . . yo creo que el pan es mejor con butter.�
�

  When he says butter, his mouth weirdly looks like it’s saying something else, like the sound coming out of his mouth is being dubbed over.

  “You think . . . bread is better . . . with butter?” I ask.

  “You heard all of that in Spanish?”

  “Well, yeah, everything except ‘butter.’ You said that in English.”

  “No, I didn’t!” he says, smiling like a madman.

  “Now you’re just messing with me,” I say, beginning to turn away.

  “Bea, seriously, I said it in Spanish. Do you know the Spanish word for butter?”

  “No,” I reluctantly admit.

  “See! My theory is correct. Whatever you don’t know automatically translates here. Now if, if I tell you butter is how you say butter in Spanish, does that—”

  “Butter is how you say butter?” I ask, cocking my head.

  “No,” he corrects. “I just said butter . . .”

  I give him a blank stare.

  “Damn,” he mumbles. “The flaw to the magical automatic translation is you can never learn any new words in other languages once you arrive. . . .”

  “Sounds like you’re onto something,” I say, finally continuing to walk away.

  “Hey, do you think anyone’s ever escaped from here?” he asks, catching up to me. We’re now approaching the food court again, making this our third loop around the airport.

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “People move on to Heaven all the time.”

  “No, I mean, like, escaped of their own accord.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “How do we know that the departing planes go to Heaven?” Caleb presses, his eyes going wild. “Are we totally sure this isn’t just some really messed-up secret experiment being conducted by the government? We just arrived here randomly and are supposed to blindly trust that the process will work? What if they’re downloading and storing our memories for some master database to use against us?”

  “Do you want some red string?” I ask. “To tie all your conspiracy theories together?”