Layoverland Read online

  On a Thursday night, I emailed the screenshots of this thrilling content to the manager using a burner email account I made especially for the occasion ([email protected], in honor of Chili’s molten chocolate cake, the only good item on their menu).

  By Monday morning, the big news around school was that Taylor Fields was fired from Chili’s and had to be escorted off the premises by the police after she allegedly whacked her manager in the head with a sizzling hot fajita skillet. And that was that. My revenge plot worked to an extent, but sadly it couldn’t get Taylor fired from school. I was still stuck with her in my classes, still stuck with her ridiculous opinions.

  Like the one she had on the day of the accident. The only upside to that day was that it was the last time I ever had to hear Taylor speak.

  When I entered the class late, Ms. Walsh was in the middle of presenting a PowerPoint on the history of Roe v. Wade, the Supreme Court decision that made abortion legal in the United States. When she was done, she opened it up to a class discussion on the topic.

  “I just think more people need to take responsibility for their actions,” Taylor said, raising her hand, but already speaking before she was called. “If you have sex and get pregnant, you need to learn your lesson and not be so sloppy next time. It’s not right that the government is letting people off easy by allowing them to kill babies.”

  It was like déjà vu. I’d braced myself to hear her views on other divisive topics, like gun control or Confederate statues, but I’d thought we’d left this particular argument in health class.

  “So you think in order to learn a lesson, people should be forced to take care of a child they’re not prepared to have?” I piped up as I settled into my seat behind her, taking a pencil out of my backpack.

  “Yeah,” Taylor said, turning around and shrugging at me like it was obvious. “Or they can give it up for adoption. I’m sure there are lots of families who can’t have babies themselves who would love to adopt. There are other options.

  “In fact,” she said, flipping her hair again and turning back to Ms. Walsh, “I do a lot of volunteer work related to this issue. I go with a group from my church and hand out flyers outside of Planned Parenthood encouraging women to rethink their decision.”

  “So you harass these women?” I press.

  “No, Beatrice. We don’t threaten them or block them from going inside. We’re there to be compassionate listeners and make sure they are aware of every option available.”

  Ms. Walsh nodded vaguely. For an American history teacher, she was almost disturbingly good at never revealing her own opinions. Somehow, this made her almost as evil as Taylor to me.

  “So if you got pregnant tomorrow, you would go through with giving birth? Even though you’re only seventeen and clearly have no way to support a child? I mean,” I say, leaning forward, “you’re seventeen. You can’t even hold down a part-time job at Chili’s. How would you expect to pay for diapers?”

  Taylor turned around and looked at me with a pained expression like I’d just thrown a dart into her chest.

  “I wouldn’t get pregnant tomorrow!” she sputtered. “I’m not stupid . . . like some people you know.”

  “We’re veering off topic,” Ms. Walsh said. “Anyone else?”

  Even as the discussion moved on, Taylor kept her eyes on me for a minute, trying to impress some kind of meaningful look.

  “Can you stop being so obsessed with the fact that I was born to a teen mom?” I mumbled through my teeth. “It’s getting kind of creepy. If you’re interested in the topic, there are entire exploitative TV shows that you’re welcome to watch.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your mom,” Taylor whispered back. “All I’m saying is . . . it’s clear the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  Did she even know what that expression meant? What was she trying to get at? That I was like my mom and having unprotected sex? Something that was impossible given that I had never even kissed a boy, not that I would ever reveal this to anyone besides Emmy. Deep down inside, I hoped that everyone just assumed I had some cooler, older boyfriend who went to another school and took me on rides on his motorcycle.

  I gripped the pencil in my hands and prepared to throw it at her, like an actual dart to her chest, but then I remembered what Emmy had said to me earlier that morning. I shouldn’t get into an altercation over one stupid comment. I should pick my battles. Plus, I couldn’t stand another trip to Mr. Spoglio’s office. I had to at least appear as if I’d learned some kind of lesson.

  “Tell your sister,” Taylor muttered to me under her breath, “that she shouldn’t have ignored me on her way in. She’ll know what that means.”

  16

  The next morning I awaken with a start to find that my bed is shaking.

  “Wakey, wakey!” Jenna says, jumping up and down at the edge of my mattress. The bed frame makes a squeaking sound that reminds me of when people have sex in romantic comedies. Except this situation could not be further from romantic. Maybe it’s a comedy, objectively, but not to me.

  “What time is it?” I grumble.

  “Five of eight!” she says, letting her body collapse next to me on the bed.

  “Seriously?” I say, bolting upright. “I’m late.”

  I’m supposed to be ready to take today’s lottery number winner over to the hangar by eight. I don’t know what happens if I’m late to work, but I don’t want to test it in case it means piling on more souls to my sentence.

  Frantically, I pull off my pajamas and slip into my uniform, pulling up the back zipper as I head out the door. I skip past the elevator and make a beeline for the stairs, taking them three at a time, nearly falling forward over something gray and lumpy lying along the steps between the third and second floors. I catch myself against the metal railing with a yelp.

  It’s a human.

  The witchy-looking old lady who wouldn’t stop moaning in the bathroom on my first day. What did Sadie say her name was? Gladys?

  She stirs from her slumber, widens her eyes at me, then barks. Literally barks like a dog.

  “Well, good morning to you, too,” I mumble, continuing on.

  I make it through the hotel lobby, then run down one of the moving walkways, completely unnecessary here given that no one has any physical baggage.

  I’m almost at departures when I run headfirst into another person. My head bangs into their hard chest and I’m knocked off my feet, onto the floor.

  I sit up when I see the shoes. A pair of black Nike slides with white ankle socks. Caleb. He must be jogging for at least the second time in twenty-four hours.

  “God, why can’t you just stay in your lane?” I yell, not realizing the double meaning behind my words until I’ve already said them.

  “Sorry,” he says with a laugh. “You all right?”

  I stare up at him blankly and wonder if ending my life wasn’t enough for him. He just has to make my afterlife harder too.

  “Seriously, Bea, are you okay?” he asks again, his face falling and his eyebrows knitting together with a look of genuine concern. He reaches out a hand to help me up.

  “I’m fine,” I say, ignoring his hand and pushing myself up. “I’m not some damsel-in-distress type, okay?”

  “Oh, believe me,” he says, smiling again, “I don’t think you are. Hey, is Jenna okay? I noticed you guys weren’t at breakfast. I still feel really bad that I brought up James Patterson and made her cry.”

  “Oh, Jenna? She told me she hates you,” I deadpan.

  Caleb’s eyes go wide.

  “I’m kidding,” I say. “She’s fine.”

  Suddenly a voice comes over the loudspeakers.

  “Number 07259, please report to departures. Again, that’s number 07259, 07259, please report to departures.”

  “Shoot,” I say, dusting myself off. “They’r
e already drawing lottery numbers.” I wobble slightly, more dazed from my fall than I’d ever admit.

  “Here, let me take you over,” Caleb says.

  “It’s, like, a thirty-second walk,” I say, starting toward the departures counter. “But okay. You know, I wouldn’t have fallen over just now if it weren’t for your pointless act of athleticism.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The jogging,” I say. “How are you even doing that without your sandals sliding off your feet?”

  “For your information, Beatrice Fox,” he says. The sound of my full name coming out of his mouth makes me feel simultaneously nauseous and like my whole body is on fire. “Some of us don’t have very important jobs to do during the day. We get tired of sitting around and doing nothing. Jogging gives us something to do. And as for the sandals, I have very adept feet.”

  I just nod, unable to speak due to my body’s conflicting sensations.

  “Anyway,” he continues. “You were missed at breakfast. Not by me necessarily though; it’s just, you know, everyone in general misses you and your repeated footwear insults.”

  “Sounds like you’re having trouble making friends.”

  “Oh, but I thought we were friends. By my count, we’ve partaken in 1.5 terrible meals together at this point,” he says.

  “Maybe I’ll make another appearance one of these mornings,” I say, like an idiot.

  We get to the departures counter and the omniscient voice is still blaring from the loudspeaker, crying out the same lottery number.

  “Where the hell is 07259?” I ask Todd before he can make any mention of my late arrival. I’m the only one in a uniform left—07259 must be mine.

  “Apparently his plane is landing right now,” he says without looking up from some paperwork.

  “Wait. It hasn’t even landed?” I turn and complain to Caleb, like this is his fault. “So you’re telling me his lottery number is being called before he even lands? While all these people just wait around for days, even months, just to get through? And of course it’s a he. Let’s just let a man bypass the line, huh? It’s not like he hasn’t gotten enough privileges on Earth; let’s give them to him in the afterlife too!”

  I realize as I’m talking that I’ve also been pacing closer and closer toward Caleb. Now our faces are only an inch or two apart.

  “Hey, it’s some stranger you’re talking about, okay?” he says, backing away from me slowly. “Not me, remember?”

  “Oh yeah sure, ‘not all men,’ right?” I say, making air quotes.

  He snickers.

  “Didn’t you say you had something you have to go do? Sit around and do nothing?” I say.

  “Oh yeah. That. It’s okay. I can reschedule that. I’ve decided it’s a lot more fun to watch you rail against the patriarchy.”

  “Is it? Because I’m just getting started!”

  Just then, I notice an elderly man with a full head of white hair shuffling up the aisle at .01 miles per hour in a flannel robe and pajamas. He waves his passport up in the air.

  “07259,” he says, squinting at his passport and reading off of it. “That’s me!”

  I go over to him and snatch the passport out of his hand.

  “You’ll be coming with me, sir.”

  “Say, hon, do I have time for a cup of coffee first?” he asks.

  Caleb covers his mouth with his hand in an attempt to suppress his laughter. I narrow my eyes and take a deep breath, remembering the more this old man trusts me, the faster he will move on to Heaven and the sooner I can too.

  “No, sir, you do not have time,” I say, plastering on a smile. “But I promise you after this, you’ll have an eternity for a cup of coffee.”

  I pull the old man by the arm toward the exit onto the tarmac.

  “Have a great time out there!” Caleb calls after us.

  I turn and stare at him. If looks could kill, he’d be dead right now. That is, if he wasn’t already.

  17

  I spend my whole walk back to the hotel from the hangar internally praying that Jenna won’t be in our room. After spending the whole day listening to that old man blabber on, only to reveal that his greatest regret in life—the thing that weighed on him so hard that it held him back from Heaven—was losing his childhood dog, I just want to lie down in silence.

  Of course, when I open the door, she’s sitting up in bed, catatonically watching the weather report on the TV like a grandma absorbed in her daily soap opera.

  I sit down on the edge of my bed without saying hello and take off my shoes. After a minute she peels her eyes from the TV and stares at me.

  “Hey,” Jenna says after a moment.

  She shuts the TV off and sits on the edge of her bed, facing the nightstand we share.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Are we . . . okay?” she asks.

  The question takes me aback given that I don’t know if I would go as far as to describe us as a “we” just yet.

  “Uh, sure,” I say.

  “Really?” she presses.

  “Yeah.”

  “Because I was thinking it over and I realized what you said to me yesterday about this not being a place like summer camp or prom and that I needed a BS detector . . . I sorta kinda realized all of that was a little bit, um, harsh of you?”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say defensively. “I mean, you were supposed to help me catch Caleb in the act of bribery, but then you botched the plan and ended up acting like he was the greatest person you’ve ever met.”

  “Well, he didn’t do anything in front of me, so what am I supposed to say? Want me to lie on your behalf?”

  Yes! I want to scream, but I don’t.

  “I know I disappointed you,” she says. “But I don’t want there to be any hostility between us. No bad vibes. As roommates, communication is key.”

  I’d swear Jenna just googled “fight with roommate” and is now reciting what she learned from a wikiHow article, but I know that’s impossible since we have no Internet access here.

  “We can understand each other a little better if we’re just open with one another,” she continues. “I think our first step should be sharing how we both ended up here at the airport.”

  “Jenna, it’s fine. You don’t have to—”

  She places a hand on my shoulder.

  “Look, I know you said this isn’t a slumber party or whatever and I get that. But I still think we should have a slumber-party-style heart-to-heart, okay?”

  “I don’t think those are initiated by someone saying ‘I think we should have a heart-to-heart,’” I mumble. “But whatever. Fine. Tell me how you got here.”

  At best, this will provide me with some entertainment.

  Jenna moves over onto my bed and crisscrosses her legs into a pretzel, then closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

  Here we go.

  “So I was diagnosed with leukemia when I was thirteen,” she declares, the words spilling out of her mouth like she’s been rehearsing this all day. “I kept getting all of these mysterious bruises and then one day, in the middle of my hip-hop dance class, I just blacked out all of a sudden and face-planted in the middle of the floor while ‘Uptown Funk’ was playing.

  “After that, I was in and out of the hospital all the time. I had to be homeschooled instead of going to actual high school. I never went to dances or walked around the mall with my friends. I never had a boyfriend or even just a crush on someone who wasn’t a celebrity. I never got to do anything fun, unless you count sitting in on my mom’s erotic book club that she started to blow off some steam with the other cancer-ward moms.”

  I wince at the thought of Jenna sitting there with a bunch of moms discussing Fifty Shades and drinking white wine.

  “It just felt like the world was happening wit
hout me. But, I dunno. I really try not to think about it too hard. I’m one of five kids—the oldest girl. My mom had to quit her nursing job to take care of me full-time. It was already stressful enough on my family, me being sick. I figured it was just a lot easier to have a positive, cheery attitude around everyone so they’d be stressed-out just a little bit less. I mean, why should my tragedy be theirs too? So I guess you could say that’s why I’m such an upbeat person. Though these last few months, things got worse than ever before. My doctors decided the chemo was causing more harm than it was helping. So finally I decided, ‘What the heck? I’ll do Make-A-Wish.’ I asked for a trip to Disney World for my whole family. And this might surprise you, but I don’t even like Disney stuff that much!”

  I raise my eyebrows a sliver. This does indeed surprise me. Jenna strikes me as the type of girl whose ultimate life goal is to get engaged in front of Cinderella Castle. The type of girl who has taken several different “Which Disney Princess Are You?” BuzzFeed quizzes and cross-examined the results for accuracy.

  “But my siblings go wild for that stuff, so I figured I should take advantage of it. I mean, do you know how much a vacation to Disney for seven people costs? I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or anything. The trip was really, really nice. We got to skip the lines to the rides and everything and they gave us all these waffles shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head, but my real dying wish was to go see the Grand Canyon. You know, ideally I would’ve taken a road trip, camped out with my friends who don’t exist, made s’mores, and watched the sun rise.”

  She stares off for a second, her eyes going glassy.

  “It’s stupid. I know.”

  “That’s not that stupid,” I admit. “It’s okay to ask for what you want.”

  She smiles at me.

  “Sure, sometimes I wish I’d lived a little bit more for myself than everyone else, but what can you do, you know? At the end of the day, family is what’s most important.”

  “I’m sure your siblings would’ve survived without getting Mickey Mouse’s autograph,” I say. “Just because you’re related to people doesn’t mean you need to sacrifice your own happiness for them.”