Layover

by Amy Andelson

  The dude next to us obsessively checks his Twitter feed, trying to figure out the location of some taco truck, while his friend worries they won’t have his shoe size by the time they make it inside. Sometimes life can really feel like a spoof, and I’m embarrassed to even be here. Finally, Flynn and Neel appear with some other kid—he’s tall and lanky with a mop of curly brown hair. He’s all, “You must be the runaways!” and fist-bumps me. He introduces himself as David Shapiro. He opens a shoe box, showing off his limited-edition Nikes. “Dope, right?” he asks, assuming we’d be impressed. I don’t respond. “Man, my parents would kill me if I pulled a stunt like you guys. It’d be like, peace out, world, David has left the building. Like, RIP, me,” he continues.

  Who is this guy? I say to myself as we walk back to Neel’s double-parked car and get in.

  “Shappy’s parents are psychiatrists,” Neel explains.

  “Which means I’m majorly maladjusted,” Shappy adds. “But seriously, you guys just bounced from the airport?”

  “It all happened kind of quickly, but yeah.” Flynn shrugs.

  “Things with your parents must be pretty dark.”

  “Something like that,” she says.

  Poppy shivers, and rests her head on my shoulder. She must be cold from swimming, and tired from the long day, but she doesn’t complain. Even though she has an old soul, sometimes I’m struck by how young she really is. I can’t believe Jack and Louisa are doing this to her. No kid is ever prepared for the catastrophe of divorce. It changes you. Because it makes you realize that everything’s impermanent, nothing is sacred, and you’re all alone in this world.

  Things get complicated when you try to fill the void. That’s what got so messed up last year. Flynn and I were hanging out all the time, and it all just started to feel too confusing. I told her more than I’ve ever told any of those overpriced Manhattan therapists Louisa has sent me to over the years. Like about the time when I was six and I found Clay bloody and sprawled out on the kitchen floor, and I thought he was dead, so I called 911. Of course, he wasn’t dead, just blitzed out of his mind. Later that day, Clay sat at the foot of my bed and cried, promising me he’d never drink again. Back then I was young enough to believe him.

  Clay has reached out a bunch over the past year, claiming to be clean now, wanting to “talk,” but I don’t buy it, and I don’t call him back. You can only be played for a fool so many times. More than anything, I just wish he’d stop calling. He sent me some bullshit texts last year, right before a big lacrosse game. He said he was thinking about the time he let me ditch the first-grade spelling bee so I could drive with him upstate to look at the fall foliage. Clay always liked to reminisce when he was drunk or stoned. Why does he get to hold on to the good memories while I’m stuck with all the others?

  Needless to say, the lacrosse game was a disaster. I couldn’t get those stupid texts out of my head. I got kicked out in the first half for a personal foul, and I gave the ref a piece of my mind. When I got home that night, it was like I was pulled by some greater force (genetics, perhaps) straight to the liquor cabinet. I grabbed a bottle of Grey Goose and slammed the door to my room. I hated how it tasted, and I hated how it made me feel. But I did it anyway. Hours later, there was a knock on my door. I didn’t answer, but Flynn still came in. She sat down next to me on the floor and gently pulled the bottle away from me. I put my head down and hugged my knees into my chest. Flynn rested her head gently on my shoulder, and it took everything in me not to break down and cry. I knew I could cry in front of Flynn, but I didn’t want to. Clay didn’t deserve my tears.

  “You’re not him,” she said.

  I lifted my head up. “How do you know? You’ve never met him.”

  “Because I know,” Flynn said. And even though deep down I knew that she was right, I needed to hear it. I rubbed my forehead; my head had started to throb. The vodka swishing around in my empty stomach wasn’t helping the situation, either.

  “How you feeling?”

  “Flammable.”

  “Well, I have some good news. Rosie’s making chicken fajitas for dinner. I put in a request,” she added.

  “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

  And with that, she stood up, reached her hand out, and pulled me up. “Let’s eat.”

  I know that Flynn and I are sort of siblings, but she’s never totally felt like a sister, and never totally felt like just a friend, either. I guess because she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I mean, yeah, she’s beautiful. Maybe not in the obvious, blond-hair-big-boobs way that guys my age notice, but it’s no secret that guys my age are total idiots. Her long limbs, which once looked gawky, now appear womanly.

  I see the way this Neel kid is looking at her. He knows. He knows she’s special. That she’s not like the other girls. That she’s kind and innocent—and not in a way that seems silly or naïve. Maybe that’s why I feel this need to protect her. But maybe that’s the problem: It’s too much pressure. Being there for her—for each other. Because if I have learned anything over the past few years, it’s that I should never depend on anyone. And Flynn needed to learn that, too.

  She turns around from the front seat and lays her scarf on Poppy’s lap like a blanket. She smiles at me, and despite myself, I smile back. Poppy yawns, fighting to keep her eyes open.

  “Are we there yet?” she whimpers.

  The late-afternoon sun is just starting to set as we turn up Laurel Canyon. “We’re almost there,” I tell her.

  I can’t believe I’m here. Up in the Hollywood Hills, looking at the Hollywood sign. I read in one of my books that the time just before sunset is called magic hour in moviemaking. It’s my favorite time of day—because when you take a picture, it looks like the whole world is painted gold. It makes real life look, well, magical.

  Someday, when I’m old and glamorous and I write my memoir, I will remember this as one of the most exciting times in my life. The title of the book will be Runaway. I’ve been called a lot of things in my short life—freak, loser, weirdo, the list goes on—but I never thought I’d be a runaway. A runaway sounds adventurous and intriguing—like Princess Ann in Roman Holiday! Definitely not someone you’d call a loser. And definitely not something I’m going to miss out on because I don’t have my stupid pills.

  I feel so far away—from New York, and Rosie, and Mom and Dad. Sure, my parents travel all the time without me, but I’ve never traveled anywhere without them. It’s pretty fun. It almost feels like this could be my new life. If we were to stay here in Los Angeles, I know that Flynn and Amos would take good care of me. They always do. It’s just that Mom and Dad are always so busy with work and traveling that it’s almost like they forget about me. Like on my ninth birthday.

  I didn’t even want to have a party, but Mom said that it would be good for me to invite all the girls from my class over to celebrate. I agreed, but only because I was going to have an Audrey Hepburn–themed party. Mom and Rosie begged me to pick something the other girls my age would be into. But it was my birthday, and I wanted an ode to Audrey. I would wear a black dress with white satin gloves just like Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and we’d hang movie posters all over the apartment. We would eat crustless cucumber sandwiches and profiteroles from Sant Ambroeus on Madison. And then on Monday, everyone at school would talk about how I threw the best birthday party of the year, and I wouldn’t have to eat lunch alone anymore.

  Mom and Dad were out of town the week leading up to the party, but Rosie had everything covered. And Mom promised they would be back that morning, just in time. So I woke up on February 5, a little nervous but mostly excited about my party. I looked out my window and saw the city covered in snow. I’ve always loved the snow—maybe it’s because I was born during a snowstorm. Mom said the traffic getting to the hospital was so bad, she was worried she was going to have to deliver me right in
the taxi! Luckily for all of us, she didn’t.

  I hurried downstairs for breakfast and found Flynn, Amos, and Rosie waiting for me. They gave me birthday hugs, but I could tell something was wrong. The kitchen TV was on—the word BLIZZARD flashing across it. Uh-oh. Rosie said my mom had called to say that their flight was canceled, and that we’d just have to celebrate when they got back. I tried not to cry as I watched the weatherman tell everyone to stay inside.

  “Don’t worry—almost all of the girls live uptown. They’ll come,” Flynn said as she put her arm around me. But no one came. Not one. The party was supposed to start at noon, and at around eleven-thirty the calls started coming. I could hear Flynn in the other room talking to Tatiana’s mom, and Kaylie’s mom, and all the rest of them. She said that she understood, that yes, the weather outside was awful, and that yes, of course, if it stopped snowing, everyone should definitely still come over. I ran back to my room and got under the covers. Maybe if I closed my eyes and fell back asleep, I would wake up and find that this was all just a bad dream.

  A few hours later, I woke up to the sound of Flynn playing “Moon River,” the theme song from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, on the piano. I went downstairs and found Flynn at the Steinway, and Amos next to her. They were all dressed up and waiting for me. Amos took my hands and danced with me around the living room, and even though I kept stepping on his feet, it didn’t matter. Soon I forgot all about my stupid party.

  After we delivered a slice of marble birthday cake to everyone who worked in the building, Flynn and Amos gave me my present. I carefully unwrapped the box and found a vintage Polaroid inside.

  “We saw it at the Chelsea flea market and thought you’d like it,” Flynn said as I inspected the camera.

  “I more than like it. I love it!” They showed me how to load the special film they had to order online, and other than that, it’s pretty easy to use. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect present, or more perfect siblings. Because when the three of us are together, it’s like everything else that’s going wrong in the world doesn’t bother me.

  Now, almost a year later, I use my birthday camera to take a picture of Flynn looking out over Los Angeles. Everything below looks so small, it’s like nothing can touch us, and I wish there were a way to hold on to this feeling. I watch her eyeing Neel, who’s goofing around with that Shappy guy. I definitely think she has a crush on him.

  “Look over at me,” I call to Flynn. She turns around and gives me a half smile, and I take another photo of her.

  “C’mon, let’s take one of the two of us,” she says.

  “Amos too,” I add.

  “It’s getting late. We should get going,” Amos grumbles. He’s been waiting over by Neel’s car.

  “One picture. Please? We have to get the sunset!” Amos shakes his head but walks over anyway.

  “Neel, do you mind taking our picture?” I ask. Neel grabs the camera from me. I put my arms around Flynn and Amos and squeeze them extra tight.

  “Say…Hollywood!” Shappy calls out over Neel’s shoulder. But even though none of us say it, I know we are all smiling. Even Amos. I know I shouldn’t have told Flynn and Amos about the divorce, and I know this bubble won’t last forever, but for right now, I just want to pretend that I’m living in a movie—where I’m the star, and there are only happy endings.

  I wander down the aisle at a convenience store, grabbing three toothbrushes and a pack of Christmas-colored M&M’s, which I’m sure Amos will make me put back. We stopped here on our way to Neel’s house and all immediately dispersed in the store. My hair is knotty from swimming, so I grab a small leave-in conditioner, too. There are some girls next to me in tiny cutoffs and huge sweatshirts, inspecting shampoos and huddled in deep conversation.

  “I can’t believe you sent him that picture,” the blonde says to the brunette.

  “What’s the big deal?” the brunette asks. “You sext all the time.”

  “Yeah—with my boyfriend.” The brunette now looks petrified. “Whatever,” the blonde continues. “At least people won’t think you’re a tease anymore. And you do have great tits.” The brunette shrugs, and the girls head off. I hear them in the next aisle, running into Shappy. Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that they know each other.

  I continue down the aisle, and I can’t help but blush a little when I pass the condoms. I make sure no one is nearby as I linger, curious to check out the options. Who knew there were so many choices? I guess non-virgins. I know I’m supposed to be mature, and it’s not a big deal, but isn’t it kind of a big deal that people just buy these things all the time? Twenty-four hours a day. In broad daylight. And I mean, who knows what could happen with Neel later? Isn’t it better if I’m prepared?

  I spot Amos rounding the corner, coming down the other end of the aisle. He looks at me, and then at the condoms. Busted, I quickly turn in the opposite direction.

  “Hey, Flynn,” Neel whispers from the corner of the store. I head over to him.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “So, what’s your ID situation?” he asks conspiratorially.

  “I’ve just got my passport.”

  “Shit. And my fake got shredded in the dryer last week.”

  Shappy shuffles over, shaking his head. “The dude at the front does not look friendly.”

  “And I asked some old lady if she’d do a good deed and help us out, and she looked at me like I was a straight-up terrorist or something,” Neel adds.

  “Why can’t we just drink what’s at your dad’s?” Shappy questions.

  “I’m telling you, he pays people to notice shit like that,” Neel says. “Beer we can steal from the garage. But if we want anything hard, we’ve got to get it ourselves.” We stand there, stumped. The front door opens, and a bunch of rowdy college guys come plowing into the store.

  “This is perfect. Flynn, it’s all you,” Shappy says.

  “What’s all me?” I ask, dreading the answer.

  “You gotta ask those bro-tards to buy us some booze.”

  “I dunno…I’m, um, not really good at stuff like that,” I stammer.

  “But you’re our last hope,” Shappy pleads.

  “He’s kind of right,” Neel says. “And there’s no way those dudes are going to say no to a hot girl.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I can try.” Wait. Did Neel just say he thinks I’m hot?

  “Here.” Neel hands me a fifty. “They can keep the change.” I nod, and take a deep breath. I walk over to two of the guys—they’re in jeans and USC hoodies, and definitely not the cutest ones of the group. I feel bad about singling them out, but I figure they’re my best bet. They’re clearly watching me. Be confident like Meredith, I think as I saunter up to them. Be flirty like Aisha. Be anyone but yourself right now.

  “Hey,” I say, attempting to sound sexy and inviting.

  “Hey there,” the chubbier one of the two says. I attempt to play the part of a tourist just looking to party. The whole thing feels so forced and weird, I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice. But somehow, it works. Outside the store, the guys slip me a bottle of Cuervo, and I promise to call them later to meet up with the rest of my really hot and single friends. Their whole herd heads out, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Awkward mission accomplished.

  She scurried away like a little kid, her hand caught in the condom jar. She couldn’t possibly be sleeping with Neel. Could she? I have to stop being so blind when it comes to Flynn. I pass the display and can’t help but think about the afternoon last spring when I became a man, so to speak. I had been hooking up with this girl Claire Chandler for exactly three weeks. I knew she wasn’t a virgin. Everybody did. She had a boyfriend in college, but they had broken up over spring break. I knew she was just trying to make him jealous, but I didn’t care. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and she invited me to come over to watch a movie. I was
just grateful that at least one of us would know what we were doing.

  When I got home that night, Flynn was in the kitchen making mint tea. “Claire is really pretty,” she said as she took another mug out of the cabinet. Man, word travels fast.

  “Yeah,” I answered, not really knowing what else to say. As Flynn handed me my mug, I noticed that there was something off about her tonight. Something wounded. Jealous? Maybe she just felt weird that I hadn’t told her about Claire. Flynn and I talked about everything, but we never really talked about girls. Sure, she knew the headlines, but I didn’t think she needed to know the specifics. It wasn’t like I was hiding anything. It was just that Flynn and I talked about real things—like our favorite books, and Bill Murray movies, and how we want to climb Machu Picchu one day. And it wasn’t like there was much to hide anyway. Lately, I’d found that the more time I spent with Flynn, the harder it got for me to hang out with other girls who were just pretty, or just fun, or just down to hook up. Compared to Flynn, all the other girls just felt so…fleeting.

  And it wasn’t like Claire was about to become my girlfriend. She texted me after finals were over, saying that she was having people out to her family’s house on Fire Island to celebrate the end of our sophomore year. While the offer was tempting, I didn’t really want to go. Flynn and I had just started watching Mad Men, and we had big post-finals plans to binge on sushi and TV. And so I texted Claire back that I was going to lie low in the city. I knew that would be the end of Claire Chandler and me, but I didn’t care.

  With most of our friends off to their country homes or summer camps or Europe, Jack on one of his business trips, and Louisa already out in Amagansett with Poppy, Flynn and I were left to fend for ourselves. Flynn didn’t leave for camp for another week, and my only plan for the summer was to train for lacrosse, bum around the Hamptons, and study for the SATs. For that one week, it felt like Flynn and I were the only people on the entire island of Manhattan, which was a good thing, considering we had a million hours of Mad Men to get through.