Airports, Exes, and Other Things I'm Over

by Shani Petroff

  “What?” Fitz asked.

  “They want me.” My voice had faded to less than a whisper.

  “Huh?” Fitz moved closer.

  “Meta. The club. They have a spot for me this Saturday night.”

  Sheila the owner actually asked me to perform. This was unreal. I needed to call her back. ASAP. I dialed the number.

  “Breathe,” Fitz said, and did some sort of slow-motion arm waving thing, but now was not the time for breathing exercises.

  I turned away and focused on the call, trying not to freak out. When Sheila picked up, I wasn’t sure I remembered how to talk. “Sheila,” I squawked, “this is Sari Silver. I got your message.”

  She filled me in on the details about the performance, but she could have told me I’d have to sing standing on my head in a pit full of roaches while wearing a dress made of toilet paper and chewing gum and I would have still said yes. “Saturday sounds great. Thank you. I’ll see you then.”

  At least that’s what I think I said. After I hung up, the whole thing seemed like I conjured it in my mind. I may have pretended to have a semblance of calmness around me, but I was spinning—in the best possible way.

  “I have to go,” I told Fitz. I had so much to do. Pick a set list, practice, tell Gram, my mom, Trina, Ze—

  Oh.

  There went my euphoria. It was weird not to be able to share this with him. Trina and I did a lot of the work getting us into Meta way back when, but Zev played a big role, too. I couldn’t focus on that. This was time to think about me. This was the universe making things better.

  “It was so nice meeting you,” I said to Fitz as I grabbed my stuff and ran out. “Have a great rest of your trip. Sorry we couldn’t hang out more.”

  It wasn’t the nicest good-bye, but I’d send him a message on GroupIt once things settled down. Right now I needed to get back to Gram’s. What if Mom was right about the weather? I needed to get on an earlier flight stat. Nothing was going to screw this up for me.

  I was about to live one of my biggest dreams.

  New York, get ready, I’m coming home!

  ELEVEN

  My alarm went off, and I shot up in bed early Friday after tossing and turning all night. I was going to have to travel on a whole two hours of sleep. No matter how much I begged, my parents refused to pay the admittedly huge fee to switch me to an earlier flight. Since mine wasn’t canceled, there was an exorbitant charge. All Wednesday night and all day Thursday I pleaded my case, but they held their ground.

  My mother actually said, “Worst-case scenario, you’ll get stuck in Florida a few days and play at Meta another time,” as if the club was waiting around for me. My parents totally didn’t get how important this was. To them it was no different than any of the other random gigs I did. The more I fought, the more they dug their feet in. I would have paid for it myself if I had the cash, but I’d spent everything I’d saved up on my ticket to Florida in the first place. I seriously considered using the emergency credit card they gave me to secretly book the flight, but I knew if they found out before my performance—which they would—there was no way they’d let me go do it. They’d flip. I could picture them dragging me offstage if I sneaked out. I thought Gram would come to my defense, but she just played devil’s advocate. Money was tight. College is expensive. There’s just no extra funds lying around.

  I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I appreciated what they were doing for me. I knew money was an issue. My parents, Gram, and my grandparents on my dad’s side were all already helping out as much as they could with the Manhattan School of Music, and I was still going to have a preposterous amount of loans by the time I graduated. It would be worth it, though. Only so was this performance. It could be my big break. I just wished they could see that.

  Gram’s solution was getting me to the airport way early Friday to see if I could get a standby spot. Usually, the airline didn’t charge extra for that. I wanted to get there as soon as I could. The storm wasn’t supposed to hit New York ’til later, so there was still hope I’d get home in time.

  I jumped out of bed, tied my hair back in a quick knot, and threw on a bra underneath my NEVERTHELESS, SHE PERSISTED T-shirt. After the week I was having, it was the perfect reminder that giving up was not an option.

  “Gram,” I called out. “You up?”

  “In the kitchen,” she said.

  Thank God. “Can we get going?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Have some coffee, some breakfast, get dressed, and we’ll get out of here.”

  “I’m good to go.”

  She looked me over, but if she had a comment on my appearance, she kept it to herself. I was still wearing the T-shirt and sweats that I had slept in, but that was by design. Some might call it wearing pajamas out of the house, but to me it was an ingenious (and comfortable) time-saver.

  “Packed?” she asked.

  I nodded. I had been packed since Wednesday.

  “Sure I can’t get you something to eat?” Gram asked.

  She was always trying to feed me. But I didn’t want food. I wanted to go. My current flight was scheduled for 2:00 p.m., but I really wanted to try to make the 9:00 a.m. one.

  “Positive. I’ll get something at the airport.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m still packing you something for the road.”

  I didn’t bother to object. If I said no, she’d only keep insisting.

  She’s being sweet, I reminded myself. Gram was a great host, and I had been such a lousy guest, moping most of the trip and now rushing her to drive me to the airport before she even finished her coffee. I’d make this up to her. I was going to be the perfect granddaughter. Once I got home, that is. FaceTime, phone calls, answering all her computer questions without any exasperation, devoting all my time to her on her next visit, everything. But right now, I just needed to get out of here.

  I put on my sneakers, grabbed my stuff, and waited by the door. Ten minutes later we were finally in the car.

  That stereotype about older drivers going, like, thirteen miles per hour on the highway? My gram definitely proved that one wrong. By the time we made it to the airport, my knuckles were white from clutching the door handle. I’d said I wanted to get there fast, but I seriously think my gram set some sort of record. If only Gram were piloting the plane.

  “You have your guitar, your phone, your license, your backpack, your suitcase, your snacks, everything?” Gram asked, running through the checklist as we stood by the passenger side of the car to say good-bye.

  “I do, thank you.”

  “I can wait,” she offered, “while you check on that earlier flight. I can take you back to my place to relax for a bit if you can’t get it.”

  “That’s okay. I should be able to get one.” I crossed my fingers. There were a bunch of flights headed to New York this morning. And there was no way I was heading back to Gram’s. We’d just have to turn right back around. I wasn’t going to risk being late. “I have my book to keep me busy if I have to wait,” I told her, and patted my backpack. I stashed the last Harry Potter book in there. Since I had my own He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to deal with, I figured rereading the passage about the real Voldemort being taken down would be uplifting. But I really hoped I didn’t need it. I didn’t want to have to wait in the airport—or see Zev. My performance was the reason I desperately wanted an early flight, but avoiding my ex was a close second.

  I gave Gram a giant bear hug and she squeezed me tight. I held back tears. I hated good-byes. But I reminded myself it wasn’t going to be for long. She was coming to visit over the summer.

  “I love you,” she said, “I know you are going to take everyone’s breath away at your show. Record it for me.”

  “I will.” I thanked her for everything and gave her one last squeeze. “I love you.”

  “Call me when you get home,” she said, as we pulled apart.

  I waved and made my way into the building.

  I was finally at the airport.
>
  TWELVE

  Whoa. The airport was crowded. Really crowded. The check-in line snaked around what might as well have been miles of dividers. Either everyone had the same idea as me to try and beat the storm or it was just normal end of spring break travel—or both. Regardless, this was not looking good.

  I couldn’t just stand there, I had to get in line. This wait was just to get my ticket and switch my flight. Security was going to be another monstrosity altogether. I wheeled my suitcase to the back of the line. Three people bumped into me on the way. I mean, come on. Watch where you’re going. It’s not like they couldn’t see my giant suitcase, guitar, and backpack. But I guess that extra second it would have taken to walk around me would have been too much to ask.

  Okay, I needed to relax. I really should have taken Gram up on that cup of coffee. I thought being groggy at the airport wouldn’t matter, that it would help me sleep on the plane. Only it was just making me irritable. All these people. And the lights. It was way too bright in here. This sucked. I glanced at my phone: 8:20. At this rate, no way I was going to catch the 9:00 a.m. flight, I’d be lucky to make my original one.

  Stop it, Sari. Positive thinking. I had great airport karma. My flight down here was awesome. The way home would be, too. The line was going to move, I’d get home, have the night to relax, and have a killer performance tomorrow. I just needed to distract myself. I ran through my track list for my set. I spent all day yesterday working on it. Sheila was giving me a fifty-minute set, so I had time for twelve songs. I was going to do a combo of originals and covers, with a variety of tempos. It took me forever to choose, but I was confident in my final selection.

  I was going to start slow. A Kevin Wayward ballad that would really show off my vocals. Then I’d switch to something upbeat. The one I played for Fitz the other day. I ran the two songs in my head.

  Usually, singing to myself calmed me. Right now it was making me anxious. Two whole songs, and I hadn’t budged in line. I needed to get home.

  I checked the time again.

  8:29. The 9:00 a.m. flight wasn’t going to happen. But there was a 10:00 a.m. I could still make that.

  8:38. I moved forward ten feet. Ten?! I really should have had that coffee.

  8:43. No additional movement.

  8:46. Still nothing. Seriously? I stood on my tippy toes to try and see what the holdup was. How hard was it to show your ID, put your bag on the scale, collect your ticket, and get out of the way? You didn’t need to stand there asking a gazillion questions.

  8:55. I advanced another six feet. Total. That’s it. It didn’t help that a family of five rushed in claiming they were about to miss their flight and got moved to the front of the line. I was tempted to try the same thing, but I thought better of it. The flight I wanted to take was leaving soon, my actual flight wasn’t leaving for hours. I didn’t think my fellow passengers would appreciate the nuance.

  “I can’t believe it’s this slow today,” I said half to myself, half to the woman behind me. “It wasn’t like this when I left New York.”

  “Everyone’s trying to get out before the storm hits,” she answered.

  “It’s not supposed to hit ’til later,” I said. In the past thirty-six hours, I’d become more obsessed with the weather than my mother.

  The woman sneered. “This is the airport. My flight got delayed eight hours on the way here on Tuesday. And that was gorgeous weather. Today’s going to be a mess.”

  She was making it very hard to stay optimistic.

  The woman pulled the handle up on her suitcase and headed out of line. “The kiosks look faster. I’m going there.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You can do it there even if you have to check your baggage?”

  She nodded.

  I wasn’t sure what to do.

  The line I was in wasn’t getting me anywhere, but if I left, I’d still have to get through security before I could try for standby at the actual gate. Which was faster? I looked over at the kiosks, the woman was already at one. I hadn’t budged since she left. Maybe she had the right idea. Even if I made it to the front of this line, got a standby flight, there’d be no guarantee I’d get through security in time to actually catch it. That did it. I knew what I had to do.

  I took a deep breath and got out of line. I prayed the airport gods were with me.

  So far, the kiosk seemed like the right move. I finished in minutes. I regretted not heading there straight from the get-go. I shook off the thought. No time for regrets—just moving forward. I dumped my suitcase on the conveyer belt. It was nice to have one less thing to carry. I made my way to security and you guessed it—another endless line. It was like I was in a production of Waiting for Godot.

  I shifted my backpack on my shoulder and moved my guitar case to the other hand. I was in this new line for less than a minute and I was already antsy. Trina would have recommended being productive right now. She’d be getting homework, reading, something done. I couldn’t focus. All I could think about was how bad I needed to get home.

  I felt boxed in, like the room was closing in around me. I was not typically a claustrophobic person, I loved a huge crowd at a concert, but this line was turning me into one. There was a couple in front of me kissing every three seconds. And a guy behind me who didn’t seem to understand the meaning of personal space. It was like he thought that extra centimeter between us would somehow be the difference between getting on his flight or not. Every time I tried to inch away, he just inched forward. The turns and nasty glares I threw back at him didn’t seem to have any effect.

  “Do you mind?” I finally said, when he brushed into my backpack for the thirteenth time.

  “Sorry,” he said, like he hadn’t even noticed me there.

  Maybe he hadn’t. I was just on edge. And the two people practically groping each other in front of me weren’t helping. PDA was the worst. I probably would have thought they were sweet a week ago, but now I felt the urge to pull the guy’s hand out of the woman’s back pocket. Was this how annoying Zev and I used to look? I was so done with public displays of affection. People needed to just keep to themselves and think about the others around them. Others who could very well be suffering from a broken heart.

  I grabbed the bag that Gram gave me. Maybe there were some decent snacks in there. Something to take my mind off love. Well, the romantic kind anyway.

  There was a little container of her famous peanut butter cookies. I shoved them back in the bag. They were another reminder of Zev. He had been talking about them nonstop since I saved him a few after Gram baked some on Thanksgiving. No one made them like she did. I’d even asked her to make them special for this trip. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was no longer in the mood. Instead, I just avoided the cookie jar.

  There was also an apple, a string cheese, and a yogurt. Nothing spoke to me. I considered the yogurt as I inched forward in line. I liked the flavor—strawberry—but I really just wanted caffeine. Coffee, chocolate, Red Bull. Something to wake me up.

  “Ya know, they won’t let you through security with that,” someone said.

  I looked up. “Fitz!”

  This time no fist bump. Just a head nod. His hands were too full. He had a duffel bag in one and what looked like a scrambled-egg wrap in the other. “I can’t believe I’m running into you here,” I said, “I thought you were leaving yesterday.”

  “Nope, today.”

  When we had been chatting by the pool he told me he was heading back in a couple of days—which technically meant two days—so it wasn’t my fault I assumed he was talking about Thursday. I still felt bad, though. His grandpa didn’t drive, which meant he’d had to pay for a car.

  “I’m sorry; I would have given you a ride.”

  “No worries. I got stuff done on the way here and had enough time to grab some food.”

  “You were smart. I’m not in the mood for this,” I said, pointing to the yogurt.

  “You should eat it now. They count it as a li
quid, and it’s over the limit.”

  Figured. “Want it?” I asked.

  “If you’re not gonna have it, sure.”

  I handed him the spoon, too. And then he went on about how if I liked strawberries, I should check out the smoothie place just past security, that it was one of the best.

  I was more of Frappuccino girl myself. I preferred to eat my fruit, not drink it. But since the line started moving again, separating me and Fitz, I just said, “Sounds good.”

  Keeping my eye out for Fitz as we made our way through the line kind of became a game for me—at the very least a distraction. He was about twenty or so people ahead of me, which meant when I was about halfway down my row, we wound up next to each other again, separated only by a thin piece of fabric divider. Talking to him in those brief encounters broke up the monotony of waiting.

  We had flights on the same airline. His was at 11:00 a.m. I was still shooting for the 10:00 a.m., but since boarding was at 9:30, I’d need to get out of this line and to an agent really quickly to make that happen.

  We continued through the maze, and eventually Fitz got to the front of the line and handed over his passport.

  A little while later it was my turn. Then it was off to the final stretch. I slipped off my sneakers and waited until I was close enough to toss them in a bin along with my bag of liquids. I propped my backpack and guitar on the table. It was nine thirty-two. Maybe if I raced through this and to the gate, I’d still get a seat on the next flight.

  “Push your stuff forward and step up,” the agent said.

  I went into the X-ray machine, put my hands above my head, and waited as the contraption did its thing. I glanced at the monitor by the agent and let out a light groan. Two sections were lit up. Apparently, there was something suspect on my arm and chest.

  “Please step over here,” the agent said. “Have a seat, it will just be a minute,” he told me, and then called out, “Need a pat down.”

  Just perfect. I could forget the 10:00 a.m.