Layoverland

by Gabby Noone

  “I’ll see you around, Bea.”

  He turns and walks off toward the plane at a regular pace, but as he gets closer, he switches to one of those awkward half jogs that dads do when they cross the road. I can’t help but laugh.

  Caleb walks up the steps of the plane, but before he boards, he turns and looks at me one last time. I smile at him and suddenly my laugh dissolves into a rush of tears.

  I stand there on the tarmac, as still as an ice sculpture but just as fragile, until the stair car drives away, until the airplane is all boarded, until an air traffic control employee motions with his oversize glow stick for me to move. I don’t move. I stand there and let the wind whip my hair as I watch the airplane take off and carry the boy I love to a whole other dimension.

  40

  As I walk back inside, I can feel a fresh batch of tears forming behind my eyes like dark clouds before a storm. Like my story with Caleb began, I can feel it ending with me ugly crying. This is just who I am now.

  A Crier.

  I will myself to hold them in until I get back to my room, where I can collapse onto my bed in private and just let them rip.

  I’m only human.

  I guess that’s what I’ve learned from this whole thing. Whatever this whole thing is.

  But when I turn down my hallway, the usual silence is punctuated by the sound of . . . a banjo?

  As I walk down to my room, I realize the music is coming from behind my door.

  I push it open, and when I do, I feel about a dozen pairs of eyes turn and look at me.

  “You made it!” I hear Jenna’s voice squeal. “You’re just in time. We’re about to play a get-to-know-you game.”

  Sitting on the edge of my bed is a blond boy around our age, wearing overalls and strumming away on a banjo. A group of other teenagers stands around him. Two girls have their arms interlocked and are twirling in a circle, doing some kind of jokey square dance, but everyone else is just hanging out, leaning on our dresser or sitting on the beds.

  Jenna has somehow managed to cover the walls in glitter. She’s draped orange napkins that she probably stole from the food court over all of our lights for some pseudo mood lighting. I have to admit, it does make the room feel pretty cozy if you don’t stare at each individual element too closely.

  “I told you I could make it happen!” Jenna exclaims as she stands to greet me.

  “What’s up with the banjo guy?”

  “Oh, that’s Beau,” she explains. “Hey, you two almost have the same name! Isn’t he so cute?”

  She leans in toward my ear.

  “He died while he was playing the banjo at a county fair,” Jenna whispers. “Some freak accident where a Ferris wheel car flew off and right onto the stage where he was performing. Anyway, he says playing it helps him heal, so just be nice.”

  My eyes widen just slightly.

  “Guys, this is Bea!” Jenna says loudly. “This is her room too.”

  “Hi, Bea!” the room says back.

  “Bea, this is everybody.”

  I stare at them uncomfortably for a second. I know, if I chose to, I could retreat into the bathroom right now, curl my body into the fetal position inside the shower, and cry my eyes out until the party ends. I could lean in fully to being some half-widowed car crash victim who fell in love with the boy who accidentally killed her. I could shut myself off to everyone and suffer in silence today and maybe for the thousands of other days I’ll be stuck here alone.

  But that’s the thing. I’m not alone.

  “Hi, everybody,” I say.

  “Now that you’re here,” Jenna says to the room, “we’re going to play Two Truths and a Lie. Like the name says, everyone tells two truths about themselves and one lie, and we all have to guess which one is the lie. Got it?”

  No one really moves.

  “This will be so fun!” she exclaims.

  Jenna motions for everyone to sit down in a semicircle, and I swallow back the urge to shoo them all off my bed.

  “Bea, since you arrived last, you have to go first.”

  “Um, okay.” I swallow. “I’m really grateful that Jenna is my roommate. Uh . . . I would be absolutely thrilled if I never had to look at any form of Jell-O again. And . . .”

  I mull over my answer for a minute.

  “I’m an awful person who doesn’t deserve to be happy,” I say.

  The room sits around contemplating my answers, but Jenna smiles back at me.

  “Well, duh, the lie is obviously the last one,” the boy with the banjo says in a thick Southern accent. “Because Jenna’s great.”

  He winks at her and she blushes.

  “And I think I speak for all of us when I say that nobody wants to see any form of Jell-O again,” he continues.

  Everyone nods and murmurs quietly.

  “And,” Jenna butts in, “you are not an awful person and you do deserve happiness. Is that why you included that? Because you wanted someone to say that to you?”

  A smile tugs at my lips.

  “I mean, no. But now that you’ve said it . . . it’s nice to hear.”

  MIRACULOUSLY, THE PARTY goes on until the wee hours of the morning. I should have never underestimated Jenna.

  Beau is the last to leave. I watch Jenna hug him goodbye, shut the door, and flop onto her bed. She clutches her pillow to her chest dreamily.

  “I don’t want to jinx things, but I think he’s, like, in love with me.”

  I look at the clock on the nightstand. It’s 5:12 a.m.

  “Hey, Jenna,” I say, pulling the cover off my bed. “Are you tired?”

  “Yeah.” She yawns. “Now that you mention it.”

  “Well, you better stay awake.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I say, looking toward the door. “I have an idea.”

  “ARE YOU SURE we should be doing this?” Jenna asks, clinging to the sides of the stair car as it drives us over to the airplane hangar. “Couldn’t we have just waited for it to park and then climbed up?”

  “No. This is all part of the experience,” I explain.

  She looks at me warily as wind blows in her face. Finally the car comes to a halt.

  “Thank you!” I call over the side to the driver. “I owe you one.”

  I hoist the bedspread I’m carrying over my shoulder.

  “Let’s go!” I say. I lead us up the temporary staircase and onto the roof of the hangar.

  “Okay, so, we’re on a roof?” Jenna observes after climbing up and dusting her hands off on the back of her sweat suit.

  I unfurl the blanket and sit down in the middle of it, gesturing for her to join me.

  “Jenna, you said that your real Make-A-Wish, your non–Disney World Make-A-Wish, was to camp out at the Grand Canyon and watch the sunrise.”

  “Right.”

  “So I thought that since I can’t get you to the Grand Canyon, I could do the next best thing.”

  I point out into the expanse of nothingness before us. The sky has turned the color of cotton candy, a gradient of pink and lavender and baby blue, and the sun has just begun to rise, its glow emanating from behind a patch of clouds. The way we sit, we can’t see the airport or the air traffic control tower or anything else. We’re not just sitting on the roof of some glorified giant shed. It’s like we’re sitting on the edge of the world.

  Jenna looks out into the distance. Her face is blank and she says nothing.

  “Well, maybe it’s, like, the next, next, next times a thousand best thing, but—”

  “It’s perfect,” Jenna says, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. She puts her arm around my shoulders and I put mine around hers.

  Before I know it, I’m crying too. I am what you might even call weeping.

  “You okay?” Jenna asks after a moment o
f hushed observation.

  “It’s just, I don’t feel like I’m staring into the sun,” I say. “It’s like I’m staring into the void. And the thing is? The void? It’s, like, really beautiful.”

  “It really is.”

  And so, we look out, staring into the void, together.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to everyone who made this book possible:

  My iconic editor Alex Sanchez who once knocked on my door and asked, “What do you think of purgatory?” It has been a joy to work with someone who so totally gets me, but also knows when to politely ask what the heck I am doing.

  Marissa Grossman and Jess Almon for your amazing brains without which this book would literally not exist.

  My publisher, Casey McIntyre, and the entire team at Razorbill.

  My agent, Dana Murphy, for your calming presence, over the phone and IRL. This is just the start of our long, beautiful businesswoman lifestyle.

  My publicist, Vanessa DeJesús, for spreading the word that this exists.

  Kelley Brady, for designing such a beautiful cover, and Jeff Rogers, for making illustration magic.

  My copyeditors Marinda Valenti and Kaitlin Severini, for saving me from calling Chili’s menu items by their incorrect names, among other things.

  My proofreaders Maddy Newquist and Krista Ahlberg.

  My first reader Haley Mlotek, for your genius observations and ability to make online shopping and airing petty complaints feel like a meaningful part of my artistic method.

  America’s Nicest Young Man, Brendan O’Hare for your constant emotional support, encouragement, and, yes folks, ability to make me laugh even when I am having a day where I think my writing is trash. I love you!

  Rachel Porter, for your thoughtful insights and feedback that made this book so much better.

  My family, Bill, Alicia, and Lydia Noone, for always believing in me.

  My friends, roommates, and/or coworkers who always lent me their ears and a steady supply of memes throughout the writing process: Lola Pellegrino, Hazel Cills, Brittany Spanos, Estelle Tang, Marie Lodi, Anna Fitzpatrick, Krista Burton, Brodie Lancaster, Allegra Millrod, Joey Vincennie, Eloise Giegerich, Rika Mady, Erin Kelly, Julia Panek, Kyle Hide, Claire Salinda, and probably many more, as I am really popular!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Gabby Noone is a writer and aspiring gameshow contestant. Her work has appeared in Rookie, the Hairpin, Jezebel, the Cut, and SSENSE, among other places. Her tweets have been featured in many prestigious listicles. She grew up in Abington, PA, and now lives in Brooklyn, NY. Follow her @twelveoclocke.

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