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When I smile at her, she stares at me like I have six heads and she hates all of them, sucking in breath for an even louder shriek.
Time for the secret weapon.
I wave hello and her wail dies in a shaky whimper of shock. Hamming it up, I gasp at the smooth stump below my elbow, where the rest of my left arm should be. She gives a snotty giggle when I search the floor around my feet, like I might have dropped it. This bit entertains kids of all ages, and a scary number of adults, too.
Cooing, she reaches toward me. When her fingers brush my stump, she squeals with laughter and I can’t help smiling along with her.
“Ma’am?” The employee at the desk catches the mother’s attention. “We counted heads and there’s only one standby seat. She’s too big to sit on your lap, so we’ll have to move you to a later flight.”
The poor woman sways on her feet. Her wrinkled shirt has toddler food spit-up in a long streak down the back.
I don’t consider my next words very carefully. Thinking things through—or thinking in general—has never been my strong point. “Can she have my seat?” She needs to be home a lot more than I need to be following some tour guide around Bennet H. Tyler School of Law, collecting glossy folders of paperwork.
Everyone stares at me. “Really?” The woman tears up. “We’ve been stranded all night.”
“No problem,” I mumble as it hits me just how fucking big of a problem it’s going to be when my parents find out I missed a day of my very expensive orientation trip. Trying to change the subject, I offer the girl a high five with my actual hand. She misses and almost falls out of her mom’s arms. “Try again, kiddo.” Aiming more carefully, she slaps my palm with her tiny, sticky one. “There you go. You’ll be a softball star yet.”
The woman tosses a nonstop string ofthank you’s over her shoulder as the staff hurries her into line. “Wait around,” the employee tells me, “and we’ll print you some vouchers.”
Shoving my suitcase out of the way with my foot, I drop my backpack on the floor for a pillow and lie down next to the enormous windows. I delete the message to my mom and text Elliott.
Me: I’m too basic to have secrets.
Running my thumb along the drenched glass, I pretend it’s like a tent where the pressure draws the water inside, gathers it on your skin. The blurry lights from the baggage carts outside bleed together and run away into nothing.
“Sir?”
I roll over, guiltily hoping I didn’t leave fingerprints on the window. “Sorry. Am I in the way?”
The airline employee peers down at me. “We have a no-show in first class. If you’re open to an upgrade, we can get you on this flight.” She looks around the empty lounge pointedly, like I need to hurry my ass up and decide.
And here I was, wondering if they could stuff me in the cargo hold under a pile of suitcases. “Wait, seriously? Thanks. That’s so nice of you.”
I never mean to be an idiot, but sometimes people smile at the things I say like thank-god-he’s-cute-because-he’s-really-fucking-dumb. “I didn’t personally get the passenger stuck in traffic,” she chuckles, “but you’re welcome. We’re holding the plane for you.”
Ushering me to the counter, she prints a new boarding pass and hesitates when she realizes I’m already juggling two bags and a jacket with one hand.
“Could you please put it in my mouth? Sorry,” I add for good measure. Apologies are like a verbal tic at this point, a reflex to stop anyone from feeling uncomfortable when I need accommodations. Uncomfortable people get angry, and angry people get very mean.
“Hank hough,” I garble when she sticks the slip of paper between my teeth.
She cranes her neck at the clock. “Sir, you need to run.”
