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Dad may not have wanted this for me, but I don’t think he gets how much I want it for myself, how much I need it, actually. Dad works in numbers, but he doesn’t understand the messed-up math of college financials. Our family is too poor to afford any of the schools I got into. But according to the system, on paper, we’re too “rich” to get financial aid. And the few scholarships I was eligible for needed referrals, recommendations...connections. Middle-class people like us don’t have connections. So I didn’t even apply.
It’s better my dad believes I was too slow in getting applications done, too late to get support, too unimpressive to be granted help. Otherwise, he’d blame himself, and what else could he have done to put us in a different position in life? This is just how it is. The rich get all the opportunities and the rest of us have to figure out other ways.
This internship is my other way.
I picked Haneul not only because working for a Korean company is important to me, but I’m way more likely to get a recommendation from a Korean person-of-note. That is, as long as I am able to stand out and impress them. But I’m up for it. The competition for the internship was fierce. Rumor has it that there were thousands of applicants. But I’m proud to say that I am now one of ten new interns to be selected for the program. Step one, done.
Activate internal happy dance.
I look around, taking in the massive production that is LAX. I wonder how many people fly through this airport every day. It’s packed full of travelers unfazed by the thought of flying. That’s a good sign. I, too, can be unfazed, I lie to myself.
My attention catches on the guy standing two stations over. At first, it’s the long black trench coat, worn over a gray hoodie, that stands out to me. Who wears that many layers in this heat? My curiosity is piqued. Granted, LAX’s air-conditioning is no joke and I’m kinda wishing I had my own trench coat. I don’t own a trench coat. I literally do not know one person who owns a trench coat. And his isfancy. I, fashion-impaired as I am, can even tell standing ten feet away.
I can’t quite make out if he’s handsome or not, since the bottom half of his face is covered with a black mask and his ball cap is pulled low so I can’t see his eyes. But he exudes handsome. I bet he smells handsome too. It’s the air of mystery. Today I’m realizing that a possible international jewel thief or potential con artist is my type apparently because I’m very curious.
It would be fun to be seated next to a cute guy on the plane, exchanging witty banter, flirting to distract from my fear of free-falling thirty thousand feet to my demise. I wonder where this guy is going.
He tosses his passport at the airline worker, talking to her without even looking up from his phone.
Welp, there goes that fantasy. Rude to customer service workers means likely rude to his mother and would definitely be rude to me, his brief daydream girlfriend. And considering the possible lines of work I’ve assigned to him, I don’t think rude adds much charm to being a felon either.
“You’re all set,” Julie From Tampa says, holding out my ID and boarding pass.
I watch as my bag is none-too-gently tossed onto a conveyer. Goodbye, bag. See you in New York. Have a safe flight. Be nice to the other bags. Somehow I get the feeling even if possibly-cute-mysterious guy isn’t up to no good, he definitely wouldn’t be interested in me, the Luggage Whisperer. Go figure.
“The Preferred security line is to the right.”
I smile and nod. It was nice of Julie to tell me which line she prefers. I grab the documents and place them carefully into a folder in my new Coach tote bag. It’s my most precious possession. It was a miracle find at the Coach outlet store. Even though it was already marked down and the salesperson offered me an extra fifteen percent off because of the barely noticeable black scuff on the back of the tan leather, I spent more on it than I have on anything. I need a serious bag for my serious internship.
“This can’t be right,” I hear the frustrated trench coat guy say to the airline worker as I pass by. He has an expensive-looking backpack with a large triangle logo reading “Prada” hanging loosely from one shoulder, the front pocket unzipped. I have the urge to tap him on the arm and let him know before his stuff falls out.
But he seems upset.
He has a Korean passport in his hand. We’re likely not on the same flight after all. A sense of relief washes over me. I’m nervous enough as it is. I don’t want angry passengers bringing bad mojo onto the plane.
The security line is surprisingly short and the process a lot easier than I recall from the few times my family has flown together for summer vacations. Julie really knew what she was talking about when she directed me to this line. I see why she prefers it.
I smile at the TSA agent and hand over my boarding pass and ID. To get a head start, I bend over to untie my sneakers.
“Shoes stay on. Everything stays in the bag.”
I look up from my crouched position, confused.
“You don’t have to take your shoes off here. You can keep everything in your carry-on. Just place it in a bin on the conveyer.”
“But I got a see-through case for all my liquids,” I explain. “I made sure they were all under three ounces and whatever I couldn’t fit, I plan to purchase at my closest Duane Reade drugstore when I reach New York City since there is reportedly one on every third corner.”
Oversharing. It’s a gift.
“Good practice for next time,” the agent says, waving me through.
I feel a bit uncomfortable that TSA isn’t doing their job as thoroughly as they’re supposed to. Should I report this? See something, say something. But the agent was so kind to me—why is it my responsibility to call him out?
The other people in the line ahead of me, mostly older men in business suits, seem unbothered. They know this process like clockwork. They take more risks with their lives, apparently.
Plus, who’s gonna listen to an eighteen-year-old who has only flown three times in her life? I should trust those who know better and follow the lead of my elders. Sometimes I surprise myself at how old-school and Korean I really am despite not having been there since I was a kid.
I make it to my gate with fifty-four minutes to spare before boarding, my anxiety spiking when I realize I’m six minutes behind my carefully crafted airport plan. I won’t be the standout of the intern class by being late.
