10 11 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW place where wind is always gentle (except during the hurricanes), and the sky cracks and bleeds each night into hibiscus clots, bruising into irises. I’ve checked the weather in Cincinnati. High of 31. Partly cloudy. A dusting of snow in the yard, my parents say. A stark contrast to a Floridian 72. When I get to the gate, the plane isn’t even there yet. But there’s a Starbucks, freestanding right smack in the middle of everything. I’m sugared-out but one last treat won’t hurt me. The line wraps around into a snail shell. I have the time to wait. Behind me, a mother argues with her teenage daughter about what drink to order. The mother is weighed down. Middle-aged, honey blonde, one little black suitcase leaning against a big, glossy grape one. “They won’t have time to make that, honey. We’ve got to get on the flight.” Dad calls me. I answer, trying my best to tune out the noise. “Hey,” he says. “When you get a chance, talk to the gate agents. Find out if they’re gonna give you a seat. If not, you’re gonna need to get on that next flight. The connection to Atlanta. It’s got 26 seats open so you’re guaranteed to get on…” “But Mom, I want the iced chestnut praline latte! Please? Pleaseee?” The girl whines. She looks to be about 13, caramel hair falling in strings over her shoulders, pooling up in her hood. I try not to make eye contact with her but it’s hard. Exposed beneath tented brows, her eyes glaze with longing. “Fine. You get nothing. You sassed me, that’s it.” “But Mom. MOM.” Dad’s voice brings me back. He’s not just talking anymore. He’s asking me a question. “Does that sound good?” “Uhh. Yes. Should I talk to the gate agent now?” “I’d wait until they’re not too busy.” “Okay, cool. Sounds good.” I glance over at the gate agents. A man and a woman. They’re busy alright. Their red-and-blue Delta vests pop, elegant against the pajama-gym-clothed travelers. What appears to be my plane is only now rolling towards the jetway. My dad and I exchange a few more words. “See ya girl,” he says, and I’m grateful that the conversation is ending because I’m almost at the front of the line. “See ya.” We hang up. “What can I get for you today?” The girl behind the counter speaks before I’m ready. Her dull-buckeye eyes and toned, sweat-damp cheeks expose the exhaustion behind her smile. I’m suddenly glad I’m not a barista.
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