Hate Page 13

  “Really?” she asked, her eyes wide, surprised I’d make a comment like that to someone I wasn’t close with.

  “Not really,” I said on a smile. “She’s just got a special brand of honesty. I, personally, either find it refreshing or annoying as fuck.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Whether she’s being honest with me or someone else,” I said on a laugh, giving her a wave as I walked past her and out the door. I still wanted to go by the shelter and check in, explain why they weren’t going to see me for at least the next week. I’d try to get in after that, but I had no idea how involved Gram’s care would end up being.

  Chances were it was going to take even more adjustment than I was planning on.

  Hustling, I rode the elevator down to the first floor, power walked through the lobby, and straight out the doors. The lights flashed as I bleeped the unlock button on my much newer Jeep Grand Cherokee, jumped in, started it up, and took off for the other side of town.

  The drive didn’t take long despite the heavier than normal traffic, and before I knew it, I was pulling into the Women’s Shelter parking lot. As I climbed out I paid attention, looking to see how long the waiting line was of women looking for a place to stay for the night.

  It was gratifyingly shorter than normal, only a couple of women standing outside the door along the outside of the building. Upon closer inspection I realized it was Shareena and her daughter, Maddie, who I’d talked to several times in the past.

  Shareena’s son had been shot and murdered in Camden earlier this year, and the cost of his funeral combined with the loss of his addition to their family income had left them destitute and without a roof over their heads. Shareena’s grief made me wonder about the DePlunzios, the commonality they found in losing a child troubling but undeniable.

  It goes against the natural order, robbing a parent of their child before they transition to the afterlife themselves. But it happens all too often, and sometimes, like in Shareena and Maddie’s case, it has a cascading effect that’s totally unexpected.

  “Hey, Shareena. Maddie,” I greeted, wrapping my empty arm around each of them as I did.

  They hugged me back as I commented, “I thought you got in at that apartment complex over on Nineteenth Street that Mr. Humar owns.”

  “We did,” Shareena explained, “But the city cited him for a couple of things, and he had to shut down the building until he can afford to fix it.”

  “Ugh,” I griped, referencing the local government. “Sometimes I don’t know if they’re working with or against us.”

  Shareena smiled, setting a good example for Maddie by taking it all in stride. “We’ll find another place in no time. In the meantime, hopefully they’ll have the space for us here.”

  “I’ll go check,” I told her, opening the door and heading straight to Roger’s office. He was the man with the information, and he’d be able to tell me if we had empty beds tonight.

  Two sharp raps on the wooden frame of the door brought his head up as I said, “Hey, Rog.”

  The casualness with which I used his nickname was as personal as our relationship went. Mostly, I was just a pain in his ass.

  “Hey, Whitney,” he responded, keenly cutting to the chase. “What can I do for you?”

  “We have a couple of beds for Shareena and Maddie?”

  He shuffled the papers on his desk to the side and looked. “Yeah, they’re yours.”

  “Great,” I said cheerily. “While you’re feeling so helpful—”

  “I’m not feeling helpful.”

  “—I figured I’d tell you that I’m not gonna be around for at least the next week. I’ve got family stuff.”

  “Whitney—”

  “You want to look out for Shareena and Maddie for me? That’s so sweet of you to offer,” I manipulated, not feeling even the least bit guilty.

  “Fuck. I’m a sucker.”

  “Thanks, Roger!” I cheered, and this time I meant it. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “Don’t rush,” he muttered under his breath, a little sensitive to the fact that whenever he saw me, he normally ended up with more work.

  I laughed long and hard before leaving, making sure to rub it in so he’d remember it was always easier to help me. If he tried to get out of it, I’d undoubtedly make it worse for him.

  The hall was quiet as I made my way to my desk, entering the necessary information into my computer to guarantee that Shareena and Maddie had what they needed for the night, scheduled myself as out for the next three weeks, and then headed out to give them the wristbands they’d need to wear while inside.

  With a quick hug from each of them, I was gone again, on my way home to pack for my trip.

  I couldn’t help but think that I loved when I could use my bullshitting skills for good instead of evil.

  I FUCKING HATED TERRORISTS.

  As I struggled to heft my brick of a bag up onto the scale at the check-in counter of Philadelphia International Airport, I realized that terrorism had done more than kill people and instill fear in others.

  Sure, those things were major. And I still thought about them from time to time. But as the years had passed, the reality of how horrible it had been had started to lessen. If I’d allowed the memories to remain open, I probably wouldn’t feel this way.

  But my box was sealed shut with an industrial strength glue, duck taped, and anchored to the bottom of the ocean.

  I didn’t forget, and I sure as hell didn’t forgive, but I had moved on.

  At least, I had tried.

  But in addition to all the obvious wrongs terrorism perpetrated, it had also killed the shit out of chivalry. Seriously, there were at least fifty men in my immediate vicinity and not one of them offered to help me with my unnecessarily large bag. Everyone was too scared that I had packed my favorite bombs today and didn’t want to have the swirly imprints of their fingers left behind when Uncle Sam came looking for the culprit.

  I mean, I hated the bastards for all of the obvious reasons too, but now my hate ran even deeper.

  To a place where it actually affected me on a day to day basis.

  You know how it is when you’re an outsider, dancing on the periphery with a good deal of sympathy, but not a whole lot of true understanding.

  I used to feel like I understood. Like I truly felt what Blane must have felt or how any of the other families felt now that they were a member short.

  But the more I tried to distance myself from my would-have-been love story, the more I felt like I never really understood at all.

  But this—not having someone to do the heavy lifting for me—I understood perfectly.

  You may get used to doing things for yourself, but some stupid guy had spoiled me with someone to count on for too long to totally forget.

  And I was tired of it.

  Sure, my problems were pretty pathetic, but they directly affected me.

  This meant war.

  Next time I ran into a terrorist I was going to put a death squeeze on his balls, stab him in the eye with a pencil, and then kill him.

  Or maybe something even more creative.

  Eh. Something to think on. I would probably have plenty of time to finalize my plans before it came time to put them into action.

  The ticket agent gave me the perfunctory comments and a few you’re-annoying-me-even-though-this-is-my-job nods, and I pulled my bag back down and thought about everything I had packed.

  All I really needed were a couple of day to day outfits, but the over-packer in me wouldn’t let it end there.

  No, a couple pairs of heels, a dress, and a few extra layers made their way in there too.

  Because you never know when I might need my overcoat in Florida. In July.

  Whatever.

  Thirty years in, I probably wasn’t going to change.

  Approaching the extra screening area, I wheeled my bag just under the edge of the divider tape, waited for the TSA worker to take it from
my possession, accepted his surly attempt at a passing pleasantry, and then turned to head for security.

  I had never minded flying, even post-September eleventh, but I always made sure to wear travel appropriate clothes.

  I needed to be able to strip down to the bare minimum in a matter of seconds, and preferably one handed. That’s why I stuck to flip flops, a basic pair of jeans that required no belt, and a low cut t-shirt or tank top, with a sweater stowed accessibly in my carry-on.

  Chivalry was dead, but every once in a while a low cut top could rouse a favor out of a boob man. And I wasn’t above using whatever resources with which I was equipped.

  As I took the escalator up to security, I noticed that it seemed really crowded. Even more so than usual. I was just about to let my wondering come to the surface, when the agent nearest to me shouted out an explanation.

  “All terminals, all gates. This is the only security checkpoint today. Terminals A, B, C, D, F, and E. All gates.”

  Well.

  “She almost got it right,” I thought aloud with a shrug. She only got one letter out of order. That wasn’t too bad considering she was one of the people in charge of making sure our flight stayed safe.

  Right.

  No need to worry.

  Having no other option, I got in line and chewed my bottom lip to pass the time. The skin of my lip paid the price, but in the grand scheme of things, I figured a little scar tissue was the least of mine or anyone else’s worries.

  After more than my fair share of time in line, I got called past the yellow line, showed my ID and boarding pass, and made it to the next line. People filtered through the full body scanner at a relatively steady pace, and I prepared myself to do the same by kicking off my flip flops, taking my laptop out of my bag, and searching the bottom of said bag’s contents for my plastic baggy full of liquids. Once my fingers wrapped around it, I clutched them tighter, pulled it out, and tossed it into the bin with my laptop.

  I know instinctually that laptops and liquids don’t mix, but in this case, my plastic baggy was zipped nice and tight. And my liquids weren’t what I would actually consider liquids since the contents were limited to lip gloss and lotion.

  But more importantly, having something else that you own in the bin with your laptop always made it easier to sort out of the landfill of them on the other end of the x-ray conveyor.

  Realizing how complicated all of this was, I wondered how Gram would do on the flight back.

  Shit.

  She would probably joke about packing some sort of contraband, refuse to take off her shoes, and attempt to pants the TSA worker.

  I was going to end up in federal prison somewhere with a crude, hand-carved bitch tattoo.

  Shaking the nightmares out of my daydream, I came back to reality just in time to hear the woman on the other side of the scanner prompt me, “Step in.”

  I obeyed immediately, dutifully placing my feet on the painted-on guide feet inside of the scanner, raised my arms above my head, and stayed as still as humanly possible for the two seconds it took the scanner to whoosh from one side to the other and back again.

  “Step out,” the same woman instructed, holding me there in front of her until my scan processed completely and showed no hidden knives or shivs.

  “You’re good,” she said, clearing me to head to the crowd at the end of the line, redressing and gathering shuffled belongings.

  Thankfully, as I’d planned for this, my time there was short, just a quick step into my flip flops and a grab of my bag, lip gloss, and laptop were all I needed to be ready.

  I glanced at the gate on my boarding pass (B9) one more time and decided to head straight there. I wasn’t running that late, but the one-pot-wonder security method had taken more time than normal and it wouldn’t be too long before we started to board.

  Food was a hard temptation to resist, but I turned my head the other way and held my breath to stave off the enticing smells as I passed the food court. I told myself the extra twenty pounds I was carrying was quite enough. Each pound had a buddy, ensuring no fat loneliness, and the feeling of exhaustion that exertion brought was already at a peak.

  My thirty year old body just didn’t burn fat the way it did when I was seventeen. As I got lazier with age, so did my metabolism.

  Still, I was happy with my looks and comfortable in my skin. Something millions of women weren’t. For that, I was thankful.

  Dozens of seats were occupied as I finally spied the gate sign for B9. People were antsy, shifting and shuffling, and making sure to gather all of their belongings without encroaching too much on the personal space of those around them.

  Airports were funny like that. People either avoided one another completely or chatted up every person who came within a fifteen foot radius.

  Much like I always had, I was one of the ones who preferred to keep to herself.

  I moved my eyes from one area to another as I approached, hoping to find a seat far enough away from the chaos to avoid sustained interaction, but close enough to know what was going on. While I wasn’t big on talking to people, I certainly liked to watch them.

  Finally, the magic seat appeared, at least three empty chairs away from all surrounding people, toward the side, but with a view of the television screen that displayed gate information.

  It was like a sweet spot.

  Stepping over coffee cups and adolescent limbs, I scaled my way to freedom with precision and caution. If I wasn’t careful, the bag on my shoulder just might swing around and nail an unsuspecting passenger in the face.

  I was just settling into my magical seat when the gate attendant called me up to the podium.

  “Passenger Lenox, National Airways Flight 498 to Tampa, please see the gate agent.”

  Grabbing all my stuff to make sure it remained untouched, I climbed my way back over to the counter, propped my elbows up with my ticket in hand, and informed the extremely pretty, somewhat exotic looking agent, “I’m Whitney Lenox.”

  She politely grabbed my ticket out of my hand, looked it over, and then proceeded to wreck my good attitude.

  “Yes, Ms. Lenox. I’m so sorry to inconvenience you, but we overbooked and had to reassign your seat.”

  Great. Why am I not surprised?

  Please tell me it was at least first class like I paid for, and please, sweet baby Jesus, let it still be in the aisle. I got way too claustrophobic in the window or middle seat, even in the bigger, more spacious seats of the rich and famous. As for being in first class, I’d decided to treat myself. Kind of like a reward advance for the hell Gram was sure to put me through.

  “What?” I semi-shouted, drawing the attention of several people I didn’t want to. Read: Anyone who wasn’t me or the lady with the bad news behind the counter.

  Okay, time to take a deep breath. I was starting to turn into a real diva, and if I wasn’t careful, I was going to end up the star of my very own Snicker’s commercial.

  “But I’m checked in. It gave me a seat.” Reaching over and pointing at my ticket until she gave my hand a scathing look, I argued, “Shouldn’t it be the other person who gets bumped? I thought that was how this worked.”

  She continued to stare at my hand until I retracted it, set my new boarding pass on the counter in front of me, and vaguely apologized, “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  All explanation stopped there, and her face told me not to push my luck. Her eyebrow was raised, a perfectly sculpted arch, and I could have sworn I saw her glance at the phone as if to say, “I could have you strip searched within an inch of your life.”

  It’d probably be best if I didn’t push my luck. I liked the idea of a strip search, but not the kind they had in mind—something that no doubt involved an extraordinarily robust woman.

  Expelling a big breath, I looked down at my ticket and noticed I was only one seat over, in 2B, rather than 2C. Unfortunately, that meant the middle seat.

  My psyche was thrilled.

  However, I had hope t
hat the person next to me would be willing to switch. I knew the likelihood of someone wanting to go from the aisle to the middle was slim, but I wasn’t bad at selling. And if the occupant was male (and straight), my shirt might come in handy.

  After all, this was why I wore it. And, lucky for me, three of my extra twenty pounds lived in my boobs.

  My seat beckoned, but before I’d made it two feet from the desk, my new best friend was starting the boarding process. And, for once, I wasn’t one of the little people. Those people that got to board first because they were better than everyone else—I was one of them!

  Holla!

  Pulling a Missy Elliott, I flipped it and reversed it and headed straight back toward the entrance of the jetway.

  When I met my former foe at the ticket scanner, I tried on a much more pleasant personality for size. “Hey. Me again,” I fumbled like a dweeb before realizing she was there for a very specific purpose, as was I, and I wasn’t making it easy on either of us. I handed her the ticket quickly, and she scanned it just as fast. “Thanks so much!” I tried again as she handed it back with a stoic expression.

  Crap. Just put me out of my misery.

  This shade of overly-polite wasn’t really my color. It washed me out. All that sunshine I was blowing was yellow, which is hard for anyone to pull off.

  Making quick work of traversing the jetway, I climbed aboard the plane and greeted the flight attendant with a much more believable tone.

  “Good afternoon,” she said with a nod.

  “Hi,” I answered with a small smile.

  Looking to my right, I saw the carefully styled top of a brown-haired head in the seat that once was mine.

  Score!

  Male.

  “Excuse me,” I said sweetly, hoping to grab his attention and use a little flirting to assess how effective my shirt would be.

  What I wasn’t prepared for were the hauntingly familiar blue eyes that met mine. Blue fucking torture devices I hadn’t even thought about in over ten years.