the top of his head. “You can’t be perfect all the time, Mr. Man. It’s okay.”
He scrolls down the page. His eyes are lit up because he’s so pumped. Cassidy yanks in her breath and points at a picture of a giant wolf. “What’s that?”
“Fenrir,” Devyn says. “It’s part of the mythology. He’s chained by the gods, but when he gets free, it’s supposed to portend the coming of the apocalypse, basically, an all-out war between good and evil.”
“Lovely,” Cassidy says. “Can you scroll down more so I don’t have to look at it?”
Farther down we see a picture of the BiForst rainbow bridge.
“Much better.” Cassidy sighs and stretches her hands out to me to grab. “Can you believe you’re going to get Nick?”
“I can,” I say, smiling. “I really can.”
At home I gather up my suitcase and passport, and then I call Betty at work. She does not react well. She’s all, “You are
trusting
him!” Enough said.
The Bangor airport is small, with only two main gates plus an extra one off to one side for international passengers. Because its runway is so long and because of where Maine is located, this is where planes land if they are having trouble (drunk passengers biting flight attendants, engine issues) before or after they head across the Atlantic. It’s also where U.S. military planes land to gas up on their way to Afghanistan or Kuwait or wherever the country is fighting. There are troops here right now, lounging around in camouflage, talking on cell phones to people at home. In the gift shop, one soldier is telling a younger one to buy lighters. “It’s like gold over there,” he says. The younger soldier snatches up about twenty of them, thanking him. It’s heartbreaking, really, how young some of them are. We’re at war too, I guess, and I guess
we’re
young, but I don’t actually feel young as Astley and I make it through airport screening, smile at the TSA agents, and then hunker down in vinyl chairs right across from the gate agents’ desk.
I stare up at the giant number 2 at our gate. An airplane rolls down the runway toward Gate 1. A few people mill about. I breathe in the smell of people and metal and forced air. “I can’t believe we’re in an airport,” I say.
Astley runs a hand through his thick hair and pulls his laptop out of his dark leather backpack. “Most other pixies can’t fly on planes, you know. They can’t handle the iron.”
“Why don’t you share the magic iron pills then? Wouldn’t that be a good thing to do?”
He rubs the skin behind his ear and explains, “It gives our people an advantage.”
Our people. He calls them “our people,” but to me, my people are in Bedford, fighting, being threatened. The guilt drives me against the dark blue vinyl seat. I tuck my legs up under me, push my thumbs against the top of my eyes.
“Do you have a pain?” Astley asks me. His voice is right at my ear, worried, deeper than normal.
“I think my feet smell. My feet never smell except when I go on airplanes. Why is that?”
His hand goes against my forehead. “Are you ill? You are not making sense.”
I open my eyes, look at him. He’s worried and scruffy looking under the fluorescent airport terminal lights. “I’m fine,” I respond.
He lifts an eyebrow.
“Okay … I’m feeling super excited but kind of guilty about leaving,” I admit, rubbing at my forehead.
“Zara, I could travel myself. Are you sure you want to come?”
In front of me a little girl in white leggings with major visible panty lines and dark brown boots twirls around in a circle as her baseball-hat-wearing dad talks to the ticket agent. She pulls on her hair.
“Yep.” I watch the girl tug on her long brown hair, studying the strands as if she can’t believe they belong to her head. “Tell me when we’ll hear from your pixie friend again?”
“He said he would call me again once we arrived.”
The little girl crouches down, balancing on the tips of her
He scrolls down the page. His eyes are lit up because he’s so pumped. Cassidy yanks in her breath and points at a picture of a giant wolf. “What’s that?”
“Fenrir,” Devyn says. “It’s part of the mythology. He’s chained by the gods, but when he gets free, it’s supposed to portend the coming of the apocalypse, basically, an all-out war between good and evil.”
“Lovely,” Cassidy says. “Can you scroll down more so I don’t have to look at it?”
Farther down we see a picture of the BiForst rainbow bridge.
“Much better.” Cassidy sighs and stretches her hands out to me to grab. “Can you believe you’re going to get Nick?”
“I can,” I say, smiling. “I really can.”
At home I gather up my suitcase and passport, and then I call Betty at work. She does not react well. She’s all, “You are
trusting
him!” Enough said.
The Bangor airport is small, with only two main gates plus an extra one off to one side for international passengers. Because its runway is so long and because of where Maine is located, this is where planes land if they are having trouble (drunk passengers biting flight attendants, engine issues) before or after they head across the Atlantic. It’s also where U.S. military planes land to gas up on their way to Afghanistan or Kuwait or wherever the country is fighting. There are troops here right now, lounging around in camouflage, talking on cell phones to people at home. In the gift shop, one soldier is telling a younger one to buy lighters. “It’s like gold over there,” he says. The younger soldier snatches up about twenty of them, thanking him. It’s heartbreaking, really, how young some of them are. We’re at war too, I guess, and I guess
we’re
young, but I don’t actually feel young as Astley and I make it through airport screening, smile at the TSA agents, and then hunker down in vinyl chairs right across from the gate agents’ desk.
I stare up at the giant number 2 at our gate. An airplane rolls down the runway toward Gate 1. A few people mill about. I breathe in the smell of people and metal and forced air. “I can’t believe we’re in an airport,” I say.
Astley runs a hand through his thick hair and pulls his laptop out of his dark leather backpack. “Most other pixies can’t fly on planes, you know. They can’t handle the iron.”
“Why don’t you share the magic iron pills then? Wouldn’t that be a good thing to do?”
He rubs the skin behind his ear and explains, “It gives our people an advantage.”
Our people. He calls them “our people,” but to me, my people are in Bedford, fighting, being threatened. The guilt drives me against the dark blue vinyl seat. I tuck my legs up under me, push my thumbs against the top of my eyes.
“Do you have a pain?” Astley asks me. His voice is right at my ear, worried, deeper than normal.
“I think my feet smell. My feet never smell except when I go on airplanes. Why is that?”
His hand goes against my forehead. “Are you ill? You are not making sense.”
I open my eyes, look at him. He’s worried and scruffy looking under the fluorescent airport terminal lights. “I’m fine,” I respond.
He lifts an eyebrow.
“Okay … I’m feeling super excited but kind of guilty about leaving,” I admit, rubbing at my forehead.
“Zara, I could travel myself. Are you sure you want to come?”
In front of me a little girl in white leggings with major visible panty lines and dark brown boots twirls around in a circle as her baseball-hat-wearing dad talks to the ticket agent. She pulls on her hair.
“Yep.” I watch the girl tug on her long brown hair, studying the strands as if she can’t believe they belong to her head. “Tell me when we’ll hear from your pixie friend again?”
“He said he would call me again once we arrived.”
The little girl crouches down, balancing on the tips of her
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