“I’m not going,” I hear myself say. I’ve never said no to an adult in my life. It feels big—like earthquake, hurricane big. But Maria just sighs.
“Lou, you are still a minor. I understand you don’t want to leave your mother, but at this time everyone feels that it’s in your best interest to go to Tennessee.”
Everyone. Surely she doesn’t mean Mom, too? My face crumples. She sees it and starts to put a hand out but remembers her promise not to touch me and lets it fall.
“Honey, I know this is hard. And scary. But it is my entire job to make sure you are well cared for. I promise to keep you safe.”
I was cared for. I was safe.
I pocket the ticket and scream really loudly in my head. No one wants to hear what I have to say. No one cares. Mom cared, or I thought she did. But Mom’s not here. Maria waits by the bed while I gather my things—a plane ticket, a jacket, and Mom’s guitar that she passed on to Maria to give to me. I don’t want her guitar. I want her. I’m leaving without my mom, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
* * *
The airport in Reno is jam-packed. I have never been to an airport before. I don’t tell Maria this. She needs to think I can take of myself. I need to think I can take care of myself.
Maria explains that I won’t be able to take the guitar with me on the plane. We have to “check it,” whatever that means. When the man at the Southwest counter starts to take it from me, I can’t let go. No one touches Mom’s guitar but me and her. That’s the rule. He looks confusedly from me to Maria.
“I promise they’ll take good care of it,” she says, gently pulling the case out of my hands without actually touching them. It slides away on a black conveyor belt, and I feel like a part of my soul is going with it.
Then we move to security. The line snakes back and forth, row after row of people who are too close together. Every time we make it around a corner, there’s just more people. When a rolling suitcase bumps against my calf, I have to tug on my hair to keep myself from screaming.
When we finally get to the metal detector, I narrow my eyes at it, a too-small box that may or may not sound an alarm when I step into it. I step back.
“No.”
Maria says, “Lou, this is standard procedure,” as if that matters.
I shake my head so fast it whips my hair across my face and stings. Standard procedure.
“No.”
The line builds up, and people start to file around us, like we’re rocks in a river.
A guy in a security outfit with a name tag that reads JORGE asks me to step aside.
Maria follows and says, “She’s with me. Child Protective Services.” She shows him her ID.
“Miss, if you won’t go through the metal detector, then we’ll have to do a personal check,” he says, and then before I can answer, he yells, “I need a female check over here!” I flinch.
A woman in the same blue security getup as Jorge walks up. She’s snapping on gloves, and my stomach flip-flops. What does she plan to do with those?
“Hi, honey. I’m Sheela. I’m going to be performing your security check.” I look at her through my curtain of hair. She sounds nice enough, but my eyes are on the gloves. If this is like the hospital, you don’t put on gloves unless you plan to touch a person. I’m not going to let her touch me.
“Here’s how it’s going to go. I will ask you to lift your arms at your sides.” She mimics lifting her arms at right angles to her body just like I had to do with Dr. Janson. “I’m going to use my hands”—she holds up her gloved hands like a magician—“and run them along your back, down your sides, and rib cage, right here.” She touches her own waist and runs her hands up under her armpits. I take a step back. No. No way am I letting her do that to me.
“Lou,” Maria says. “It’s this”—she points at Sheela—“or that”—she points at the giant black box. “If you refuse, we can’t fly.”
“Good.”
I watch her exhale slowly through her nose and smooth the black and gray strands that have escaped from her bun. She leans down then, so we are eye to eye. “Lou, do you understand that if I can’t get you to Nashville to stay with your aunt and uncle, you will be placed in the temporary custody of a foster family?”
I picture this—people I don’t know telling me how to dress and what to eat and where to go. It’s not like Aunt Ginger is any different. But at least I can kind of remember her face. She and Mom have the same eyes, I think. I close my eyes and try to swallow. I spread my arms and pretend this is all in my head. For a second there’s nothing but the sound of airport announcements and the whirring of the conveyor belt pumping out carry-ons. I begin to hum the only song I can think of—“You Are My Sunshine”—to have a familiar sound in my head.
Then Sheela’s hands are on my back. I stop humming and grind my teeth. Her hands travel up my back and under my arms. I bite down so hard my jaw aches. And then she moves her hands down to my waist, and I can’t take it anymore. I smack at her hands and run a few feet away, against the benches where the people who are pulling on their shoes stop to watch me. Jorge follows. He looks nervous. I don’t care. I don’t care if I live with a foster family. I’ll just run away back to Mom, wherever she is. I will not let Sheela touch me again.
Maria pulls Sheela aside and whispers something to her. Flashes her ID again. They talk a minute longer while Jorge and I watch. Something in Sheela’s face softens, and then they both nod.
“All right, honey,” Sheela says as she walks back up to me over by the benches. She holds up a black wand-looking thing. “I’m just going to wave this down your back and up your front. No touching, okay?”
I look to Maria and she nods.
“Okay,” I whisper.
* * *
When we get to the gate, I collapse into a puddle in one of the seats. I have that total boneless feeling I get when a performance is over. Except this isn’t over. I’ve only made it through security. I’ve still got to actually get on a plane and fly across the country. I can see the plane from here, like a giant silver bullet with wings. I’ve never asked Mom if she’s flown. Will this be something I do that she’s never done? For the millionth time today, I wish I could talk to her.
Maria sits down next to me with two chicken burritos from the neon-lit food court. I eat mine so fast I swallow a little of the foil wrapping, too. I picture Mom laughing and shaking her head. She’d pass me a napkin and say, Manners, Lou. We’re not animals.
When we board, Maria makes sure I’m on the aisle so I don’t feel cramped. We sit in the first row. I study the plastic emergency pamphlet. All the cartoon people look weirdly calm while they barrel down an inflatable slide into the ocean. My heart hiccups. I put the pamphlet away and rub my sweaty hands on my knees.
The plane jerks, and I grip my armrests as we pull away from the gate. This can’t be normal? I lean into the aisle and look behind me. People are already asleep or watching movies. When I turn back around, the flight attendant smiles and mouths, It’ll be okay, and then picks up a phone on the wall to explain how to put on your oxygen mask. I feel a little bump on the runway and tighten my seat belt.