Page 3 of Tilly in Technicolor
It was, to put it delicately, absolute ass.
The only time I hadn’t felt tortured was during AP Lit. I’m always able to lose myself in the works of others. That’s how I know I want to be a writer. I want to hop along similes and revel in hyperboles. I want to make people feel and experience and live through the stories I tell.
I also want to avoid going to college to do so.
But explaining that to my parents generates a more horrified reaction than if I told them I kick kittens as a hobby. It’s made worse by the fact that perfect Mona went to a perfect university and graduated at the top of her perfect class and blah blah blah. Mona set an educational bar that I can’t even skim with my fingertips, no matter how hard I jump and struggle.
We finally pull off the highway for the airport, and when we roll up to my terminal, I scramble out of the backseat like a puppy at a park. I can’t stop the little bounce in my legs as I take in the movement around me, the rumble of suitcase wheels along the sidewalk and thewhooshof the automaticdoors sliding open and closed as people take their first steps to their next destination. It’s so exciting I could puke.
“Try to stay organized at each hotel,” Dad says, pulling my overflowing bag out of the trunk and handing it to me. “Don’t dump out your suitcase and have things everywhere or you’ll forget something in each country.”
“Okay,” I say, accepting my backpack from Mom and grabbing my suitcase from Dad. I do feel a pang of sadness at leaving. As much as my parents drive me bonkers, I will miss them.
“Leave Tornado Tilly in the USA, please,” Mom says, pulling me into a hug. “We don’t want you to lose anything important.”
A tiny hole is popped in my bubble of excitement. With that fabulous moniker, I feel a little less sad about leaving.
“I love you,” I say, giving Mom and Dad one more kiss on the cheek before turning and marching toward those sliding glass doors that are the entrance to my grand adventure.
“Don’t lose anything!” Mom repeats as I step through the doors and am smacked by the cold AC.
“I won’t forget a single thing!” I say over my shoulder with a wave before heading to security.
Chapter 3Failure to Launch
TILLY
I forgot my luggage at security.
I swear, it wasn’t my fault, but between the crush of bodies and trying to keep track of my shoes and my backpack and my phone while also being swamped by the echoing chaos of the airport and being so damn excited about everything, I may have made the oh-so-small mistake of leaving my suitcase at the security checkpoint.
“It rolled straight from my hand!” I say to the TSA woman who’s giving me a bland look. “There I was, walking along, palms all sweaty because, truly, is it always this hot in here? And thenpoofmy bag slipped from my grip and I’m not sure if this airport was built on a tilt or what but it rolled right back here and that’s why—”
“You left it on the belt,” the woman says, jerking her head toward the X-ray machine.
“It… uh… have you heard of levitation?”
The woman rolls her eyes. “Come over here.”
I follow her, and she stops me in front of a large metal table, slinging my overstuffed bag on there like it’s a slab of meat.
And then, she proceeds to do the unthinkable.
She snaps on latex gloves, unzips my bag, and starts pulling things out.
For all the world to see.
She begins, of course, with the underwear. There really is no other option for her. She pulls out handful after handful of my cotton panties, setting them down on the table next to my hot pink suitcase. The mountain she creates is so big, I want to absolutely die. An endless stream of people walk by, and we get more than a few double takes at the undie Everest growing on this table.
And next, oh joy, is my supply of tampons. Box after box, she pulls them out, creating a small barricade around Mount Fruit of the Loom.
After what feels like hours of her digging through my possessions—she inexplicably is able to leave all my T-shirts and sundresses in the suitcase while my underwear creates a massive beacon of attention—she lets me go with a stern warning not to leave my suitcase unattended again. After that experience, I’m tempted to travel without luggage for the rest of my life.
I barrel to my gate like a bat out of hell. This is not the classy-ass airport experience I envisioned. I wasn’t able to stop at an overpriced restaurant and buy spinach-and-artichoke dip like a mature adult. I don’t have an iced coffee in hand as I stroll up to my gate looking cool and sophisticated. I didn’t peruse the airport stores and buy glossy fashion magazines to breezily flip through on the plane. I haven’t thrown my head back and laughed intriguingly at something a gorgeous stranger saidonce.
Instead, as I bound up to the ticketing counter at my gate, I’m sweaty and frazzled and at risk of missing my flight becauseI sprinted in the wrong direction for fifteen minutes before realizing and circling back.
“Take a deep breath, dear,” the ticketing agent says, giving me a terrified smile. “We had a little delay, so you’re right on time.”
