Page 9 of Tilly in Technicolor
Tilly nods. “They call it the London of the Midwest. Our giant, red Free Stamp actually rivals Big Ben in landmarks of cultural significance,” she says, referencing a humongous forty-nine-foot statue of a rubber stamp with the wordFREEprinted on the bottom that sits in a random park in Cleveland.
The designer I reported to for my internship showed it to me on a tour around the city. When I politely asked her what the giant red eyesore was supposed to symbolize, she didn’t have an answer for me.
“Right,” I say, nodding. “I actually had an art print of the stamp hanging on my bedroom wall growing up. That was the sole reason I visited Cleveland.”
Tilly’s eyes twinkle as she picks up on my attempt at sarcasm. Which is rather terrifying. I don’t usually joke or talk with strangers like this, preferring the safety and comfort of people I know well and can trust to understand me.
“I hope you at least got to see our river catch fire while you were there. Also of huge Cleveland cultural significance.”
I blink at her. “What?”
Tilly snorts, waving her hand. “Sorry, that was very niche. Our river caught on fire in the sixties or something, and it’s contributed to our ‘Mistake on the Lake’ status. It’s probably better not to globally spread that nugget of information.”
“Probably not,” I agree. “Is this your first time visiting the UK?”
She gives a haughty sniff and pretends to flip her hair off her shoulder. “I’m quite cultured and well traveled, I’ll have you know.” Tilly follows it up with an exaggerated wink.
“Right. Your sparing use of ketchup really exemplifies your European disposition,” I say, pressing my lips together to hide a smile as I glance at the jarring red stain on her shirt. Tilly drops her head into her hands and groans, then laughs. I laugh, too.
And that’s when it hits me how…weirdthis is. I’m actually enjoying myself? Talking to someone? Perhaps I’m sick. But I decide to keep going. “What brings you to Lon—”
My words are cut off by a guttural wet noise a few feet from us, followed by a panicked “Uh-oh… I think…”
Our heads twist in unison toward the noise like wild animals hearing the approach of a stealthy predator.
A green-faced boy, probably about nine or ten, doubles over in the aisle a couple rows ahead. I can no longer see his face,but there’s no mistaking the earth-shattering sound of someone puking their brains out.
Tilly gasps, her hand flying out and clutching my arm. Our eyes swivel to each other, both of us too afraid to look at anything else.
The smell hits me next, and it’s like every nerve ending in my body starts weeping.
“Oh no,” Tilly says, eyes wide, a sheen of sweat breaking out across her forehead.
It takes me a moment, but I realize what thatoh nosignals.
“Tilly,” I say, my voice a raw plea. “No. Please, no.”
Tilly starts shaking her head rapidly. “There’s no stopping it. I’m a goner.”
“Resist! Resist!”
“I can’t!”
Christ. Here it comes.
Eyes stuck on me, Tilly starts dry-heaving.
“Absolutelynot,” I say, leaping up from my seat. In a blur of jerky movements, I thrust my hands under her arms, lift her like a rag doll, and spin her to face the aisle, charging out of the row of seats and toward the restroom behind us.
With little couth or grace, I push the man vacating the bathroom out of the way, ripping the door wide open and giving Tilly an oh-so-subtle shove inside before slamming it shut again and pressing my back against it as I pant.
I should probably feel guilty about the manhandling, but as the echoes of her vomiting rumble through the door, I’m just grateful for my timing.
I compose myself by tapping my fingers at my side for a moment, then walk back to my seat, aggressively jamming the overhead attendant call button.
After what feels like an eternity, the attendant from earlierappears with a sour look on her face. “This better not have anything to do with condiments,” she says, before noticing Tilly’s empty seat.
I shake my head, pointing weakly at the vomit spot. “Someone had an accident,” I say, trying not to breathe. The attendant’s eyes flick to Tilly’s seat again. “Not her,” I say, gesturing next to me. “Some kid.”
