closer. ‘What’s that?’ She looks down at Christopher’s hands – at the paper model he’s holding.
I look down too.
My insides flip.
He made a plane. A paper plane.
Slowly, he scrunches it up into a ball.
‘It’s nothing,’ he says.
The woman shrugs. ‘Come on,’ she tells her guys with the microphone and the camera and then walks off.
I watch her stride through the sliding doors into the terminal building and get a sick feeling at the back of my throat. She’s going to interrogate all those poor people inside. She’s going to make them feel even worse about what’s happening. At least she’s left Christopher alone.
When she’s gone, I sit back down.
Christopher sits down too. He lets out a long sigh like he’s letting out a whole lot of air that’s been building up inside him.
‘Dad would hate that,’ he says.
‘Hate what?’
‘All the fuss. The reporters. They say they want to help but they don’t. They make everything worse.’
‘They don’t help?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘When he’s not doing his regular job, Dad does charity work: he goes to disaster relief zones, after earthquakes and fires and stuff. He can get there quicker than most people. He goes to deliver supplies. And he says that the reporters focus on the wrong stuff and make people more scared. And when people are scared, bad things happen. Keeping people calm, making people feel safe – that’s what matters.’
It’s weird. Sometimes, when Christopher talks about his dad, I get the feeling that he doesn’t really like him, that they’re not close, but then he says something like that and it’s like his dad’s his hero.
‘I’m sorry—’ he stutters. ‘They get to me, that’s all.’
‘It’s okay, I understand,’ I say. ‘That’s why I told her to get lost.’
He nods. ‘Thanks.’
Leda flops between us.
We sit there, listening to the planes taking off and landing. So many planes. So many people.
Then, all of a sudden, Christopher looks up at me.
‘About your brother – I think it’s going to be okay. UK Flyer has one of the best safety records.’
‘Blake’s not on the plane.’
Because he’s not. He’s not where he’s meant to be. He’s probably miles from the wedding. But there’s no reason he’d be on the plane that’s crashed. That’s not an option.
Christopher doesn’t answer.
Leda shuffles in closer between us.
And for a long while, neither of us say anything.
We just keep waiting.
17.32 EST
It takes us over an hour to get the car back. Christopher was right, it hadn’t reached the impound lot yet. When I got through to the state police, I told them that my brother was on the plane that’s gone missing, the one that’s on the news. I felt bad for lying but telling them the truth – that I don’t know where Blake is and that I’d just parked illegally because I was in a rush – wouldn’t have got my Buick back. Anyway, it worked.
I hope the reporter didn’t get any of me on film. Mom always has the news on, especially news from DC, in case she needs to rush back to the White House to give some kind of legal advice. She’ll get so mad if sees me standing at Dulles right now. And if she catches wind of the fact that I’ve been caught up in this whole plane crash thing, she’ll totally flip.
After that reporter left, I went back into the airport terminal to get some food and water for Leda. The TV screen was still showing the same picture of that bit of metal floating on the sea. It turns out that the stretch of ocean is off the coast of Ireland, which they’re saying was at the beginning of the plane’s route. But all kinds of crap gets washed up into the ocean, right? That’s what I want to tell Christopher, who’s been really quiet since the reporter left us.
When the tow-truck guy finishes giving us a lecture on not parking illegally, he gets out one of those wireless credit card terminals and holds it out to me.
And I freeze.
I’ve spent all my cash on gas, having my nails done, and getting the sun filter for my telescope. And using the emergency credit card is out: first, because I already pulled out a large sum paying for Blake’s flight and second, because Mom will get an email alert. And she’s smart: she’ll notice that the transaction was made to some parking fine business in DC.
‘We take credit or debit,’ the guy says.
‘You’re kidding, right?’
I’m hoping that if I act surprised enough, he might change his mind. It’s a trick Blake taught me.
Except the guy looks at me like I’m an idiot. I should have learnt this lesson already: Blake’s tricks minus his charm don’t work.
‘No, I’m not kidding,’ he says, his voice deadpan.
‘You’re seriously making me pay a fine?’
‘Yeah. It’s policy,’ the guy says.
I consider pointing out that it’s not policy to drive a car back to its owner once it’s been towed. And that policies don’t really count when it comes to our particular situation. But he’s been pretty accommodating up to now and I don’t want him to take the car away again.
‘I can’t afford that,’ I say, staring at the $200 displayed on his terminal.
The parking control officer rolls his eyes.
‘I could lend you some money,’ Christopher says.
My first instinct is to say no.
Mom and Dad have raised us never to borrow money from anyone. Well, they’ve raised me and Jude not to borrow money from anyone. Blake does his own thing. Plus, I feel bad – I don’t even know Christopher. And I don’t know when I’ll be able to pay him back or how.
But I can’t stop thinking about how, if I leave now, I can still make it to the rehearsal dinner.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
When the guy drives back off, I put Leda in the back and get into the driver’s seat.
Then I sit there, the door open, staring at the silver guitar pendant hanging from the rear-view
