The 6:45 to Cleveland is, of course, delayed. Rolling her eyes, the woman retrieves her laptop from its sleeve to review the meeting notes for a seventh time. She pauses, pops a God-knows-how-old peppermint fished from the depths of her purse into her mouth, and that’s when she sees the girl: maybe eight years old with white-blond hair twisted into braids, a bubblegum-hued, bedazzled tee, and swathes of tulle cascading toward Twinkle Toed-feet. The wide-windowed corridor transforms into a runway as she struts, tiny hips swiveling to a silent beat, her mother following close behind.
The peppermint dissolves. The woman looks down at her own clipped, unpainted nails, tightly-buttoned top, beige Ann Taylor slacks with a splotch of that morning’s coffee just above the knee.
And now she’s thirteen, tracing swear words carved into stall walls as Shay and Liv laugh and shout “freak” by the sinks. She only had herself to blame, what was she thinking raising her hand to solve the equation, heart racing as she etched Xs and alphas into chalky existence, beaming at Mr. Boyd when he cried “that’s correct!” She recalls her tormenters’ receding footsteps, the slam of the door, then the unlatched lock and her mascara-striped face in the mirror.
Blinking, she returns to her 33-year-old present, the meeting notes still lit up on her screen. And that’s when she sees the ribbon, a magenta stripe in a haze of grey. Barely conscious of her unguarded suitcase, she staggers forward, stoops for the ribbon, races down the corridor. It doesn’t take long to find the girl, sitting next to her mom at a Starbucks.
“I think you may have dropped something,” she says. “Oh, thank you!” says the mother, “She’s always losing things, aren’t you, love?”
The girl blushes, smiling sheepishly. The woman bends toward her and hands her the ribbon, but not before whispering something into her tiny ear: “You look ridiculous.” She doesn’t wait to see the girl’s pained expression or the mother’s confusion. She just turns on her heel and marches back to her gate where the flight to Cleveland has finally arrived.
Alexis Bentz is a recent graduate from Washington University in St. Louis where she majored in English with a creative writing concentration. She was founder and president of Creative Writing Cafe, a student group in which those passionate about writing can share their work. She was also Editor-in-Chief of Spires, WashU’s intercollegiate arts and literary magazine. She aspires to be an author and English professor.
Euphony Journal 