One


I wore my last remaining girlie shirt to the airport. It was pastel purple with a tiny frill at the sleeve and collar, and two heart-shaped silver buttons. It was exactly the kind of shirt Mom used to buy me. And the kind of shirt I swore I would never wear. Not anymore. Especially since it was already two sizes too small, but it didn’t matter. I stood as straight as I could, angling my shoulders and neck the same way a ballet dancer would. I knew how because my parents had season tickets to the New York City Ballet at Lincoln Center.

The shirt. The stance. The touch of Vaseline I’d dabbed on my lips. It was my last-ditch effort to stay in New York City, where I belonged. Maybe Mom would take one look at me and change her mind.

“Qatar Airways flight 5179 to Barcelona will begin boarding first class, business class, and families with young children at gate C7 in ten minutes,” a woman’s voice announced.

Okay. This is it.

I fluttered my eyelashes.

Mom smoothed her silk Hermès scarf with her delicate fingers. She glanced at me. But it was like she wasn’t really seeing me. Like she was skimming the newspaper with her tortoiseshell eyes.

“Well…” Mom stepped closer, into the light. Her skin was flawless, her lips a matte burgundy, her eyebrows perfectly arched. “I hope you take this time to reflect, Alba. To make some changes … I think Spain will be good for you.”

I exhaled. My ballet posture deflated. “Okay,” I mumbled.

Suddenly there was a mass of people crowding around us, bumping me with their carry-on bags as they lined up. A lady in a uniform the same shade as Mom’s lipstick approached us. She had this ridiculous hat tilted on her head with a small gold pin of a deer or impala or whatever.

“Hello, Mrs. Green. I’m Sofia, and I’ll be taking care of Alba on the flight.” The lady smiled and bowed her head, and then she placed one of those sticky-label thingies on the side of my chest. I glanced at it and read it from upside down.

Alba Green

QR 5179

Unaccompanied Minor

The label made me feel like a dumb kid.

“Thank you, Sofia. May I have a moment with my daughter?” said Mom.

“Of course.” The flight attendant stayed put. She half turned, focusing her gaze on the glass window with the big white airplane on the other side.

I stared at my black Converse and wondered what would happen if I dropped my backpack and ran. How far would I get before someone caught me?

“Alba.”

I looked up.

“Please. Try not to hate me. This will be good for you. You’ll see,” said Mom, placing her hand on my cheek.

I stood there, speechless. No matter how Mom framed it, the bottom line was, I was being cast out. Banished. Mom had finally made good on her threats.

“We should go,” said the flight attendant over her shoulder.

I stepped away, but Mom pulled me back. “Wait.” She had tears in her eyes. Tears that dribbled down her cheeks, leaving grayish mascara tracks on her pale skin.

I was shocked.

I had never seen her cry.

“Crying is undignified.” Those were her words. Not mine.

“Mahal kita,” she said, so softly I could barely hear her. I love you, in Tagalog. She only ever spoke it when Dad was around.

Out of habit, I scanned the terminal. But he was nowhere in sight.

Maybe she was just being sentimental.

Whatever.

I moved backward, slowly. I watched her wipe her face with the tips of her fingers. The tears were gone and so was her makeup. Under her right eye, the skin was a yellowish green—the color of a nearly faded bruise.

“Bye, Mom.”

I turned my back on her, like she’d turned her back on me.

I walked off and followed the clicking of the flight attendant’s high heels.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

She gave my ticket and passport to another lady with the same uniform on. And then we turned into a corridor. The flight attendant started talking. Blah. Blah. Blah. “I like your short hair. It’s so cute. Perfect for summer in Spain.”

I nodded and kept on walking with heavy feet.

For once, I just wanted to stay home with Mom. Even if it meant being around Dad. Not that Dad was around much. When he was, it seemed like he could barely stand being in the same room as me.

He didn’t want me.

And of course Mom did whatever he wanted.

So I guess she didn’t want me, either.

I paused at the crack between the walkway and the entrance to the plane. My breath halted for a second and then heaved, as if there was only a bit of oxygen left on earth.

“Alba?” The flight attendant touched my arm.

I flinched.

This was it. My last chance to run.

My heart pounded against my chest, creeping up my throat until it felt like I was choking. I coughed, then swallowed. But the lump of fear, of anger, of sadness, of regret, stayed put.

They really didn’t want me.

I was alone.

I stepped over the threshold.

Because what did I have left to lose?

Nothing.


Two


I’d forgotten how small airplane bathrooms were. As long as I stood in the same spot, there was just enough room to place my backpack on the lid of the toilet, pull out my extra clothes, and change. I stuffed the purple shirt deep into the bottom of my bag.

Breathe.

I stared back at myself from the mirror.

It was me.

The real me. Not the me I’d fabricated for Mom’s sake.

I had on my favorite T-shirt, which I’d found in a thrift store. It was faded and gray, featuring a glam-rock David Bowie with a red bolt of lightning striking through his face. Mom hated it and Dad hated it even more. It was kind of ironic, since Mom was the one who’d introduced me to David Bowie’s music. I remembered it like it was yesterday, because it was the first time I’d gotten suspended from school—I’d hurled an open carton of chocolate milk at Alexis, the sixth-grade mean girl who insisted on making my school life a living hell. We were in a cab, on the way home. Mom’s lips were sealed tight. She had nothing left to say to me. All she did was sit stiffly on the other side of the seat, as far away from me as possible. Once in a while, I’d steal a glance at her as she glared through the window, unmoving. But then a song came on the radio. The cab driver turned the volume up.


Text copyright © 2021 by Tanya Guerrero