No Passengers Beyond This Point, Page 4

  “GO . . . SIT . . . BACK . . . DOWN!” The fringe on India’s vest shakes with each word. She points back down the aisle.

  “But India, I have to—”

  “Sit down and do not get up again or I will call the police.” She flips open her cell phone, her green fingernails hover over the buttons.

  “You can’t call the police on your own sister,” I tell her.

  “Try me.”

  “You won’t get your learner’s permit if we get in trouble with the police,” I say.

  Her head goes sideways. Her eyes get squinty and mean. “You really want to be the one to keep me from getting my learner’s permit?”

  “No.” I shake my head as big as it will shake. India follows me to my seat stepping on the back of my shoe, she’s walking so close.

  Finn doesn’t say one word now. Is it because he is worried about Uncle Red? Or is it because pimples are poisoning his brain? Every morning I check Finn for pimples and he doesn’t have any, but India says there are invisible pimples that grow under your skin. I’m not sure what I’ll do if pimple pus turns Finn mean, like what happened with India.

  Now I have to go to the bathroom. But I don’t want to go in a strange bathroom, so I hold it like at school. I will hold it until we get back from Uncle Red’s. I only like the toilet paper at home.

  CHAPTER 6

  TIME CHANGE

  Will Mom be okay for so long by herself? Will she go to my cousins’ basketball games? Will she eat with Aunt Sammy and Uncle Tito? What if she can’t get a job in Colorado? What if she decides to stay in California?

  Will there be a basketball team in Fort Baker? Is it too late to get on it? Should I have asked Coach P. for a recommendation? Does Uncle Red like basketball? What kind of a hoop did he get?

  “India?” I ask. But India ignores me. She’s busy texting Maddy. Sometimes it seems like Maddy is a computer virus that has taken over India’s brain. Although Maddy can be nice too. Last year this kid named Connor was picking on all the sixth graders, and Maddy clobbered him. She’s the only eighth-grade girl who would do that.

  Mouse isn’t worried about Uncle Red’s. She’s worried about the plane flight. She is standing in the aisle asking the flight attendant questions. How many wheels does the plane have? What happens if there’s a flat tire? If you fly through a cloud and all you see is white, how does the pilot know which way to steer?

  The flight attendant tells Mouse to buckle in, we are about to take off.

  “If it weren’t for you I’d be at Aunt Sammy’s right now,” India growls at Mouse.

  “Where would you sleep?” Mouse asks.

  “In the living room.”

  “Under the foosball table? Or by the lamp cord? If you’re by the lamp cord, the door will hit your head when someone comes in. And then Aunt Sammy and Uncle Tito and all our cousins will see your birthmark. I see it when you’re asleep. I always look.”

  “Sleeping is private. Do not look at me while I’m sleeping!” India is practically shouting. “And keep your nose away from my birthmark.”

  “It’s not that bad, India. Bing thinks it looks like a kangaroo.”

  “Like I care about Bing’s opinion. Uncle Red isn’t going to want you any more than Uncle Tito did. Who wants a kid who’s going to blow up the living room?”

  “I’m not going to blow up the living room!”

  “Shhh! We’re not supposed to talk about that kind of stuff on an airplane. We’ll be arrested,” I tell them.

  “She’s the one who started it.” Mouse points at India. “And anyway, I wanted to show him because he has probably never seen a pretend volcano.”

  India rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah, like that’s a priority for him.”

  “Look, we’re about to take off,” I say, hoping to distract them. The motor is revving up. The plane vibrates, then begins to hum as it picks up speed on the runway. With one great shudder, we’re airborne.

  I like watching the airport get smaller below us and then seeing the tiny matchbook houses with swimming pools all lined up and the cars like ants moving on the crisscross of streets.

  India is already tired of the window. She jams her head back against her head rest and closes her eyes. “What happens if she drives Uncle Red crazy? We’ll be homeless,” India says.

  “She’s not going to drive Uncle Red crazy,” I tell her.

  “Sure she is. She drives everyone crazy, except Dad because he never met her.”

  “Leave Dad out of this,” I snap.

  “I can talk about him whenever I want,” India says. “You don’t own him.”

  “India, just shut up, okay?” I tell her.

  Mouse wiggles in her seat. “We’re supposed to say our late father. Why, though? Was he late all the time?”

  “Mouse, give it a rest,” India says.

  “I don’t drive Bing crazy. Do I, Bing?” Mouse looks over as if he’s seated in the aisle. She pauses for his answer. “He says no.”

  “Bing is made up, for the billionth time. He’s all in your head.” India snorts without opening her eyes.

  “No, he’s not. He has identification and everything. Do you want to see?”

  “You drew his license. That’s not real.” India plugs in her headphones.

  “No, there’s something else I found when we were packing up but I’m not even going to show you,” Mouse says.

  India doesn’t answer.

  Mouse pulls off India’s headphones and India goes ballistic. “I don’t care. Do you hear me? I DO NOT CARE ABOUT ANYTHING YOU SAY, ANYTHING YOU SAW, ANYTHING YOU FOUND. Leave me alone!”

  “Let up on her, okay? She’s not the cause of every problem you have,” I tell India.

  “Yes, I am. I’m the cause of every problem she has,” Mouse says proudly.

  “Mouse, don’t aggravate her.”

  “Maybe I’ll have my own room. Actually, what I need is my own house,” India announces.

  “I need my own basketball court,” I say.

  “I need my own mouse wheel,” Mouse says.

  “If we are sharing a room, you are not getting mice.” India puts her headphones back on.

  Mouse organizes her markers all in a row and begins to draw. I’ve just settled in with one of the travel games my mom packed, a Rubik’s Cube, when a bell goes off and the pilot comes over the speaker system. “Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. We’ve had reports of turbulence in our flight path. Flight attendants, please secure the cabin.”

  Bouncing, jerking all around. Turbulence is a polite term for this, that’s for sure. It feels like the plane is having a seizure.

  The sky outside looks strange; half dark, half light, as if somebody forgot to tell the day sky it was night and the two have met unexpectedly. India pulls the shade closed as the plane wobbles and dips.

  A pretty flight attendant with puffy lips tries to maneuver the drink cart back down the aisle so she can buckle herself in. My stomach dives, then rises, bringing up the taste of leftover moo-shu pork.

  Mouse keeps on coloring, undaunted by the bumps and vibrations. She is determined to finish copying a picture of a Black Hawk helicopter she found in the seat pouch. She put a dog in the pilot seat and another one riding on the tail of the helicopter.

  “Henry?” I point to the brown dog. “But who’s her friend?”

  “Ask Henry,” she answers as she begins drawing signs for the dog pilot. No flying without dogs, one says.

  Mouse is having trouble with the second dog because the plane is jerking her markers all over the place. She takes out the barf bag.

  Uh-oh.

  But no, she’s not throwing up. She’s trying to draw the helicopter on the barf bag. This is crazy, but at least she’s quiet, at least she isn’t scared, at least she’s not trying to exit the plane and get her book again, and India isn’t threatening to call the police. I think Mouse was just upset about not seeing Mom in the window. Sometimes when Mouse gets upset it comes out in a weird
way. My mom told me that once.

  Up, down, up, down. I’m thirsty, I want to get rid of the Chinese food taste in my mouth that’s making my tongue feel hairy, but there’s no way the flight attendant will be able to serve drinks now.

  “India?” I flick the fringe on my sister’s vest. “What’s going on?” I’ve never been on a flight with this many bumps. “When is this going to end?”

  She shrugs, not the least bit concerned. She is more upset that she can’t text Maddy because you’re not allowed to use your cell when the plane is in the air.

  But hey wait. I push open the blind again. It looks as if we’re landing. We hit the runway hard, the tires bump and hit, bump and hit like the ground has come up too soon.

  My mom must have gotten these tickets cheap. Maybe pilot-in-training flights are half price because this pilot has no idea what he’s doing. I’d have done a better job than him. At least we landed, though. Jeez.

  I look over at India.

  Her forehead has worry lines. She peeks at her cell. “It’s only been an hour,” she whispers in my ear.

  “Time change?” I suggest. “Mom said it was an hour difference. Maybe your cell changes time zones automatically.”

  She nods hesitantly, then raises the window shade to peer at the sky. It’s night now, except for this one patch of blue—a puzzle piece from the wrong puzzle.

  “You should call Mom,” I suggest. “Now that we’re down, you’re allowed.”

  She clicks open her cell and hits the home icon, listens for a minute, then shoves the phone in my ear. The number you have reached has been disconnected, the recorded message states.

  We catch each other’s eye. The home icon isn’t home anymore.

  India stares out into the black part of the night. She takes a deep breath and hits the icon for Mom’s cell.

  I hear my mom’s recorded voice. At least her cell isn’t disconnected.

  India sighs and leaves a message: “Hi Mom.” Her voice trembles. “We’re here. The plane just landed. Call us, okay?”

  Mouse stands up. She’s finally finished copying the helicopter and she’s ready to go.

  “C’mon,” she scolds. “We’re the only ones left on the plane.”

  CHAPTER 7

  BEYOND THE JETWAY

  When I walk by the cockpit, the door is open and I see the pilot writing on his clipboard. From the back he definitely looks young. How old do you have to be to fly a commercial airline anyway?

  My footsteps sound hollow on the Jetway rug as if there’s nothing underneath us, but that’s the way Jet-ways are. They aren’t built to the ground on a solid foundation the way a building is. “India, what was it Mom told us we’re supposed to do now?” I ask.

  I steer my roller bag over the metal connector ridges with one arm and hold Mouse’s hand with the other.

  “She said somebody would be here to meet us in baggage claim. She said they’d have a sign,” India reports.

  “Uncle Red won’t be meeting us?” I ask.

  “What kind of sign?” Mouse hops up and down.

  “He doesn’t drive in Denver. He drives, but not that far, or not at night. I dunno, something like that. He sent some kind of car service.” India is walking as if she has to think about each footstep.

  “What kind of a sign?” Mouse is shouting now.

  “One with our name on it,” India explains impatiently.

  “That’s how we’ll know to go with him,” I say. “Remember how when we went to New York, there were people holding signs by the baggage claim?”

  Mouse’s legs are like springs. She can’t walk normally when she gets excited. “Yeah, but it’s not New York,” she says.

  “Duh, Mouse,” India snaps as we move past the gate into the lonely terminal.

  “Not Albuquerque. Not Phoenix. Not Salt Lake City. Not Ukiah.” Mouse keeps bouncing up and thudding down. It must be pretty late or else Denver is a smaller city than I thought, but it’s the capital of Colorado . . . isn’t it? Why is the airport so quiet?

  Mouse is still holding my hand, stretching my arm as far as it will go. She’s peering intently at something.

  “What is she doing?” India asks me.

  I shrug. “C’mon, Mouse.” I gently pull her along.

  “Not Tucson. Not Las Vegas. Not Grand Junction,” Mouse mumbles, bumping her suitcase behind her.

  We’re getting on one of those moving sidewalks. It’s traveling through a long passageway with mostly blank walls, except now and then a mural. A flock of birds in the air on one side, herons in the marsh on the other. The usual airporty stuff—a cross between a doctor’s waiting room and a tunnel.

  The airport is dimly lit. A janitor is mopping the floor by one concession stand. Another stand has a roll-down metal curtain, drawn and locked. The man behind the cash register tosses change into his cash drawer, the coins clinking rhythmically with his count.

  “India, what time is it?” I ask.

  She gets her cell out again. “Now it says almost midnight. That doesn’t make sense,” she mumbles.

  “Maybe it’s wrong.”

  “Oh no . . . that’s right,” Mouse says. “That’s what the man with the green socks said.”

  India rolls her eyes. “Whoever he is.”

  I look around at the deserted airport. “No one flies at night here?”

  “Apparently not.” India’s voice doesn’t have her usual bite to it. Her eyes are watchful.

  I’m so busy trying not to think of all the bad things that could happen to three kids in an airport at night that I can hardly see straight. I took karate a few years ago, but I’m not even a yellow belt.

  The moving sidewalk ends and we walk across a carpet that looks like a thousand birds with interlocking wings and then another moving sidewalk begins. Where are we going to meet this guy with the sign? How long will it take to get to Uncle Red’s?

  Mouse looks beat. She’ll probably fall asleep in the car. That doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me either. I’m in no rush to get to Uncle Red’s house. The only house I want to see is the one we left behind.

  Another short moving sidewalk takes us to the baggage area and there up ahead leaning against a wall is a short guy holding a white board that says TOMPKINS in careful capital letters.

  “Look! That’s us!” Mouse points, hopping on one foot.

  The man has a yellow vest, buttoned-down shirt, and gray suit pants but no jacket. He has a baby face with big bushy eyebrows, a thick mustache, and long sideburns, black like skid marks. He’s wearing a taxi driver’s cap that makes his ears stick out.

  The driver smiles as he takes India’s suitcase, sensing she’s the one who would want princess treatment. Or maybe he thinks she’s cute. I’ve had trouble with guys on my basketball team checking her out before. What do you do when the center on your team says your sister is hot? I’m hoping she gets a lot more zits or grows an arm out of the middle of her forehead really soon.

  India’s hand combs her long hair, holding it back as if she wants to put it in a ponytail. She can’t like him, can she? This little man is peculiar, plus she’s taller than he is.

  “I’m parked thataway,” the driver says, and we follow him across an almost deserted street.

  The only vehicles on the airport road are Segways.

  “Don’t mind them,” our driver says. “They’re always here.”

  “Segway riders?” I ask.

  “Yep. They’re waiting for flights that won’t ever arrive.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not on the schedule.”

  I’m trying to make sense of this as Mouse twists my arm like taffy. “It’s going to be a limo. I know it.”

  But the car is a shocking pink taxi with silky white feathers stuck to it in even rows as if someone had spent the better part of a month with a glue stick and a bag of feathers, carefully laying them end to end. It has bright pink whitewall tires and a pearlescent license plate that says WHTBIRD. It’s the kind of ca
r you might see down by the boardwalk at Venice Beach where the kooks all live.

  This can’t be the taxi, limo, whatever. We shouldn’t get in this car.

  Mouse has a funny look on her face, as if she’s found a hair in her hamburger. She hangs back with me, but India doesn’t seem worried.

  “Cool,” she says, snapping shots with her cell phone. She smiles at the little man as if this isn’t the slightest bit odd. The little man clicks his keys, and the feathers all rotate outward. The door opens automatically, revealing lush pink upholstery inside.

  Mouse’s lips pucker uncertainly. “Bing is not sure this is safe,” she whispers.

  “Just who I wanted to take a safety lesson from . . .” India snorts. “Bing.”

  “India, Mouse is right. This is too weird,” I whisper. “You need to call Mom.”

  India raises an eyebrow, but she clicks open her cell phone and pushes Mom’s icon, a bright red teacher’s apple. Once again, the call goes directly to Mom’s recorded message.

  She clicks the cell closed. “Does it look like we have a lot of options here?” she asks.

  The airport is eerie at night. The usual traveling hustle and bustle is completely missing. It’s cold and dark, and I’m exhausted. The soft plush taxi seats and the warm glow of the light inside beckons to us. There’s something that doesn’t quite add up about the driver, but he has a nice smile—clearly genuine.

  “It’s an unusual vehicle,” he concedes.

  “Uncle Red would have chosen a good taxi service. And Mom trusts Uncle Red, otherwise we wouldn’t be going to live with him,” India announces, but even she sounds doubtful.

  “Bing thinks we should call Uncle Red,” Mouse announces.

  “Now there’s an idea,” I say.

  India grinds her teeth, but she pops open her cell and dials the number Mom made her program in for Uncle Red.

  Mouse and I move in close to hear what Uncle Red has to say, but Uncle Red’s phone is a fast busy signal, which means the call isn’t going through.

  India and I look at each other.