The Byron Incident

I remember when I was thirteen and I had my first crush on a boy named Byron Newton.  He turned out to be an asshole, of course.  He was nice at first, but almost over night, he just changed.  One day we were BFFs, the next he seemed to hate me.

He convinced a lot of other kids to start drinkin' the Haterade with him as well.  After a few months of his manipulation, it was like Voldemort and his God damn Death Eaters were after me.

It was ridiculous.

Fortunately, I moved to Germany a few months later and I didn't have to deal with it anymore, but it's proven to be a pretty pivotal time in my life.

  After my dad got called to serve in Germany, I realized the Byron incident was only the first of many slaps-to-the-face of life I was going to receive throughout my informative years.

Sometimes I still look back on everything that's happened and trace it all back to him, and I think maybe it's his fault that I'm the Annabel I am today instead of the Annabel I was back then.  Sometimes I wish I could still be that innocent, ignorant kid that I was before I grew up.  Sometimes I wish I hadn't changed.

But that's just me being stupid.  Realistically, it wouldn't be such a good thing to have the mind of a thirteen-year-old when you're actually seventeen.  Change is as inevitable as it is necessary to survive. 

Shit happens, right?

Which brings me to where I am now:  In a plane over Lake Michigan from Hamburg, Germany; on my way to bury my dead father in his hometown.  My mother is typing away furiously beside me and hardly notices the pilot come on over the speakers with the forecast and warning that we're about to land.

Her husband dies and she still can't think of anything other than her work.

Okay, that might be a little unfair.  She's the type of person that copes with pain by distracting herself with editing the “next great American novel”.  She doesn't have good coping skills at all.  She either acts like she doesn't care at all, or freaks the hell out.

You should have seen her when I broke my wrist last year on a ski trip and had to go to the E.R.  You'd think I'd been murdered and brought back to life with the hysterics she was in.

“Ma,” I nudge her.  She jerks her head away from her laptop and looks at me with big brown doe eyes as if she had forgotten I was sitting next to her.  “We're about to land.  Put on your seat belt.”

“Oh,” she mutters a bit flustered while she looks around at the rest of the cabin quickly before snapping her computer shut and clicking her safety belt together.  “How are you doing, honey?” she asks.

“No change from this morning,” I say.  “I think I'm still numb.”

She grimaces slightly and I know she's inches away from having a mental breakdown.  No need to ask her how she's coping with Dad being gone. “I meant about coming back to Chicago,” she lies with a fake smile.

“Oh.  Screw Chicago.”

The elderly woman in the seat in front of me turns slowly around to give me a disapproving, judgmental look as we start to descend.  Oops.  I forgot that a woman swearing was like spitting on the queen the Queen back in the Middle Ages. 

Mom gives me a warning look.

“I still don't understand why you hate it so much,” she says, gripping her armrest in discomfort with the steadily increasing atmosphere.  “You've never told me why.”

“Who needs reason to hate anymore?”

She gives me a sideways glance full of motherly annoyance but doesn't press me further.  She's probably too distracted by the unpleasant jolt going through the plane as the wheels meet the ground.

As soon as we're actually inside the O'Hare Airport, Mom says to me, “I'll go get our luggage.  Go find your aunt and call me when you do.”

I obey and let her go off to the baggage claim and I start walking in the opposite direction.  There's a lot of confused looking people around me right now.  I guess since this is the International Terminal, I'm surrounded by foreigners--mostly on holiday, I'm guessing since it's mid-December--and I'm pretty sure nine out of ten of them don't have a clue what they're doing right now.

I try to navigate my way through the crowd as quickly as possible without shoving or pissing anyone off, failing when I accidentally step on the toes of some frustrated Russian with his panties in a bunch.  I wince apologetically and scurry away from his glare before he can go all Hulk-smash on me.

I'm almost three-fourths of the way through the mob and think I've spotted my mom's sister when I feel a hand grasp my shoulder and someone says, “Annie?”

I hate when people call me Annie.

I stare at the long fingers resting on my my shoulder for a few beats before deciding to turn around and face him while trying to hide the involuntary grimace that's taken command of my lips.

“Annie, it is you!” he says with his apple-green eyes wide and a pleased look on his tanned face.  His dark brown hair reminds me of a young Elvis' slightly tousled pompadour.  I don't know if he's got some serious balls to wear his hair like that, or maybe he's just lost track of the millennium. 

“Don't you remember me?” he asks, still with that pleased look that implies he doesn't suspect for a moment I've forgotten him at all.

“Holy hell,” I say flatly after I blink a few times. “What are the odds?”

He gives me an inquisitive look for a split second before asking, “What are you doing back in the States?”

“My dad was killed,” I say with as much apathy as I can muster.  “My mom and I are here so we can bury him in his hometown.”

His face falls.  “Oh my God.  I'm so sorry, Annie,” he puts his hand back on my arm in a comforting gesture.

“I go by Annabel now,” I say.  “And it's okay.  We're okay.  What are you doing here?” I ask, eager to steer the conversation away from me.

“It's Christmas Holiday, so Tane and I--you remember Tane, don't you?  From back in the day?” he waves his hand behind himself vaguely towards a jumble of people where Tane must be hidden among.  “We've saved up enough money to vacation in the Caribbean for two weeks.  It's sort of our senior trip, too.  We fly out in an hour.”

“Wow, that sounds like it will be a lot of fun,” I say.  “But I should probably go meet up with my aunt and call my mom before she craps a kitten.”

“Alright, then,” he grins.  “Are you going back to Germany after the funeral?” he adds.

“No.  My mom wants to be with our family.”

“And are you coming back to school after break for second semester?”

“No, homeschooling.  If I went back to public school, I wouldn't graduate on time because of their bullshit requirements.” 

Not to mention, there's no way in Hell I'd leave my mom alone in the house so soon after losing Dad.

“Ah.  Well, then I'll look you up after I get back and we can catch up.”

“Alright,” I say unenthusiastically.  “See you later, Byron,” and I quickly turn on my heel and speed walk to my aunt while simultaneously dialing my mother's phone.