You Are Here: Connecting Flights


 
 
 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 
 
 
 To anyone who has ever wondered if they belong,
 we see you and know that you do.
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 
 1. Paul
 2. Jae
 3. Mindy
 4. Lee
 5. Ari
 6. AJ
 7. Natalie
 8. Henry
 9. Camilla
 10. Jane
 11. Khoi
 12. Soojin
 
 A Note from the Editor
 Meet the Authors
 About the Editor
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 
 1
 Paul
 With a line this long, you’d think we were waiting to get into Disney World, or Six Flags, or something cool. But no. We are at the airport, the place you go to wait in line for more waiting.
 It’s ten thirty in the morning, and we’re at Chicago Gateway International Airport four hours early for our thirty-one-hour trip to Thailand. Once we get through this security line, we will wait at our gate, then wait in the boarding line, then wait on the plane, then do it all over again at another airport before we finally land in Bangkok.
 At least Mom is feeling really proud of herself. She woke me up at the unholy hour of 5:30 a.m. so we could get a good parking spot. “See, Paul?” she said to me when our minivan pulled into the garage. “The Saturday before Fourth of July. Told you it would be crowded.”
 I have to admit that she’s right. This security line snakes all the way back to the counter where we waited (yes, more waiting!) to check our suitcases and my little sister’s car seat.
 The other travelers are all on edge. Outside, what started as a summer drizzle is now a full-on thunderstorm. The sky is a spooky gray-green color, and thick sheets of rain lash the big glass windows of the terminal. Lightning flashes, and everyone sucks in their breath, then worriedly checks the flight information screens. When the sliding doors swoosh open, sopping-wet travelers hurry inside to the departure area, shivering from the shock of the air-conditioning. Our family is dry because we’ve been inside this airport since the beginning of time.
 Beside me, Grandma is bundled up like we’re going to scale Mount Everest. I tug on the sleeve of her lime-green puffy coat to get her attention. She’s only one inch taller than me, and with her hood cinched tight around her brown face, I feel like I’m talking to a giant, plump caterpillar. “Grandma, the line is moving up,” I say to her in Thai. “Here, let me help carry your bag.”
 “No, no, I got it.” She hoists her faded cloth carry-on bag onto her shoulder. It’s purple with red flowers, and it’s almost as big as she is. “Your parents are the ones who need help.”
 Ahead of us, Mom and Dad are on full Jessie duty. My three-year-old sister has round cheeks, big dark eyes, and pigtails that stick straight out like puppy dog ears. She’s like what animators study when they’re learning how to draw cute things. The adults around us smile and make peekaboo faces at her. She sticks out her tongue and scowls at them. She’s a terror.
 “Another cookie!” she whines as she clutches my dad’s leg.
 “Jessie, baby, don’t you want to save those for the plane?” he says in the tone of voice you’d use to negotiate a hostage crisis.
 “Nooooo!” she wails, throwing herself onto the floor.
 I pull my black baseball cap down and act like I have no idea who this diabolical toddler is. At least during our flight Jessie will be sitting with Mom and Dad, and I’ll get to chill with Grandma in our own row. Our total flying time will be twenty-two hours, and I plan to spend all of them watching movies and sipping ginger ale. Maybe if we’re lucky, Jessie will get left on the plane, and we can carry on with our lives.
 “Okay, Grandma, let’s talk movies. You have to watch at least two with me before you fall asleep. I checked the airline website, and they don’t have Star Trek reruns, but they do have the new Star Trek film, and—Grandma, are you even listening?”
 “Huh? Oh, sure, Paul. You know I love Star Trek.”
 Grandma’s usually so with it, but this morning she’s distracted. It must be all the people. I look around at the other passengers crammed in with us. A group of about a dozen older boys has just joined the end of the line. Even with their clothes soaked with rainwater, they are the coolest guys I’ve ever seen. They look maybe high school age, and they’re wearing matching red-and-white warm-ups. Their sneakers are so white they burn my eyeballs. Even before I notice the embroidered Perez, DDS basketball logo, I can tell they play basketball from the swagger-y way they swing their arms. When the line shifts and I can see them better, I realize they’re all Asian American. Even cooler. I’ve never seen an all-Asian basketball team before.
 Jessie lets out a screech, and I cringe. Luckily, the players are all too busy showing each other stuff on their phones to notice. With a squeal, Jessie runs away from the line. Mom sprints after her and just barely catches the ribbon on the waist of her yellow dress, pulling her back like a dog on a leash.
 Darn. There goes my chance at being an only child again.
 I hear a commotion directly behind us. I turn and see a woman in a bright pink sweater towing a shiny rolling bag. Her clothes and blond hair are probably usually perfect, but right now they hang limply, wet from the rain. Her son also looks soaked through. He dabs at his high-end sneakers with a wad of paper towels.
 “Excuse me,” the lady in pink says sweetly to the people in line. “We’ve got to get through security so we can buy some