Filed to story: Kissed by Claw and Fang
I stand just outside the tarmac door, staring at the plane I’m supposed to board, and try very hard not to completely lose my mind.
It’s not going great.
Up until about two minutes ago, my biggest problem was the fact that I’m leaving behind everything I’ve ever known. My house. My school. My friends. My entire life.
Now?
Now I’m staring at what looks less like an airplane and more like something a middle school robotics club built for extra credit, and I’m questioning every decision that led me here.
“So, Ivy.” The guy my Uncle Finn sent to pick me up smiles down at me like I’m a nervous golden retriever. Philip. I think that’s his name. It’s hard to remember over the sound of my heart trying to jackhammer its way out of my chest. “Ready for an adventure?”
Adventure.
Right.
No. I am absolutely, one hundred percent not ready for an adventure. I’m not ready for this plane. I’m not ready for Alaska. I’m not ready for whatever fresh chaos the universe has decided to dump on my head next.
If you’d told me a month ago that I’d be standing at an airport in Fairbanks, Alaska, I would’ve laughed in your face and suggested you get your facts checked. And if you’d told me that the reason I was in Fairbanks was to board the world’s tiniest puddle jumper to what feels like the literal edge of civilizationa town near Denali, the tallest mountain in North AmericaI would’ve assumed you were heavily medicated.
But thirty days is a long time.
Long enough for your whole life to flip upside down.
Long enough for everything solid to dissolve beneath your feet.
At this point, the only thing I’ve been able to count on is this: no matter how bad things get, there’s always a way for them to get worse.
“There she is,” Philip says later, as we soar over a jagged line of mountains. He takes one hand off the controlscasually, which feels illegaland points ahead. “Healy, Alaska. Home sweet home.”
I lean toward the window.
“Oh. Wow. It looks…”
Tiny.
It looks really, really tiny.
Like someone dropped a handful of buildings onto a giant green-and-gray blanket and called it a day. It’s smaller than my old neighborhood in San Diego. Smaller than my high school parking lot on a half day.
Although, to be fair, it’s kind of hard to see anything clearly. Not because of the mountains looming around us like ancient, sleeping monstersbut because we’re flying through this hazy half-light Philip calls “civil twilight,” even though it’s barely five in the afternoon. The sky can’t seem to decide whether it wants to be day or night, and honestly? Same.
Still, I can make out enough to see that the “town” is a cluster of mismatched buildings huddled together like they’re cold.
I swallow.
“It looks… interesting,” I finally say.
Which is technically true.
Interesting is just a polite way of saying I have absolutely no idea what I’ve just gotten myself into.
It’s not the first description that popped into my head-no, that was the old cliché that hell has actually frozen over-but it is the most polite one as Philip drops even lower, preparing for what I’m pretty sure will be yet another harrowing incident in the list of harrowing incidents that have plagued me since I got on the first of three planes ten hours ago.
Sure enough, I’ve only just spotted what passes for an airport in this one-thousand-person town (thank you, Google) when Philip says, “Hang on, Ivy. It’s a short runway because it’s hard to keep a long one clear of snow or ice for any amount of time out here. It’s going to be a quick landing.”
I have no idea what a “quick landing” means, but it doesn’t sound good. So I grab the bar on the plane door, which I’m pretty sure exists for just this very reason, and hold on tight as we drop lower and lower.
“Okay, kid. Here goes nothing!” Philip tells me. Which, by the way, definitely makes the top five things you don’t ever want to hear your pilot say while you’re still in the air.
The ground looms white and unyielding below us, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Seconds later, I feel the wheels skip across the ground. Then Philip hits the brakes hard enough to slam me forward so fast that my seat belt is the only thing keeping my head from meeting the control panel. The plane whines-not sure what part of it is making that horrendous noise or if it’s a collective death knell-so I choose not to focus on it.
Especially when we start skidding to the left.
I bite my lip, keep my eyes squeezed firmly shut even as my heart threatens to burst out of my chest. If this is the end, I don’t need to see it coming.
The thought distracts me, has me wondering just what my mom and dad might have seen coming, and by the time I shut down that line of thinking, Philip has the plane sliding to a shaky, shuddering halt.
I know exactly how it feels. Right now, even my toes are trembling.
I peel my eyes open slowly, resisting the urge to pat myself down to make sure I really am still in one piece. But Philip just laughs and says, “Textbook landing.”
Maybe if that textbook is a horror novel. One he’s reading upside down and backward.
I don’t say anything, though. Just give him the best smile I can manage and grab my backpack from under my feet. I pull out the pair of gloves Uncle Finn sent me and put them on. Then I push open the plane door and jump down, praying the whole time that my knees will support me when I hit the ground.
They do, just barely.
After taking a few seconds to make sure I’m not going to crumble-and to pull my brand-new coat more tightly around me because it’s literally about eight degrees out here-I head to the back of the plane to get the three suitcases that are all that is left of my life.
I feel a pang looking at them, but I don’t let myself dwell on everything I had to leave behind, any more than I let myself dwell on the idea of strangers living in the house I grew up in. After all, who cares about a house or art supplies or a drum kit when I’ve lost so much more?