Jelly: Reject of The Stars

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The Junior Jet Lounge of the airport in Amsterdam is painted a nauseatingly sour, electric-eel green. They're playing a straight-to-DVD summer sequel to some christmas movie that was once in claymation but is now recast in shitty CGI. There are three sets of subtitles, none with an alphabet that I recognize. The only things available to eat are vaguely phallic wads of multicolored marshmallow impaled on little clear straws, single-wrapped chocolate, and tiny pouches of potato chips that the attendants keep referring to as "Crisps". None of these things are familiar; the logos on the packaged goods at home all look right in my hand, as much a part of my identity as my own mother's face.

For the first two hours of the layover, I'm alone. I sprawl out on a too-short cot behind a dingy sheer curtain. The paper pillowcase does nothing to block the smell of spoiled milk. The mattress is a springless wad of fiber, and I know there's no risk of falling asleep when I turn over to rest my eyes. The attendant escorts in two toddlers, guiding one over to where I am.

"When you're not going to sleep," she asserts in broken English, "Is her naptime."

I get up to make room for the little girl, who passes out instantly. I think it's messed up to put babies on an international flight, but I guess it's not my business. The little boy in the pair approaches me next, clutching a squishy marshmallow pop.

"Pomogi mne?" He thrust the mangled treat into my hand. When I look at him, confused, he mimes a tearing motion at the plastic wrapping. I can see the attendant observing, on edge, waiting for me to do something crazy. Instead, I rip the flimsy film and do my best to pull away the crushed candy.

"Spasibo!" He snatches it out of my hand, over excited, and puts far too much in his mouth at once. There is a panic through me, and I'm overcome by some instinctual force to snatch the gob out of his mouth until I see that he's safely swallowed it. He looks to make sure that the attendant has her back turned before handing me a new one to open. Before he even tastes it, he passes me another.

"Otkryt' paket!" He pleads in a hushed tone, checking once again to make sure that the attendant isn't paying attention.

"Last one," I say, shredding the plastic. He toddles over to the television with one in each hand and his mouth still full from the last.

I have four hours left of my layover when the O'Dwyer twins enter my life. They're stubby, freckled, thumb-shaped girls with fresh scratches all over their faces and arms. When they speak, they have accents like cartoon leprechauns.

At first, I think the one girl's name is Louboutin, and then I think she's saying something to me in French. Then I realize that she's introducing her shoes to me, and I'm a little embarrassed to not know what mine are named.

I say, "Nice to meet you," directed at both her and the shoes.

"What's ya' problem?" the other asks me, more like a genuine question than a threat.

I apologize.

"Nah, like, why ya' in the baby room." She clarifies. "What's wrong with ya'?"

"How old are ya'?" The other cuts in before I could respond.

"Sixteen." I answer.

"Yah, and same." The first twin responds. Her scratches span the entirety of one eye and swoop down to leave her lips ragged. Her sister is mostly covered on the neck and collar, with one sharp gash interrupting the bridge of her nose. The second one is also missing a tooth, that's the first thing I use to tell them apart. Other than that, they're the same entity.

"But we're scrappers, though." The second finishes her thought for her. "Ya' don't look much like a scrapper."

"Junker, then?" I can't keep track of which twin is speaking.

"She's a special!" the voice comes out of each set of mouths.

I say, "I've just never flown before."

One O'Dwyer says, "We fly all the time."

"First class." The other adds. "Going back home to a mansion."

"Ya' want to know why?"

I don't have anything better to do, so I nod in confirmation.

"Faught us a princess from Dubai, thought she was hot shit with her fancy earrings and such. Socked her so hard that her tampon fell out."

"Our last school, the reason was even better!" The other adds. "So there was this teacher, right? Schmidt, this like nerdy poof of a math teacher. Well he's all on us for smoking, like not even nothing just like tobacco, real fucking poof. So it's like, a borstal sort of school, and you can't even have nail-clippers. You can't have glass bottles. But my sister and me, we stuck thumb tacks on a yardstick. He didn't even notice, we'd ass a few more every day and put it in the back of the classroom. They'd pat us down on the way out, but they never checked the heater. This was the school in England, this was. Anyway, the old poof was being boring and pissed us off one day, so we took the stick full of tacks and slashed at him. You think we look bad," the unit snickers, "He needed twenty stitches. But that's like, how we are. We're not to be messed with."

They start crushing chalk against the board.

They ask where I'm headed.

"Dusseldorf." I answer. Two little girls with dark skin are playing a card game that I don't recognize. I try to pick up the rules, thinking maybe I'll ask to join in. I want to get away from these psycho twins.

They say, "That's a boring city."

"You don't sound German," they say.

"I'm not."

They tell me that the Dusseldorf airport has rickety airplanes.

"I wouldn't risk falling out of the sky for such a shit city." They say. "Maybe Moscow, or Munich, but fuck Dusseldorf."