The Boy With the Cigarettes in his Pocket

1: Fanta Lemon

I battle through the crowd, hoping for any sight of a familiar face or item of clothing. Why did I have to come? Family holidays are never interesting, not for the last few years anyway.

Around me couples, families and single people continue to hustle about, rushing to catch their flight. I guess I'll just have to take care of myself. I have cash, and my luggage has been taken care of. By the time I'll need to board my flight my family will be there anyway, there's nowhere else they could be. What could possibly go wrong?

I buy a magazine and a bottle of water for the plane from the newsagents. Then I find the airport's Starbucks and buy myself a coffee. It's six in the morning and early mornings and I don't mix. I spend my time waiting, just people watching. There's people running about the place, going to the duty free, buying sweets, buying books, children playing on the arcade games. It's crazy. Although surprisingly, the shopping part is probably the less hectic part of the airport.

I take out the book from my hand luggage begin to read it. The teenage girl opposite me is quite clearly judging me. But then, who wouldn't? A 15 year old girl sitting on her own in an airport, wearing high waisted shorts and Dr Martens. Let's not forget my dark red hair and the fact I've got more bones than fat. I guess I look almost mysterious. Where could I be going? What could I be doing?

I enjoy the mystery I may be holding. I've never been mysterious before in my life. I've never even been of interest to anyone of importance. I guess I look somewhat "nerdy" right now. I wouldn't say I'm a nerd, I'm just not overly "cool" or "rebellious".

The voice calls over the intercom to inform me to head to my flight. I pack up my stuff and follow the sign posts. Standing in the line at the gate is my family. I cut the queue so I can be beside them.

"Where were you, Ro?" My 11-year-old sister, Charlotte, asks me.

We have a habit of shortening names in my family. Well I don't. For example, my name's Robyn, but my whole family seem to think it's acceptable to call me 'Ro'. And my sister, named Charlotte, insists on being called 'Lottie'. 

"I was at Starbucks," I reply, shifting my backpack.

My parents start to fuss. "Where were you?" "Where you okay?" "Did you have money?" "Were you scared?" By the time I've finished answering their questions I'm exhausted.

We make our way onto our plane, and find our seats. I try to make myself as comfortable as possible.

The air hostess begins to go through the safety checks. I don't listen. I never do. If the plane crashes then I'm sure I'll be able to work it out. An arrogant approach to flying I can't help but have. I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. Maybe the flight will be much shorter then.

~*~

After the flight we have a long, long car journey. The car is warm and stuffy and we're only about half way there. The campsite Dad picked is two hours away from Madrid, which is where our flight landed. I listen to The Smiths, in an attempt to take my mind off the conditions. 

"Ro,"

"What?" I answer.

"Your father and I have been discussing some rules for you for this holiday." Mum says.

I sigh, "This is going to be another long and droning lecture about how I can't leave your sight, isn't it?"

"Actually, no. Since you're 15, and you had to be dragged on this holiday, we realise that you need your own space. And so, you are allowed to roam freely within five miles of the campsite."

"You're so kind,"

I'm acting spiteful, but I'm actually really quite glad of the liberty being handed to me. It means I can go into town on my own, and everywhere on the campsite, which should be enough. And I don't have to go anywhere with my family unless they're heading out of bounds. This is pretty great.