I was the McCallister family in Home Alone. I hauled ass through that airport (forgive my language), trying my best to avoid running into groups of people and being stopped by others. I really should’ve taken up track in high school.
My still-healing back was sore from running so fast, but enduring pain was sometimes how someone won. I learned that from books.
I had to use the bathroom so badly, but there was simply no time—and I likely sweated out all that urine from sprinting anyway. Whatever I had to do to avoid being stuck there until 8:00. I was so done with people, so done with American Airlines.
People moved aside as I sprinted across moving walkways in different sections of the airport, passing shops and restaurants in the concourses (I tried not to think about the bathroom).
I stopped several times, out of breath and coughing, but almost immediately jumped back into my run. Sweat trickled down my temples, but even with all that, I turned twenty minutes into ten. There was my new gate and my group, Group 9, boarding. Wait a minute. Yep, Bangor.
I made it. I actually made it, but my chest and throat burned, and sweat drenched my clothes as if I had been caught in a rainstorm. How had I not keeled over already? Everything spun slightly, and yep, there was no more pee.
I quickly got in line, still coughing and sweating.
A man in front of me asked, “What happened?”
“I-I-I ran he-here all the-the way from Gate E-E.” God, my voice was stuttering, but that was only because of the pain and coughing. There was no doubt that I had messed up my sinuses (another thing to worry about). “But-But… I-I’m here.” Maybe I could slip past the gate agents without facing them. The last thing I needed was more American Airlines.
I pulled up my boarding pass, but didn’t meet the agent’s eyes when I passed them and scanned it. Was I good? Darn it.
“Hold on.” The agent gently took my hand and scanned the pass again. She then gestured me out of the line to the desk, and my heart dropped into my stomach. Please no. I was not going to be stuck there. I was not going to be stuck there.
Fists clenched and coughing, I stopped before the lady at the desk, and she checked her computer, saying, “It looks like you’ve been rebooked to the 8:00, Ms. Christie.”
As if! No, no, no! Not happening! I just nearly died trying to get there, only to be treated like that? Neurodivergent or not, passengers who had gone through what I had gone through that day deserved better.
My eyes narrowed, and I moved closer to the desk, giving the lady an intimidating but gentle snarl. Now was the time for the true Catherine Victoria Christie to come out.
“Look, ma’am.” I hit the wood with my hand, needles shooting up it and into my arm. “I was stuck in the Charleston airport for almost five hours because my 8:20 flight’s plane broke down, and then the 12:15 was delayed to 12:35.” I coughed. “I just ran here from Gate E because the new flight’s attendants and agents told me that I could probably still make it if I ran.” At least I wasn’t yelling. That probably would’ve gotten me arrested. “So, whatever you do, I am getting to Maine today. The agents literally told me I could still make it. I am not making my parents drive after midnight to come get me.”
Wow! Pat yourself on the back, Vika! That’s what I call standing up for myself.
The remaining few passengers were now getting ready to board, but there I was, still glaring and snarling.
Silence, but then did the agent shudder? She nodded and began typing on her computer again. “We’ll get you back on the flight, ma’am.” Then, just like that, she found my original seat and reprinted my boarding pass, handing it to me. “Make sure you drink some water, though. You’re coughing a little too much for me. We’ll check your bag for you.”
What the—? Did that seriously happen—me being the Home Alone mom? Yep, it did.
A wave of relief washed over me, and my shoulders sagged. I did it. I actually did it. I had always been different—the one kid people never wanted to be friends with in school—but I had never stood up for myself… not like that. Not on my own.
“Thank you,” was the last thing I said, still in awe. I handed my bag to the agents and slipped behind the final group of people. Slight doubt hit me when I repassed the scanner, but that time, the agents let me through, and I was on that jetway, on my way to Maine.
I ended up sitting between two large men, one who snored while he slept, the other one smelling like cigarette smoke, but I was there… in my seat, working in my notebook and watching Toy Story 5 during the flight, still no pee in my system. But at least I had finally found a way around my neurodiversity for the first time. It was a story for the psychologist, too. I was strong, I was brave, and I was me. I was Catherine Victoria Christie.
The new thoughts brought back some excitement of seeing my parents and Dad’s Wooden Boat School, but little did I know that there was still one more obstacle for me to face.
I got to Maine, disembarked the plane, and met up with my mom at the carousel, only to wait one more hour because it refused to work.
“Seriously?” I groaned, meeting my mother’s hazel-brown eyes and looking outside at the darkening Maine sky. “I have one thing to say about today, Mom: American Horror Story The Second, and I’m going to write a story about it.”
ns216.73.217.153da2
and then Add to home screen.