Crave

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 seatbelt 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 kneel, so I choose not to focus on it. Especially when we start skidding to the left. I bite my lip, keeping 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, as 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? Instead, I grab a bag out of what passes for the tiny airplane's cargo hold and wrestle it to the ground. Before I can reach for the second, Philip is there, lifting my other two suitcases like they're filled with pillows instead of everything I own in the world. Come on, Grace, let's go before you start to turn blue out here. He nods toward a parking lot, not even a building, just a parking lot, about 200 yards away, and I want to groan. It's so cold out now that I'm shaking for a whole different reason. How can anyone live like this? It's unreal, especially considering it was 70 degrees where I woke up this morning. There's nothing to do but nod, though, so I do. Then grab onto the handle of my suitcase and start dragging it toward a small patch of concrete that I'm pretty sure passes for an airport in Healy. It's a far cry from San Diego's bustling terminals. Philip overtakes me easily, a large suitcase dangling from each hand. I start to tell him that he can pull the handles out and roll them. But the second I step off the runway and onto the snowy ground that surrounds it in all directions, I figure out why he's carrying them. It's pretty much impossible to roll a heavy suitcase over snow. I'm near frozen by the time we make it halfway to the thankfully still plowed parking lot, despite my heavy jacket and synthetic fur-lined gloves. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do from here, how I'm supposed to get to the boarding school my uncle is headmaster of. So I turn to ask Philip if Uber is even a thing up here. But before I can get a word out, someone steps from behind one of the pickup trucks in the lot and rushes straight toward me. I think it's my cousin Macy, but it's hard to tell, considering she's covered from head to toe in protective weather gear. You're here, the moving pile of hats, scarves, and jackets says, and I was right, it's definitely Macy. I'm here, I agree dryly, wondering if it's too late to reconsider foster care or emancipation. Any living situation in San Diego has got to be better than living in a town whose airport consists of one runway and a tiny parking lot. Heather is going to die when I text her. Finally, Macy says, reaching out for a hug. It's a little awkward, partly because of all the clothes she's wearing, and partly because, despite being a year younger than my own 17 years, she's about eight inches taller than I am.