Chasing Crazy - Kelly Siskind Page 0,5
you better message us every time you travel to a new town, or your father will turn your room into that ashram he’s always wanted, complete with nude meditation sessions. Let this be your only warning.
I snort and reply: Warning taken. I’ve landed safe and sound…in New Zealand. I’ll message when I leave Auckland. XOX
Relieved my parents took my Houdini act in stride, I gather my bags and leave the bathroom. Another plane should have landed by now, a few hundred passengers safely in the customs line between me and Hot Guy Who Saw My Privates. But luck, as usual, is not on my side. One lonely couple stands behind Hot Guy, his brown curls bobbing along to whatever’s playing on his iPod. Eager to leave the airport and tired of standing in public washrooms, I weave through the roped line and position myself behind the couple. The man and woman keep shifting their feet and checking their watches.
With only two agents staffing booths, the line crawls forward at a snail’s pace, agitating the couple further. When Hot Guy rounds the last corner, I turn and hunch behind the fuming man.
“If we miss our flight…” the man murmurs, his grip tightening on his luggage. The woman fidgets with her wedding ring.
Once at the front, Hot Guy removes his earbuds and turns to put his iPod away. I crouch lower behind the angry man, but Hot Guy pauses as he zips his backpack. Oh, God. I hold my breath while he stares at me, sure it will render me invisible. Or I’ll pass out. As he tilts his head and parts his lips, the agent at the front of the line taps him on the shoulder. She motions to a new line about to open. I exhale before spots cloud my vision.
The rushing couple joins him in line, all of them waiting for the new agent to finish readying his booth. Brown eyes framed with thick lashes keep glancing back at me, at least once looking down at my skirt. Frickin’ Hot Guy. As the light on the customs booth blinks on, the agent sends me to the same line. The rushing couple is talking to Hot Guy, waving their tickets and checking their watches. He smiles and steps back, allowing them to pass.
Those brown eyes are back on me, drifting toward the area below my waist.
With each step, cement practically hardens around my feet. When I get to the line, I stop about two feet behind him and dump my backpack on the floor. I search through my purse for the imaginary thing I have no intention of finding.
“I don’t bite,” a low voice rumbles.
Huffing into the depths of my purse, I peek up. With his head cocked to the side and a grin splitting his face, Hot Guy looks less GQ and more approachable. Almost boyish in his cuteness. My lower belly tightens as I envision him shirtless, lying in the grass, sunlight playing over his skin…until he says, “I really like your skirt.”
No, he did not. “You—”
The customs agent calls, “Next,” and Hot Guy spins around before I unleash my sure-to-be-lame comeback, but not before he winks at me.
This guy has some nerve.
Squishing my lips into the face Mom likes to call my angry-old-lady face, I yank my passport from my purse and bruise the papers as I flip to my photo. The five syllables of my name leap from the page. I’m already dreading the look I’ll get when the mustached customs agent scans my passport. My name manages to inspire a range of facial expressions you’d find in a Jim Carrey movie.
First day of class with a new teacher usually goes something like:
Spectacled eyes scroll the attendance sheet several seconds longer than usual. Repeated blinking occurs before the teacher looks up. “Pi-nin-fa-ri-na?” Each syllable drops like a bomb, and all heads turn to the Indian kids in the room. With no choice but to answer, I squeak quietly, my fingers grazing the air to claim those five syllables.
Ensue pointing and giggling. Frickin’ Pininfarina.
Dad’s obsession with cars was a blessing for my five younger siblings. Bestowed with the names Mercedes, Aston, Bentley, Royce, and Cayenne, my brothers and sisters embody cool. That DNA link missed my chain. My rise to shame began in the delivery room, the moment Dad, probably stoned, looked upon my wrinkled, goop-smeared face and branded me, “Pininfarina.”
Like I care that Pininfarina designed the Ferrari and the Maserati. Like. I. Care.
Pocketing his passport, Hot