I smack my head into the plaster behind me. My disappearing act isn’t working, and unless this post is a magical gateway to Narnia, I can’t avoid One-syllable Sam. But “Pininfarina” will not pass these lips. I tried to ditch the name in school, begging and pleading with tearstained cheeks, but my folks laid down the law with their usual “Celebrate your individuality!” Having enrolled me in private school, they owned the faculty and made sure my five syllables stuck. But I’m on my own. In New Zealand.
The world-class super-freak I am, I inch back around the pillar, still fingering my Canadian flag. I glance up at Sam, who’s resting against the pole, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He raises his eyebrows expectantly.
“Just, please don’t call me Ginger. My name is…Nina.” I squish the flag in my hand and cross my arms. Take that, Pininfarina.
He nods, his curls brushing his forehead. “Nina, hmmm?” He rolls the name around his tongue. “Nina it is. But seriously, you should own the Ginger. Ever see reruns of Gilligan’s Island? You know, Ginger—the hot redhead on the show? Those curves, the lips, the catlike green eyes.” He frees a hand and motions to my face. “You’ve even got that mole of hers. Embrace the Ginger.”
Back up a mega-second. Did he compare me to a sexy redhead? With catlike green eyes? I shift my skirt and hunch my shoulders. “Me? What? No. My red’s way brighter, not that nice auburn, and I could never wear those tiny bikinis. And those lips of hers? Not in a million years.”
I look down at his big black boots, at the leather worn on the toes, the scuff marks on the heels. They step closer.
“Own the Ginger,” he rumbles in my ear. He scoops up both our packs and starts toward the door.
“Hey, whoa, wait,” I call as I scramble to get my bag and purse over my shoulder. “Sam, come on. Stop!” The last word is so loud people turn and stare.
All my limbs lock.
He glances back and frowns as I play an impromptu round of freeze tag. He makes his way closer, favoring his right leg with a distinct limp. He stops in front of me and folds his arms. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. Just thought you needed a hand.”
When it appears as though we’ve been forgotten by the roaming crowd, I speak as quietly as possible. “Please drop my bag. I can carry it, okay?”
“Sorry, what?” He tips his head down.
“My bag,” I whisper-yell. “Please. I don’t need you to carry it for me.”
He exhales for about ten minutes. “Look. You’ve already got two other bags, and this one’s heavy and awkward. You barely got it off the carousel. I witnessed both falls on the plane, and I know what’s not under that skirt of yours. I’m not about to watch a repeat performance, so I’m carrying the bag for you, Canada.” He eyes my skirt and swallows.
It’s one thing to know what he saw, but to hear him say it out loud? I scan the airport for the nearest exit.
“At least let me get it outside for you,” he says. Still limping, he leaves as I play another round of freeze tag.
When I catch up with him outside, he’s got both bags on the ground by the taxi line. “I assume you’re looking for a hostel, too?” he asks.
The idea of sitting in a cramped car, pantyless, next to a guy I don’t even know, is not high on my list of things I’d like to experience in New Zealand. My reinvention doesn’t involve hanging out with people who’ve witnessed the extent of my defectiveness. “No,” I say quickly.
“No?” He squints at my backpack.
“Well…yes, but a family friend lives here and is picking me up.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. I grab my backpack by the top and drag it back a few steps. “Thanks for carrying my pack, though. Safe travels.” I wave and proceed to do my best meerkat impression as I scan the road for the family friend who doesn’t exist, the one who won’t be picking me up.
He glances at the taxi pulling up and back at me. “Sure. You too. Maybe we’ll run into each other on the road.” The veins on his forearms flex as he hoists his pack into the trunk. I bet those arms could do a lot of push-ups. With me beneath them.