The Reinvention of Ryn
Lottie tried to reinvent me once. It didn’t go over well. She took me to the mall and bought me all kinds of clothes on her father’s credit card. He was an investment banker who made up for hardly ever being home by paying the Visa bill and never asking questions.
Standing in that dressing room, surrounded by the carnage of Lottie’s discerning taste, I looked good. The dresses were all the right length. The colors all coordinated. The stripes weren’t too stripy. But that was with Lottie sitting in the corner offering commentary like a sports announcer. Once I got home and stood alone in the context of my real life—my room, my mirror, my music on the speakers—all the clothes looked off somehow. Out of place. Like I had raided someone else’s closet. A girl much more adventurous and daring and interesting than me. A girl who wore stripes.
An hour later I drove myself back to the mall and returned everything.
“Would you like store credit?” the saleslady asked. It was the same woman who had happily swiped Lottie’s shiny black Visa only a few hours ago. She didn’t seem too thrilled about erasing the commission right off her paycheck with every return tag she scanned.
“No,” I said politely. “Just put it back on the same card.”
The next morning at school Lottie frowned at my customary jeans, hoodie, and sneakers. The same old, same old Kathryn Gilbert.
“What happened?” she asked with a pout. “We picked out such cute stuff for you!”
I racked my brain trying to think of how to explain it in a way that someone like Lottie would understand. Someone who reinvented herself daily. Like it was nothing.
“When I got home, none of it seemed to fit anymore.”
Lottie scowled. “How is that even possible? It all fit in the dressing room.”
I shrugged again. “I guess it was just a trick of the light.”
A crying baby wails over my left shoulder as I stare at the vibrating phone in my hand.
One time Lottie made me watch some old show called The Twilight Zone. Every episode was a weird story about something unexplainable. Watching my own phone number appear on the screen, I feel like maybe I’m trapped in one of those episodes.
If I answer it, will my own voice be on the other line?
Like from the past?
Or the future?
I take my chances. “Hello?”
“Hey,” a somewhat familiar, lighthearted male voice says. “Is Danny Ocean there?”
Curiouser and curiouser.
“Um . . . who?”
“Danny Ocean.” A long, expectant pause. “You know, from Ocean’s Eleven.”
I frown. “Ocean’s what?”
“Eleven. The movie. George Clooney plays a thief. And you’re a phone thief. Because you stole my phone.”
I balk, unsure which of these randomly strung together sentences I should address first. “I’ve never seen Ocean’s Eleven.”
There’s a peculiar gurgling sound on the other end. “What? How could you never have seen Ocean’s Eleven? It’s a classic! I mean, the original was good, but the remake was soooo much better.”
Somewhere over my shoulder, the sobbing baby lets out burp, followed by a giggle.
“You know what?” the caller says after an awkward silence. “Never mind. I think you have my phone and I have yours.”
Suddenly, like a plane connecting with the icy ground, everything shudders into place. The moving walkway, my award winning clumsiness, his chest, my face, the airport carpet, my chin.
The guy. The Muppet shirt guy. He must have also dropped his phone in the collision. I must have picked his up by mistake.
But how could I have not noticed?
I pull the phone away from my ear and study the case. It’s exactly the same as mine. Shaped like the blue police box from the British TV show Doctor Who.
What are the odds of two people having the same phone case?
Maybe higher than you’d think, given how many people watch the show.
Then again, I don’t watch the show.
Then again again, I’m an anomaly.
In more ways than one.
“Hello?” The voice sounds distant, like it’s calling from the bottom of a well. I quickly return the phone to my ear.
“I’m here.”
“So, should I just keep your phone or—”
“No!” I answer so urgently a few people sitting nearby turn and stare. The baby begins to wail again. I take it down a notch. “No.”
He laughs. “Good. ’Cause that was a joke.”
I laugh too. The difference is, mine sounds like a monkey being strangled. “I knew that.”
Even without knowing the exact probability that two people stuck in the same airport would have the exact same phone with the exact same phone case, I decide I don’t like the odds.
“So,” he says after a long pause. “Where should we meet?”
It was Lottie’s idea to get summer jobs. She certainly didn’t need the money. She was doing it for the boys. Lottie was always very calculating when it came to boys. It was about the only calculating she did.
“Just think about it, Kathryn,” she said as she drove her BMW convertible to the mall. “If we work at a place that sells girls’ clothing, the odds that we’ll meet any cute boys are like a million to one. The only guys who come into places like that are ones shopping for their girlfriends. But if we work at a place where boys shop, our odds increase by like infinity.”
Her logic was sound, even if her computations sounded a bit off. But I didn’t correct her. She was on a roll, and when Lottie was on a roll, the rule was, you just let Lottie roll.
We took applications from five different stores, all specializing in men’s apparel. Or, as Lottie distinguished it, Hot Guy apparel.
“I’m not going to spend my summer helping Grandpa pick out a new pair of suspenders,” she explained as we found seats in the food court and Lottie produced two sparkly purple pens from her bag and handed one to me.
We proceeded to fill out our information in quintuplicate. When I was finished, Lottie took my applications and examined them. The way she bit the tip of her pen as she reviewed my efforts—it reminded me of my mother scanning her carefully made grocery lists for missing items.
“Did I get all the answers right?” I teased.
She tapped her teeth with the pen. “I was just thinking . . .”
I felt my toes squeeze in my shoes. It was never a good thing when Lottie was thinking. It meant that a plot was brewing.
“Wanna hear something crazy?” she asked.
“Always,” I responded instinctively, even though, this time, I wasn’t really sure I meant it.
Truth be told, most of the time, I wasn’t sure I meant it.
“What if we changed your name?”
I rolled my eyes and tried to grab the stack of applications from her. Lottie quickly moved her hands away, avoiding my reach. “I’m serious! You’ve been Kathryn for sixteen years. Aren’t you tired of it? Don’t you want to be someone else for a while?”
“I’m not changing my name.”
“Not like a total makeover,” Lottie explained. “Just a touch-up.”
“A touch-up? On a name?”
“Yeah. Everyone named Kathryn always goes with something boring like Kathy or Kate or Kitty.”
“I’ve never gone by any of those.”
“Exactly. Because you’re not boring. You need something more unique!”
I was pretty sure I was boring, but I kept that to myself.
“How about just Ryn?”
“Ryn?” I repeated doubtfully.
Her eyes lit up as the sound of her own idea echoed back at her. “Yes!”
“It sounds like a species of sparrow that my mom looks for on one of her birding trips.”
Lottie punched the top of the pen with a decisive click, and then proceeded to scratch out every iterance of “Kath” on all five of my applications.
She tilted her head back to admire her handiwork and smiled. “I like it. It’s fitting. It’s a conversation starter.”
I was still bordering on skeptical. “A conversation starter?”
“Yeah, you know, like, ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Ryn.’ ‘Ryn? That’s an interesting name. Is it short for something?’ ‘Actually, it is.’ And, voilà! Instant conversation.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted a name that was a conversation starter. I usually avoided unnecessary small talk whenever possible. But it was too late. Lottie had made up her mind, and I didn’t really feel like getting five new applications and starting over.
A few days later we both started jobs at A-Frame, a store that specialized in surf and skate apparel. When the manager handed me a name tag with my newly minted moniker printed on it, I stared at it for a good thirty seconds, marveling at how with just a simple stroke of her purple pen, Lottie had effectively turned me into an entirely different person.
It was the only reinvention that stuck.
“Ryn Gilbert,” I carefully pronounce my name to the customer service representative before remembering that my airline ticket was issued under my full, legal name. “Sorry, I mean, Kathryn Gilbert.”
By the time I got back in line at the customer service counter, the impatient man was already gone, but a kind woman in a business suit seemed to recognize me and took pity, letting me cut in front of her. Muppet Guy offered to meet me in the Terminal A food court in twenty minutes to swap phones, so I decided to at least try to get some information about my flight in the meantime.
I listen to the pitter pat pitter pat of the woman’s long, manicured fingernails tapping against the keys as she pulls up my confirmation.
“Compliment her,” Lottie whispers. “That’s how you get what you want in these situations.”
I don’t think complimenting her will stop a blizzard, I whisper back in my mind.
“It can’t hurt.”
“I like your nails,” I blurt out, bending forward to try to make out the design painted on each one. “Are those snowflakes?”
The woman stops typing and looks up at me. For a brief moment I see her entire demeanor shift, like she’s shedding a layer of clothing. The layer labeled BITCHY CUSTOMER SERVICE REP.
“Yes,” she says brightly. “I do them myself.”
My reaction is organic. “Wow. Really? How long does that take you?”
She smiles and curls her nails under to look at them. “A few hours. But it’s a labor of love.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.” With an entirely new personality she goes back to typing.
“See?” Lottie says. “Can’t hurt.” Although she’s only a voice in my head, I can picture her looking smug.
The woman frowns at her screen. “Well, I have your confirmation here, and I see you’re booked on a flight to San Francisco, but I’m afraid there are no flights leaving Denver right now because of the storm.”
I feel myself deflate.
“I suggest you keep checking the monitors for updates. We’ll post them as soon as they come.”
“So, there are no other answers you can give me?” I confirm.
She shakes her head, looking genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry. Not at this time. I’m afraid we all just have to wait out this storm.”
I turn and gaze longingly out the window behind the customer service desk. The snow doesn’t seem to be falling so much as uninhibitedly dancing. Like it’s just been released from prison. If it weren’t so crazy loud in here, I bet you could hear it beating against the window, begging to be let in.
I sigh and repeat the word that I have a feeling is about to become my least favorite entry in the English dictionary. “Wait.”
Each of the three terminals of the Denver airport is designed as a long, vertical strip of gates with a round shopping center in the middle. I know this only because I used Muppet Guy’s phone to pull up a map. It felt weird to use his Internet, his connection, his keyboard. Like I was jogging in somebody else’s running gear.
Not that I jog.
Or own running gear.
Come to think of it, I don’t really do much of anything anymore. Besides type questions into Google.
The food court where Muppet Guy suggested we meet is in the middle of the A terminal. Getting there is another story. The corridors seem to have shrunk in size since I’ve been standing in that line. Either that, or the number of people lingering in them has quadrupled.
It reminds me of a highway in one of those disaster movies where everyone’s trying to get out of town but eventually they all just give up and park in the middle of the road to watch the asteroid/tidal wave/larger-than-life lizard monster destroy the city they left behind.
Stranded travelers are parked all up and down the row of gates. They’re sitting, lying, sleeping, watching movies on iPads. They’ve made impromptu pillows out of coats, backpacks, computers, laps. A group of parents have created a makeshift playpen out of roller bags, and their babies are crawling around inside it. A bunch of older children are trying to figure out what to do with a deck of cards.
I, once again, decided to bypass the moving walkway. A decision I’m now starting to regret as I attempt to weave and climb through the hordes of stationary people. As I pass gate A32, I can see the food court in the distance. It feels like an oasis at the end of a long desert journey. But I stop when I notice that everyone at gate A32 is staring up at the television screen mounted on the wall. A local newscast is on, and the headline plastered in the lower third makes me skid to a halt.
WINTER STORM UPDATE
This has got to be the quietest section of the entire airport. No one is making a peep. All ears are trained on the weatherman’s voice.
“Nine News is tracking this massive winter storm that has been deemed the biggest blizzard in over a century. We’re issuing a severe blizzard warning to all parts of the Denver metro area. There are already reports of up to seventeen inches of accumulation in the south. Road conditions are icy and visibility is poor. Current road closures include I-25 from Monument to Lone Tree and I-70 from the Vail pass through the Eisenhower Tunnel, but we’re expecting more closures to be announced imminently. We strongly advise residents not to leave home or attempt to travel anywhere.”
I scoff.
Too late for that.
The scene shifts from the suited weatherman sitting pretty in the studio to a poor newbie who has been thrust into the middle of the blizzard. She’s dressed in a hooded down jacket that looks more like a sleeping bag with arms than a coat. The furry hood is pulled up around her face, and her gloved hands are clutching the microphone as if it’s the last of her life force. Behind her is a solid wall of agitated snow. Her eyes are tearing up as she attempts to describe to the camera exactly what she’s experiencing.
But she doesn’t really need to say anything. This is one of those prime examples of a picture being worth a thousand words. Maybe two thousand, in her case. I pull my eyes from the TV and glance outside, suddenly very grateful that I’m in here and not out there.
The weatherman returns and tells us that they’ll be continuing to interrupt the regularly scheduled programming with updates as they come. Then the screen changes to one of those daytime talk shows where four women sit around and argue over which celebrity is more likely to be bulimic.
One of the hosts—an older lady with a colossal plastic surgery bill—is interviewing a man and a woman named Dr. Max Hale and Dr. Marcia Livingston-Hale, the famous biracial couple who write those popular parenting psychology books called Kids Come First. My mom began reading the series religiously when she divorced my father six years ago. The day after they sat me down and explained that they weren’t going to be married anymore, the Kids Come First books started appearing on my mother’s nightstand. Titles like Kids Come First: Set Them Free, Kids Come First: A Guide to Divorce, and Kids Come First: Discipline Without Anger.
The cover of the latest title in the series suddenly fills the TV screen.
KIDS COME FIRST: 101 ANSWERS TO YOUR MOST COMMON PARENTING QUESTIONS
“Dr. Hale and Dr. Livingston-Hale,” the host of the show begins, “this is now your tenth installment in the Kids Come First series, which released just this week. Can you tell us what makes this particular book stand apart from the rest of your titles?”
“Of course,” Dr. Marcia replies breezily, brushing a lock of shiny blond hair from her forehead. “This is a very special installment. It’s more of a dialogue with our readers than a how-to guide. We wanted to write a book dedicated entirely to our fans.”
“Yes,” Dr. Max continues seamlessly, like a football handoff. He’s a handsome African American man with thick dark hair that’s been trimmed short. “We receive so many letters from parents with questions about the Kids Come First method. So we selected the most frequently asked questions that we receive and answered them in this book.”
“Well, your publisher tells me that it’s on track to be your bestselling yet,” the host says with a cheesy thumbs-up.
Dr. Marcia laughs heartily, her blue eyes brightening. “Numbers don’t really matter to us anymore. Unless it’s the number of people we’re helping.”
Dr. Max takes his wife’s hand in his and gives her a tender look. Something about that look makes my stomach flip, yet I can’t seem to pull my gaze away from the screen.
My mom stopped reading the Kids Come First books about a year ago. That’s when the other books started appearing on her nightstand. Books with titles like Grief Is a Raindrop, Guiding Your Child Through Loss, and Bringing Your Survivor Back from the Dead.
It was like she’d graduated from a basic bachelor’s degree in parenting and moved on to a Ph.D.
I wonder what the most frequently asked questions about parenting actually are.
What do normal parents ask about?
What do normal teenage girls deal with?
The phone in my hand vibrates, and I peer down at the screen. There’s a text message from my number.
Just arrived. Are you here?
It’s then I realize that most of my fellow TV viewers have walked away or have redirected their attention to other activities. I’m the only idiot still staring up at the ceiling.
I start to tap out a response but a horrifying progression of thoughts drags my fingers to a stop.
He sent me a text message.
He’s in my messaging app.
He could read something.
He could erase something.
I’m suddenly kicking myself for not getting to the food court faster. For allowing myself to be pulled into a stupid weather report that offered absolutely nothing that I couldn’t get from just looking out the fucking window. For giving a stranger unlimited access to my phone for longer than absolutely necessary.
For being too damn stubborn to lock my phone with a passcode because it would hinder my access to the Web browser.
I switch off the screen and take off at a run toward the food court. I’m no longer being polite as I climb through people. They are just tall weeds and annoying vines in the jungle now. And my elbows and oversize backpack are my machetes.