Paula Stokes - The Art of Lainey

He makes a fake-offended face. “I work out every once in a while.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Okay. More like once a year,” he admits.

I keep scrolling. “Car trips. Sleep.” I pause. The next playlist is called “Dad.” I’m about to ask him if it’s his dad’s actual music when the next list pops into view.

My throat feels like I swallowed a big spoonful of sand. “What’s on this one called Lainey?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

Micah doesn’t look at me. “I made it after we went to Mizz Creant’s,” he says. “It’s stuff I thought you might like. I figured since we were going to be hanging out . . .”

“That’s awesome. I want to hear it all.” I start the Lainey playlist. The first song is by Bottlegrate. I hum along, wishing I’d gone to the concert with Micah instead of Jason’s party, wishing I hadn’t been so clueless. Micah and I could have gotten together that night, if I hadn’t been so unable to figure out what I wanted. And now I don’t know where we stand.

He navigates through the main streets of Hazelton and pulls the car into the gravel parking lot behind The Devil’s Doorstep. A can of blue spray paint rolls out from under the front seat. I cough meaningfully and point at the can with my foot. “Went for a drive, you said?”

“What?” he asks. “You’re not the only one who’s had a rough time of it lately, you know?”

“Where are we going?” I look around at the deserted parking area. “I’m assuming the club isn’t open.”

“Nope. We’re going the rest of the way on foot.” Micah shuts off the engine and opens his door. “It’s a surprise.”

I follow him past the back of The Devil’s Doorstep, down an alley, and through an abandoned lot. The lot backs up to a strip of trees that runs adjacent to the unused part of the airport. Looking up, I can see the clearing where Bianca and I stopped when we were jogging. It’s deserted. “What kind of surprise?”

Micah ignores me. Beyond the trees, a fence stands about ten feet high. A NO TRESPASSING sign hangs crookedly from one of the support poles. A swarm of gnats buzzes around my face.

“How are you at fence climbing?” he asks.

“Not bad, actually. My brother and I used to practice flipping over our backyard fence when we were little.” Of course that’s only about half as high as this one. Then again, I was probably half as tall as I am now. “You’re taking me to the airport? For what? Some therapeutic graffitiing?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re still on probation, aren’t you?”

“Yup.” He sticks the toe of his boot in one of the diamond-shaped holes of the chain-link fence and begins to make his way to the top. The sun starts to rise, painting the sky a brilliant pinkish color.

I point at the sign. “You know this is illegal, right?”

“Yup. I’ve already been here once today. Would you trust me if I told you it was worth the risk?” Micah drops to the high grass on the other side of the fence.

I scale the fence gracefully and land next to him. I’m suddenly glad I’m in my sweats instead of whatever dress and heels combo I would have worn to the Wash U party. “I guess, but I’m not the one on probation.”

Micah wraps his hands around my neck and pretends to strangle me. “Just stop talking for five minutes, okay?”

He leads me across a dead runway, the cracks in the cement so deep they might go all the way to the center of the earth. We pass a pair of cargo hangars as we near the wall of the abandoned terminal. It looks like Micah’s already done his painting for the day. A pair of fading nooses have been repainted in bright blue, the words Hangman’s Joke suspended between them.

“Micah,” I say softly. I wonder why he does it, if it’s a symbolic way for him to keep his dad alive.

He shakes his head. “Not that. This.” He ducks down against the wall of the terminal and waits for me to do the same. We hug the cold metal as we creep our way around to the other side. There are a lot of trucks and trailers parked on the adjacent runway.

“What the—?” And then it hits me. These are movie trucks and trailers. “Flyboys?” I practically shriek.

Micah clamps a hand over my mouth. “Shhh, they’ll hear us.”

We sneak closer and duck down behind a baggage transport truck. Black-clad Hollywood types with laminated badges around their necks mill between the rounded silver trailers. A couple bald guys are busy opening a bunch of black cases. They start building a weird scaffolding of metallic ladders and round, fuzzy things that must be microphones. I swallow hard. It’s not even seven a.m. yet, probably too early for a big star like Caleb Waters to be filming. But I swear, if he saunters out of one of those trailers I will totally faint.

“I can’t believe this,” I whisper. “I can’t believe you found this. I can’t believe you brought me here.”

“It is a risk, I guess, bringing the girl I like to see the thirtysomething washed-up athlete of her dreams,” Micah says with a teasing grin. “But I figure if you observe us side by side, it’ll be obvious who is superior.”

“I’m serious, Micah. This is amazing. I wish Bianca could be here.” I fish my phone out of my pocket. “I’ve got to get pictures for her.”

“I’m serious too. That guy is old.”

“He is not that—” I stop. “Did you just call me the ‘girl you like’?”

Micah ruffles my unbrushed, un-flat-ironed hair, and warmth surges through me. “We can talk about that later.”

Part of me wants to talk about that right this second, but we’re only a few yards away from the crew and if they get any closer they might overhear us. I lean in and brush my lips against Micah’s cheek. “Seriously life-changing moment,” I whisper.

“I thought you might think so,” he whispers back.

I recognize a couple of the actors who play smaller roles in the movie. A truck tows a commercial plane down the runway—a smaller one with collapsible steps instead of a jet bridge. I start snapping pictures of everything. Bee is going to be sad that she missed this, but at least I can show her as much as possible. The actors take their places on the stairs leading up to the plane. And then I see him.

Caleb Waters.

He steps out of a trailer wearing aviator sunglasses and a pilot’s uniform. Immediately I turn my camera on him. Bianca is going to die.

The wind blows Caleb’s hair forward and I hear someone else yell for him to put his hat on. A woman in pointy glasses runs over with a blue pilot’s hat. A pair of big, burly guys without necks pace back and forth a few feet away. Bodyguards, no doubt.

I zoom in on my phone and snap a picture of Caleb in his full uniform.

And then it rings.

Oh no. My mom. It figures.

No Neck One and Two pivot in unison.

“Shit. Come on.” Micah’s wiry frame is already streaking from the transport vehicle back around to the far side of the terminal. Damn, he’s fast. He’s like a black blur. I take off after him.

I hear a shout. Looking over my shoulder I see the entire cast and crew staring. No Neck One and Two are running toward me. They’re a few yards behind me. Micah is almost halfway to the fence already.

“Stop right there,” No Neck One says. Boy, does he sound pissed.

I sprint toward the fence. Micah glances back over his shoulder.

“Keep going,” I holler. I’m so glad Bianca and I did all that running this summer. I’m flying. I put a few extra feet of distance between myself and the security detail.