I don’t know what it is I liked about airplanes when I was a kid. I suppose it was the constant hum of the engines, the jittery feeling in my stomach that meant I was going somewhere (or the warm feeling that meant I was going home). It was the stale cookies, it was the waking up at 4:30 just for the heck of it, it was the liberty of getting Coca-Cola and not having to pay for it, it was a million things that you always remember but never experience. Now all I know of airplanes is the ear-shatteringly silent buzz in my ears, the drowning dryness that comes with the altitude, the way it’s impossible to fall asleep, no matter how tired you are (because you got up at 5:00 this morning, just in time to throw on a fresh pair of underwear and race out the door). I suppose the jittery feeling is still there, but it’s covered by that weird hungry-nauseous feeling that you get when you eat too small a breakfast too early. The thing I appreciate the most about planes these days is getting off of them.

I’m standing in the terminal, bags dropped at my feet while I text my parents to tell them I’m okay and I’m about to board. I don’t expect they’ll be up yet, but if they don’t see my text when they roll over at a more humane hour, they’ll probably call me and I, having forgotten/neglected to turn my phone off, will single-handedly cause the failure of the US satellite system. I stick my phone in my pocket absent-mindedly and check to make sure I have my boarding pass for the millionth time. I’m not usually forgetful, but at such an early hour, my brain has trouble booting up very quickly and the small amount of power I can muster goes into important things, like not running into walls. They call for the coach customers to board, and shoulder my pack. I’m hassled onto the plane behind an old man who tries to tell me his life’s story and ends up nearly bowling over the flight attendant trying to talk over his shoulder. I don’t even look behind me because I don’t want to bowl over the flight attendant again; poor woman looks like she’s had enough trouble this morning.
I glance down at my boarding pass and then up at the letters on the seats. ABC on the right, DEF on the left. I look down at my boarding pass again. Row 18, seat E. A middle seat. I sure hope I’m not squished between two people who really need to cut back on the Krispy Kremes. Okay, girl, don’t go past row 18. You should be able to handle that, even though you’re operating at 10 percent right now. Here’s 17, the next row must be 18. You have to remember to stop.
I remember to stop, and squeeze into the seat next to a woman who, despite maybe having a few too many donuts in her lifetime, is not overflowing into my seat. She’s sitting and reading a torn and battered copy of Pride and Prejudice through glasses that might be about four feet thick. I decide she isn’t going to be much fun to talk to on my five hour flight home. (Is it weird that I still call it home, even though I haven’t lived there for two years?) Old-man-who-bowled-over-the-flight-attendant goes on in front of me. In my head, I wish him luck (and the next victim he tries to talk to, and the next flight attendant he knocks over). I realize the person behind me isn’t trying to push by me. Nice of him.
Once I’ve settled into my seat, I realize it wasn’t that he was being nice at all (maybe he is nice, I don’t know, but he wasn’t not pushing out of niceness). He’s my other seat partner, and I must say he’s much more promising than Miss Hopeless-romantic-who-needs-contacts. He looks to be about my age (always a plus) and he’s got much more reasonable glasses - tasteful black square frames with thin glass spanning them. The first thing he does is lean over me (I don’t think he’s nice; who leans over someone without introducing himself first?) and asks P and P lady if she’d mind switching seats with him - he doesn’t need the legroom, and he’d love the view. She agrees wholeheartedly (apparently she’s not one of those sappy romantics who likes to watch the sunrise out of a scratched plane window).
He then turns to me. “Miss? Excuse me, miss? Would you mind standing to let us by?” His voice is soft and strong at the same time, like a hot sauce mixed with maple syrup, the good kind. I nod and unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Thanks kindly.” I kneel on my seat while they switch places. “I always did like to watch the sunrise from the plane. What about you?” I’m not sure if he’s being friendly or creepy, but I respond as politely as I can.
“I suppose I like it too.” For some reason, I can’t help but grin, like I’m a child again and I’m excited to be on the plane. Excited to be here.
“Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.” Here are his manners. Who on earth doesn’t introduce himself before starting a conversation with someone? “Did you want the window?”
What? “No, that’s okay.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and pretend to check my texts. I don’t have any, of course.
Curiosity killed the cat, I suppose. With my head still craned over my empty message box, I glance upward through my safe veil of brown, blunt hair and at the strange nameless boy next to me. He's staring out the window, most likely waiting for the first touches of pink on the horizon. With the back of his head still facing me, his orange hair forming a neat point down his neck, he asks, "What are you looking at?"
I jump.
He turns around. "Please. If I were you, I'd have something to look at."
I fight the urge to mumble, "We aren't pompous, are we?" and stare at him.
"You know," he says nonchalantly, as if he's used to leaving girls open mouthed, "you really could have the window seat."
I shake my head adamantly.
"Okay." He turns back to the window. Still no color show.
"Hey, wait a second..." I'm already regretting my decision to talk to him rather than Madam Eyeballs on my other side. "What's your name?"
"Oh, now, that takes all the fun out of it, doesn't it? What's yours?"
"Why would I tell you? Your refusal to give me your name tells me you're a child molester or a serial killer or, worse, a celebrity I've failed to recognize." There's my grin again. Why does it keep coming back?
"Well. If you must know, my name is--"
"Now, hold on a minute. Are you sure? Because if you tell me your name, we aren't strangers anymore."
"That's kind of the point." His smile is contagious.
"Okay. I'm listening."
"Well, what's your name?"
I shake my head. If he had given his name first, maybe mine wouldn't be so embarrassing. Of course, we might have the same name...
"Jake."
He laughs. Then he looks down and realizes I'm serious. "Like... Jake jake?"
I roll my eyes. "Yeah. Like that. Okay, your turn."
"But you're girl."
"How observant you are! Now I told you mine. You tell me yours."
"Woah. Wait, wait, wait. You did NOT just tell me yours."
"My name, you idiot. Men are so single-minded."
"Men, huh?"
"Just tell me your name before I make an even bigger fool of myself."
"Peter."
I raise an eyebrow in skepticism.
"What?"
"Your name is Peter?"
"Your name is Jake. Can we play a different game? Naming-things-that-are-obvious is boring."
"But you have orange hair."
"So?"
"And you’re childish."
"Am I?"
"Peter… as in Peter Pan."
"Well, yeah."
“So you’re like, a little boy who lives on a magic island and never grows up.”
“Okay.” He stops for a moment, trying to think of a new subject. “Why are you headed to Oregon?”
"Getting personal, Pan boy."
"Don't ever--"
The captain's voice (or whoever's voice) comes on and starts to give us the speech about airplane safety, and for some reason, neither of us talks while they try to entertain us by talking about how to fasten a seat belt properly. It only takes a few minutes, but the silence between us seems to stretch through days. When the spiel is over, the plane is positioned on the runway, ready for takeoff. I lean past Peter to look out the window.
"This is my favorite part," I whisper, not sure if I'm trying not to wake the day or the woman next to me.
He leans down to block my view. "Why?" he whispers back.
I sit up. I'm not sure my face has ever been that close to another human being's. "Because this is when it starts." And I realize that these few moments of beginnings are the reason I haven't given up on airplanes altogether.
"Are you sure you don't want to switch places? I don't want you to miss your favorite part."
I glance skeptically at Sleeping Beauty next to me. "I don't want to wake her."
"Nah, we can do it. It'll be tight, but we can do it." He smiles at me, no teeth.
I see the sky behind him. "You'll miss your sunrise."
He glances out the window. "Alright, fine. Have it my way, Jake."
I smile and lean out around him to see the sky grow larger and the ground grow smaller.
"But I don't want you to miss the show. Here." He flips the armrest next to him and pats the seat. "I don't bite."
I hesitantly move over, until our shoulders are nearly (but not) touching. "This is crazy," I say, almost to myself. "I just met you."
"I know. Isn't it fun to meet strangers?"
I grin and lean around him to see the sky light up.
"This is crazy..." I say again. I've forgotten all the reasons I hate planes. There's just me and the boy next to me and the roar of the engine or my heart, and I'm not sure which it is. There's the warmth of his shoulder (against mine, now) and the deathly chill my other shoulder is experiencing, without the heat of the almost-not-a-stranger next to it. I'm nauseous, not from eating too little, or too early. Not from anything to do with eating. My stomach is doing flips and somersaults like a lamb who's just learned to leap. My head is fuzzy, my eyesight is filled with color (I'm not sure if that's the sunrise or my own imagination) and my feet can't stop tapping the floor of the plane. I only have a moment to notice all of this, to realize that something is happening and my entire body is on red alert before Peter turns to me and says:
"What's crazy?" in that soft syrup voice, nearly a whisper. The bridge of his nose is between my eyes, close enough that I have to go cross-eyed to see it. I can see my own brown eyes reflected in his glasses, but behind them are harsh, bright green eyes, staring straight into mine without blinking. I can feel his breath lingering with mine.
"What's, crazy, Jake?" he asks, really whispering now, and I can hear the hot sauce in his voice seeping through.
"This," I say. And without thinking, I lean forward, a mere inch, and that's enough.
It is crazy. Crazy like enjoying the hum of the airplane. Crazy like square black glasses. Crazy like hot sauce and syrup mixed together. Crazy like getting up at 4:30. Crazy like waiting for the sunrise.
Crazy like a million things that you always experience but never remember.
Crazy like love.