“Yasmin, listen
to me you idiot. You’re going to go. I don’t care. I might get to meet him but
you’re not going to see Chris. Not unless you take my ticket.”
Yasmin shakes
her head, crossing her arms stubbornly. “No. It’s your ticket and you’ll make
me feel bad if I went instead of you,” she says, peering at the long line ahead
of her. Deema joins her, going on her tiptoes. She pouts, rolling her eyes.
“This doesn’t make sense. I am two years older than you. You being taller than
me shouldn’t be allowed.” Yasmin snorts, pulling out a pamphlet from her purse.
“Listen, how about we find Chris Colfer’s name on the list. I’m sure he’s going
to do a signing for The Land of Stories.
I mean,” she pulls out another object, a stout royal blue book, “, he hasn’t
been giving them out for no reason, yeah?”
Deema makes a
face and randomly shakes her hands at Yasmin’s face, which Yasmin
instantaneously slaps away. “Just do it,” she huffs, already scanning the names
on the paper. Deema extravagantly groans, but proceeds to speed read the names
anyway.
It was the
summer of 2012, and Yasmin and Deema were fresh out of school, living the
absolute dream: three days in New York, City of Lights, the City Where Dreams
Come True, the Big Apple-
Well, you get
the point.
After an
agonizingly long and painful plane trip from Bahrain to Washington (Kuwait
being an unnecessary stop), the family managed to make it to New York without
collapsing on the first front steps of the hotel (sixteen hours of continuous
flights could really do that to a person). It was chilly, the family had
noticed, and they weren’t at all dressed for the season. Their mothers had claimed
that they insisted that they bring heavy coats, but no one seemed to no remember
this, let alone follow it.
A dull ache
begins to ensue in Deema’s stomach as she checks and rechecks all of the names
of celebrity authors. “Maureen Johnson is here?” she croaks, biting her lip. Yasmin
looks up, her eyes dazed. “What?” she asks, already losing interest.
“Nothing,” Deema
mutters, scanning the names. She sighs, not pleased with how the day was
unfolding, and was about to groan out loud when a name popped out from the
list, his name printed in bold letters.
“Yasmin!” Deema
almost shouts, her voice dropping into a harsh whisper. Yasmin’s eyes flash in
annoyance, and she narrows her eyes. “What?” Deema fans her self, looking giddy
and extremely lightheaded. “Yasmin, GUESS WHO IS ON THE LIST. LOOK AT THAT
NAME,” she jabs a forceful finger at the pamphlet, looking slaphappy. Yasmin
sighs tiredly, and drops her eyes in search for the name. Her eyes widen, and
she breaks out into a delighted smile.
“Eoin Colfer is
here!”
Deema nods, her
sudden resemblance to bauble heads uncanny.
“Eoin.Colfer.Artemis.Fowl.Best.Day.Ever,” she almost fist pumps the air,
but Yasmin holds her arm down, barely containing her grin.
“And we can
honest to God talk to him!”
Deema nods
eagerly, her pony tail swinging wildly. “Because he’s such a loser! No one
knows who he is! We can talk to him for as long as we want!”
Yasmin laughs at
this, adding, “Yeah! And we can talk about Artemis-“
“-and how we
hate holly-“
“-and how Orion
should come back-“
Deema shushes
her, looking seldom, her eyes growing distant. “Orion has to come back. And if
Artemis and Holly get together I think I’m going to kill myself.”
“With gasoline.”
Deema arches an
eyebrow. “With gasoline,” she repeats with a firm nod of the head.
- left-foot-fowl
__________________________________________________________________________
Not even a word. It meets the criteria, so I don't care if it's short.
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