‘You’re Welcome, Princess’
Chicago, Illinois

I missed the connecting flight.

(But I swear it wasn’t my fault.)

A woman who looked like she sold make-up at Superdrug walked the aisle before the plane landed and wrote out what I had to do. It was all very straightforward, she said. She spoke with a British accent, which steadied my trembling. A bit.

(I’d like to have the power not to get worked up about stuff like this. Maybe ‘power’ is not the right word. Maybe I mean ‘confidence’?)

She said I’d have to go through security again because ‘that’s how they do things in the States’, sigh. I’d also have to pass IMMIGRATION before getting to the connecting flight. Then I should follow the arrows pointing towards … CONNECTING FLIGHTS. I also had a couple of forms to fill out, which she could help me with after she’d tidied the cabin, and had I seen the vomiting baby? What a flight!

‘So, in conclusion, all very straightforward,’ she said, sighing again.

Even though it didn’t sound very straightforward, I nodded and said thanks. She was not only cabin crew but also adult – the combination meant she knew what she was talking about. Also, she smelt like a movie star or, at least, what I imagined one would smell like. Sweet and flowery.

I’ve always trusted nice-smelling people.

(Arrows would be the same in America, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t mean the opposite? Because they drive on the other side?)

The plane descended. The clouds broke. America spread out like a tablecloth. But one from a black-and-white film. Because Amy had been right about the snow – it covered everything and what it didn’t cover was concrete. There were no skyscrapers, no yellow taxis. The US of my imagination had looked more exciting. Here there was grey. And there was white. And that was about it.

Snowmageddon.

The captain thanked us for flying British Airways. He suggested we wrap up warm and also made a joke about the runway looking like an ice rink, which didn’t help my nerves. Or those of the suit sitting next to me.

(She swore. And apologised for swearing. And said she’d have had more wine if she’d known about the ice. Because she didn’t want to die sober, she said. And then apologised for saying all this to a kid.)

I cleared my throat. ‘That’s fine. I’m fourteen, so …’

But, anyway, like I said, we survived.

A man with a baseball cap and a huge grin helped me pull my pink suitcase out of the overhead locker. I felt awkward and when I thanked him he said, ‘You’re welcome, Princess.’

(I’d never been called that before.)

After we landed in Chicago, without crashing, I switched to school trip mode. The phone-checking, elbow-pumping crowd guided me to where I needed to go. Even though I’d been in the air for eight hours, the time difference meant it was still early morning. I gripped a dozen scraps of folded paper, all with the same details of the connecting flight: BA 1058, leaving from Gate H15 in Terminal 3.

And I didn’t drop them once.

Not even when pulling my phone out to WhatsApp the family group chat.

I’m safe. It’s snowy.

Dad was first to reply.

What’s America like? You missed the connecting fight yet?

Ignoring the spelling mistake, I looked around.

Bit like England, I replied. Smells weird. Connecting flight not left yet.

Glove you so much. Can’t believe you’re there on your gown, messaged Mum. Remember my glasses. Promise to stay safe.

I didn’t know what she meant about ‘glasses’ but guessed she was hitting the ‘g’ key when she didn’t mean to. Autocorrect did the rest. Classic Mum.

Promise, I replied.

Flights over land get NIGHTMARE turbulence, messaged Amy.

She shouldn’t be allowed to be a member of the group. She should be expelled from the family. I’d make this point when I got back home.

I walked a long corridor. At its end a genuine American police officer took my passport and travel forms. From under a heavy moustache and behind a Perspex screen, he asked why I was visiting the States and where my parents were. His voice sounded like a dog’s bark. An angry dog. A dog that chases children around playgrounds.

‘I’ve won a competition to be in a superhero film and my parents are in England.’ He glanced up from his tiny battered computer screen. I’d caught his focus. And you don’t want to be catching the focus of American cops at passport control. Airport rule number one. ‘Movie.’ I cleared my throat. ‘My parents are probably asleep. The time difference. I don’t know. Dad sometimes stays up late, eating cheese sandwiches and watching violent films. Or is it morning there?’

(When I get nervous I talk too much.)

‘Are you trying to be funny, sir?’

First ‘princess’, now ‘sir’. But the novelty was overshadowed by the 100 per cent American cop stare focused my way. I’d seen this look in films. It wasn’t one that led to something nice like being given a puppy or a burger.

‘No, sir,’ I said, and it was all I could say.

He got me to put my fingers on some kind of scanner. He swivelled something like a webcam and told me to look into it. Did this happen to everyone? Or was I a suspected criminal?

‘Which superhero?’ he asked.

‘Sorry?’

‘Which superhero movie?’

‘They won’t tell me.’

The cop stared a bit longer, and then stamped my passport.

‘You want to know the best superhero to come out of Chicago?’ Was he testing me? Before a word could emerge, my brain shrinking to a walnut, the man answered. ‘Ghost Rider. You get yourself down to Kids on the Fly, you might have a pleasant surprise. You hear me?’ I nodded. I did hear him. I just didn’t understand him … He slid my passport back through the gap in the plastic. ‘Nice luggage, by the way.’

Kids on the Fly? What did that mean?

I pulled the Princess past (regular, English) arrows pointing to the part of the airport with all the shops and restaurants. And when I arrived I let out a long breath. Bright lights and dull travellers surrounded me and my breathing. I was almost there.

Go, Jacob! You can do this! PMA!

Good news: the LA flight was listed on the big screen, even if some later ones had been cancelled ‘due to adverse weather’.

Bad news: I had half an hour to kill before the gate even opened.

But there! A signpost! And one of the arms had ‘Kids on the Fly’ written on it. Wasn’t that exactly what the police officer had said? Hadn’t he also said that I’d have a nice surprise, and, like, immediately after he’d been talking about Ghost Rider, who is, actually, a sick superhero – don’t let the movies fool you.

I walked past huge 4K TVs flashing feeds of worried weathermen and whirling storm graphics. Past travellers wearing the thick coats and the concerned faces of Arctic explorers. And every time I began to worry that maybe I’d missed ‘Kids on the Fly’, there came another sign with another arrow.

Maybe there’d be some graphic novels or a place to buy a baseball cap with ‘Ghost Rider’ written on it or some Metropolis candy or …

By now half an hour had gone: the gate was opening. If the place wasn’t round the next corner, I decided, I’d turn back or else I might as well carry on walking all the way to LA. Giving up was the correct decision, the adult choice.

(Like an idiot, I carried on walking.)