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"Hope we make it."
    I pivoted toward the stairs. "I better check and make sure I didn't forget anything."
    Mom clasped my arm. "No. We don't have time."
    Anxiety crawled my skin. "But—"
    "Get in the car. Whatever you've forgotten, you can do without for a few weeks or buy down there."
    Stunned by her unyielding attitude, I allowed her to propel me, and the wheelie, out the door.

 
    Chapter Six
     
    Thanks to a backup on the Bay Bridge, I only had thirty minutes to get through airport security and locate my gate. As I inched through the security line, my anxiety rose in direct correlation to the diminishing number of minutes left until takeoff. By the time I reached the TSA agent, jitters wracked my body. If one more person coughed on me or held up the line, I fully intended to scream.
    Since I didn't have a driver's license yet, I handed the uniformed agent my passport and Athenian Academy student ID card, along with my boarding pass. The sunken-eyed passport photo had been taken when I'd been in eighth grade. The agent studied it for what seemed like five minutes before he handed back my documents and said, "Have a nice trip."
    Yeah, right.
    I used the strategy I employed at theme parks and strode to the line farthest to the left. It had the fewest families with small children or people who appeared clueless. A seasoned traveler, I pulled a gray plastic tub from the stack and placed it on the metal table. Off came my heavy backpack, handbag, scarf, Athenian Academy hoodie, and high heels. I reached into my backpack to remove my laptop and found only textbooks and notebooks. What—? I searched it again, ignoring the business traveler behind me who bumped her tub into mine. With mounting horror, I tried to remember packing the laptop.
    "Move along," a TSA agent behind me instructed.
    Near tears, I zipped my backpack closed and pushed my stuff onto the conveyor belt. As my tub disappeared into the screening tunnel, another agent motioned for me to step into the body screener and raise my arms. I hoped, prayed, the TSA agent would flag me over and say, "Miss, you failed to pull out your laptop." But she didn't, because it hadn't miraculously appeared. Acid burned my stomach. I must call Mom. Wait. If the laptop is still at home plugged into the charger, then where is my phone?
    I scoured my knuckles against my palm. Thoughts shattered through my brain like colliding meteors. I needed to search for my phone . But if I stopped to look for it, I'd never make it to the gate in time. Missing my flight was not an option. I scrunched into my zebra-print stilettos, shouldered my backpack and handbag, threw my cashmere scarf around my neck, grabbed my hoodie, and ran for the gate. As I arrived, the premier passengers were already boarding.
    Panic, fury, and a choking sense of abandonment raged through me as I stepped inside the plane. Close to tears, I avoided making eye contact with anyone. As I clumped down the narrow aisle, my face heated from the sting of curious stares. Finally, I reached my row. Great. A middle seat in coach. There were two inches between my knees and the guy in front of me. If he hit the recline button, it would be like an Indian commuter train, with me wedged in the mushed section.
    I stuffed my backpack and hoodie under the seat in front of me, sat down, and searched my handbag. I shoved aside eye makeup, my turquoise wallet, my designer sunglasses case, pens, and keys. My meds rattled inside their plastic orange bottles. Where's my phone? This was Mom's fault. If she hadn't rushed me, if she had allowed me to go back upstairs, I wouldn't have left behind my lifelines.
    "You'll need to stow your purse for takeoff," a flight attendant warned.
    This cannot be happening. Blinking back tears, I zipped my handbag closed and stashed it next to my backpack, leaving about three inches for my feet.
    The elderly lady seated next to the window lowered the shade, and then fell asleep so quickly she must have been