Wasted Time(s)

11:00

Pick all your pieces together. Put them back together.

Put them together agai-

"Miss, can you pick up your bag now?" The attendant says, a little annoyed at me.

"What? Oh- right, sorry."

I try to force a smile but I don't really wanna smile anyway. She's kind of rude.

My parents gave me a phone, at least. I think it was because they want to act like they feel sorry for me. It was the least they can do, anyway. My mom put my sister's number in here. Every so often my thumb covers over the call button, but I stop myself and close it back up again.

I don't know why but having sisters that you never knew about and them being one dial away scares me. No, speaking to them scares me.

I feel like I'm going insane and at any minute I'll blow up in this airport.

But maybe later, I'm boarding the plane right now. I fiddle the phone in my hand. I'm sitting next to a hippie girl. She smells good. I can hear clanking in her pockets. Yes. Her long skirt has pockets. Neat, isn't it?

She has freckles and her teeth are freakishly white. They're not perfectly straight, which makes them unique and she has short, soft, curly and swirly orange hair. Not bob, but like she buzzed it and it's growing out. Maybe four inches long.

It's strange, not many people like her come around.

I think she spots me staring when she turns to put on a seatbelt. I forgot I'm supposed to put on mine too. She stops me, saying something.

"What?"

"Are you coming to America for vacation?" The red-headed girl says, her voice is so dainty. I don't know if I like it or not.

"What?"

"Are you-"

"Oh, no, I am moving."

I nod. I realized that I sounded a bit mean so I smiled. She looks relieved.

"What are you going to America for?"

"Oh, I just came to Guatemala for vacation. My sister Paisley couldn't come, she went with my dad to Las Vegas in America." She talks a lot.

"What's your name?" I ask, intrigued.

"oh, it's Hallie! Everyone calls me hippie Hallie, but Hallie's just fine."

I chuckle a little. I have the window seat, so I look out.

"Is it pretty?" She asks, somewhat curious.

"Hm?" I question, not budging to move.

"Are you hard of hearing or something?" She says, giggling a little while she points to her ear. I roll my eyes humorously, and shake my head. My shoulders shrug.

"No, I was just focused. Or zoned out. The sky looks really pretty today."

"That answers my question." She smiles, putting her head next to mine to look out as well. I love meeting new people, because they can't judge you based on your past. They don't know who you are.

"A lot of people assume things." I hear the seat next to me creak, she sits back down fully.

"Where'd that come from?" I ask, she sounded almost wise.

"Nothing, it's a conversation starter. What do you assume about me?"

I turn, looking at her to make assumptions.

"I assume you make your own shampoo, listen to music from the 80's, and have been in a protest about protecting nature. And that you probably have crystals in your pockets right now." I nodded towards her long skirt, and she took out the pretty marbled stones.

"You're right, but I don't believe that they really do anything. I just collect them 'cause they're pretty. Don't you think?" The stones twirl between her fingers.

"Beautiful." I say, and I touch one, feeling the rugged edges.

"What's your favorite color?"

"A really dark, like black cherry red or a dark purple." I respond, my eyes wandering.

She feels around in her pockets, and takes out a few. There's a dark red one with black lines, she studies it before handing it to me.

"What's this for?" I ask, being somewhat cautious with the little thing. I feel like I don't deserve it.

"It's for you. Do you like it?" She asks, tilting her head to admire me with it. I think I like her voice now. She reminds me of peace. How ironic.

"Yeah, I love it. It's beautiful."

I admire it, twirling it around my open palms.

"Do you do anything for fun? Like a hobby?" She keeps asking questions, and in situations like this I always love to talk. And especially with someone who's willing to listen.

"I like to take pictures and stuff, and I keep a box of things I like."

"For example...?" She leads me to talk more.

"Like flower pedals."

"That doesn't sound too bad. Maybe you could journal." She suggests.

"I do."

"Really?"

"Really."

"What do you write about?" She asks. She talks a lot, but she also listens a lot. That's a good quality to have now that I think about it.

"Anything."

"Can I read a page?" Her question makes me cringe. At myself.

"No, no one reads my journals. They're embarrassing."

I suck my teeth, sinking into my seat. Her posture is so perfect, I almost feel like I'm invading her perfect-ness. Everything about her seems perfect, even what appears not.

I write in my journal again. This one's about her, and I'm not worried about her seeing what I'm writing about because she fell asleep.

Snoring.