Two newscasters, both impossibly thin with shiny blowouts and jutting calves, make chitchat as they wait for the plane to arrive. Several cameramen jockey for position. Those of us who have been sitting at Gate C2 for an hour, waiting to depart, wonder whom the news teams are expecting.
The airline personnel seem to know what’s up. Every few minutes, they offer the news teams an update: They’re in range. The plane’s in range. Any minute now.
Another passenger notices that I am scrutinizing the situation, like she is. She sidles over to me. “Who are they waiting for?” she asks me.
“I was trying to figure that out myself,” I said
Other passengers approach.
“Do you know?” “Have they said?”
“No, we’re all wondering.”
A diverted flight, a hijacker? A politician? A celebrity, A- or D-list?
Our flight has finally been listed as delayed. This is not exactly news to the growing crowd at C2. What we want to know is who’s due to arrive.
A young African-American cameraman to my right is explaining the excitement. I strain to hear his words: “A little girl from the Make-a-Wish Foundation. She’s going to the Saratoga Ballet.”
“What did he just say?”
I feel dirty passing along the information. This is no Lindsay Lohan.
“It’s…she’s a little girl…from the Make-a-Wish Foundation.”
The woman who first approached me bites her lip. “Oh,” she says.
The woman’s daughter trots over. “Who is it?” she asks us.
“Come, let’s go back to our seats,” says the woman.