Those are reserved, she replied curtly. The twins exchanged knowing glances. This wasn’t their first encounter with the reserve table excuse.
Your website says you don’t take reservations, Zara pointed out, pulling up the restaurant’s page on her phone as evidence. It says right, here. Sky High Grill does not accept reservations.
Seating is first come, first served. Melissa’s face flushed. Well, the website is outdated.
We do take reservations now, and all those tables are spoken for, as if on cue, a white couple walked in behind the twins. Without even acknowledging the twins’ ongoing conversation, Melissa brightened immediately. Two, right this way, please.
She grabbed two menus and led the couple to one of the supposedly reserved tables. Nia felt her temper rising. Excuse me, she called after Melissa.
We were here first, and you just told us there were no tables available. Melissa turned, her expression hardening. Is there a problem? Yes, there’s a problem, Nia replied, her patience wearing thin.
You just told us all the tables were reserved, then immediately seated people who came in after us. Before Melissa could respond, a man in a button-up shirt and tie approached. His name tag identified him as Keith Dawson, manager.
Is everything all right here, Melissa? He asked, though his gaze was fixed suspiciously on the twins. These girls are causing a disruption, Melissa said quickly. I explained that we have a waiting list, but they’re demanding immediate seating.
That’s not what happened, Zara interjected. Your hostess told us there’s a 45-minute wait, but there are empty tables, and she just seated people who came in after us. Keith’s expression didn’t change.
He hadn’t taken his eyes off the twins since he’d arrived, hadn’t even glanced. At the empty tables are the newly seated couple. I understand you’re upset, but I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voices.
We have customers trying to enjoy their meals. His tone suggested they were shouting, though both girls had been speaking calmly. We’re not being loud, Nia objected.
We simply want to be treated fairly. If you continue to make a scene, I’ll be forced to call security, Keith threatened, folding his arms across his chest. Airport regulations allow us to refuse service to disruptive individuals.
From nearby, a Latina waitress watched the interaction with growing concern. She approached cautiously. Keith, I can take them at one of my tables.
Number 12 just opened up. Stay out of this, Elena, Keith snapped without looking at her. Go check on your other tables.
Elena Rodriguez hesitated, clearly torn between following her manager’s orders and doing what she knew was right. With an apologetic glance at the twins, she retreated, disappearing into the kitchen. Look, Keith said, his voice dropping to a threatening whisper.
I suggest you find somewhere else to eat. We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, and right now you’re not welcome here. The message was clear.
Their kind wasn’t welcome. It had nothing to do with reservations or waiting lists. Hungry, frustrated, and increasingly demoralized, the twins turned to leave.
As they walked away, they overheard Keith commending Melissa. Good job. Can’t let them think they can just walk in and get whatever they want.
Outside the restaurant, Nia fought back angry tears. I’m so sick of this, every single time. Zara put her arm around her sister’s shoulders.
I know. But we can’t let them win by breaking us down. We’ll grab something from a vending machine and then get this ticket situation straightened out.
As they started to walk away, a voice called out behind them. Wait! Elena Rodriguez hurried toward them, glancing nervously over her shoulder, to ensure Keith wasn’t watching. She pressed two vouchers into Zara’s hand.
For the food court. It’s not much, but… She hesitated, then pulled out her phone. Look, I saw what happened in there.
It happens all the time. Keith and Melissa do this to black customers constantly. If you’re going to file a complaint, I’ll be a witness.
Here’s my number. She quickly typed her contact information into Zara’s phone. I have to get back before they notice I’m gone, but please, don’t let them get away with this.
With another nervous glance toward the restaurant, Elena hurried back inside. The twins stood there, momentarily stunned by this unexpected act of allyship. It was a small kindness, but in that moment, it meant everything.
Maybe we’re not completely alone after all, Nia said softly, some of her former spirit returning. Armed with the food vouchers and a renewed sense of determination, they headed for the food court, unaware that the worst of their ordeal was yet to come. By the time Zara and Nia approached Gate 32, they had managed to eat a quick meal and regroup emotionally.
Checking the time, they noticed that privileged boarding for first-class passengers had already begun. After their experience at check, in, they had visited a customer service desk where a harried agent had reluctantly corrected their boarding passes back to first class after verifying their ticket information. She had offered no explanation or apology for the error, simply handing over the new boarding passes with barely concealed impatience.
Now, with proper boarding passes in hand, they approached the gate with cautious optimism. Perhaps the worst was behind them. They couldn’t have been more wrong.
The gate agent, a middle-aged white man whose name tag identified him as Richard Whitman, was directing first-class passengers through the boarding lane when the twins presented their passes. His welcoming smile vanished instantly as he examined their tickets. There seems to be a problem here, he said, his voice loud enough to draw attention from nearby passengers.
Please step aside while I verify these boarding passes. Nia’s patience had worn dangerously thin. What problem? We’ve already had our seats changed once today without explanation.
The customer service desk just fixed them. What possible issue could there be now? Richard’s eyes narrowed. I’m going to need to see some identification, he demanded, ignoring her question entirely.
And please keep your voice down. The twins produced their student IDs once again. Richard inspected them with exaggerated scrutiny, turning them over repeatedly, holding them up to the light as if checking for watermarks, all while continuing to process other first-class passengers with barely a glance at their documentation.
These don’t look legitimate, he finally declared. Student IDs can be easily fabricated. They’re official IDs from Wellington Preparatory Academy, Zara explained, struggling to maintain her composure.
They have the school seal, our photos, everything. The airline confirmed they were sufficient ID for domestic travel when our father booked the tickets. Richard’s response was to reach for the PA system microphone.
Security to Gate 32, please. Security to Gate 32. The announcement echoed through the terminal, causing nearby passengers to stare and whisper.
Several pulled out phones and began recording the confrontation. This is discrimination, Nya stated firmly, no longer willing to pretend this was all just a series of unfortunate misunderstandings. We have legitimate tickets and ID.
You’re delaying us because we’re Black. That’s illegal. Richard’s face flushed red.
That’s a serious accusation, young lady. I could have you removed from this airport for making false claims against airline personnel. I’m simply following security protocols.
Which protocols specifically require you to announce a security need when there isn’t one? Zara challenged, or to scrutinize our school IDs while barely glancing at other passengers’ identification. Before Richard could respond, a new voice entered the conversation. What seems to be the problem here, Richard? The woman who approached was perhaps in her 50s, with dark skin and her hair pulled back in a tight bun.
Her name tag identified. Her as Diane Blackett’s supervisor. The twins felt a surge of hope.
Surely another Black woman would understand what was happening and intervene on their behalf. These two are attempting to board with first class tickets that appear to be fraudulent, Richard explained, his tone suggesting he was dealing with hardened criminals rather than teenage girls. And they’re making accusations of discrimination to try to intimidate me into letting them board.
Diane smiled tightly at the twins. Let me see what’s going on here. She examined their boarding passes and IDs, then motioned for them to step aside with her, away from the line and the curious onlookers.
Richard, continue boarding. I’ll handle this. For a moment, alone with Diane, the twins allowed themselves to hope.
Thank you. Nia began. We’ve been dealing with this kind of treatment since we arrived at the airport, and we’re just trying to get to Boston to visit colleges.
Diane’s friendly demeanor changed the instant they were out of earshot of the other passengers. Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. Listen to me carefully.