“We should get to the gate. We’ll board first,” I say.
Her hand squeezes mine, and when I look up, she’s waiting for me. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and I can feel my pulse picking up speed again. Maddy’s hand squeezes again.
“Okay,” she says.
I wish I felt okay.
Maddy
We’re twenty minutes into the flight and I think we might get kicked out—midair.
The attendant keeps checking in. That’s the word choice she keeps using. Just “checking in on you.” I watch her have panicked conversations with the male flight attendant on the other side of the partition, then plaster that fake smile on her face and kneel next to me, as if Will can’t hear every word she says about “my friend who seems to be in distress.”
He’s convulsing in sweats, and when he’s not looking down at the focus point—aka the stain I found on the floor between his feet—he’s wringing his hands, darting his eyes side to side, and reaching for the in-flight magazine so he can roll it repeatedly. The last time our “friend” came to check on us, she tried to take the magazine away. I think she thought he was making a weapon.
That conversation is happening again, and I see her eyes on the magazine in Will’s hands. He’s twisting so hard that the spine is starting to split open, so I reach under my seat for my purse, ready to fish out five dollars from my wallet so I can tell air bitch that I am buying the damn thing so if my friend wants to turn it into papier maché, he can if he wants to.
Her fake smile is waiting for me when I tilt my head back up, but I’m done playing this game with her.
“Hi again,” she says—in an accent that I swear to God is fake. She isn’t from the South. I bet she went to some workshop once where they told her that if you say something in a Southern accent it doesn’t sound as mean. It’s actually true, only I’ve grown numb to her Southern charm and see right through it—right to the core of her cruel intentions.
“Our lead attendant,” she stops to gesture over her shoulder to the male attendant cowering behind the partition a few feet away. He raises a hand. Weakling. “He has informed me that we are supposed to place severely ill or distressed passengers near the rear of the plane, or, if no seats are available, in the back jump seats with one of us. For safety reasons, I’m sure you understand…”
“No, I don’t,” I interrupt. I make sure to close my lips and smile. For once, I wish I wore a bright red lip gloss just like she does.
“Your friend here…”
“His name is Will,” I interrupt again. I smile…again.
“Right, well, Will…”
I can feel Will staring at me, so I turn to him. He looks like he wants to vomit, and I think he’s pleading for me not to make a scene, but I know that if I roll over now, they’ll take him away from me and put him in the back, or they’ll make us both move. And while Dylan is happy now, I know that, too, might not last. I turn the other way, my eyes catching Tanya’s before moving a tick to the right, to the ones growing more impatient with me.
“Sandra,” I say, taking a cue from her name badge. She glowers when I say her name. Careful to keep my voice low and calm, I smile again, though I’m sure she can tell it’s disingenuous. “Have you ever survived a plane crash?”
Her eyebrows lift, and I think fast. Probably not the best lead in on an airplane where you’ve already triggered more than a half-dozen security flags.
“No, I mean…I ask because Will? He has. A bad one. Like…the kind that make you swear to yourself you will never set foot on an airplane ever again. Not. Ever.”
I wait for her to register my words. She swallows and leans back on her heels, her hand gripping my armrest for balance. I move close and bring my voice just over a whisper.
“We’re traveling with his nephew,” I nod over her shoulder. Sandra glances and meets Tanya’s gaze, and they both nod. “It’s an incredibly important trip that Will didn’t want to miss. He isn’t in distress. He’s terrified. His heart is beating so fast that he may pass out from it. I can feel it…every time I hold his hand. But you know what keeps him from falling apart completely? Tearing up your shitty magazine. So rather than make us move and add fire to the flame sitting next to me, how about you take my five dollars, bring me a drink, and let my friend here have his way with your high-gloss propaganda.”
Her eyes shift from mine to Will’s hands, and I move my five-dollar bill into her line of sight. She takes it from my hand and stands, holding it at her hip, her mouth a straight line, and her lips puckered enough that I see the small lines along them that lead me to believe she smokes like a chimney.
“Wine is six dollars, ma’am,” she says.
Funny, her accent seems to have vanished.
I tilt my head to one side and let my top lip lift on the right.