Yeah, I could definitely get used to this.
I’ve just turned to look for the bathroom when I see the two men in suits that John was talking to outside board the plane, one a large Italian mobster-looking guy in his fifties and the other closer to John’s age, bald and rounding at the belly. “Vinny,” Wendy whispers, indicating the mobster-looking one, “and the bald one’s Bernard.”
I’m aware John travels with bodyguards and have met the bald one in passing before, but Vinny is new. “Friends of yours?” I joke.
“They’re John’s security. I met them at dinner last week.”
A dinner I wasn’t invited to, clearly. It stings a little—especially since I’m the one who introduced Summer and Wendy—but I’m not surprised, in light of the recent events that have driven a boning knife into our friendship, which neither of us dare speak of.
Vinny and Bernard confer with John, then Bernard holds up his hand for us all to quiet down, which we do. Summer stands at attention next to John, her smile restored; the canary-yellow rock on her finger glitters in the sun that streams through the window, sending flecks of light around the cabin. I don’t know anything about carats, but it’s gigantic. John clears his throat and curls his lips into a smile. “Thank you ladies for joining us on Summer’s birthday trip,” he begins. “If you’ll all stand up, the crew are going to come through the cabin and show you to your seats.”
We all stand obediently as he continues. “Each of you will receive a gift bag with an eye mask, earplugs, and a sleeping pill. Once we take off, the stewardesses will reconfigure the plane for sleep while we have a light dinner. Then Summer and I will sleep in our bed in the back, and the rest of you will sleep in your assigned beds in front.”
I think I read a hint of apology in the smile Summer gives us as John takes her hand. They make their way toward the back of the plane while the crew points us toward our seats. Sure enough, I’m assigned one of the two rear-facing seats, next to Amythest, across from Rhonda and Brittani. Why, oh why, did I pack my Dramamine in my suitcase instead of my carry-on?
I quietly get the young stewardess’s attention once we have all been seated. “I’m so sorry, but I get sick facing backward. Is there any way I could sit facing forward?”
“I don’t have the authority to change your seat,” she apologizes, “but I’m sure it would be okay if one of your friends wanted to switch with you.”
I look up at Rhonda and Brittani, who chortles, having heard the whole thing. “Sorry, girl, I ain’t giving up my seat!”
“I gotta sit next to my baby.” Rhonda pats Brittani’s hand. “We have so much to talk about.”
Should have known better than to ask them. I get up to approach Wendy and Claire, who sit directly behind me, facing forward. “I hate to ask you guys this, but I get supersick facing backward. Could one of you possibly switch with me?”
They look at me with pity for a painfully long moment before Wendy scratches my arm with her French-manicured nails—an incurable habit that I assume evolved from her theory about light touch being ingratiating. “Don’t want you retching all over the jet,” she teases. “I get a little woozy facing backward, too, but take Claire’s seat. Claire, you don’t mind, do you?”
Claire shrugs amiably. “Okay.”
“You sure?” I ask.
She smiles, gathering her things. “It’s not a problem.”
“Oh my God, thank you so much. I really appreciate it. And I’m so sorry for making you move. I owe you one.”
“I totally understand. Anyway, I’m on a private jet. I really don’t care where I sit.”
I’m just settling into my seat next to Wendy when the older flight attendant approaches, a look of alarm on her face. “My apologies. I’m going to need you to take your assigned seats for wheels up.”
“It’s okay,” Wendy explains. “Claire switched with her.”
The stewardess smiles tightly. “I know. But unfortunately, I’m going to need you to take your assigned seats.”
I blink at her. “But the other flight attendant said—”
“Mr. Lyons has requested that everyone take their assigned seats for wheels up.” She gestures toward my seat. “Please.”
Wow. Okay. I unbuckle my seat belt and collect my things like a toddler punished for throwing her green beans on the floor at a fancy restaurant.
As I move past the stewardess, she mouths, Sorry. I can’t quite bring myself to smile back.
I sink into my rear-facing seat, again doubting my choice to come on this trip. In a daze, I buckle my seat belt and reach for the airsickness bag tucked into the arm of my chair. At least I’m by a window. Across from me, Rhonda and Brittani are engrossed in a celebrity magazine, tittering over the cellulite of some reality star.
Amythest pats my hand, her violet eyes exuding genuine sympathy. “Sorry,” she whispers. “That totally sucks.”
“I’m sorry if . . . ” I gesture to the airsickness bag.
“It’s okay. I hold Brittani’s hair back, like, every Saturday night. And sometimes Fridays, too. And Thursdays. And . . . Well, you know. I’m pretty much an expert.”
As she fiddles with one of her many silver earrings, I notice the script etched into the inside of her forearm. It reads TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE.
“Polonius,” I smile, recognizing the line. When her eyes flit to mine in confusion, I indicate the tattoo. “From Hamlet?”
“Oh, no, that’s from a Reba song. ‘Fancy’?”
Of course. “Oh yeah. I like that song. Ever been on a private jet before?”
The tiny purple stone in her nostril glints in the sun as she shakes her head.
And with that, the jet is hurtling forward. The ground rushes away faster and faster until we lift into the air. I look out the window, my palms sweating.
The endless grid of Los Angeles lies beneath us in all her glory as we climb into the sky. The dark-blue sea appears to be held back only by the thin line of sand that separates it from the rows upon rows of homes sprawling across the basin and up the sides of green mountains that turn to umber as they rise past the line of irrigation.
“Two kinds of neighborhoods in LA,” I say, “the ones with blue pools and the ones with blue tarps.”
“I’ve always wanted a pool,” Amythest says. “But I don’t know how to swim.”
(ten years ago)
Georgia
I lay on a plastic lounge chair in the scorching Georgia sun, staring up at the milky blue sky through scratched sunglasses. The day was still, the rhythmic rise and fall of the cicadas interrupted only periodically by the spray of water from the pool filter as it slapped the concrete, turning the stone darker for just a moment before evaporating.
The oppressive midday heat ensured I had the pool to myself at this hour. If I blocked out the chain-link fence and NEWBURY PARK COMMUNITY POOL sign, I could almost imagine it was my own.
Someday.
Beads of sweat glistened between the round of my breasts in the new string bikini I had to hide from my father. I’d just turned sixteen, and while I’d been a head taller than most of the guys in my class since I was twelve, I was a late developer, so this was the first summer I’d gotten to enjoy having the curves of a woman.