* * *
“You can’t have a cat on board the plane,” I say as the plane taxis to the runway.
“Of course, I can,” she says. “Pookie is my support animal. She can sense when I’m going to have a panic attack.”
The flight attendant walks down the aisle. When she nears the guys sitting in front of me, she gags, then unties the scarf around her neck and holds it over her nose. After telling them to fasten their seatbelts, she turns to Mrs. Mumu. “Ma’am, please stow your bags under the seat in front of you for takeoff.”
“No problem, hon,” she says cheerfully. After stowing the cat carrier and other bags, she taps my arm. “It’s nice having this unoccupied seat, isn’t it? It gives me plenty of room for Pookie and my other bags.”
I try again to convince her to move into the aisle seat, but after she rattles off statistics about aviation safety and refuses to budge, I give up and begin praying in earnest to Saint Joseph of Cupertino to protect us during our journey.
About an hour into the flight, the drinks service still hasn’t started. But that doesn’t appear to faze my neighbor. Turns out that despite the fact that Mrs. Mumu won’t break rules when it comes to sitting in an unassigned seat, she has no qualms about breaking open a bottle of her duty-free booze.
After taking a slug of vodka, she burps, then leans down to speak with her cat. “Do you need to use the litter box, Pookie?”
“You brought a litter box on board?” Part of me is horrified, while the other part thinks that the smell of a litter box might cover up the disgusting odors emanating from the body spray brigade seated in front of me.
“No, don’t be silly,” she says, waving her bottle wildly in the air. I duck just in time to avoid getting clobbered in the head. “Pookie uses human toilets. When she’s done, she even flushes it all by herself. Isn’t that clever of her?”
“Very clever,” I say wryly. “Sounds like something you should post on YouTube.”
“Oh, I already have. When I get back, I’ll show it to you.” Mrs. Mumu passes the bottle to me. “Here hold this.” Then she reaches down, pulls the cat carrier out from under the seat, and trots off toward the lavatory.
I do what anyone would do in my situation, stuck on a plane with a toilet-trained cat, three smelly men, and a crazy lady. I put the bottle to my lips and take a tiny sip. As I’m screwing the cap back on, the flight attendant taps me on my shoulder. “Miss, what do you think you’re doing? It’s against regulations to drink anything on board that isn’t sold by us.”
“It’s not mine, I swear.”
“I can smell the vodka on you from here.” She scowls at me and holds out her hand. “Give the bottle to me.” I meekly give it to her, then blanch when she mentions that she’s going to have to report me to the authorities. Visions of police officers storming on board the plane, yanking me out of my seat, handcuffing me, and marching me off to jail flash through my head. I knew I should have stayed in Greece instead of flying across the Atlantic Ocean to see Preston.
A half hour elapses before Mrs. Mumu returns. I’m not sure what took so long, but it’s probably better that I don’t ask. She stows the cat carrier back under the seat. “Wait until you see this video I got of Pookie washing her paws in the sink.” She hands me her phone, then looks around her. “Where’s my vodka?”
“It got confiscated.”
“Confiscated?” She arches her eyebrows. “We’ll see about that. No one confiscates my booze without a fight.”
“Does this sort of thing happen often to you?”
“Well, I am a frequent flyer,” she informs me before sashaying down the aisle, her mumu swinging back and forth. I watch as she has an animated conversation with the flight attendant. A few minutes later, she returns with a blanket in her arms. She winks at me as she sits back down. Once she fastens her seatbelt, she pulls a bottle out from under the blanket.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“It’s better if you don’t know all the details.” She holds the bottle in one hand, then pulls the blanket over her head, hiding under it like it’s some sort of fort. I hear her uncap the bottle. From the movements under the blanket, I’m pretty sure she’s taking a few sips. The hiccupping noise afterward confirms my hunch. After a few moments, she peeks her head out. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll pass.”
Eventually, her hiccups turn into a soft snoring sound. While she sleeps, I stare out the window. It seems so peaceful here above the clouds. Maybe I could get used to flying again. Maybe it isn’t so bad.
That feeling is short-lived. The plane starts shaking violently. Then it bounces up and down sharply like it’s on the end of a yo-yo string. People start screaming.
Okay, from the way everyone is looking at me, I think I’m the only one screaming.
The flight attendant makes an announcement. “Attention, ladies and gentleman. The captain has advised that we’re going to have some turbulence for the next twenty minutes. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”
I thought she might have gone for a soothing tone in her voice. Instead, she sounds bored, like this sort of thing happens every day. While I still don’t have any idea what career direction I want to take, I can tell you one thing for sure—it won’t involve becoming a flight attendant.
Mrs. Mumu stirs. She pulls her blanket down and yawns. “What’s going on?”
I grab her hand and squeeze it tightly. “We’re going to die.”
“Oh, is that all?” She pulls her hand away, then tucks the blanket around her. “Wake me when it’s over.”
The turbulence shows no sign of letting up. I spend the next twenty minutes clutching my airsickness bag in readiness.
Finally, the captain addresses us. Instead of using the calming tone I’m hoping for, he sounds jovial, like he’s having the best time of this life. “This is the captain speaking. Sorry about the turbulence, folks. Looks like it’s going to be rough for a while. So sit back and enjoy the onscreen entertainment. Make sure to keep those seatbelts fastened. And thank you for flying with us.”
I look at my hands. They’re shaking so violently that I drop my airsickness bag on the floor. As I bend down to try to retrieve it, Pookie starts yowling. I startle and jostle Mrs. Mumu’s legs with my head.
“What’s going on? What are you doing down there?”
I sit back up, clutching my airsickness bag. “Retrieving this.”
“Oh, no, don’t tell me you’re going to be sick.” She holds her bottle up and examines it. “Did you drink some of this while I was sleeping?”
“No, of course not.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Hmm. Well, someone’s been drinking it.”
“It wasn’t me.”
The cat meows again, distracting Mrs. Mumu from the mystery of the missing rum. “What’s wrong, Pookie? Do you need the litter box again?” She thrusts the bottle at me. “Here, hold this while I check on my princess.”
I hold my hands up. “No way. I’m not getting in trouble again.”
“Humph.” She frowns at me, then taps the seat in front of her. “Boys, can you watch this for me?” After she passes the bottle to them, she lifts the cat carrier onto the seat next to her and unzips it. “You can come out now, Pookie.”
I don’t know what kind of cat I was expecting—maybe a fluffy Persian or a sleek Siamese—but what I am confronted with completely creeps me out. Have you ever seen a cat without fur? Well, I never have until now. Fortunately, Mrs. Mumu pulls a tiny sweater out of her purse. After putting it on Pookie, she coos, “Is that better? Were you cold?”
The cat does look much better, its hairless body now covered in a cute multi-colored pattern. The polka dots on it remind me of Preston and his bow ties.
The plane does a sudden dive. I forget all about Preston’s neck attire and get my airsickness bag ready. It’s quite possible I scream again.
“Shush, dear. You’re bothering Pookie.”
I glare at Pookie. Pookie glares back.
Mrs. Mumu looks at me with concern. “You look terrible. Do you need a drink?”
“No, I need my teddy bear.” The plane finally levels out, and I grab Giuseppe out of my backpack and clutch him to my chest, tears welling in my eyes. I say a few more prayers to Saint Joseph. After a few minutes, I start to feel calm. I set Giuseppe on my lap and dry my eyes. As I’m crumpling up my tissue, I hear a low growl, then a flash of polka dots as Pookie flies out of Mrs. Mumu’s arms, grabs Giuseppe in his mouth, and snatches him away from me.
“Hey, your cat stole my teddy bear!”
“Oh, isn’t that cute?” Mrs. Mumu beams at the evil feline who is now perched on the empty aisle seat, chewing on Giuseppe’s ear. “He has a bear just like that at home. Every night, he pounces on it, pretends to kill it, then brings it up to bed and presents it to me like a little love offering.”
I unfasten my seatbelt, reach across Mrs. Mumu and try to yank my teddy bear back. The cat puts up a good fight, but I eventually win the tug-of-war contest. I sit back in my seat triumphantly and press Giuseppe against my face. He feels soft and fluffy and…wait a minute, he feels wet.
“Your cat drooled on my teddy bear!”
Mrs. Mumu smiles and scratches Pookie behind his ears. “I know. He always does that when he gets overexcited. Isn’t it adorable?”
16
Ladies Seldom Eat Cheese
Thankfully, the flight from Athens to Boston is a direct one. I really doubt I could have convinced myself to get on a connecting flight after the ordeal I just experienced. And I’m not sure what the worst part of it was—fearing that I was going to die in a plane crash or having a hairless cat drool all over my teddy bear.
Fortunately, there’s no one waiting to arrest me when we land. The flight attendant tells me that she’s going to let me off with a stern warning, but that an incident like that better not happen again or else the airline will bar me for life. It wasn’t much of a scare tactic. I have no plans to board another plane ever again.
As I wait in line for a taxi, I turn my phone on. After a few moments, it beeps repeatedly, letting me know that I missed a number of texts while I was in the air. The first one is from Mia.
Arrived in Paris. Eating croissants with Pierre. Next stop—the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa.
I’ll have to call her later and get the scoop about what exactly is going on with Pierre. It seems like things have gotten serious, fast. I scroll down to the next text. This one is from Isabelle.
Call me when you get a sec. Have to tell you about the mysterious guy I met last night.
Ooh, that sounds intriguing. Isabelle started working aboard the riverboat cruise ship in Germany. I wonder if the mysterious guy is someone who is part of the crew or a passenger.
Next up is my mom asking if I’ve done the three things yet that she told me to do. Three things? I remember her telling me to apologize to Preston, which I’m planning on doing. She also told me to consider what would really make me happy. I did give it some serious thought on the plane when there wasn’t any turbulence. I have some ideas, but still not completely sure what to do in the career department. As for the third thing, I have no idea what it is. She had started to tell me, but then I had to hang up to save my clothes from a hairball.
The last few texts are from Celeste. I laugh out loud when I read them. They’re so typical of her—bizarre dating advice coupled with motherly concern.
If you go to a reception at the university with Preston, remember that ladies seldom eat cheese in public.
That sounds like good advice if you’re lactose-intolerant. But I love me some lactose, especially in the form of cheese. If there’s any on offer—cheddar, provolone, pepper jack, any kind, really—you can be sure that I’m going to gobble it up.
Don’t chew gum, especially grape-flavored gum.
I smile. No problem there. Chewing gum interferes with cheese eating. Why it matters if it’s grape or another flavor is beyond me. When I get to her last text, it makes me a bit teary-eyed.
Don’t let Preston slip away. I almost did that with my Ernie. Imagine if I had, I would have missed out on 14,632 of the best days of my life.
I feel something poking me in my back. I turn, half expecting to see Mabel behind me, brandishing her cane. Instead, it’s a pleasant-looking man trying to get my attention. He points at the taxi pulling up to the curb. “Excuse me, miss, but you’re next.”
As I slip into the back seat, I look at my phone. Should I text Preston and let him know that I’m in the States and coming to see him, or let it be a surprise? A surprise, I think. That way, I’ll know from the look on his face when he sees me, how he really feels about us.
* * *
Walking through the campus reminds me of my time in graduate school. The park-like setting, old ivy-covered brick buildings, students chatting to each other as they make their way to their next class, and members of the rowing team rushing to practice.
I approach the auditorium where the awards ceremony is taking place. My stomach is in knots. My heart is beating rapidly. My hands are clammy. Facing Preston is more anxiety inducing than flying across an ocean was. After taking several deep breaths, I slowly push the door open. I step over the threshold and into the large room. Standing at the back, I look down over the rows of seats. The place is jam-packed—it’s standing room only.
The chair of the history department approaches the podium. After some introductory remarks, she begins with the first award of the evening. “I have the honor of presenting the Hubert Robinson Prize. As you know, this prize recognizes promising graduate students in ancient history. Students from around the country submit research papers for consideration. This year, the standard of submissions was incredibly high. It was a real challenge to narrow the field down to a short-list of four finalists.”
She pauses and takes a sip of water before reading off the names of the finalists. I gasp when she reaches the final name. The name I’ve tried to forget. My ex. The jerk who stole my research and presented it as his. The man who accused me of plagiarism. How is it possible that Joel is in contention for this prestigious prize?
I clench my fists and narrow my eyes. My nervousness at seeing Preston again has been replaced with a different emotion—red-hot anger. I scan the auditorium. Where is he? Where’s that coward, Joel?
While I’m searching for my nemesis, a young man rushes onto the stage, covers the microphone with his hand, and whispers something in the woman’s ear. She raises her eyebrows, then pulls him to the side to confer with him. The crowd murmurs among themselves, wondering what’s going on.
When she returns to the podium, she holds up her hands for silence. “I have just been advised that one of the finalists has been disqualified for plagiarism.” When she says Joel’s name with disdain, I do a fist pump. Finally, the truth has come out. The world now knows him for what he is—a cheater.
She waits for the audience to quiet down, then continues. “Evidence has been brought to the committee’s attention that proves without a doubt that the paper he submitted was authored by someone else. Due to these circumstances, we will need to reconvene the panel of judges at a later date to consider how best to proceed. In the meantime, we will continue with the remainder of the awards on the program.”
I’m completely distracted during the next presentations. It’s only when she reaches the final award of the evening—the Herodotus Prize—that my ears perk up. This is the one that Preston is going to be awarded. When he walks on stage, I’m grinning ear to ear. A tweed jacket and bow tie never looked so good. Even from this distance, I can see his blue eyes sparkling in the overhead lights. Oh, how I want to see those blue eyes up close and personal.
After his acceptance speech, the ceremony draws to a close. Preston remains on stage, chatting with the history department chair and some other professors. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and grab my suitcase. The crowd is walking up the aisles t
o the exits. I’m going the opposite way, pushing my way through people as I try to get to the stage before Preston leaves.
As I near the front of the auditorium, I wave and call out his name. He turns. His eyes lock with mine, his eyebrows raised in surprise. I wait anxiously for some sort of reaction, any reaction. Then he breaks his gaze, turns, and says something to the person next to him. My heart sinks. That’s his reaction? Ignoring me?
I chew on my bottom lip, my eyes welling up with tears, then I turn to make my way back up the steps, toward the exit, and out of the auditorium alone. All alone.
“Excuse me,” I say to the cluster of men in front of me, blocking my way.
They’re so caught up in discussing the plagiarism scandal that they don’t hear me.
“Excuse me,” I say again. “Trying to get through.”
They’re still oblivious, so I try to slip around the side of them, but as I take a step forward, one of the guys takes a step backward. I stumble and end up on the ground, splayed across the bottom step, my belongings scattered about.
I turn my head sideways and see the top of Giuseppe’s head with its half-eaten ear sticking out of my backpack. I smile. No matter what ends up happening with Preston, at least I know there will always be one guy in my life who will stand by my side.
“Are the two of you okay?” someone asks.
I glance back at Giuseppe, then look up and see the man who tripped me.
“He’ll be fine,” I say. “I know it looks bad, but I can stitch up his ear later.”
“His ear?” He turns, looking to the left of me. “Did you hurt your ear?”
“No, my ear’s fine,” a familiar voice says.
I turn over on my side, wincing in pain. I look down at my ankle. Probably sprained. Then I allow my gaze to look at the man lying on the ground next to me who must have been taken down with me when I fell. It travels up from his sneakers, to his jeans, to his tweed jacket, to his adorable bow tie, then up to his eyes. His gorgeous blue eyes.
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