It was as if Emma and Fi were entirely different species, with disparate grooming habits and education levels. Fi’s own mother had taught her how to shave her legs (carefully, from the ankles up to the knees) and had purchased her jewelry, like the small gold Jewish star she had worn continuously since her sixteenth birthday, even in the shower. She knew how and when to wash her bras and apply makeup, but it seemed as though there was an entirely separate education that Emma had received. Who had taught her these things?
But there was only one truly important question: Would Emma even acknowledge Fi after the plane landed, when they were back on campus? That was how Birthright was supposed to go, right? You meet people who you go to college with, share a life-changing experience, and then stay friends throughout the rest of your college life, sharing inside jokes about falafel and how that kid Max went to the Holocaust museum while he was hungover.
Fi and Emma had become close over the past week, rooming together all but once, but Fi was aware that tours of community farms and long bus rides were a universal equalizer. Back at Grinnell, their paths had never crossed. Emma had her own friends; she went to parties; she had easy fun in a way Fi never did. Plus, Emma wasn’t a virgin.
It’s not like Fi wished she were the one making out with Dean, but having someone to make out with on the nine-hour flight would have been nice. Having someone who wanted to make out with her, ideally the same person who could have made her not a virgin before she returned to campus, because the turbulence hadn’t stopped.
The plane tossed up and down, left and right, a deranged roller coaster in the dark. Fi wondered briefly if she was going to die. She prayed quickly again as the plane gave its most violent shudder yet. What would her funeral be like? She probably wouldn’t even get her own memorial at Grinnell—if this flight went down, the campus would be mourning the entire spring break Birthright trip, all twenty-four of them, without anyone caring in particular about Fi more than anyone else. She and her college roommate, Vivie, had been on touchy terms since Vivie had decided that she wanted to be premed and would need to stay for a fifth year on campus to complete her degree. “You’re distracting me,” Vivie would hiss every time Fi forgot to use headphones while watching Netflix, or let the microwave beep to alert her that her popcorn was done instead of stopping it with a second or two left on the clock. Vivie would probably secretly be relieved that she got full use of the room for the rest of the semester.
Fi was contemplating turning off the movie so she wouldn’t die watching America’s Sweethearts (VIRGIN DIES WATCHING CRITICALLY UNDERWHELMING ROMANTIC COMEDY) when the plane veered so violently to the side the books in Fi’s backpack tumbled out under her seat, and someone behind her screamed. The lights in the cabin flashed on with a ding.
“Jesus,” Emma said, extracting herself from Dean’s arms and righting herself in the middle seat. The plane’s audio system crackled to life, and a low, male voice boomed invisibly throughout the plane.
“This is your captain speaking. As you’re probably aware, we’re going through some, eh, turbulence here, and, eh, we’re going to need to divert our course to avoid the worst of the storm. We’ll be, uh, making an emergency landing in Dublin in order to make sure you all safely make it back to JFK, uh, New York.”
“It’s not even raining, is it?” Dean asked, leaning over toward Fi to peer out the plane window. Fi obligingly lifted the shade a bit for him. Pitch-black. If it were raining, or snowing, or hailing fist-size diamonds, there would be no way of knowing.
The cabin lights stayed on, and although the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign bleated out its ever-present reminder, their trip leader, Corinne, still managed to make it up the aisles, crouching as if lowering herself six inches would make her invisible to the flight attendants’ wrath.
“Hey, guys, you doin’ okay up here?” she said, gripping the back of the seats to protect herself against a particularly vicious bump of the plane.
“So what’s the deal, then?” Emma purred, not bothering to remove her legs from where they rested across Dean’s. “We have to do a layover or something?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Corinne said. She was still wearing her laminated name tag on a lanyard around her neck, even though they were on the flight home. Fi guessed she was somewhere around forty, still working an indeterminate job at the campus Hillel. Fi had been surprised when Corinne mentioned her husband casually, while they had been at the Wall. “Just wanted to make sure the gang is okay!”
“If we have to stay overnight, do they put us in a hotel?” Emma asked. Corinne’s eyes passed over where Emma was entangled with Dean, but she didn’t seem to care at all.
“I’d assume so,” Corinne said with an earnestness that made Fi sad. Corinne gave a little laugh. “God’s hands!”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said a flight attendant with an Israeli accent. “Please return to your seat.” Corinne gave Emma, Dean, and Fi a conspiratorial grin and floated to the back of the plane.
“You hear that, Fi?” Emma said. “Hotel. You can finally bone Max, like you’ve been planning this entire goddamn time.” Fi and Dean gave matching involuntary scoffs of disbelief. Emma turned to Dean. “What? She has. I’ve seen the way she was moon eyes over him. They shared a water bottle on the hike! That’s, like, first base.”
“He was thirsty,” Fi mumbled, a blush creeping down her neck.
Max. Why had she not thought of Max? He was tall, maybe one of the tallest boys on the trip, at least six foot three, with curly black hair that looked like a Brillo pad and was already balding in the back. But Fi and Max hadn’t exchanged so much as a dozen words between the two of them. It seemed like he had been more interested in quoting Will Ferrell movies with his friends, and trying to sneak booze back into their room, than talking to Fi at all.
“You two are adorable,” Emma said. “You’re going to pop out his Jewish babies before we’re even back home.”
Maybe Fi had been wrong. Maybe she had been the nervous one, the shy girl who hadn’t initiated conversation. By the time the plane landed in the pitch-black, Fi had rewritten a version of the previous week in her head in which she had been standoffish and distant to the boy who had been pining for her, and now—thank God—she had been given a single night to rectify her mistake.
The Dublin airport could have been any airport in the world. Same white linoleum floor, same fast-food-mixed-with-cleaning-fluid smell, same bleary-eyed children dragged along by exhausted parents, same tight-lipped, chignoned flight attendants in too-tight polyester. Corinne gathered the group at the gate when they had all stumbled off the plane. Max gave Fi a drowsy, two-fingered salute when she made eye contact. She smiled back.
“Okay, gang, looks like we’re spending the night in Dublin!” Corinne said, slapping her hands together, after she returned from talking with someone at the counter.
“Like, can we hang out? Do we get to explore or whatever at least?” said Tova.
“Unfortunately, no,” Corinne said with more patience than Fi would have thought a human being was capable of. Maybe a prerequisite of leading a Birthright trip was the surgical removal of your eye-roll reflex. “We’re just going to be popping down to the airport hotel and be back here in a few hours for a five a.m. flight.” There were a few groans and a few sleepy blinks.
“Is it even worth going to sleep?” asked Maddie-with-an-ie. “Like, that’s like four hours.”
“Whether you sleep or not is up to you,” Corinne said, again with complete astonishing earnestness. “But I know I’ll be catching some much-needed shut-eye!”
After a silent shuttle-bus ride and an awkward shuffling in the predawn darkness, Corinne assigned rooms, using their seat numbers as a template. Fi and Emma were in the same room together; that was the only reason Fi was there when Dean, Evan, Max, Tova, and Maddie-with-an-ie showed up to hang out. There had been no communication as
far as Fi could see as to when or where they would meet—popular kids communicated by telepathy, on a wavelength that was inaudible to normal people.
Fi had already changed into her pajamas—just the T-shirt she had been wearing on the plane, no bra—and brushed her teeth, and she had just gotten into bed when the door burst open.
“Let’s get this party starrr-ted,” Tova said, bouncing onto Fi’s bed and crossing her legs.
“Too bad we don’t have any booze,” said Max.
Evan removed his sneakers and sat next to Tova. “Who needs booze when we’re riding on severe lack of sleep. I heard somewhere that not getting enough sleep is basically the same as being drunk.” Max sat on the bed too, close to Fi, and smiled. Fi smiled back and then pulled the thin blanket higher up over her body.
“Should we play Truth or Dare?” Tova asked. Fi tried to meet Max’s eyes to give him a coquettish look from beneath her eyelashes, but he was distracted untangling a knot in his sneaker laces and didn’t look up.
“What are you, ten?” Evan said. “Spin the bottle.”
“How about…” Emma rifled through her backpack.
“Looking for your dildo, Em?” Evan sneered. Emma hit him and laughed. She pulled out a hairbrush.
“Found it. Spin the hairbrush.”
“This is dumb, guys,” said Maddie-with-an-ie, and Fi’s heart expanded with involuntary relief. “We’re not in fucking middle school.” Dean murmured his assent. Fi tried to gauge Max’s expression, but he was still fiddling with his shoelace.
Tova swung her legs back onto the floor. “Come on, it’s our last night. Not even our last night. It’s a bonus night. It’s like Leap Day. Nothing we do on a layover counts. Just play—who even cares.”
“I’ll go first,” Evan said, grabbing the hairbrush and giving it an awkwardly forceful spin on the carpeted floor. It careened to the side, making two and a half rotations before it stopped, its handle pointing squarely at Emma. She rolled her eyes and lifted her body up to accept a peck on the lips from Evan.
“Okay, okay, my turn,” Maddie-with-an-ie said, clearly all her misgivings dissolved. She squared herself against the group, which was still more of a clump than a circle, and gave the hairbrush a jerky spin. It barely moved and landed on Evan. “You rigged this!” she squealed, giving him a kiss on the lips that lasted more than a few seconds.
Tova spun next, landing on Dean. Then Emma (Max), then Evan again (Dean and then a re-spin, Tova). No one asked Fi if she wanted a turn. Maddie landed on Tova, and the girls kissed for a few seconds while Dean and Evan hooted. Tova landed on the space between Fi and Max, and spun again and landed on Evan, and kissed him for a good fifteen seconds, until Emma said, “All right, kiddies, time to break it up.”
Fi felt like a voyeur for not playing, but this was her room, wasn’t it? It wasn’t her fault if they were doing this in front of her. It was like being granted a backstage pass into a social life she never would have seen otherwise. Emma landed on Max. Watching them peck on the lips made Fi’s chest hurt.
“Maxie’s turn!” Tova sang. Fi sat up straighter. The universe had willed this all to happen—the turbulence, the emergency landing, the night in the hotel room—just for this moment.
Max rolled his eyes. “You realize this is a game for seventh graders, right?”
Fi’s heart buzzed like a hummingbird. Of course he was playing it cool. He didn’t want his first kiss with Fi to be during some dumb game.
“Everyone is ageless during spin the bottle,” Emma said sagely, gnawing at a protein bar she’d pulled from her backpack.
Max sighed and pulled the hairbrush toward him, and then spun hard. It spun.
Every force in the universe tugged at the hairbrush.
The polar magnets flared.
Gravity upended itself.
All of Newton’s laws dissolved and rebuilt themselves so that this hairbrush, on this one night, would do what Fi couldn’t during the trip.
The hairbrush slowed, drifting slightly sideways on the hotel’s thin carpet.
And stopped.
And landed directly between Fi’s eyes.
Fi swallowed. Hard. She wiggled herself out from beneath the blanket, wondering if Max could see her nipples under her shirt and secretly hoping he could. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears.
She had willed this moment to happen, and it did.
“This is dumb,” Max said, shifting uncomfortably. “We’re not fucking twelve-year-olds. Nothing personal, Fi.”
“No,” Fi said, her face pulsing with blood and shame. “Obviously not.”
The rest of the group stirred. Shoes began to be returned to feet. Tova unpretzeled her limbs and stretched. “Time to try to grab literally a second of sleep,” she said.
“Hey,” Max said, gesturing to Fi. “Will you grab me my shoes?” She complied. “Thanks, yo.” Fi wasn’t sure whether he meant it like “Thanks, yo,” or whether he was making his own nickname for her: Yo, for Fiona. Fi-YO-na. No one had ever called her Yo before, but she was too embarrassed to ask if that’s what he was doing.
Before the group had even filed out, Fi began crying, despite herself. She rolled away from the door and curled up as tightly as possible, like a pill bug. She did it silently, with the tears pooling in the lumpy fabric of the pillow, and didn’t move until the rest of the group had left the room and she heard the door slam behind them. Fi knew that moment with Max would replay in her mind for the rest of the trip home.
This, she thought, is how it’s always going to be.
“You okay?” Emma asked, slinking toward the beds after she had brushed her teeth. But the tone made her question sound more like When are you going to stop with the annoying crying? Fi couldn’t speak, and she couldn’t face Emma without showing her bloated, wet, red face.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, without moving.
Emma didn’t ask again. She turned the lights off. Fi tried to go to sleep—they would need to be up in an hour anyway to leave for the airport—but there was a crack of light that found its way through the curtains. And so while Emma slept, Fi stayed awake, frozen, until an alarm went off, when the two girls put on their jeans and left the room.
* * *
***
Emma was already seated by the time Fi boarded the bus to get to the airport the next morning. As Fi turned sidewise to make her way through the aisle of the bus without making eye contact, Emma sighed loudly. “Ugh, Fi? Have you seen my headphones?”
Fi could say, Yes, maybe. She could use the question as an excuse to sit in the spare seat next to Emma. She could rifle through her bag as the rest of the group sleepily filed onto the bus, and then maybe Max would sit right across the aisle from her, and then—
“No. I haven’t,” Fi answered. Instead of sitting next to Emma, she took a seat in an empty row. She plopped her bag down in the aisle seat, marking her territory.
“Maybe they got mixed up with your stuff!” Emma called out. “Are you sure you don’t have them?”
“I’m sure,” Fi responded. As the bus pulled away from the curb, Fi took out a book, but she didn’t bother to open it. Instead, she pressed her head against the window. She watched the sun rise as she began the journey home.
SOME DAYS YOU’RE THE SIDEKICK; SOME DAYS YOU’RE THE SUPERHERO
BY KATHERINE LOCKE
Title: parties and dancing, takeoffs and landings
Author: Makeabeat02
Rating: PG
Tags: au, I just have feelings okay, not really fluff, I tried, I was going to use Justin Bieber lyrics as a title but I am afraid of being sued, same with Nirvana lyrics, everything gets meta after this, apologies, makeup fic, no romance, if you came here for a hea lol get out, well actually, I don’t know how it ends, I am alarmed by how many of these tags are actually already tags, who is in charge of
me, please stop me, I am the worst, no beta reader, no hate mail please, desperation smells like the entire box of Goldfish I ate while writing this, I hope you’re okay, I’m here, I screwed up, and I’m genuinely sorry, apology fic, OC, the OC is me
Notes: I can’t decide how this story starts.
I could start it in three different places.
I think you’d hate me in all of them.
So I guess if it doesn’t matter, if they all end up in the same place, I’ll start it here.
I’m not tagging you, but you know who you are.
***
CHAPTER 1: MASOCHISM IS AN ART
Mom’s waiting for me and Davey outside the school. She’s got the windows down and Mariah Carey blasting, and I’d tell you that it was embarrassing, except I love her, and I secretly love Mariah Carey (please don’t tell anyone).
Davey’s also outside, hanging out with their friends by the picnic table under the pine tree. They’re sitting on the part you’re supposed to eat on, and their feet are on the bench, while a half dozen girls sit around them, fawning over their every word. I don’t know if Davey’s interested in girls, or anyone, but it’s clear that my younger sibling is much more popular than me. It’s not that I’m not popular. It’s just that Davey moves as fluidly between groups at school as they do between genders, and I am more of a—fine. I’m a nerd. I stare at Davey’s perfectly tied bow tie and down at my IRON MAN’S THE WORST DON’T @ ME shirt.
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