The Trouble with Flying

by Rachel Morgan

  “So, what delicious flavour will I be devouring today?” he asks.

  I hand him his tub, and he raises an eyebrow. “What? You asked for a surprise. That’s a surprise.”

  “It certainly is.” He removes the cap and digs in with his plastic spoon while I wipe the section of table in front of me with a serviette. I definitely don’t want to lean my elbows on that sticky mark I saw there. “Mm, this is amazing,” he says.

  “Really? Let me try.”

  “No way. You made your choice. You have to live with cookie dough now.” He holds his ice cream out of reach, but I lean across the table and manage to get my spoon into the tub.

  “Thief,” he says as I settle back in my chair, carefully bringing the plastic spoon towards my mouth.

  “Whatever. You know you want some of—No!” The stolen blob of ice cream lands on my hoodie, right in the centre of the R in BOOK FREAK.

  “You see?” Aiden says, giving me a superior look. “Thieves never prosper.”

  “It’s cheaters never prosper, silly.” I attempt to scrape the ice cream off my hoodie. A wet patch remains. “Ew, now I have to go wash this.”

  “Not really,” Aiden says. “It’s hardly dirty.”

  “I, um, have a thing about … mess. Sticky stuff and dirty stuff and … you know.” I dab at the wet patch with a serviette.

  “So your hoodie should actually say CLEAN FREAK instead of BOOK FREAK?”

  “It should probably say CLEAN FREAK and BOOK FREAK. And several other kinds of freak too.”

  “If I were wearing a hoodie,” Aiden says between mouthfuls of pineapple coconut ice cream, “what would my freak label be?”

  “Um …” I eat a few scoops of chocolate chip cookie dough while thinking. “MAGIC FREAK.”

  He gives me a questioning look.

  “What, you said you wanted to be a magician.”

  “Yeah, like fifteen years ago.”

  “ROLLERBLADE FREAK?”

  “Not even close.”

  “MYTH BUSTER FREAK.”

  “You’re insane.”

  We argue about freak names for Aiden until I’ve finished my tub of ice cream. Then I push my chair back, pull out the extendable handle of my carry-on suitcase, and make sure my handbag is zipped up. “Okay, I’m going to find a bathroom.”

  “What, you don’t trust me with your hand luggage?” Aiden asks. “You think I’m gonna run off with your regulation-sized toiletries and the stash of chocolates you stuffed in there just now?”

  “Those were high quality chocolates. You can’t be trusted with them.” I try to keep a straight face as I turn and walk away, but it proves impossible.

  After weaving through the crowds and running over a child’s foot with my suitcase—which earns me a very dirty look from the child’s mother, despite my numerous stuttered apologies—I manage to find a bathroom. I wait in line for what feels like far too long, then drag my suitcase over to a basin when it becomes available. Since I have to change my hoodie, I may as well take a few minutes to wash my face and freshen up a bit.

  You wouldn’t bother if Aiden wasn’t with you, a voice at the back of my mind whispers. Which isn’t true, because I like to be clean, so how does that silly voice know I wouldn’t freshen up if I were travelling alone?

  I locate my bag of tiny toiletries and start my cleansing routine, trying not to look at the woman next to me who appears to be giving herself a sponge bath. She’s stripped down to her underwear and is patting herself all over with a star-shaped orange sponge, apparently oblivious to the people around her.

  Man, I wish I were that confident.

  And I hope I look that good when I’m her age.

  Okay, focus. Freshen up and find clean clothes. I finish at the basin, then crouch down and search through my neatly packed suitcase. Beneath the toiletries and chocolates are the clothes I couldn’t fit into my main suitcase. I pull out the grey-and-white striped jersey I borrowed from Julia and decided to keep after she said it looked better on me. I remove the ice cream hoodie, pull on the jersey—and get a face-full of Sponge Bath Lady’s backside.

  I scoot backwards before the butt—complete with a tattooed pattern of symbols just above it—can make contact with my face. I consider telling the woman she almost knocked me over with her rear, but I decide it’s not worth the risk. Who knows how she’ll respond? She might be rude, and then I’ll go blank and stumble out of here like a total moron.

  Perfume. Find perfume. Yes, right, that’s what I was going to do before I was almost shoved in the face by a pair of lacy panties. I spritz my wrists and neck and breath in the fresh, aquatic scent while considering the symbols on Sponge Bath Lady’s tattoo. I don’t recognise them, but they’re kind of … exotic looking. I wish I knew what they meant. I wish I were brave enough to ask her.

  The cogs of my imagination start turning, working through maybes and what-ifs to concoct a wild story all starting with that tattoo. Sponge Bath Lady is part of a secret organisation. Just like the man who met the businesswoman in the airport restaurant to explain her special abilities to her. To explain that she is one of the Gifted. But this is a different organisation. An evil one. They’ve figured out how to steal special abilities, and now they hunt down unsuspecting Gifted who don’t even know what they can do yet. And that pattern of weird symbols is what they brand their Hunters with. Which makes Sponge Bath Lady a Hunter. She’s searching for the businesswoman—and her hunt has only just begun.

  After a quick glance at my watch—I still have time—I push my hand beneath my clothes and feel the hard edges of a notebook and pen at the bottom of my suitcase. I ignored the notebook the entire time I was away, but perhaps it’s time to add to it. I pull it out, sit down on top of the suitcase, and flip quickly to a blank page. I start scribbling down details. Scenes play out across the backdrop of my imagination as I write. I’ve even figured out the perfect ending.

  When I reach the end of my inspirational rush, I slide the notebook back into my suitcase. Sponge Bath Lady is gone, and I don’t recognise any of the other people lined up at the basins. I guess I was writing longer than I thought, but my watch still says I have plenty of time until we need to board.

  I push through crowds once more until I see the Häagen-Dazs sign and Aiden sitting in a chair. His back is to me, but he’s the only guy there, so I know it’s him. It looks like he’s changed his jacket, though. And I’m sure his hair isn’t that light …

  Hang on. That’s not Aiden.

  I stop outside the Häagen-Dazs area and look around, but I don’t see him anywhere. Okay. Weird. Maybe he also needed to go to the bathroom. I lean against the handle of my suitcase and check my watch.

  Wait. WAIT. The hands are in the same position they were in when I pulled out my notebook. The same position they were in when I left the bathroom.

  My watch has stopped working.

  CRAP! How long was I in there? Panic drenches me in goose bumps. My fingers scramble through my handbag, searching for my phone. I feel the hard, smooth edges and pull it out. It’s on aeroplane mode, so there should be plenty of battery life left. My shaking thumb presses a button, and the screen lights up. The moment I see the numbers, my churning stomach drops down to my feet. The gate I’m supposed to board at closes in two minutes.

  I start running, which is difficult with the amount of people around me. I’m supposed to be at gate … gate … Dammit, I’m usually so good with remembering numbers. I manage to pull my ticket out of my handbag while still running. I see the nearest gate. Despite the panicked state of my brain, I manage to do the math. My gate is nine away from here.

  I start running faster.

  Six more to go.

  Three more to go.

  There it is!

  I run down the empty ramp towards the desk and the two uniformed women who look like they may be about to leave. “Wait!” I yell. “Am I too late?”

  One of them sighs as I reach the desk. “Almost too late,” she say
s in an accent I can’t identify. “But not quite.” She holds out her hand for my ticket.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” I pant. I hand over my ticket, then dig in my handbag for my ID book. I hand it to the second woman, who looks a lot friendlier than the first.

  “Oh, you’re the one that guy kept asking us about,” she says when she opens my ID book. She sounds South African—Afrikaans, possibly—which is such a comfort right now that I almost start crying.

  “S-Someone was asking about me?”

  “Yes. He kept saying he had to wait for you. We forced him to board a few minutes ago.” She smiles. “He’ll be very happy to see you.”

  Tears burn behind my eyes, and I take a deep breath and blink them away. I walk down the corridor as quickly as my shaking legs will allow. Once on the plane, I divide my attention between searching for my seat and searching for Aiden. I can’t remember where he’s sitting; I was going to leave it up to him to make a plan for us to sit together.

  People are watching me. I might be imagining it, but they seem annoyed. Did I do something wrong? I find my seat—in between an overweight man reading a newspaper and a teen girl who looks like she’s already asleep—but the compartment above it is already full. I open three other compartments before finding space for my suitcase.

  And people don’t stop staring for a second.

  By the time I squeeze past the man and drop into my seat, my face is burning. Why, why did I have to start writing in that notebook? These stupid stories of mine have given me nothing but trouble. I should gather up every notebook I have and throw them all away. Or burn them. That might be more satisfying.

  I rub my eyes, and my head throbs as a wave of utter exhaustion rolls over me. Hardly surprising considering it’s about six in the morning in London and I didn’t sleep all night. I dig inside my handbag and pull out my phone and the small drawstring bag that contains my flattened travel pillow. I press a button on the phone’s screen and check the time. Yip, it’s almost six thirty in the morning in London. Far too many hours since I last slept. With a great deal of effort—my lungs seem to be as exhausted as the rest of my body—I manage to blow up the pillow. I fit it around my neck. Then, still clutching my phone, I cross my arms and close my eyes. I’ll sleep for a little bit, just until they bring the drinks trolley around, or the next meal, and then I’ll search the aisles to see if I can find Aiden.

  ***

  I wake abruptly from a dream in which I’m running through a crowded airport trying to catch Julia. My neck aches and my throat is horribly dry, but I don’t feel nearly as tired as I did when I first sat down. I blink a few times and wipe my hand over my mouth. Is that dried saliva on my chin? I find my phone lying face down on my lap—thank goodness no one stole it—and turn it over to check the time. I blink once more. Oh my heck, have I seriously been asleep for seven hours? No wonder I don’t feel tired anymore. I’ve got less than two hours left on this plane.

  Ugh. I don’t want to be back in Durban.

  And Aiden! I have to find him and tell him I made it onto the plane!

  “Afternoon, Book Freak. Did you sleep well?”

  I jerk to the side in fright as the person in the aisle seat leans towards me.

  Aiden.

  What? How did he get there?

  Oh, crumbs, how awful do I look right now? I rub hastily at my chin, hoping to remove all traces of drool. I open my mouth to speak, then snap it shut. After seven hours of sleep, I probably have the most horrendous morning breath. And my hair—it’s all bunched up around my neck because of that silly blow-up pillow. Why does Aiden have to sit next to me now? And how? What happened to the overweight man with the newspaper?

  Wait. Maybe I’m still asleep.

  “You look confused,” Aiden says, then narrows his eyes. “Or is that your scared face? Because if it is, I’m starting to think you deserted me in the airport on purpose.” He leans back. “You know, if you detested my company that much, you should have just said so.”

  “I—I’m so sorry,” I stutter, my hand fluttering near my mouth to try and shield him from the dragon breath. “I lost track of time while I was in the bathroom.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Really? You lost track of that much time? Okay, now I’m almost certain you left me on purpose.” He unclips his seatbelt. “But don’t worry. We can fix this. I’m sure the chubby gentleman will be happy to trade seats with me again. However,” he adds, “he may think it rather strange that after begging him to let me sit next to my sick sister to make sure she takes all her medication, I’m now abandoning her.”

  “I—your sick sister?”

  “Yes. You contracted the Millicent virus while we were on holiday. You became delirious in the airport, which is why you ran away from me.”

  I take a few moments to process Aiden’s words before responding. “I’m guessing the chubby gentleman was quick to leave after that.”

  “He was.”

  “I’m also guessing there’s no such thing as the Millicent virus.”

  “Well, that’s debatable. I had a horrid old aunt named Millicent. She was always cooking up disgusting concoctions in her kitchen. One of them could have been a virus.”

  “Right. Did you tell the chubby gentleman that part as well?”

  “Oh no. He heard the words ‘virus’ and ‘delirious’ and that was all it took for him to shoot up out of this seat. Poor man’s probably never moved so fast.”

  I start laughing, then cover my mouth when I remember the dragon breath. “Well, congratulations on coming up with such an exciting story.”

  Aiden inclines his head. “Thank you, but it was all you. I was inspired by your wild imagination.”

  I close my eyes and groan. “It’s my wild imagination that almost caused me to miss this flight. I started writing down a story in my notebook while I was in the bathroom, and my watch stopped working so I didn’t realise how long I was taking.” I pull my sleeve back and show Aiden my watch as proof. “So I really am sorry for abandoning you in the airport. I looked out for you when I got onto the plane, but I couldn’t see you anywhere. I was just going to have a quick nap and then look for you, but … I guess that didn’t happen.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I remembered your seat number,” Aiden says, “otherwise I might still be picturing you hiding out at the airport, so desperate to get away from me that you were willing to miss a flight for it.”

  I laugh and consider slapping his arm playfully, but I don’t think I’m cool enough to pull that off. “How long have you been sitting next to me?”

  “Uh … since the seatbelt light first went off.”

  “What?” Embarrassment heats my cheeks. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Well, I was tired,” Aiden says with a shrug. “I figured since you were sleeping, I might as well sleep too.”

  “You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping. I look like I’ve been sleeping, but you look perfectly groomed.”

  “Do I, now?” His sexy grin makes a reappearance. “And how would you know what I look like when I’ve been sleeping?”

  “I … I didn’t mean …” Flustered, I pull the blow-up pillow away from my neck—why didn’t I do that when I first woke up?—and reach for my handbag. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Aiden bursts out laughing. “You can’t keep escaping to the bathroom, Sarah.”

  “But I actually need to go this time!” I protest.

  “Oh, so when you told me you needed to go on the last flight, you were lying?”

  “I—no—just let me past, please.”

  Aiden moves his legs aside with a sigh, and I hurry away before I embarrass myself further.

  In the tiny bathroom, I neaten up my hair as much as I can without getting the electrified look before rubbing some fruity scented cream on my hands and neck. Perfume might be better, but I left it in my suitcase in one of the overhead compartments. I pull out my travel sized toothbrush and toothpaste and get to work ridding myself
of dragon breath. Julia thought it was hilarious that I bothered to get a travel toothbrush, but she’d be grateful if she were in this situation.

  I get back to my row to find Aiden holding a phone that looks far too familiar. “Hey, that’s mine.” I squeeze past him, dump my handbag on the floor, and sit down. “Hand it over.”

  “What, I thought you left it on your seat specifically for me to look at.”

  My chest constricts as I think of all the whacky and embarrassing photos I took over the past three weeks. “What exactly did you look at?”

  “Relax, Book Freak. I was just looking at your background photo. Is that your sister? The one you were visiting?”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Yes, that’s Julia.” I take the phone from him and look at the picture of Julia and me puckering our lips for a selfie with Big Ben in the background. It’s ridiculous how much I miss her already.

  “She’s the photographer?” Aiden asks.

  “Yes.” I lock my phone and slide it back into my handbag. “Sophie is The Artist Daughter and Julia is The Photographer Daughter. Formerly known as The Perfect Daughter.”

  “Formerly?”

  “Yes. She kinda lost that label after she ran away from home and didn’t contact anyone for almost a year.”

  “Really?” Aiden looks at me to check whether I’m joking.

  “Really.”

  “Wow. I mean, there were times I wanted to run away, but I never actually did it.”

  “Yeah.” I pull my knees up to my chest. “My parents were really upset.”

  “Understandably. That sounds a little …”

  “What?”

  “Well, a little selfish. Running off and not contacting anyone. I could never do that to my mum. She’d be devastated.”

  “I guess.” I trace invisible patterns across my knee. “Julia had a good reason for it, though.”

  “It must have been something big.”

  “It was.”

  “Was it to do with your parents?”

  I shake my head.

  “So why ignore them for so long?”