“Think he’s all wounded and needy? On the prowl for someone new?” Evie has one of those oversized mouths attached to an oversized face that makes all her vowels sound a mile long.
“Doubtful,” Sarah answers. Then, lowering her voice: “He said he’s trying to join the mile-high club.”
“Seriously? Isn’t that, like, when people … you know … on a plane?” From the way Evie’s voice jumps to Mariah Carey octaves, it’s hard to tell if she’s horrified or interested in signing herself up as a willing partner.
“Shhh! And yes. Totally. You know how he is. Up for anything,” Sarah says.
Gross. I say a silent prayer that God can add Sarah to the list of People to Render Temporarily Mute while he’s working on keeping our plane in the sky. I mean, I am totally not one of those prudes who believe having sex as a teenager is some kind of mortal sin or social death. I don’t have a problem with sex. I just don’t happen to be having it. And if I were having sex, I certainly wouldn’t be getting it on in an airplane bathroom. Who wants to get down and dirty in a place so … cramped and dirty?
I close my eyes and try to get Mark back, but Sarah’s voice keeps slicing into my visions like one of those infomercial knives. Cuts cans, shoes, and daydreams.
Without imaginary Mark to keep me company, there’s only one way to simultaneously block out Newton North’s biggest mouth and chase away visions of airmageddon. I pull my iPod out of my purple leather satchel, which is tucked safely under the seat in front of me. I unwind my headphones and click on some mellow tunes (Hayward Williams being my choice music of the moment. It’s like someone put gravel and butter into a blender and out came his voice). But as I reach back to put in my earbuds, I encounter something wet and sticky nested in my curls. I pull the end of my ponytail around to my face to find a wad of what looks, smells, and feels like grape Bubble Yum.
A fit of giggles erupts behind me, and I turn to see a little boy, maybe seven, wearing a Buzz Lightyear tee. He’s grinning maniacally, his mother snoozing peacefully beside him.
“Did you?” I whisper, furiously shaking my hair at him.
“Oops!” he exclaims before dissolving into another fit of hysterical laughter, his fat cheeks burning red under his mop of blond curls.
Add children to the list of things I hate. Flying and children.
After several minutes of careful picking, followed by some full-on tugging (all while I thank my parents for making me an only child), it becomes clear: I am going to have to leave my seat and go to the bathroom, in total defiance of the pilot-ordered Fasten Seat Belt sign.
I don’t use airplane bathrooms. As a rule. And I really don’t like breaking rules. (It’s kind of one of my rules.) I mean, if I’m going to plummet to my death, it’s not going to be with my pants around my ankles. Then again, a big wad of grape gum in my ponytail definitely constitutes an emergency, no matter how little I care about my overchlorinated, wild chestnut waves. I carefully unfasten my seat belt, keeping my eye on the flight attendants’ galley, and make a beeline for the lavatory.
As I pick at the purple gooey mess my head has become, I can hear faint giggling coming through the wall. What is it with everyone on this flight acting like it’s a day at Six Flags? I’d rather be on the Titanic at this point. At least there I’d be traveling in comfort, with crystal glasses and warm towels.
I finally yank the last gob of gum out of my hair and step out of the lavatory, wrestling with the little sliding door, which has grabbed hold of the sleeve of my hoodie. I fumble around, bashing my elbow on the doorframe, before finally freeing myself and whipping around to leave. Right then the plane bounces hard, and I am shot out of the bathroom like a cannon ball. A pair of arms saves me from bashing my head into the narrow doorway. I look up to see Jason Lippincott steadying me on my feet.
“Book Licker!” he says, invoking my least favorite junior-high nickname. He grins, several freckles on his forehead scrunching together. “Enjoying your flight?”
I pull away from him. “It’s Julia,” I reply as calmly as possible, adjusting the hem of my pants, which have hooked themselves over the sole of my sneaker.
“Of course,” he says, gesturing down the aisle. “After you.”
“Um, thanks,” I say. Maybe he can tell how badly I want to get back to my seat belt.
As I make my way down the aisle, I begin to notice my classmates’ eyes on me. The looks quickly turn to snickers and then full-on laughter. Ryan Lynch, Newton North’s lacrosse captain, is grinning stupidly at me. Sarah is whispering furiously to Evie, her eyes trained in my direction. I have absolutely no idea what is going on, and I immediately wonder if there is more bubble gum in my hair or it somehow landed on my face. I reach to pat my hair down when a wild gesture catches the corner of my eye. I turn to see Jason making a thrusting motion in my direction, winking at Ryan, who reaches out to give Jason a high five.
Oh my God. No way. They think it was us, in the bathroom, with the mile-high club and all that. They think it because he’s making them think it! How could they think I would do anything with Jason Lippincott, much less anything in an airplane bathroom! My eyes dart back to Sarah, who is still in full-on gossip mode, her gaze locked on me. If Sarah knows, everyone knows, which means it’s only a matter of time before the news gets back to Mark. And by then, who knows how crazy the rumor will get? Newton North is like one giant game of telephone sometimes.
One thing is certain: good, sweet, kind, thoughtful Mark is going to want nothing to do with me if he thinks I’ve been even semi-naked with Jason on a transatlantic flight.
Though Jason has stopped thrusting, he’s still laughing and air-fiving his seatmates. Air-fiving. Yeah. First he calls me Book Licker; then he pretends I got down and dirty at thirty thousand feet!
All I can do is turn and hiss, “Stop it!” before dropping into my seat. I cram my headphones into my ears, crank the volume on my iPod, and try to drown out my humiliation with some tunes. At this point, I’m almost hoping for a crash.
Copyright © 2012 by Paper Lantern Lit, LLC. Published by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Being Sloane Jacobs Page 25