Chapter Twenty
Twenty
“No, no, no. This is all wrong. How am I supposed to inspire the company with this? Get me a photo of that Tim Tebow guy praying on the football field,” Mr. Stevenson demanded.
Danuwoa and I exchanged glances. The photo Mr. Stevenson hated currently in the deck was Colin Kaepernick kneeling on the football field, essentially the same thing Tim Tebow did, but one meant a lot more than the other. One was a white man praying, and the other was making a stand against systemic oppression. Danuwoa and I knew which one was more inspirational, but we had to make Mr. Stevenson happy. He then muttered, “It’s a shame he’s busy and we couldn’t book him for California.”
Natalie had booked Sasha Storm Cloud, a self-proclaimed medicine woman and spiritual leader, as our special guest and speaker, and while the content was also questionable, it was better than being evangelized by an ex–football player.
“How about like this?” Danuwoa turned his laptop around to show us the requested Tim Tebow photo.
“Excellent. I’m going to finish my remarks on the plane. You”—he pointed at me—“call the pilot and tell them we’ll be leaving now.” I jumped up from my seat and ran to my desk, leaving Danuwoa behind to finish packing up. We were cutting it close to the schedule. I still needed to make it to the hotel for my meeting with the event coordinator and make sure the stage and configuration of the space were correct. Then there was the audio and visual testing to make sure Danuwoa’s computer could connect and project the corresponding slideshows with the speaker, and the microphone and everything were working. It was going to be a long night.
I was panicking a little. Okay, rather, I was panicking a lot. This would be my first time on a plane, and if it went down, I didn’t think I wanted my last moments to be with Mr. Stevenson. With my luck and his attitude, he would blame me for the problems with the plane before we plummeted to our fiery deaths. That was my anxious brain thinking of the worst-case scenario, but it was hard not to when I wanted everything to go right.
“Hello?” Justin, Mr. Stevenson’s head pilot, answered on the first ring. I sat down in my chair and stuffed the event binder into my backpack.
“We’re on our way. Wheels up in twenty.” Never in my life did I think I would ever say something like that. Tom Cruise said things like that, not me. What was this life? It was exhilarating and I couldn’t remove the smile from my face if I tried.
“Ten-four.” The line disconnected. Everyone who worked for Mr. Stevenson was efficient. We got the job done and did not make time for small talk. Was Justin married? Did he have kids? Who cared? I didn’t. He had a current piloting license from the top school in the country, and that was all that mattered to me. I was putting my life in his hands getting on this tiny private plane.
“Let’s go.” Mr. Stevenson sped past my desk, his momentum cutting through the air, blowing my hair back. How an old man carrying a briefcase could move that fast beat me.
I hiked my backpack over my shoulders and grabbed my duffel bag. It had been my travel bag since I was a little girl. It was highlighter pink and made out of that crinkly, scratchy waterproof material that everything from the nineties was made out of. I’d never gone anywhere longer than a sleepover party, so I owned no luggage. With my superfluous and stupid purchase of that dress, I was not about to run up my credit card more for a suitcase I would be using once. But the second Danuwoa glanced down at my duffel, he smirked. I regretted not going to a thrift store or Ross to find a cheap carry-on.
He followed Mr. Stevenson to the elevator; his black backpack matched his sleek carry-on suitcase with four wheels on the bottom, which he pushed. When I made it onto the elevator with the two of them, Danuwoa spun his suitcase in a circle.
“Show-off,” I said under my breath, and I patted my duffel bag like it was my prized pet cat.
Danuwoa snorted and covered his nose. Mr. Stevenson was oblivious, scrolling through his phone. I had ordered a car service to take us to Will Rogers World Airport, and it was waiting right on the curb. I would never get used to this A-list treatment.
The driver opened the door to the back seat for us. We parked our luggage on the curb. Before I could put my duffel on the ground, Danuwoa took it from me and put it on top of his suitcase. It was a mindless gesture for him, but it made my heart constrict. This was not good. He gave me a quick, small smile, but the chivalry was something I’d never get used to.
Mr. Stevenson walked to the door, pulled the lever on the seat, and folded it down, and then, phone in hand, pointed for Danuwoa and me to file into the very back. We shared a look and wordlessly climbed through. Had I known I was going to crawl into the very back of an SUV, I would not have worn a pencil skirt. Since I was significantly smaller than Danuwoa, I opted to climb in first, and was embarrassed my ass was on full display. I righted myself and sat in my seat, pulling the fabric down as much as I could to look respectable and modest. The cheap polyester did not budge a centimeter.
Danuwoa looked unaffected, and I didn’t know which was worse—the fact that I had to demean myself and crawl into the back like the help that I was with way too much leg showing, or the fact that when I did so Danuwoa didn’t care at all. Whatever. I put my backpack on my lap and took out my event binder, flipping to the schedule divider to take my mind off it.
We would still get there in plenty of time to check into the hotel and for me to make my meeting with the event coordinator. VIP private travel had its advantages. Before I Ubered to the office, Joanna asked me to text her a photo of the bathroom in the private plane. She said she had seen plenty of influencers posting photos of private cabins, but no one ever shared the “deets” of the bathroom situation. Bathrooms were the equalizer of humanity. It didn’t matter how rich you were or where you were. Everyone had to shit. Really, if you were shitting in a bucket or in a gilded toilet, did it matter? The act was the same.
What could I say? She was weird, but was she wrong?
“Penny for your thoughts?” Danuwoa asked me, and I snorted.
I covered my mouth to try to contain the sound. If he only knew where my thoughts were.
“What?” He looked so confused. I had a fit of giggles. “There’s some joke I’m not getting here.”
“Nope,” I choked out. And he wasn’t gonna. There was no way I was telling him about the bathroom thing.
We pulled up to the private entrance gate as it parted, and we rolled through, stopping next to the shiny white plane. It was small. I’m not sure if size really matters in a plane in terms of safety, but this was no Airbus. Mr. Stevenson got out and made a call. Thankfully, Danuwoa folded down the front seat so we could get out.
The air was hot, but not yet suffocating. I turned to get a good look at the death trap—I mean airplane—we would be flying in. The stairs were set up and led to the open door. I glanced at our boss, who was whispering sweet nothings on the phone to who I assumed was his wife. He caught my look and nodded for us to go ahead onto the plane.
Danuwoa let me go first, and I ascended into what I would describe as a motor home with wings. It had that distinct motor-home smell: plastic and polyester and upholstered carpet. There was a small sink and refrigerator that looked like your run-of-the-mill RV setup, only from nicer brands. The seats were light tan genuine leather, but it didn’t feel all that much different from sitting in a nice RV. There was no flight attendant. The entrance area to my left led to the cockpit, and inside, one of the pilots was tinkering away with the dashboard. I’m sure he was doing a lot more than tinkering, but I didn’t know what. The other pilot was outside loading our luggage into what I assumed was a plane’s equivalent of a trunk. I took it all in and almost forgot Danuwoa was directly behind me.
“Head down to the table with the four seats. Mr. Stevenson and his wife, if she travels with us, sit in the seats up front,” he said.
“Okay.” I shuffled my way to said table and parked myself in one of the window seats. I was sitting on a private plane, about to fly above the ground and travel like fifteen hundred miles or so. “Do you think we’ll fly over the Grand Canyon?” I asked Danuwoa.
“We usually do when we go to California.” He was unpacking his laptop.
“That’s cool.” I tried to sound chill and not excited. That was something I had always wanted to visit, and seeing the canyon from above—that sounded amazing. I could handle flying in this tiny flying motor home, if only to see the Grand Canyon. “You’re going to work on the plane?”
“IT problems never rest. I installed Wi-Fi on here. He expects us to at least look busy while traveling with him.”
I’d never gotten my laptop out and booted it so fast. Danuwoa just chuckled at my awkward, rushed fumbling.
“All right, who’s excited to go to California?” Mr. Stevenson sang as he set his briefcase down next to his seat, then made his way over to us. “Good, you’re working. Ever been on a private plane before?” he asked me.
“Yes, sir. All the time.” It was a joke, so the lie didn’t count against my no-more-lying rule.
He laughed. “Well, you’re in for a treat. No need to buckle up or anything.” He tapped the headrest of Danuwoa’s seat, then continued to the back.
“The bathroom is back there.” Danuwoa answered my unasked question.
I nodded.
“I would give it a while before going in there after Mr. Stevenson though.” He smiled to himself as he started typing away on the keyboard.
“Gross.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just trying to spare you.” He raised his hands in surrender.
“My hero Danuwoa,” I said, tone laced with sarcasm, though I was actually grateful. Joanna’s bathroom pic could definitely wait. Before long, Mr. Stevenson whistled his way to his seat.
“Ready?” Justin, the head pilot who seemed a little too young to hold such a position, stood with his arms braced against the walls of the small pass-through to the cockpit.
“Let’s roll,” Mr. Stevenson ordered as he shook out his newspaper and began reading.
The engines started spinning and were louder than I thought they’d be. Things were moving beneath us. I could hear things going up and down, opening and closing. Then we started rolling along the tarmac. I took my lizard key chain out of my backpack and gave the ugly head a kiss for luck, then sat back in the chair.
Across from me, Danuwoa seemed unfazed. I couldn’t look out the window. I was plastered against the chair; my hands squeezed the armrests at my sides. I could feel us turning slowly but smoothly. There was a pause. Then the plane started going, rolling forward and picking up speed. Faster and faster, then suddenly I couldn’t feel the wheels on the ground. We were elevated and rising higher and higher. My stomach was against my back, and I was pinned to my seat. It felt like I was on a roller coaster, going up and up before the drop. Except the drop never came. Soon we flattened out and Justin announced our elevation.
My ears popped.
Inside the cabin, it was quiet except for the hum of the engines from outside. I did it. I was in the middle of the sky. Danuwoa was oblivious to the transformation and experience my body went through, but I was more relaxed.
I looked at Mr. Stevenson; he was dead asleep, mouth open and everything. It made sense he would be serene. This was his plane. It was only a two-and-a-half-hour flight, but I should have brought snacks.
“Psst,” I whispered, and kicked Danuwoa’s leg too, just to make sure he knew it was me trying to get his attention.
“What?” he whispered back.
“Do you have any food?”
“No. Are you hungry already?”
I nodded. I was too nervous to eat a big breakfast, and we’d worked on that presentation through lunch, but now that we were just cruising, I felt fine. And I was ravenous.
“Come on.” Danuwoa got up and motioned me to follow him toward the bathroom.
“No funny business. I’m not interested in joining the Mile High Club,” I teased.
“That’s too bad. I’m already a member.” He kept walking.
I felt my mouth drop to the floor. He had said his first time on a plane was with Mr. Stevenson for work. Who did he hook up with? He turned back to see if I was following him and started laughing. He returned and grabbed my hand to lead me to the back. “I was kidding.” He rolled his eyes.
We stopped at a cabinet on the opposite side of the lavatory.
“I knew that. I was acting shocked for the comedic effect.” I crossed my arms.
“Hmm.”
I couldn’t be thinking about Danuwoa and the Mile High Club when we were flying a mile high in a tin can and he was looking sinfully delicious with his mischievous smile.
“You going to open this then?” I pointed at the cabinet with my thumb.
He obliged. Inside were shelves full of granola, fruit snacks, chips, and chocolate. “Bon appétit.” He grabbed a yellow bag of potato chips.
The plane lurched—we were going to plummet and die! I launched myself into Danuwoa’s arms. He dropped his chips and held me. Our faces were inches apart, and my adrenaline was coursing through me. The terror made my mouth dry, and I licked my lips. His eyes watched my tongue. I wasn’t sure who moved first, but our lips were seconds from touching when the plane lurched again.
I clutched at his shirt, panic erasing any lusty feelings. We stayed there in front of the cabinet, Danuwoa holding me for several moments, but the plane stayed level. He let me go.
“It was only some slight turbulence. You okay?”
“You call that slight? The whole plane jerked up and down! We are in a metal can in the sky!”
“Your freak-outs are kind of cute.”
I pushed out of his arms. “I had a slight ”—to use his word—“moment of panic. I’m fine.” I cleared my throat.
He picked up his basic-ass flavor of chips off the floor, winked, and sauntered back to our seats.
I rolled my eyes and focused on real matters. Food. I raided that cabinet and got one of everything and brought my haul back to my seat. Danuwoa smiled, and I ignored him as I went to town munching on my snacks.
Hours went by, and I was bored. I should have brought a book or something. Danuwoa was typing away, and it was so warm in the plane I was nodding off. I shook myself awake.
Mr. Stevenson was still asleep with his mouth open wide enough to catch flies. My bladder pulsed, and it was as good a time as any to relieve myself and take a photo of the bathroom for Joanna.
Private plane bathrooms were exactly like small motor-home toilets. Really, I couldn’t get over this. I pushed the button with my foot to flush, and the drain in the toilet opened with a loud hiss. Did it go in a tank or fall straight down from the sky? There had to be a tank, because I feel like I would have heard about human waste falling from the sky.
I washed my hands in the small motor home–like sink. I know I should stop obsessing over it, but people liked to pretend these private planes were so luxurious! I snapped a selfie in the mirror for Joanna, then jiggled the lock to leave.
It was stuck.
I pushed the lock over and over again, leveraging all my strength. It wouldn’t budge. I was locked in a tiny bathroom.
I didn’t do well with being trapped in small, enclosed spaces. My cell phone had no service, so I couldn’t call Danuwoa. I should have connected it to Wi-Fi too, but I couldn’t remember the long string of letters and numbers that served as the password.
I did not want to bang on the door and yell and wake up Mr. Stevenson. How embarrassing. I lightly knocked, and prayed Danuwoa could hear me. “Dan, help please.”
I waited. And waited. And waited.
I looked at my phone, and only three minutes had passed. I started fiddling with the lock again, and its toggle popped off into my hand. It was never going to open.
Fuck.
I threw myself at the door using all my weight. It still didn’t budge. I rubbed my shoulder but didn’t let it deter me. I had to get out, and it had to be now.
Like a battering ram, I ran into it again and grunted. It hurt like hell and didn’t do anything. Again and again, I banged the door, trying to knock it down. I was stuck in a dumb airplane bathroom, and no one could hear me or help me. My hands started shaking, and I tried taking a breath to calm down.
I had tears in my eyes. I was about to start kicking and screaming.
“Ember, are you okay in there?” Danuwoa asked from behind the door, knocking softly.
He came for me! Relief unlike any I had ever felt rushed within me. I would not be left in here. I was saved.
“Danuwoa, no. I’m stuck!”
“In the toilet?”
My cheeks heated in embarrassment. “No, not the toilet! The lock is stuck, and I can’t get out.”
“Oh shit, okay, turn the lock and I’ll pull from this side?”
I croaked a sob, barely getting out the words. “The lock broke off.”
“Hey, it’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna kick the door down. I won’t leave you stuck. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“All right, stand back.”
I closed the toilet seat cover and stood on top; it was the farthest I could get in the tiny bathroom.
“Okay, I’m out of the way.”
Boom! The door swung open with such force, it hit the wall and closed again, only for Danuwoa to slowly open it.
I jumped off the toilet and fell into Danuwoa’s solid chest.
“Oh my god,” I nearly cried.
“Shh, kawolade’dv,” he soothed, rubbing my head and pushing my hair back.
“I don’t speak Cherokee,” I sniffed.
“Breathe,” he whispered.
The plane started descending.
“Oh my god, why is the plane going down?” I tried to get out of his arms.
“Bucky,” he said.
“Don’t call me that.” Hearing that awful nickname grated my nerves, and I glared at him.
“We’re preparing to land. That’s why I came to check on you.”
“Is Mr. Stevenson still sleeping?”
“Yeah.” He looked confused by my subject change.
“That’s why I didn’t yell for help. I didn’t want to wake him.”
Danuwoa grabbed me by my shoulders and crouched so we were eye to eye. “The next time you are ever scared or trapped anywhere, you yell, okay? Fuck Mr. Stevenson and his nap. Got it?”
I wiped the few fearful tears that escaped my eyes from my cheeks. “Yup.”
“That’s my girl, let’s sit down and look at the ocean.”