2. The Plane
THE PLANE
Sandy disappeared forty minutes ago, and I'm the only person left.
Her guitar is still here. Jo made her exit ten minutes after our set with her phone already in her hand and Rebecca’s name on the screen. Three months back, Jo would have remained. Now she goes home to her girlfriend, and the rest of it falls to me.
The green room feels like a basement when the band leaves. Sagging couch. Cold pizza. I open my laptop on top of a road case and start working through the inbox.
My phone rings. Jo's calling.
"Hey. Did you check the Thursday booking?" I ask.
"The studio one? Yeah, I have it noted. I was planning to—"
"It's double-booked. The engineer apologized and offered Friday, Tuesday, or the following Monday."
Silence on her end.
"Friday works," she says. "Did you move everything?"
"I’m already on it and now it’s done.” I click send. “CC'd the engineer, CC'd the band account, didn't CC you because you'll show up expecting Thursday anyway."
She laughs. "That's fair. You know me too well."
"That's what happens when someone becomes the operations person. You develop psychic abilities."
"Do you need help?"
"No no, I'm handling it. But also, something came through for Sandy. The tabloid's running with the 'mystery woman' angle again. I'm drafting a statement for the label but we need to discuss what—"
"Okay. Send it to me. I'll run it by the lawyer."
“Jo, it’s 2 in the morning.”
"I’ll still be up. Send it, please."
She hangs up before I can argue. This is the pattern now—Jo suggests and I execute, Jo forgets and I catch the gap.
I draw in a breath.
I wrote the statement. I drafted the Sandy response. I pack both bases into the van and do the walkthrough—merch count, setlist check, lights off, door locked.
“—are in an overbooked situation and are seeking volunteers willing to take a later flight. We will offer volunteers compensation and rebooking on the next available departure. We appreciate your flexibility and thank you for your patience.”
Some people don’t react at all. Others surge forward.
I'm wearing my face mask—a simple black one. Belladonnas aren't A-list. But we are close enough that a group of teenagers will notice and pull out a phone.
I'm heading north for a freelance session. Two hours away, a beautiful facility in the middle of nowhere, a farmhouse B my forearms don’t tire. I make that clear by settling in, and for ten minutes we run a slow border war across four inches of molded plastic—advance, hold, counter-advance—neither of us willing to be the one who folds.
She goes back to her paperback to look unbothered, with one arm on the arm rest, and other one holding a book. I’m not fooled. She’s enjoying this, which irritates me more than her elbow does.
We never settle it. Forty minutes up, the seatbelt light snaps on and stays on.
“Captain Jin speaking here, the seatbelt light is on as we pass through rough turbulence. As you all know, there is a blizzard coming in and the weather seems to be moving in faster than anticipated.”
Through the shakiness, we were still battling it out on the arm rest.
After an hour, the captain announced that we’ll be waiting in a nearby airport to wait for the weather to clear.
The descent is rough. The plane drops hard enough that the woman beside me quits guarding the armrest and grabs it for a different reason.
I don’t say anything. Neither does she. When the wheels finally find the runway, the cabin breaks into the loose, giddy noise.
Outside the window there’s nothing but white coming down sideways.
The airport is small and overwhelmed, six diverted jets emptying into a single gate lounge. Every board flips to the same word, then a worse one: the blizzard shuts the runway behind us. The gate agent tells the long queue that it may take up to seven hours before we can take off again.
I claim a strip of carpet by an outlet and turn on my laptop. I answer three emails Jo should have answered. I push the studio back another day. The teenagers from the gate clock me once, take a blurry photo. Around hour four, I get up to go look for food.
As I approach the vending machine, I see she’s already parked in front of it.
“Hmm.” I read the rows. “Maybe B7.”
She shakes her head and doesn’t turn around. “For flights? It has to be C3. Pretzels. It’s easy to digest and at least they don’t try to take the roof of your mouth with them.”
“I didn’t think you’re a Pretzels type.”
“Pretzels are honest.” She looks back, one brow raised. “They don’t need to prove anything to anybody.”
“They’re bland.”
"Bland." She turns around now. "That's rich, coming from the girl who still owes me an apology."
"I owe you one?"
I fold my arms and take a deep breath.
"I am sorry for breaking your mask. However, you also spilt a can of soda onto my pants!"
"It was also a little your fault.”
I stare at her.
“But okay, I am sorry for ruining your pants."
She holds my gaze a second too long. "Press C3," she says, quieter. "If you're going to stand this close, at least make yourself useful."
I press C3. The pretzels drop. She takes them without a thank you and walks away.
The plows win a little after midnight. They funnel us back through the same gate and onto the same aircraft, and the agent hands me a boarding pass with the same row printed on it. 14B.
She drops into 14A a second later and stares at the seat number.
“You have got to be kidding me.” she says.
“What did you expect?” I tell her. “It’s a full flight.”
We buckle in. This works until twelve minutes in, when the man in row 12 reclines his seat. The movement jostles both of us, and then the smell arrives.
It's unmistakable. It smells silent and deadly. Something that belongs nowhere near humans packed into a metal tube.
She presses her face into her sleeve. I press mine into the collar of my hoodie. Our eyes meet above our fabric shields.
“That’s assault,” she says into her jacket, voice low.
"Ew."
“They should remove that man from the flight.”
“And also from society.”
I snort, which I try not to do in public. The odor is still there and she’s smiling.
“Your honour,” she says in a mock-serious voice, “I present exhibit A: the aroma of bad gut health.”
"This is premeditated," I respond. "The passenger made a conscious choice to eat beans with dragon fruit, knowing full well what atmospheric conditions he'd create."
"We have expert testimony from the row 14 witnesses suggests intent to harm."
"My nose is burning and my head is spinning."
"And what are the sentencing recommendations?"
“An immediate removal to a facility where scientists could study how one human body manufactures that scent.”
“Why the hell would anyone study that?” She snorts.
I nudge her. “What’s the verdict?”
“Oh right, sorry.” She clears her throat. “The verdict is guilty on all counts.”
We’re both laughing, and then the laughing thins out but we’re still looking at each other. My face goes hot. She clears her throat. I look at the seat-back tray. She looks out the black window.
Midway through the flight, I start feeling warm. Then cold. Then warm again. My eyes feel grainy. My throat stops cooperating, and the ache behind my temples settles in. I pull my hoodie tighter and press my forehead against the seat rest.
"You okay?" Her voice. “You don’t seem very well.”
"Fine. Just tired. Long night with the performance."
“Here, you can have the arm rest.”
I snort. “I don’t need it anymore.”
"But you look terrible."
"Thank you."