The Trouble with Flying (5 page)

“Okay, we’ve got about two and a half hours to shop up a storm before we need to board the next flight,” I say to Aiden as we ride the final escalator up into Dubai International Airport’s duty-free shopping area. We join the throng of passengers pushing trolleys, pulling suitcases, and perusing electronics, scarves, nuts and a hundred other things for sale. Different accents and languages weave through the air around us, mingling with the overpowering scent of too many perfumes.

“Is it always this busy?” Aiden asks. His backpack is slung over his shoulder, and he’s pulling my wheeled carry-on suitcase behind him.

I tuck my handbag securely beneath my arm; this is a pickpocket’s paradise. “I think so. I’ve only been here once before—on the way to England—but it was just like this.”

We weave our way between a group of Americans and an Asian family and head towards an electronics stand. “This stuff doesn’t look that cheap,” Aiden says, eyeing the price next to the demo model of the latest Kindle.

“It isn’t. At least, not when I convert it to rands.” My hand hovers over a sleek new tablet, but I decide against touching it when I notice the multitude of fingerprints covering the screen. I tuck my hands into the safety of my hoodie’s pocket. “What does work out to be cheaper, though, are some brands of chocolate. So I’ll probably be spending my remaining English money on that.”

“Good plan,” Aiden says. “I hear chocolate can solve just about any problem when you’re a girl.”

After sticking my tongue out at him, I pull him away from the overpriced gadgets. We wander through the shops, looking at jewellery, clothes, food, watches, cosmetics—at least, I examine the cosmetics while Aiden stands in a queue to pay for our stash of chocolates—shoes, books, cameras and more. By the time we reach the Häagen-Dazs stand, I’m overheating in my hoodie and tired of fighting the crowds.

“Is it a good time for ice cream?” I ask.

Aiden gives me a look that I think is supposed to say,
Duh
. “It’s always a good time for ice cream.”

“That can’t possibly be true.” We make our way towards the Häagen-Dazs counter. “Not when you live in one of the coldest places on earth.”

“Um, I should probably point out that there are far colder places than the UK. Like Alaska. And Russia.”

“Okay, look.” I rest my hip against the counter. “Having lived in a subtropical climate my entire life, England was the coldest place I’ve ever experienced. Not to mention grey, wet, and depressing. I have no idea why Julia wants to live there.”

“You should see it in summer.” Aiden leans a little closer to me. “It’s beautiful.”

Don’t stare, don’t stare.
I clear my throat, then start digging in my handbag for my foreign money. “You got the chocolate,” I say without looking at him, “so this one’s on me. What flavour do you want?”

“Hmm. Surprise me,” Aiden says, then drags my suitcase to a table nearby and sits down.

I choose a classic flavour for myself—chocolate chip cookie dough—and go with something more exotic for Aiden—pineapple coconut. As I head back to the table, Aiden frowns at something in his hand. His cell phone. I slide into the chair opposite him and wonder if I should say something, but the frown vanishes from his face as he pushes the phone into his front jeans pocket.

“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 says 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.