And unfolding a piece of stark white letterhead with the words CHANCE PUBLISHING HOUSE in black, block lettering, I read:
Dear Ms. Lane,
Thank you for submitting your manuscript. I enjoyed reading about your protagonist’s adventures, and thought you captured the world of a seventeen-year-old girl in a very realistic way.
However, I was somewhat concerned by her friend’s betrayal, and how her parents were never there when she needed them. It is my belief that children need boundaries, and with the chaotic household you provided, coupled with the lack of available role models, I don’t think you’ve given your protagonist a fair shot. And even though she manages to overcome all of her hardship by the end, I still believe you’ve made her work much too hard for it.
If you’d be interested in rewriting this story, with at least one supportive parent, less hardship, more defined boundaries, and nicer friends, I’d be interested in reading it again.
Sincerely,
Martina Rasmussen
After the third reading I still wasn’t sure what to make of it. Because while it obviously wasn’t an outright rejection of my writing skills, it was definitely a big thumbs-down to my parenting skills. I mean, was this lady crazy? Was she really calling me a bad mother? Because according to her letter, it was clear she thought I was doing a very poor job in raising my fictional character, making me wonder if I should expect a visit from child protective services.
I scanned the letter one last time before folding it up and shoving it back in the envelope. Clearly this Martina person was totally delusional, confusing fiction with reality and not understanding that the unstable parents and self-serving friend were the whole point. That without the struggle, hardship, and ultimate triumph, there would be no story.
Shaking my head, I headed down the hall toward my room. Martina was giving me a chance to make my biggest dream come true.
And all I had to do was change my entire story.
Flight attendants are required
to conduct a Mental Review
prior to takeoff and landing,
including but not limited to:
Availability of equipment
Location of nearest exit
People who can help
People who need help
I was standing in front of the full-length mirror, twisting and turning and trying to make sure the big taffeta bow on the back of my dress was tied just right. Then I leaned in and inspected my hair, plumping and fluffing the spiral curls that sprayed like confetti from the small pearl clip at the crown. And then, slipping my suntan-colored, nylon-clad feet into a pair of lacy, sea-foam green, dyed-to-match pumps, I glanced at the clock, confirming there was just enough time to grab a cab and head down to the East Village for the annual Bridesmaids’ Ball that I hadn’t been invited to in the last four years.
The Bridesmaids’ Ball was held around the same time every year, but not necessarily at the same location. And the best thing about this group was that even though the members might come and go, nobody dissed you when you were happily conjoined, and they always welcomed you back when you weren’t. All they asked in return was a contribution toward the booze and food, and that you show up wearing the ugliest bridesmaid dress you’d ever been forced to wear.
Having stood on the sidelines in my fair share of nuptials, I had no shortage of dresses to choose from. But not willing to risk actually running into one of my married friends and being iorced to acknowledge that, yes, she was right, I really could wear the dress again, I chose one I’d worn just two months out of high school, when a former classmate of mine decided it was as good a time as any to get hitched.
I gazed in the mirror, amazed at how the dress still fit and that my hair looked exactly like it did back then, when obviously, so much had changed. I mean, taffeta was out, I no longer listened to Hootie and the Blowfish, and I had no idea what had become of that friend.
I slipped into Kat’s Burberry trench coat, figuring I could hide beneath it, and use it as a sort of shield to get me to and from the party in peace. But after buttoning the front and tying the belt snugly around my waist, there was no denying I’d been reduced to a khaki blob of misshapen seams battling against an insurgence of taffeta, bows, and crinoline that refused to be contained. So after shrugging it off and leaving it behind, I convinced myself that the only people I’d run into would be either similarly attired or completely anonymous. Then I walked out the door and got in the elevator, hoping I could ride all the way down without a single stop.
So far so good, I thought as the car began its descent. But then feeling that unmistakable swoop as it neared a waiting floor, I quickly retrieved a book from my purse, feeling thankful that if nothing else, six years of airport delays had taught me to always carry something to read.
As the doors slid open, I held my book high, shielding my face as I peeked at the floor, noticing I’d just been joined by two pairs of Nikes, one pair of driving mocs, some black pointy-toed boots, four furry paws, and a twitching black nose that immediately started sniffing at the lacy hem of my dress.
Determined to ignore the terrier, now straining at his leash to get a whiff of my pantyhose, I focused back on my book, rolling my eyes in frustration as the elevator came to another stop just three floors down. And this time as the doors slid open, we welcomed a pair of gold Jimmy Choos I was already coveting, blue rubber flip-flops that New Yorkers use for pedicures and Californians for any event not black-tie specific, and freshly shined, black Ferragamo loafers, all jockeying for position on the small square floor.
Still hiding behind my book, I pressed my back against the wall, trying to make room for the newcomers while gazing down to see my dress moving, shifting, and sending layers of fabric rushing to the front, where it bulged out in a big, bulbous cloud of green. And as I casually tried to rein it in and make myself smaller, less obtrusive, Mr. Ferragamo loafers decided to break the international code of elevator etiquette (silence and anonymity) and say, “So how is that book? Any good?”
I recognized the voice immediately. Then quickly dismissed it. It was ridiculous! Insane! And I was just being paranoid. So without looking up, I simply nodded and mumbled, “Mmm-hmm.”
And just when I thought it was over, he leaned in and said, “Hailey?”
I just stood there, cowering behind my book. Oh crap. Oh no. Please, don’t let it be, I pleaded to whoever was in charge of things like elevator karma.
“Is that you?”
Staring at the floor, I watched as heels shifted, bodies pivoted, and paws scraped as all occupants of the overstuffed can turned to get a closer look at the girl in the big poufy dress who suddenly had a name. And even though the moment only stole thirty seconds of my life, to me, it felt infinite. And the worst part was, I knew I had no choice but to look up, and own up.
“Oh, hey,” I said, nodding casually, and smiling politely as though there was nothing at all strange or unique about my appearance. As though dressing like one of those limited-edition porcelain dolls sold on QVC was just one of my eute little quirks.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, squinting at me as the elevator reached the ground floor and the doors finally opened.
“I’m running late,” I said, wondering if it would seem rude if I blocked the Nike twins, pushed the Jimmy Choo lady, and hurdled over the dog, so that I could get the hell out of there.
“I mean, what’re you doing here?” he asked, trailing beside me like one of those customs dogs tracking a suspicious immigrant.
“I live here,” I said, turning to face him. I mean, jeez, is that so hard to believe? And like, is it really any of his business?
“You live here?” he asked, obviously shocked, which made me wonder if it was just the mere coincidence of it all, or the massive mortgage that had him so dismayed.
“Yup. I’m in the penthouse,” I said, turning away and heading for the lobby.
“I live here too,” he said, determined to continue the small
talk. “Though not in the penthouse. Apparently I’m in the wrong profession.” He laughed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, turning to scowl at him.
“Uh, nothing. I guess I should’ve become a flight attendant, that’s all.” He laughed again.
But I just looked at him, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t make it to takeoff,” I said, turning on my lace-covered heel, not entirely sure what I’d just meant by that, though I felt like I had to say something. I mean, how dare he act surprised that I live in the penthouse! Like it was so out of my reach or something! Well, maybe, technically, it is—but still, how dare he live here! I’d changed all my routines, and was now trekking all the way across the park just to buy my books and lattes! But apparently, that wasn’t good enough. Now I’d have to start taking the service elevator too! I shook my head and sprinted toward the door, anxious to get outside and into a cab.
And that’s when I ran smack into Cadence.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, even though it was clearly my fault.
“Um, it’s okay,” I mumbled, feeling flustered and ridiculous and just wanting to disappear.
“Are you ready? The car’s waiting.” She looked at Dane, who was once again standing right beside me.
“Where’re you headed?” he asked, taking in my hair and dress and keeping his face remarkably straight for someone beholding such a view.
“Um, downtown,” I said, following Cadence outside.
“So are we. Hop in, we’ll give you a ride,” he offered as the driver held the door open.
“Oh. But I’m going east,” I said, assuming they were headed west, like to SoHo, or the West Village, or wherever Cadence’s big-shot publishing buddies hung.
“So are we. Come on.” He nodded, sliding toward the middle.
I stood there, hesitating on the curb, trying to think of another good reason for why I couldn’t possibly share a ride with them. And then the light turned green, and since the car was double-parked, like a million horns started honking. And then someone yelled, “Get in da fuckin’ car already!”
And before I knew it I was in the town car sitting next to Dane, who was sitting next to Cadence, who was talking on her cell phone as we weaved our way downtown.
“So, what’s this?” he asked, eyeing my Malibu Barbie nylons, lacy pumps, poufy dress, and matching hair. “Prom night?”
“Not quite,” I said, cringing at how prim I’d just sounded, but unwilling to give up the details. My outfit was humiliating enough when I was alone in my bedroom, but in close proximity to Cadence, with her slinky cami-and-skirt combo, I just wanted to dig a hole and bury myself.
We rode along in silence. Well, Dane and I were silent. Cadence sat facing the window with her phone pressed tight to her ear, saying things like, “Uh-huh,” “Nu-uh!” and “Oh!” leaving me to hope she was better on paper.
And then before I could stop myself I looked at Dane and said, “I’m going to a party. It’s called the Bridesmaids’ Ball, and you’re supposed to show up in an ugly bridesmaid’s dress. But other than that it’s just a normal party, with good music, great people, lots of food and drink, and a contest at the end for the person wearing the ugliest dress.” I paused for breath, realizing I’d just sounded like some sweaty sinner in a confessional. I guess I’ve never been one for the awkward, prolonged silence.
“What do you win?” he asked, looking at me and smiling.
“A bouquet,” I said, gazing out the window and noticing it had just started to rain.
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you have a really good shot at it.” He laughed. “Is this an annual thing?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t gone for the last few years.” I shrugged, glancing over at Cadence, who was still on her cell.
“Why not?”
“Well, you have to be single to attend,” I said, feeling myself blush for no good reason.
“And for the last few years you didn’t qualify?” he asked, leaning toward me, which was a little creepy considering the already too-close proximity.
But I just nodded, and gazed out the window again.
“Are there any groomsmen at these parties?”
“Not really.” I shrugged. “It’s mostly just bridesmaids and, of course, the requisite gay counterparts.” I laughed.
“Very interesting.” He nodded, smiling at me as I accidentally looked into his deep blue eyes. “So, have you heard from any of those publishers?” he asked.
“What publishers?” Cadence snapped her phone shut as her eyes darted from Dane to me.
Great. The last thing I needed was to have this discussion now. I mean, wasn’t it bad enough that he’d caught me in the world’s most hideous dress and head-banger hair? Did he really need to drag me down another notch? In front of her?
I shook my head and looked out the window. And when I saw the light change to red, I knew I had to act fast. “Oh, this is me!” I said, throwing the door open and hurling myself out of the car. And then for no apparent reason other than sheer nervousness, awkwardness, and just all-around ineptness, I thrust a ten-dollar bill at him. “Thanks for the ride.” I smiled as the rain poured steadily down my back.
“What’s this for?” he asked, staring at the crumpled-up ten. “We’re not even downtown yet.”
“Oh, well, what I meant was I was headed downtown compared to uptown. I didn’t mean downtown downtown,” I lied, cringing at the sound of that while wondering where the nearest subway station was.
He just sat there, giving me a strange look as Cadence lowered her head to peer at me too.
Then the light turned green, and somebody behind us yelled, “Make up your fuckin’ mind!”
And I slammed the door and sprinted toward shelter.
After all these years of flying, one of the best parts of the job was the ability to control my own schedule, allowing myself to work as little or as much as I wanted. One of the worst was how easy it was to get overambitious to the point of my own detriment.
Originally I’d thought living in Kat’s place, rent-free, was the perfect opportunity to fly less. But now, with the gloomy memos Atlas management was dumping in my electronic mailbox on a daily basis, making liberal use of phrases like “challenging times,” “unprecedented hardship,” “tough decisions,” “streamlining overhead,” and my own personal favorite, “Pension Transformation Program,” I knew that like a squirrel storing away nuts for the winter, I’d better start making as much money as possible while the big dogs at Atlas were still able to sign the checks.
Not to mention that I’d yet to hear back from any of the other five publishers I’d sent my manuscript to, which meant I couldn’t quite rule out Martina’s suggestions. Even though I was convinced she was completely insane.
So with nothing better to do and nowhere else to go, I threw myselt into flying like never before, picking up trip after miserable trip until three weeks later, when my masochistic month ended in a showdown with I Helga.
Although it had actually started six years before, back in the days when I was as green as my uniform was blue. Four of us had been huddling in the coach-class galley, leaning on the filthy beverage carts we’d just decorated with clean linens, overflowing ice buckets, Styrofoam cup towers, sleeves of gingerbread cookies, and one gray plastic pitcher filled with coffee we seived as regular but was actually decaf.
“Decaf for everyone. We want to keep them tired and groggy,” said I lelga, who with thirty years of seniority, a thick German accent, and a mean look in her eye was someone I wasn’t willing to tangle with.
And with the seat belt sign already extinguished, the plane at cruising altitude, and the carts dressed and ready, it was time to choose a partner.
Since I was new, I didn’t know it was standard practice to just nod at the person next to you, grab a cart handle, and start pushing your way up the aisle. But on that particular day, with Helga at the helm, she took one long withering look at me, pointed to the flight attend
ant on my right, and said, “I want to work with her. The pretty one.”
And that was that.
But six years had passed, and I’d learned a few things. Like,
A. You shouldn’t hide out in the lav while the rest of yourcrew is still working.
B. You shouldn’t be so vocal about wanting to work with just the pretty people.
C. Everybody hated Helga.
So during briefing, when it became clear that I Helga had no recollection of me, or her earlier snub, I knew my moment had finally come.
“Why don’t we work together?” I said, smiling brightly, with no real plan in mind, but confident in my ability to wing it.
But Helga just shrugged, mumbled something about being exhausted from her Frankfurt commute, and, grabbing the cart, started pushing so hard she nearly ran me over.
As we made our way up the aisle, her pushing forward, me fake-pulling backward, I decided I’d get my revenge by taking my time, by engaging in what I’d learned early on never to do—converse with the customers and actually look them in the eye while serving. I was more than willing to make the sacrifice, especially if it brought an end to Helga’s reign of terror, since it would leave her with no choice but to pick up some of the slack for a change.
So I started chatting, and laughing, and treating each row of passengers as though I was hosting this fabulous party for 226 strangers. And when I saw how much it annoyed Helga, with her constant eye rolling, German obscenity muttering, and head shaking, I started making up errands.
“Oh, you’d like a celery stick for that Bloody Mary mix? Let me go see what they’re hiding up in first class!” I’d said, waving goodbye to Helga and disappearing behind the mesh cabin divider.