Chapter 4

“Termination warning?” Mama asks incredulously.

She takes another sip from the plastic straw in her bloody mary. Her two-toned red hair is swept back in a ponytail, and her eyes are hidden behind white-framed sunglasses—probably secondhand from the consignment shop she works at. Outdoor dining has always been Mama’s guilty pleasure. She lives for lazy afternoon happy hours where the booze flows freely and food comes authentic and cheap. And when her best friend Pam’s in town to fork the bill, ain’t no limits to how far the good times will roll.

“Yes, Mama,” I answer. “A warning. It’s as bad as it sounds.”

“She’ll be fine,” Pam says. An assortment of gold bangles jingle over her arm as she reaches for the last boudin ball. Since Pam’s marriage to Pradeep ten years ago she’s never without some beautiful new piece of jewelry on her arms, fingers, or neck.

“I ain’t sure I understand what that means.” Mama folds her hands below her chin, her elbows wide, so not to block the cleavage peeking out from her signature three-buttons-opened yellow blouse. “It’s a warning you’re about to be terminated? Or that you already have been and only have a short time left to find a new job?”

Ah, yes, the inquiring mind of Cassie Peagram. She knows nothing about working for a corporation. She lived off alimony and child support for my entire childhood, until Nana got sick and medical bills drained any savings. If Mama’s lawyer hadn’t gotten the judge to award a lump sum from my father twenty years ago, she wouldn’t have seen a dime from him.

“Means I’m hanging by a thread,” I explain. “A real thin thread.”

“But you still have your job?” Mama asks.

“Barely.”

“Usually term warnings expire after a certain amount of time,” Pam adds, pushing her sunglasses up over her yellow-blonde pixie-cut hair.

“Six months.” I twirl the straw in my iced tea. Six months of reserves and commuters in the hopes of bringing up my score. Unless, by a miracle, I’m recruited to a good crew team. “I’m thankful I’ve still got my job, but at this rate I’ll never get off reserves.”

“Remind me again what reserves means?” Mama asks.

“Spending all day at the airport in uniform, ready to fly at a moment’s notice in case another flight attendant calls out or misconnects,” I explain. “The pay is crappy and you waste away your entire day.”

“Nobody likes reserves,” Pam adds, squinting at her phone.

“My term warning sticks until after probation, or until I get invited to a team. But in order to get invited to a team, I need a bunch of positive ratings. My score has to reach 50 and not go below for at least three months. You know how hard it is to do that while on reserves?”

“How much longer are you on probation?” Pam asks.

“Two weeks.”

“And what’s your score at now?” Mama asks.

I groan at the fact I have to say it out loud again.

“11,” Pam answers for me.

I groan again. “The real kicker is Aether has a rep in the industry. Crew Reviews are public and become your resume when applying elsewhere. If they fire me, I’ll never get on with another airline.”

Mama polishes off her drink and waves at the waiter. “That sounds doable to me. Only thirty-nine more points.”

“If I can get a bunch of VIPs to rate me with four-stars or more. Or… pray someone with a long-haul route gets sick and I’m pulled to work it. Ain’t that rotten? Why am I like this?”

“Oh, hon, you’re exaggerating.” Pam passes off the notion with a wave of her hand. Her bangles jingle like wind chimes. “Since you’re based in DC, you’re bound to find a politician on those commuters to shower with attention.”

“Bat those gorgeous long lashes of yours, cher, and tell ’em how much five stars would mean to you.” Mama giggles, but it’s not for me, it’s for the waiter. She beams at him while she orders another round of drinks and the check.

“Ew, no. I’m not flirting for ratings.” I scowl. “But if I end up getting another one-star rating from a VIP, it’ll undo all the work I’ve done. I’ve gotta figure out some kinda strategy.”

“Lordy.” Mama blanches. “I mean, are we talking airlines or fantasy football drafts here? Ratings and scores, and drafting ...” She pulls out her compact and reapplies mauve lipstick. “I’m sure I dunno how you keep up with all of it.”

She don’t mean to sound like she don’t care. That’s just Mama. She pretends to get overwhelmed at anything beyond pleasant conversation and retail therapy. But I saw her with Nana during those last days of Nana’s life, and she’s got a spine of pure steel when she needs one.

“I wish I had better advice for you,” Pam says to me, “but it’s a brand-new system I have no experience with. I do know they wouldn’t have hired you if they didn’t see your potential. Consider these next few weeks an opportunity to show them what you can do. Remember the creed?”

“Relentlessly helpful,” Pam and I say it together, our words and voices in sync. Mine lacks her enthusiasm. Not because I don’t believe it, but because doubt’s a cruel thief in pursuit of my hope.

“Live it, be it,” Pam adds, then pops the last boudin ball in her mouth.

The handsome dark-haired waiter drops off two more bloody marys and the check.

Mama pulls out her flower-print Vera Bradley wallet, but we all know it’s for etiquette’s sake. Pam always pays.

“I’m so sad I have to get going,” Mama says, grabbing her drink.

Pam reaches over and snatches the tab. “I’ve got it, Cass.”

“You sure?” Mama asks.

“You get next time,” Pam says, which is what she says every time.

The exchange and nuance between them never changes, yet varies in venue and season, and though Mama and Pam have had their share of spats, the consistency of this routine is the one true indicator things between them are solid. If and when Pam ever allows Mama to pay, that’s when all hell will break free.

Mama slurps down her fresh bloody mary and gets to her feet. “Oh, pooh, if I hadn’t already agreed to help Leslie with inventory, I wouldn’t rush off.” She pouts, black mascara accenting her deep blue eyes in the sunlight. “Remember that next time you think about surprising me.”

“How’s that old gal treating you?” Pam asks.

“Fair to middlin’ as usual.” Mama hangs her bag over her shoulder and wobbles into what looks like an unplanned backward step. “But I can’t complain about the hours.”

“You’re not driving all the way to Canal street, are you?” Pam asks.

“Pshaw.” Mama sets her empty glass down. “Only had two little bloody marys. That’s Sunday breakfast.” She grins and moves around the chair to hug Pam. “You’re coming over later, right?”

Mama reaches her arms toward me and I rise to embrace her.

“Let me drive you,” I say, her hair pressing against my cheek. It smells of her citrus shampoo.

“Don’t be silly,” Mama says, squeezing me tighter. “I’ll Uber over and let Leslie pay the bill, she owes me. You keep the car and spend some time with your godmother. When I get home later, though, it’s me and you with coconut facials and old movies.” She pulls away and plants a kiss on my cheek. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me tomorrow. Have fun, tootles.” She clacks across the patio in her backless sandals and tight navy capris, pausing once to blow another round of kisses our way.

It’s crazy how you can miss someone and need your space from them all at the same time.

I glance at Pam. “She hates it that I’m not staying for at least a week. How long are you staying?”

“Till Friday. It’s still tough on her being all alone in your grandma’s house.”

“Probably why she’s been drinking more.” I watch Mama disappear from the restaurant patio. “I wish I could get her out of this town. It’s no wonder she’s depressed.” A tiny pang of guilt presses in on my chest. “Seriously, her only highlights are outings like these.”

Pam leans back into her seat, the brassy-gold of her dangling earrings glittering. “Cass is at home here—always was. Doesn’t mean you have to be.”

Mama and I have always been different that way. People talk about her and she takes it as a compliment. People talk about me and I want to fly away somewhere else where rumors and reputations don’t make no difference at all.

I drain the rest of my tea until the straw makes a gnarly sound.

“Know what I could go for?” Pam’s face lights up. “Po’Daddy’s. Fresh mudbugs and cheesy grits.”

“No, really?” I grimace. “I’m in no mood to run into anyone.”

“It’s Wednesday night—who’d be there midweek?” Pam’s brows rise.

“Dollar draft night? Are you kidding? What else is there to do around here?”

“Fine, I’ll just go sit on the seawall by myself…”

“Puh-lease.” I glare at her.

“My mouth’s watering just thinking about them…” Pam says dreamily. “What kind of goddaughter would let her godmother come all the way out here and not get a taste of the day’s freshest catch?”

“Fine.” I don’t hide the irritation from my voice. “Let’s go get this over with.”

* * *

Okay so maybe I’m being a bit overdramatic Cassie-style. But in a town as small as this one, it’s almost impossible not to run into someone you know. And Po’Daddy’s is the local watering hole every dude with a boat along the Atchafalaya pulls up to and docks at. Flip flops, fishing hats, sunburnt noses and necks are the norm around here.

Thankfully, the dark lets me hide in anonymity on the seawall. Pam and I position our plastic patio chairs at arm’s length apart for plenty of elbow-bending leverage and it’s not long before I appreciate that nothing quite says home on the bayou like scarfing cheesy grits and steamed crawdads from flimsy foam trays.

Even though we’re on the water, there’s hardly any breeze. The inlet’s murky surface is still, except for aquatic beetles crisscrossing in different directions. The swampland’s full humidity hasn’t settled in yet, but mosquitoes buzz at my ears, despite the citronella torches flickering at either side of us. Band music blares from behind—twangy harmonicas, plucky guitars—straight out of the shittiest little dive in southern Louisiana. To anyone but a local, Po’Daddy’s could just as easily be mistaken as a dumpy old shed in someone’s waterfront yard.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea,” I say to Pam after swallowing a spoonful of thick, salty grits.

She nods, her mouth full, fingers dripping in sauce.

I can’t even think how many times I’ve been here, beneath the same string of twinkle lights, the same moss-dripped oak trees along the seawall. “Place feels different now. Smaller.”

Pam dabs her mouth with a paper napkin, her bangles jingling. “It hasn’t changed, you have. Expanded horizons let you see the world through new lenses. Speaking of which, what’s with those specs? Is this the sexy librarian look?”

I push the dark-rimmed faux glasses further up the bridge of my nose. I forgot she hasn’t seen me in them before. “You don’t like?”

“Are they prescription?”

“Sure. From Dr. Vogue of Fashion Crafters.” An accessory I adopted for my Aether interview and held onto. Superstitious of me maybe, but that ain’t no crime.

“Nerd-chic, is it?” Pam sips her pinot grigio. “Your generation is a trip. In my day if we couldn’t wear contacts we’d squint and guess.”

“Laugh all you want but people take me more seriously when I wear them. It’s a nice change.” That sounded more pathetic out loud than it did in my head, and I cringe a little.

Pam’s shoulders shake with her laughter. “Oh, you poor thing. Just another misunderstood pretty face without them. Don’t get me wrong, hon, they’re cute on you. Just like your mom—can roll out of bed in a garbage bag with pig-tails and still turn every head in the room.”

“I think that’s the swamp girl look.” I swig from my bottle of lite beer again.

A snazzy keyboard riff filters out from the patio speakers and echoes over the water. Some patrons behind us stumble toward the dock making loud drunken remarks. Others loiter on the seawall nearby—guzzling beers, wolfing seafood. Last time I was here I was on a date, had just been hired with Aether. I was so sure my next café pit stop would be Barcelona, toasting myself with a full wine glass and proclaiming to anyone and everyone, “Leelo y llora!”

A loud caterwaul erupts from behind us. Pam and I both turn in our chairs.

Well shut my mouth and call me Ginger. Corey Rousseau. Talk about manifesting.

Corey saunters past us in faded jeans and a white wife-beater tank, along with his loud-mouthed cronies Matt and Vic. Some things never change. I angle my head, hoping to avoid contact. Damn, I knew better. I let Pam tempt me over to the dark side. Everyone comes to Po’Daddy’s on dollar draft beer nights.

“Well, well, well.” Corey says, smirking through an unkempt goatee of dark hair.

No way out now.

“Ya never know what the tide’ll wash up around here,” he says to Matt. But it’s meant for my ears.

“At least now I know what the stench is,” I mumble.

Pam shoots me a wary glance.

She’s never met Corey, but she knows about the fallout from years ago, back when he opened his big mouth and tipped off the first domino of rumors I couldn’t never escape. Pam ain’t familiar with the tired routine of redirecting his attention like you’d do a toddler. Way I figure it, Corey’s a lot like a scab. Leave it alone and it’ll go away. But play with it, pick it, or scratch it, and it bleeds and festers till it’s so deep it scars you forever.

Not that what Corey did has any hold on me now. But back then, having my newly extinct virginity broadcasted all over the community was more than my thirteen-year-old self knew what to do with. Mama just said I shouldn’t let it bother me none, and I tried, but it wasn’t me who was bothered. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the way other girls my age associated with me. Maybe their parents told them I was a bad influence, or maybe they assumed something about me—that I wouldn’t be able to share their giggles and blushes anymore while pondering boys and sex and relationships. Who knows?

I admit, it still amazes me how that one single event changed everything, even though nothing about me really changed at all. All a sudden, they labeled my worth with a clearance price tag and tried selling me cheap. Forget the fact I was from the same background, same neighborhood they were.

Mama told me, don’t get hung up on the fact you spread your legs too soon for a cocky waste of testosterone—he wouldn’t have known how to handle a kitten, much less a thirteen-year-old’s virginity.

I knew she was right then, and I do now. Sad thing is, though, Corey wears that award like it’s a forever glory, and maybe for him, it’s the best he’ll ever do. He wasn’t even what bothered me most. There were personal things I had to figure out for myself, and it was a journey all my own and I wasn’t afraid of it, not one bit. I never doubted my ability to embrace my innocence lost—not even when my best friend’s parents told me to keep away from their daughter because she still had a chance at dating nice boys. It was folks like them—adults I saw every single day—neighbors, teachers, clerks, all gawking and whispering, like they was in on my secret. Like they knew all too well what it was I was trying to figure out for myself. And that was an invasion of my privacy. If only those judgy grownups would’ve shared a kind word, bothered to prove it gets better, instead of demonstrating things never change… maybe then my reputation wouldn’t have felt so heavy.

I turn my back to Corey and focus on Pam. Her protective instincts have kicked in, her shoulders tensed like she may rise and swat him with her purse at any moment. She never probed me for details back then but I have a hunch Mama filled her in. She respected my privacy, and I appreciated the fact nothing changed between her and me. Preservation of our relationship seemed as important to her as it was to me, and looking back I think maybe she knew it let me keep an ounce of innocence. For that, I’ll always be grateful. It’s because of her that I knew I could get off the bayou. That I could be more.

Behind me, Corey makes a loud cheesy comment about how bayou babes never fully get the taste of Cajun off their lips. I shake my head at Pam. “Ain’t worth it.”

Corey and his buds strut on down to the dock, red plastic cups in hand, curdled testosterone seeping from their pores.

“Reason number three why I’m glad I don’t live here no more,” I say to Pam. There’s a forced flippancy in my tone and I know it’s too obvious.

“Does jerky-boy ever talk to you?” Pam asks. “Or just act like a ten-year-old?”

“Rarely does anything intelligent ever come out of his mouth. I saw on Snapchat he’s getting married, if you can believe that.”

“Whoever she is, I hope she’s good with adolescents,” Pam’s gaze hovers over the moon-streaked water toward Corey.

I can’t imagine anyone who’d want to marry a juvenile like Corey Rousseau, but then, our town has never had a shortage of under-achieving women neither.

“She’s older I think,” I say, recalling the photo and caption I stumbled onto. “Has a kid, which is scary.”

“If anything will help him grow up, instant parenthood will.”

“What’s funny is I always pegged Corey for Serial Rapist Behind Bars, not Future Deadbeat Dad.” I let out a gracelessly nasal-like chuckle.

“What was the name of that neighbor girl who was always starting trouble? Sally…”

“Sadie Goodwin,” I say. “Miss Most Likely to Work at a Bowling Alley?”

Pam laughs. “Yes, whatever happened to her?”

“Last I heard she settled for a job at Mon Cherie’s.”

“The strip club?”

“If by strip you mean sex, then yeah.”

Pam bobs her head to the music that’s become louder and faster, more bluesy, less twangy. She’s put on some weight since I saw her last, mostly in her face and neck, but something else is different about her—the way she devoured those crawdads and grits makes me think it might be her last meal. And the way she zones out with the live tunes, it’s almost like she likes it here.

“What’s got you drifting off?” Pam notices my stare. “Not jerky-boy is it?”

Ha! I’m so far past that. I smirk. “No way. You know he don’t have that kind of power over me.”

“I do know that,” Pam says. “Just making sure you know that. Zanne, honey, make me a promise right here, right now, that once you get your schedule where you want it, you’ll meet up with me often.”

I nod. She’s being protective again. But thinking about my schedule brings back my work anxiety. The image of Val LaSalle’s bio page pops in my mind—her photogenic mugshot, glowing high score, bright blue banner that says, Rising Star. “Speaking of schedules… there’s an Aether flight attendant who’s supposedly building a dream team. Best of the best, so to speak. They get whatever route and schedule they want.”

Pam sets her empty tray down beside her chair. “We didn’t have crew teams when I was inflight. I’m not sure I get the purpose.”

“Me neither,” I admit. “Aether’s the first to use them. I guess they’re meant to keep crew motivated, even though you hardly ever work the same flights together. Teams with the highest scores get rewarded, but it’s not permanent. They can be bumped from their position if another team steps up their game.”

“Sounds sketchy. Like a pyramid scheme. Some new age morale booster to keep unions out if you ask me.” Pam makes a little scoff. “But it also sounds like maybe it can work in your favor if you’re smart about it.”

“That’s what I was thinking. I need a way to bring up my score fast.”

“Why not try speaking to one of these illustrious team leaders and ask for some direction? We are talking about people here, not robots, am I right?”

I nod. “I tried messaging the one I told you about, but I never heard back.”

“Your generation and your impersonal messaging.” Pam shakes her head. “You need to meet up with her in person, introduce yourself. I’m sure she’d be apt to help an eager new crew member—one with homegrown charm she can invite to her team someday.”

“What, like pop out at her in the terminal between flights? Too many stalker vibes. Plus, her schedule is blocked so I can’t see what it is.”

“I’m sure with a little elbow grease you could find out. I thought that’s what you young hipsters used social media for anyway? Like a free pass for stalking.” Pam gives a little shrug. “Set your schedule up so that you conveniently bump into her.”

She does have a point. I pull up Twitter on my phone. Val LaSalle strikes me as the type of person who uses Twitter. I do a name search and scroll through a few possibilities.

A profile picture catches my eye—same gorgeous face from the Aether Airways app.

Val LaSalle, flight attendant for Aether Airways, world traveler, practicing pianist, and lover of fine French wines. Follow my worldwide excursions.

Definitely her.

I scroll through her tweets, but it’s just a bunch of boring status updates on expensive wine and celebrity sightings in airports.

“This is her.” I show Pam the picture. “Looks like she’s in Tokyo right now.”

“Quite the beauty. Well, Miss Val LaSalle has to come back to the states some time.”

“She’s based here.”

“What city?”

I pull up the airline app again. “San Francisco.”

“Figure out when she’s connecting home and work that flight. Someone may want the day off.”

“Right, but most long-haul attendants don’t trade off routes since the money’s so good. See my problem?”

“Oh, yes, I remember, but back in my day, we made jetway trades all the time, especially with commuters, and if we were desperate, add a little extra incentive with cash.”

“That’s against policy.”

“Sometimes what the higher-ups don’t know, won’t hurt them. As long as you’re not getting carried away. Think of it as a now-and-then kind of transaction. If you’re not hurting anyone, not stealing, and everyone involved is in agreement, then it’s just smart business. Smarter not harder, right?”

A now-and-then transaction. Hadn’t thought of it like that before. I’ve been so careful to follow the rules, I hadn’t considered working around them to get my name on the crew list for a line. If anyone knows best, it’s Pam.

“And if money doesn’t bode well,” Pam continues, “offer to work an extra day or two. Back in my day, crew were always trying to get days off for travel or family—especially new moms…”

Pam goes on, but my mind’s already onto other things. Things start to make a whole lot of sense. It could just work. Not that someone like Val would consider a low-scoring crew member like me for her team, but if she were willing to at least talk to me, share some insight, and maybe remember my name for later while I bust ass to raise my score…

I scroll through more clues on Val’s timeline and her non-cryptic tweets give me just the right amount of info I need. Looks like she’ll be on a red-eye to LAX next Wednesday night after a stopover in DCA, before heading back to SFO.

“Pam,” I interrupt her rambles, “you’re a genius. I mean, no guarantees or nothing, but it’s worth a shot.”

I pocket my phone and move in with a quick sloppy hug.

She pats my arm. “Well, I knew you didn’t keep me around for my good looks.”

Her cell phone rings and she answers. It’s Mama. I can tell by the way Pam’s tone holds a dash of condescension, same as always. While she blathers on, I shift my gaze out over the dark water again and inhale a deep breath of briny air. Hints of citronella and fresh jasmine blooms—an old familiar blend. The girl’s back in the swamp. And right in front of me stands the very same guy who dragged my teenage reputation over the floor like scraping mud from his boots. If ever there was motivation for me to save my job and crank out some five-star customer service, this moment is it.

“Cass wants you back.” Pam rises and smooths out her loose white blouse.

We toss our garbage and amble to the car beneath lanky oak tree limbs dripping with moss.

“She lasted longer than I expected.” Pam puts an arm around my shoulder. “But who can blame her. You’re supposed to be spending time with her, not me.”

We get to Mom’s car and I unlock the doors.

Pam opens the passenger side. “Feels like we still have so much to catch up on. Tell me what else is new. Dating anyone?

I slide into the driver side. “It sounds really geeky when I say it out loud, but I’m too laser-focused on career right now. Dating’s on the back burner. Maybe I’ll start looking when I get to Europe.” I grin. “Saving up to sample the international flavors.”

“Smartest thing you’ve said all night, my dear.” Pam chuckles through her drawl.

“At least you agree.” I start the ignition. “Mama swears my lady parts will dry up and shrivel away if I wait too long. As if the use it or lose it philosophy applies to body parts, right? But you know I’m not about to get involved with someone who wants me to give up inflight and stay in one place. No distractions. My life, my terms.”

“Spoken like my true god-daughter. Don’t listen to your mother on this—between you and me, her life choices are to be learned from, not modeled after. The world beyond the bayou will receive you with open arms, hon.”

Warm currents spread across my chest, mixed with a full belly and relaxed buzz. Geez, I hope she’s right. More than anything, I want her to be right.

“But I do have a question for you,” Pam continues, “how do you fen them off?”

“Um, who?”

“All the suitors,” she says. “You may have my ambition, but you’ve got your mama’s looks. Looks I could never hold a candle to.”

Pam must be tipsy, because I’ve never heard her talk this way about Mama before. I let her drone on awhile more, but my mind finds other more important things to tackle, like how much money I could manage to cough up in exchange for working a route with Val LaSalle.