Chapter 33
Inside the crew hotel on Maui, I attack the elliptical, crunches, and then the pool. But even after a grueling workout, any sleep that comes evolves into tossing and turning and channel surfing. I just can’t shake the stress. By 3 am, I’m pacing the hotel veranda beneath the palm trees and stars. Tension swells in my brain, shoulders, and that damn crick in my neck is like an iron clamp. But not because of Val.
Because of Mei-Ling. Her email hit my inbox while in the shuttle over. She received Val’s incident report and said she would follow up with me in DC, which means she’s accessing dog-bite lady’s complaint, as well as the other passenger complaints. I have no idea what Val put in the report, nor do I want to be around her long enough to ask. Here I am, once again, close to losing my job. Flight Club was all for nothing.
No, not nothing. Chandler Graves.
By 8 am, my uniform is back on and I’m scarfing down a croissant from the continental breakfast, when my phone dings.
New rating on Crew Review. Thank you for your service.
Five stars.
I open up my page, where my total score is at 57. The review says,
“Outstanding flight attendant.” Mr. Quincy Rydell of Bestselling Debut Hip-Hop Album, Back Seat Beatz And another five stars from his bodyguard. I let out a full body sigh. Val made good on her promise so far. But it brings no smile to my face.
Curious, I access Val’s Crew Review page and a Superstar banner floats across the screen on a repeat loop. Light blue, flashes of gold, tiny little blinking stars. A Top Nobility Team Leader icon flickers below it. Her total score is 100 points.
She’s topped out. It’s not even possible for her to earn more. Superstar status, up until now, has been unprecedented.
I scroll down. Most recent reviews also are from Quincy Rydell, and his bodyguard.
Un-fucking-believable.
I clean out the rest of my things from the room, determined not to let fumes of fury blow from my ears like a human locomotive. It shouldn’t anger me to see Val’s score top out—it’s who she is—but it’s so incredibly unfair. My only consolation is the video in my gallery—now key to my Exit Strategy. If I can just manage to hold on to my job, even working reserves in commuter hell sounds decent at this point.
I bolt for the lobby, my suitcase in tote, when another text pops in.
Bzzzt!
From Pam:
Pradeep’s receptionist said you just got a review from Quincy Rydell! She can’t stop screaming about it. How exciting!
What? Oh, hell no.
I reply:
Are you keeping tabs on my review page?
Pam:
Always! We’re so proud. Pradeep’s entire office is cheering you on from the sidelines. Gives the staff something to do. They have an in-office wager going of who you’ll meet next. They’re all in complete awe of you.
My insides knot together so tightly I can’t breathe. All I can picture is an office full of nurses in scrubs and chunky-heeled shoes crowding over my Crew Review page, giggling. I can’t believe Pam told them. How can I ever tell her the truth? I crowed to Val that I’m not like her, yet I went and pulled the very same stunt she did—that’s why Quincy gave me five stars. Not because of what Pam taught me.
But I don’t have time to hash that out in my head now because I’ve got to put on my game face and charm the snot out of passengers on this next flight back to DC.
* * *
Once onboard the Boeing 777 wide-body aircraft, I share the main coach cabin duties with five other flight attendants. It’s an aircraft from a special signature series with a configuration that makes Aether a luxury airliner: equal-sized first class and economy cabins, split in the middle by the central lounge.
During down time, the other cabin crew chit-chat and mingle, but I stay focused on passengers. The distraction is a relief from my thoughts, so I paint on a smile and attend to every request, complaint, or insecurity with genuine concern.
“Miss?” A woman pops into the galley. “Can you help? My daughter spit up and I could really use some wet towels.”
I cringe. “Okay, let me get something…”
At the bar I dampen a towel and find the woman’s seat near the window. I remember the family from boarding. Her husband and son have seats behind her and her daughter. The man stands beside the row with a crying child in his arms. Their little boy plays on a tablet.
“I’m so sorry about this,” the woman tells me.
On the floor of her row, as well as in the fabric of the seat, layers of yellowish-green vomit cover the area. Its reek hits my nostrils and I gasp. A few paper beverage napkins lay over the vomit, in a half-ass attempt to clean it.
I glance at the woman. She glances at me. I hand her the towel. She stares at it.
Hey, lady it’s your kid, I want to say.
Reluctantly, she takes the towel.
But then… like lights raining down from heaven it dawns on me—the very heart of what Pam’s been trying to instill all along—something I ignored, in favor of prospects for a fast-pass to cut ahead.
“Wait,” I tell the woman. “Let me get a plastic bag and I’ll clean this up. You and your daughter can take any other open seats. Is she okay? Do you need anything?”
The woman hands me the towel, her mouth open for a few seconds before she speaks. “I think she’s okay now. I have a 7-Up for her to drink. She’s not contagious, it’s all the motion.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I tell her. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
With a stack of paper towels, can of seltzer water, and garbage bag, I clean up the chunks and drown out most of the smell. It reminds me of when Nana was going through chemo on her last days, and how Mom and I were always cleaning up after her—in the bedroom, bathroom, front porch, even the car. Mom hated it, I know she did, but she never said nothing negative, other than comparing the puke’s multi-colors to the various dye jobs of her boss’ hair. I guess nobody ever said life isn’t dirty sometimes.
Once I’ve de-puked to the best of my ability, I head for the lounge lavatory for a quick dry shower. It’s almost time for my rest period, and I think, finally, I’m exhausted enough to relax.
* * *
At DCA, I wait near the galley as everyone unloads. As usual, the herd is eager to escape their confinement.
The mom from row 26 moves against the flow and stops in front of me.
“I wanted to thank you again.” Her brown eyes are bright with sincerity. “Nobody likes cleaning up vomit, but you did so without complaint. I really appreciate it.”
“Glad I could help.”
“My husband and I will be writing you a nice review. We’re both frequent fliers, but we don’t always travel without our au pair. Guess that makes us a tad novice when it comes to parenting while traveling. Thanks again.” She waves, turns to leave.
My chin lifts. “Thanks for flying with us today.”
By the time I get to my apartment, two five-star ratings roll in, one just before the other, from Mr. and Mrs. Monticello, of Monticello & Monticello Law. For whatever reason, their VIP status in the Titan Club didn’t register on the manifest, but they do show up on the Crew Review page with their reviews, which bumps my total score back up to 68.
A brisk rush of energy vibrates over me. Even my toes curl from a tiny zing.
I practically burst all over two of my roomies who happen to be home when I arrive. They congratulate me when I tell them about the Monticellos, but their enthusiasm fizzles as quickly as it comes.
Minutes later, Mei-Ling calls. She wants me to come in for an evaluation.