I just sat there, reading the letter over and over, until the words became a fuzzy blur on the stark white page, wondering if there was something I’d missed. I mean, I’d done everything she’d asked: revised the parents so that they were supportive and emotionally available; altered the best friend, making her less self-serving and more loyal; heck, I’d even given the protagonist a complete emotional makeover so that she was lighthearted and less burdened. I’d given Martina
exactly
what she’d asked for, turned my novel into something I couldn’t even relate to, and she was
rejecting me?
Because there was no conflict? She was the one who hated all the conflict! She was the one who had ordered a conflict-free story!
And as I sat there, breath shallow and hands shaking, the truth slowly sank in, as I realized I’d now have to:
A. Meet with Lawrence, where I’d be forced to grovel, suck up, and do whatever necessary to compensate for my attitude yesterday when I was still under the delusion that I was a writer.
B. Learn to love my low-seniority status, and transform myself into the best Ready Reserve Atlas Airlines had ever seen, if I was going to have a chance in hell of keeping my job.
C. Surrender my dreams of creative fulfillment, go back to school, and enroll in some solid courses like business or computers, so that maybe someday I could retire my wings.
So I guess in a way Martina really had changed my life. By making it even worse than it was.
I crumpled the letter into a tiny, hateful ball and then checked my watch, seeing I had barely enough time to make my meeting at JFK. And now that I could no longer afford to make the leap from “Written” to “Final” warning, I knew I’d better get off the couch and onto the bus, like, pronto.
Since I didn’t have time to mess with that stupid service elevator, I was waiting for the normal one, praying I wouldn’t run into Dane, when my cell rang.
“Hello?” I said, cringing at how abrupt I sounded, but really, I was in no mood to chat.
“Hailey? Is this a bad time? You sound irritated.”
I rolled my eyes and punched the elevator call button three more times. Irritated wasn’t the half of it. Especially compared to the river of self-pity, self-doubt, low self-esteem, and self-loathing I was wading in. But even though my mom and I were getting along much better these days, it’s not like I was gonna share any of that with her.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, attempting a lighter tone. “Listen, I’m step-ping into an elevator, and then a subway and bus. Can this wait?”
“Well, I just wanted to give you the news,” she said, ignoring all the obstacles I’d just placed in her conversational path.
“What news?” I asked, watching the numbers descend with each floor, wondering when we’d be cut off.
“Alan stopped by the other night with a dozen roses and an apology.”
“And?” I said, trying to move this along, since left to her own timing, it could go on forever.
“He says he’s made a huge mistake, and begged for a second chance.”
I rolled my eyes and made my way through the lobby and onto the street. “At this point wouldn’t that actually be more like a fourteenth or even fifteenth chance?”
I mean jeez, maybe I’m not to blame for my pathetic love life. Just check out my gene pool!
“You should have seen him, Hailey,” she said, ignoring my sarcasm. “He looked so upset.”
“Mom, can you please cut to the chase? I’m about to enter the subway, and then we’ll definitely be cut off. So just say it. He looked sad, you turned to Jell-O, and now you’re back together, right?” I stood on the corner, rolling my eyes and shaking my head.
“Actually, no,” she said quietly.
“Oh,” I mumbled, feeling terrible about the way I’d just spoken to her.
“I told him I was leaving the country. Then I wished him well and sent him away.”
“Where you going?” I asked, giving my watch a worried glance, but knowing there was no way I could hang up. “I mean, are you serious?”
“I’ve sold the house and I’m moving to China.”
I leaned against the wall, dazed.
“I’ll be teaching English for a while, and after that, I’m going to travel the world, volunteering along the way. Who knows where I’ll end up?”
“Wow,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“And it’s all because of you, hailey. You inspired me. With the way you live your life, embracing change, seeking adventure—you’re just so fearless!”
Okay, that doesn’t sound at all like me. I mean, obviously she’s confused me with someone else.
“Uh, Mom, although it may look like that on the surface, I’ve actually made some really bad decisions over the last few years. I mean, I’m not fearless, and I shouldn’t be anyone’s inspiration, especially yours,” I told her.
But she just sighed. “Hailey, it doesn’t matter how things worked out in the end, it’s the fact that you tried them in the firstplace!
Look at me. I’ve been in the same town, doing the same thing my entire life. Just going along and never messing with the status quo. Then one day I was on the escalator in Nordstrom and I realized I could stay here, donating all my time and money to South Coast Plaza, or I could sell the house, pack my bags, get on a plane, and do something that matters.”
I just stood there, letting her words sink in. “I’m proud of you,” I said finally, my eyes swelling with tears. Partly because she was breaking out of her box and getting a life, and partly because it highlighted just how stagnant and small my own world had become. It was like everyone around me was moving on,
literally,
while I was still stuck in a six-year ground delay. “Can I see you before you leave?” I asked.
“I’m flying in later this week. Does that work?”
“Sounds good,” I said, knowing I was on call but hoping I could work something out. Then, wiping my face with the back of my hand, I headed down the subway stairs, knowing if I lingered any longer I’d definitely miss my bus.
“Oh, and Hailey, did you read that bit about Jude Law and—” Oops, lost her. I closed my phone and got on the subway, and by the time I’d made it to midtown, I had a message. But knowing it was just my mom wanting to engage in a deep analysis of celebrity sex lives, I decided to ignore it. I mean, I was glad at least some part of her was still recognizable, but that didn’t mean I wanted to indulge it.
I made my way onto the New York Airport bus and smiled at a group of flight attendants from another airline as I headed for the very last row. Then I grabbed a seat and stared out the window, wavering between fear for my own bleak future, and resentment at being forced to waste my only day off like this. So by the time I got to JFK, I was a complete and total wreck.
And as I stood outside Lawrence’s office, nervously adjusting my sweater and jeans, I checked my watch, confirmed the time, then took a deep breath and knocked.
But as time passed with no sign of response, I was just about to knock again when he opened the door, looked me over, and said, “I’m very busy right now. Please return in fifteen minutes.”
I narrowed my eyes, peering around his puny frame, taking in every square inch of his cramped little office. His desk was cleared, his phone lights were blank, but his computer screen didn’t lie, displaying his current participation in a down-and-dirty eBay bidding war.
And even though I knew he was enjoying a sick, passive-aggressive game of watching me sweat while messing with my off day, I also knew there was nothing I could do about it.
“Okay,” I said, forcing my lips into a smile. “I’ll see you at one fifteen.” Then I marched down the hall, pushed into the bathroom, and headed for the row of sinks, where I stood with my eyes closed taking deep, Zen-seeking breaths.
Relax. He’s trying to get you all riled up so he can fire you. Do not take the bait! You need this job.
Turning on the taps, I ran my hands under the cold, wet spray, filling them with soap and watching as the rinse water ran gray with the disgusting accumulation of city smudge and public-transportation grime. Then 1 dried them on a towel and headed back into the lounge, bought myself a cup of weak but very hot vending-machine coffee, and sat there alternately sipping and blowing for the next fifteen minutes.
“Welcome,” Lawrence said as I stood in his doorway for the second time. “Have a seat.”
I grabbed a chair, crossed my legs primly, and watched as he settled behind his desk, arranging his features into a grim expression.
“I know the adjustment to Ready Reserve is a challenging one, but with two Failures to Be Accessible, coupled with your blatant, insubordinate attitude, I have to level with you, Hailey. I’m very
tempted to put you on Final Warning. He leaned back in his chair and gave me a smug, “I’m the boss of you” look.
“But Lawrence—,” I started, pausing as his phone rang and watching him raise a stubby, authoritative finger as he lifted the receiver.
“Yes?” he said, eyes fixed on me. “Of course, I’ll be right there.” Then, getting up from his desk, he nodded at me. “Stay put. We’re far from finished.”
I watched as he left the office, then rolled my eyes and shook my head, wondering too late if he’d rigged some kind of nannycam that had just recorded my insubordinate facial expressions. Insubordination was a major offense at Atlas, considered far worse than failing to be “proactive,” or not taking “ownership” of passenger complaints. And since flight attendants were the least supervised of all the employee groups, Atlas management worked overtime at keeping us in a constant state of paranoia, with their toll-free, anonymous hotlines that encouraged us to rat on each other, and the infamous “ghost rider” program that always left me wondering which of my passengers was actually a company spy. I even knew of flight attendants who, convinced that the layover hotel staffs were in cahoots, refused to use the phones and collected all of their garbage into separate bags to be dumped later at a secret, undisclosed location.
But as the minutes ticked past I knew he was just dragging this out to annoy me. So I reached into my purse and retrieved my cell, figuring I’d kill the time by listening to my mom’s message.
Pressing the VOICE MAIL button, I waited to hear my mother’s list of theories on the most recent celebrity love triangle, but instead got, “This message is for Hailey Lane. My name is Hope Schine, and I’m an editor here at Phoenix Publishing—”
Oh my God! Phoenix Publishing was the sixth rejection letter I hadn’t yet received. And now, apparently they’d decided to just ignore my SASE and deliver the bad news in a more up-close and personal way.
“I wanted you to know that we all love your book. You really managed to capture the voice of a teenage girl, and write about her struggles in such an authentic, realistic way. I don’t know if you’re working on anything else, but we’d like to offer you a two-book deal. So if you could please call me back, I’d be happy to go over the details, and answer any questions you might have. My number is—”
Wait
—
did she really just offer me a deal? And not just for one book, but two?
I listened to the message again, and then left Lawrence’s office, heading outside to the noise and chaos of people getting picked up and dropped off, hugging hello and waving good-bye. Then I leaned against the yellow brick wall and returned Hope’s call.
And after accepting her offer, I reapplied my lip gloss, ran my hands through my hair, and headed back inside the airport. Making sure I took my time going through security before I got in line at Starbucks.
Standing in Lawrence’s doorway, venti skim latte in hand, I watched as his face contorted with barely checked rage. “I specifically told you to stay put. But what do you do? You go on a coffee run, which is not only disobeying my orders, but also displays a complete disregard for my time.” He leaned back in his seat and arranged his hands into a rigid little steeple. “You’d think that someone who came so dangerously close to being furloughed would be a little more grateful to be here,” he added, shaking his head and giving me a disdainful look.
“By ‘here’ do you mean here in your office, or here on Earth?” I asked, lowering myself onto the seat across from him and watching his jaw twitch and his eyes bulge out as he faced his computer and began typing furiously.
“Three weeks ago you were four minutes late to sign in,” he said, firing off a list of my most recent Atlas misdeeds. “Two weeksago
you wore your own black cardigan sweater instead of the Atlas-mandated navy blue one.
And
you were recently seen in the Salt Lake City concourse wearing the white blouse without its designated red-and-blue scarf, opaque hose which you know are only allowed with the skort, and a pair of nonregulation clogs with visible staples. Never mind all the other uniform infractions you’ve incurred over the last six years.” He took his eyes off his screen just long enough to give me a sorry shake of his head. “Your latest doctor’s note, written in Greek, was
not
amusing; your behavior following an in-flight death was questionable at best;
and,
I happen to know that just the other day, upon returning from London, you deplaned with an Atlas water bottle poking out of your bag. And don’t try to deny it, Hailey, because I
saw
you, and I saw the bottle of water. But even though that is considered
stealing,
which by the way is an offense punishable by
termination,
I didn’t write it up, because I knew you were in enough trouble already.” He turned away from his screen, crossed his arms, and looked at me. “What do you have to say for yourself?”