luggage, already lined up for
immigration. When she finally gets to read his message, she is sitting on a
cold metal bench inside the airport terminal, looking out the window at a
couple of airplanes lined up like schoolchildren on a Monday morning. There is
a cup of overpriced coffee beside her, and she notices her hands are trembling
as she grips the Styrofoam container.
“Then
maybe you have to go and find out for yourself,” he says. She thinks about this
until it is time to get up and board the plane, and when she enters the
aircraft and makes her way toward her seat, she almost texts him, “I’ll miss
you.” But her phone is already in her bag, sandwiched between her camera and
the stack of magazines she brought for the long flight, switched off like it
should be.
It goes without saying that Summer is
scared out of her mind. She has never traveled alone before, much less gone out
of the country on her own. Her last trip was in December, when Ken drove them
all to Fort Ilocandia, where he and Ellie spent hours holed up in their hotel
room while she chased Nick around the enormous lawn, tickling him until they
both collapsed onto the grass, wheezing with laughter. And the last time she
was on a plane was the summer before her high school junior year, when Ellie
took her shopping in Bangkok; it was there, over a lunch of chicken satay and
shrimp pad thai, that she learned Ken had proposed. After college graduation,
she could have gone to Hong Kong or Singapore with all the cash she got from
her relatives (they have been showering her and Ellie with gifts for years, and
sometimes all the pity presents made her sick—she knew they wouldn’t be
getting anything if they weren’t orphans) but she was too depressed over Scott
and Roxanne to summon the energy to travel, so she saved the money and figured
she’d find some other way to enjoy it in the future.
She
has surprisingly vivid memories of the last time she went to the US. She was
either five or six, and her parents were still alive. She remembers giggling
over the fact that she fit into the suitcase that held her clothes and Ellie’s,
remembers asking her parents countless questions about how airplanes worked.
For most of the flight, Summer clasped her mom’s hand, closing her eyes when
the plane bobbed up and down, gaping at the sight of clouds passing by outside
her window. They landed just before sunrise in Los Angeles, where her mother’s
sister, Tita Elizabeth, was waiting; she had driven all the way from Sacramento
to meet them. They had a huge breakfast of pancakes and sausages and hash
browns and toast—Summer knows this because there is a photo of her
peeking from behind a tall stack of pancakes, her eyes open wide in awe. In
Disneyland, her dad hoisted her up onto his shoulders so she could watch the
parade, and she remembers looking around smugly at the other little girls who had
to stand on tiptoe to see the lights and costumes, the street dancers and
acrobats and princes and princesses and Mickey and Minnie Mouse; she remembers
the feel of her dad’s hair as her hands rested safely on top of his head.
The
middle-aged man sitting beside her on the plane wants to talk and talk and talk
about his wife and kids and in-laws and neighbors, and at some point she has to
fake falling asleep just so she can have some peace and quiet. He is wearing a
black v-neck shirt and ripped jeans, and she develops a deep, immediate dislike
for his nauseating perfume, his pretentious goatee, and his tacky, heavy gold
chain. When she barely touches her food, he leans over and tells her, “Are you
on a diet? You don’t have to be.” She says, “I’m not hungry.” He shakes his
head at her and says, “Then you should have just sent the tray back.” He
reminds her of one of her professors in college—he asked a lot of
unnecessary questions and made a habit out of judging everyone.
She
tries to ignore him for the rest of the flight, keeping her nose buried
immigration. When she finally gets to read his message, she is sitting on a
cold metal bench inside the airport terminal, looking out the window at a
couple of airplanes lined up like schoolchildren on a Monday morning. There is
a cup of overpriced coffee beside her, and she notices her hands are trembling
as she grips the Styrofoam container.
“Then
maybe you have to go and find out for yourself,” he says. She thinks about this
until it is time to get up and board the plane, and when she enters the
aircraft and makes her way toward her seat, she almost texts him, “I’ll miss
you.” But her phone is already in her bag, sandwiched between her camera and
the stack of magazines she brought for the long flight, switched off like it
should be.
It goes without saying that Summer is
scared out of her mind. She has never traveled alone before, much less gone out
of the country on her own. Her last trip was in December, when Ken drove them
all to Fort Ilocandia, where he and Ellie spent hours holed up in their hotel
room while she chased Nick around the enormous lawn, tickling him until they
both collapsed onto the grass, wheezing with laughter. And the last time she
was on a plane was the summer before her high school junior year, when Ellie
took her shopping in Bangkok; it was there, over a lunch of chicken satay and
shrimp pad thai, that she learned Ken had proposed. After college graduation,
she could have gone to Hong Kong or Singapore with all the cash she got from
her relatives (they have been showering her and Ellie with gifts for years, and
sometimes all the pity presents made her sick—she knew they wouldn’t be
getting anything if they weren’t orphans) but she was too depressed over Scott
and Roxanne to summon the energy to travel, so she saved the money and figured
she’d find some other way to enjoy it in the future.
She
has surprisingly vivid memories of the last time she went to the US. She was
either five or six, and her parents were still alive. She remembers giggling
over the fact that she fit into the suitcase that held her clothes and Ellie’s,
remembers asking her parents countless questions about how airplanes worked.
For most of the flight, Summer clasped her mom’s hand, closing her eyes when
the plane bobbed up and down, gaping at the sight of clouds passing by outside
her window. They landed just before sunrise in Los Angeles, where her mother’s
sister, Tita Elizabeth, was waiting; she had driven all the way from Sacramento
to meet them. They had a huge breakfast of pancakes and sausages and hash
browns and toast—Summer knows this because there is a photo of her
peeking from behind a tall stack of pancakes, her eyes open wide in awe. In
Disneyland, her dad hoisted her up onto his shoulders so she could watch the
parade, and she remembers looking around smugly at the other little girls who had
to stand on tiptoe to see the lights and costumes, the street dancers and
acrobats and princes and princesses and Mickey and Minnie Mouse; she remembers
the feel of her dad’s hair as her hands rested safely on top of his head.
The
middle-aged man sitting beside her on the plane wants to talk and talk and talk
about his wife and kids and in-laws and neighbors, and at some point she has to
fake falling asleep just so she can have some peace and quiet. He is wearing a
black v-neck shirt and ripped jeans, and she develops a deep, immediate dislike
for his nauseating perfume, his pretentious goatee, and his tacky, heavy gold
chain. When she barely touches her food, he leans over and tells her, “Are you
on a diet? You don’t have to be.” She says, “I’m not hungry.” He shakes his
head at her and says, “Then you should have just sent the tray back.” He
reminds her of one of her professors in college—he asked a lot of
unnecessary questions and made a habit out of judging everyone.
She
tries to ignore him for the rest of the flight, keeping her nose buried
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