Flight Club

My godmother Pam used to say a woman’s mind is like an airplane—quick, powerful, and built to soar. Pam worked inflight in the eighties and nineties, when flight attendants were called stewardesses and the gen-pop could hang at airport gates without boarding passes. As a kid, the only thing I’d come in off the water for was one of Pam’s stories—they were so adventuresome, so full of culture.

At the moment, though, my mind feels more like a swamp boat stuck in the mud than a high-flying airplane. Thanks to the surly-eyed passenger towering over me in the aircraft aisle.

If this guy glares any harder, he’ll burst a blood vessel and ruin that sleek navy suit.

The teal scarf at my neck tightens like a vise-grip. Calm and focused, I can do this.

“Please take a seat, sir,” I say.

His brow furrows deeper. “Tell your captain to open that door and get me back up to the gate. I need to find my phone. It’s life or death.”

Smartphones pop up, one by one, from the leather seats at either side of the aisle. Behind them, their owners remain poised and ready. Great. I don’t suppose they’d wait for me to freshen up my lip gloss before recording. I’d really like to look sharp when my epic fail goes viral.

“Is it really life or death, sir?” I ask politely. “This is a true medical emergency?”

“No.” He steps toward me. “I mean yes, not medical, but an emergency.”

“I’m sorry, sir…”

“Ridiculous.” The man gestures toward the window. “We haven’t pulled away. You’re being difficult.”

I can’t remember, does the crew handbook say it’s okay to tell arrogant first-class jackasses to back off?

“Safety protocol,” I tell him. “I can help you find your phone, but you need to take your seat.”

The man scoffs so loudly spittle flies from his lips, into the air.

In unison, smartphones to my left and right rise higher.

Impulsively, I brush a fingertip over my wings. Yes. Still there. Still pinned to one side of my brand new Aether Airway’s ash-gray uniform. A moment like this makes it hard to believe I beat out a convention-sized room full of other applicants. With a brand-new fleet, more modernized technology, and a customer-centric philosophy, everyone wants to fly Aether—that’s what Pam said when she called and told me to apply, pronto, before the competition got any fiercer. It was my ticket off the bayou. Just like it was for Pam with her now defunct carrier.

I thought for sure I’d waltz right out of Aether new-hire and onboard a posh wide-bodied aircraft with a fancy-shmancy European route.

Yet here I stand on a regional jet the size of a soda can packed to capacity with fifty other people, none of whom can go nowhere till this guy takes his seat.

“Sir.” I clasp my sweaty palms together. “Once the door shuts, we don’t open it again.”

Almost two full months of new-hire training instilled the importance of using passenger names, as part of the company’s customer recognition policy, but for the life of me I can’t remember this guy’s from the manifest. All I can think of is Jack Ass, and although it would feel fabulous leaving my lips right now, I really don’t think he’d let it slide.

He casts a sideways glance down the aisle toward the flight deck, then back at me. His face reddens like a pile of fresh crawdads. “If you’re inept at handling the situation, get me the goddam captain. Now!”

“Let me—” I start.

But Jack the Ass pivots for the front of the aircraft.

Oh, hell no.

Smartphones follow him. With his long legs, all it will take is two strides before he’s a security disaster and I’m deemed incompetent. If he reaches the flight deck, we’ll have to delay takeoff for who knows how long while he’s removed from the aircraft in handcuffs.

I glance at the undercover air marshal seated in the last row of first class. He gestures with a curt nod, ready to intervene at my say so.

I shake my head once. Not yet. This is my flight. My job.

Jack steps toward the flight deck.

“Are you going to do something?” Ms. Uppity Thang in the row beside me asks with a pout, glancing at her smart-watch. Her fiery red hair is the same bottle shade as my mama’s. “I have to be in Chicago for a meeting.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m taking care of it.” I approach Jack, who’s parallel with the galley in front of the flight deck door. “Sir, please. I’d hate to have to call airport police.”

Jack turns, ogles the badge clipped to the faux pocket of my blazer, and says, “Go for it, Zanne. Maybe then I can get my phone.”

He pronounces my name like the word zany. I don’t correct him. Zanne, rhymes with Anne. You jerky little man. That’s what Pam would call him, except this guy’s anything but little.

I steal a backward glance at our audience of smartphones. Every moment, every action counts. A late takeoff for my very first flight will do nothing for my probationary performance review. Not to mention the fact my timecard doesn’t even start until we’re in the air. I’m not even getting paid for this.

In a sudden sidestep, I try to move around Jack. He blocks me from the flight deck door. Other than the flight deck, it’s the worst possible place he can be. I can’t let him touch that door.

In one of the jump-seats opposite the galley sits an off-duty flight attendant—a pretty brunette traveling as a non-rev in jeans and a white blouse. Her gaze narrowed, she watches Jack.

He reaches toward the flight deck door.

“Stop!” I command.

Mid-reach, Jack turns.

I squeeze beside him, just as the phone on the galley wall rings. I answer and stand between the flight deck and Jack, my eyes glued onto his dark brown ones.

“We’re ready to taxi,” Captain Alfonzo says on the phone. A courtesy call because she knows it’s my first flight on my own.

Jack’s nostrils flare.

“Right,” I reply, my voice quavering.

“Everything okay?” Captain Alfonzo asks.

“A first-class passenger forgot his phone at the gate. He’s demanding we open the door.”

“Well, that’s not possible, we gotta push. Another plane’s holding for this gate. I can radio up to the gate agents and have them take a look. What’s his name?”

Goes by the name of Jack Ass.

“Seat 2D.” I fumble with the printed manifest from the galley counter.

“Good enough,” the captain says. “I’ll take care of it. Meanwhile, let’s get this show on the road.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He’s in his seat, right? We can’t push if he’s out of his seat.”

“Right, yes, just… give me one minute.”

I click down the receiver and suck in a deep breath of recycled cabin air. Sweat rolls down the back of my neck. What would Pam do? She’d be so calm. So relentlessly helpful.

My pulse thumps in my ears.

“Sir,” I level my tone into a nice low decibel that I hope sounds more placating than patronizing, but who can ever really tell the difference anyway? “We’re going to radio the gate to look for your phone. The captain did reiterate we can’t reopen the aircraft door. Take your seat and—”

“Tell the captain to man up, open this door, and speak to me himself.” Jack points at the door.

“Herself,” I say. “And I can’t do that.”

The non-rev’s still watching us. Geez, it must be so obvious I don’t know what I’m doing.

“Sir.” I hold out a hand toward Jack’s empty leather seat in the second row of first class.

He remains motionless.

I didn’t want to pull out the big guns, but damn this guy’s stubborn. “There happens to be an air marshal onboard. I’d hate for you to spend the night in jail.”

Jack looms over me so close I can see the purple vein bulging at his temple.

“Is that a threat?” he barks. “What, is this your first day? I spend a shit-load of money on your airline, and as soon as this plane lands in Chicago, I’ve got a million-dollar conference call to be ready for. You can bet your ass I’ll raise hell on social media—not just me, but every single one of my employees till the entire world boycotts your crummy airline. Don’t believe me? Try it. My company has over a half a million followers. Everyone and their brother will know about this—especially how the dumb little bitch at Aether Airways refused to help me.”

My whole body stiffens. I can’t move, as if my pumps have been cemented to the floor. Back home, this sort of thing would’ve never riddled me motionless. Stink-eyes and name calling never broke me before. But here, in the one place that’s supposed to lift me to new heights?

“Hey, that’s enough, buddy.” A first-class passenger in a brown suede blazer stands and points at Jack.

“You don’t have to talk to her that way,” another guy calls out. “Take a seat, bro.”

“Yeah, take a seat,” another voice says, then another.

I blink. They’re on my side?

One by one, phones begin to lower, as if part of a joint humanitarian effort protesting airline crew cruelty. It’s just the kind of permission I need to put this guy in his place and take control…

Except, I still can’t move a muscle.

Jack glances at the faces glowering at him, grumbles a few colorful words, returns to his seat and plops into it with a huff.

That’s my cue to get to the cabin phone. Confirm we’re good to taxi, so we’re not late for takeoff. But the message from brain to feet seems to have been lost en route.

“Zanne?” The brunette from the jump-seat appears in the aisle before me, her designer jeans hugging her curves like they were poured over them. “That’s your name, right?”

I stare blankly. I can hear my lungs fill with air, hear my pores seep with sweat.

“Come on,” she whispers. “You’re going to be fine.”

One step, two steps. Theeeere we go.

I join the woman in the galley and duck to the other side of the bulkhead.

“Are you okay?” She flicks back a long layer of dark hair.

All at once, the shudder I’ve been holding in releases and my body quakes head to toe.

“First irate?” she asks.

Pam always used that word when referring to angry passengers, and until now, I assumed it was an exaggeration.

Dazed, I nod. “I did horrible.”

“Hmm, well, I wouldn’t say you handled yourself with total grace.” Her voice holds a hint of humor, but not sarcasm. “Happens to the best of us though. I’m Sofia. Nice accent, by the way. I’d say… Acadian?”

Wow, she’s good. “Is it that obvious?”

Sofia nods. “It’s adorable.”

What am I supposed to be doing?

She gestures to the cabin phone, her dark brows rising.

Right. I grab it and call up to the flight deck to confirm we’re ready to taxi. The captain rattles off a lot of airline jargon I’m still getting used to, like ETD, ORD, ATC. She also updates me on the missing phone, which makes my blood race and heart sink all at the same time.

I hang up the phone and turn to Sofia.

“Sounds like good news for Crenshaw?” she asks quietly.

“Who?”

“2A? Lost-phone guy? I peeked at his name on the manifest, hope you don’t mind.”

Dread creeps up my spine. “They’re sending it to lost-and-found so it can be overnighted.”

“That’s a relief,” Sofia says. “He’s a VIP in the top tier of our frequent-flier program. You should really try to smooth things over. Ratings, you know.”

I groan. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to exchange words with him again till it was, Bye, thanks for flying with us today.” My voice falters on the last word. Sinuses blaze behind my eyes. Please don’t cry, please don’t cry. Not now. I fan my face to keep tears from falling. What if I don’t belong here? “Everyone saw me freeze up. I let him walk all over me.”

“Hey, you can do this,” Sofia whispers. “You stayed calm out there. That shows you care about your job, or else you wouldn’t have let him speak to you that way. He’s just a man. Take a deep breath.”

I inhale, nod. “You never believe the rumors—how passengers can be so brutal. I’ve dealt with plenty of jerks before… but…” I peek around the galley corner. “I’ve never met anyone so entitled before.”

Crenshaw, AKA Jack Ass, pokes away at his laptop, his shoulders tensed, jaw, rigid. Other first-class passengers occupy themselves with devices and magazines of their own, but the economy passengers seated just behind the second bulkhead crane their necks, still trying to see what all the fuss is.

Sofia’s right. Crenshaw’s just a man, and this is the job of my dreams. Despite the fact I feel like dirt, I still have a job to do. Get it together, Silver.

With a hard swallow, I smooth out my uniform, tighten the bun at the nape of my neck and step down the aisle to Mr. Crenshaw.

“The gate agent found your phone, sir.” I force every ounce of resolve I can into my voice. “They’ll be overnighting it to the address on your frequent flier account.”

“A lot of good that does me in O’Hare,” he retorts without eye contact.

Not even a thank you. Sweet. “Maybe you can Skype.”

Without waiting for his response, I head back to the bulkhead, grab the cabin phone that doubles as an intercom, and clear my throat. With any luck, I can still get us off the ground on time.

I do love this part…

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Zanne Silver and on behalf of Captain Alfonzo and First Officer Davies we’d like to welcome you aboard Aether Airways, Flight 3561, with nonstop service to Chicago O’Hare. We will be taxiing over the next few minutes, so please make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened, tray backs in the upright position, and that you remain seated.” I pause for emphasis. “In just a moment, we’ll be showing a short safety video on the screens in front of you. Please pay attention to the important information that will help make this a smooth flight.”

My sensibilities coming back to me, I lift my chin and explain our brand new state-of-the-art regional jet is the largest model of its series from Aether’s youngest luxury fleet. Two lavatories, extra leg room, and easy access power ports, as well as a complimentary beverage and snack service once we reach cruising altitude.

Who would’ve ever thought this little nobody from the swamps is now the emcee for an entire aircraft?

“At this time,” I continue, glancing at Sofia, “all your devices need to be turned to airplane mode, and large devices stowed for takeoff.”

Sofia gives me a thumbs up.

It’s good she’s here.

Otherwise, who knows how long I’d have stood shell-shocked in the aisle like a kindergartner who just peed her pants.

Ding!

Before I can hang up the cabin phone, my cell phone sounds off inside my pencil skirt pocket—the phone that’s supposed to be on silent mode. Nice. Last week, I set the notification alert, but I never expected to receive one this soon. A ding like that can only mean one thing: a new rating via the Aether Airways passenger rating app.

Oh, God.

I hang up the phone and my shoulders cave into a full body cringe. Only one person here would’ve bothered to rate me so soon.

The captain comes on over the intercom to introduce herself and give a weather report. I cross check and verify the cabin door strap, then drop into the other jump-seat beside Sofia.

“You look like a ghost,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’re a nervous flyer?”

“Just got my first Crew Review rating. I know it’s from Crenshaw.”

“No, already? What’s it say?”

“I haven’t read it yet. Not while on duty, right?”

Sofia shrugs. “Aren’t you curious? I mean, I won’t say anything if you won’t. But…” she pauses, “before you read it, you should know that VIP passengers in the Titan Club hold a lot of weight.”

I stare at her. “That’s supposed to buffer the blow?”

“Just remember, guys like him are nothing more than turbulence in the flight path—comes up unexpectedly, but quickly forgotten afterward.”

In a roar of engines, the plane accelerates over the runway. The floor rumbles beneath my pumps. I pull out my phone and lay it in my lap with an un-ladylike little snort. The screen illuminates with a banner:

New Rating with Aether Airways. Thank you for your service.

“I’m terrified.” I stare at the notification.

Sofia checks our surroundings, as if rogue ears could somehow be eavesdropping in our little nook behind the bulkhead. “It’s only one rating.”

“I’m still on probation—a bad rating could cost me my job.”

Sofia grimaces. “Well… maybe it’s not that bad, huh? People can be surprisingly altruistic.”

In her world, maybe. Wiping my palms over my skirt, I remove a fresh layer of sweat, just before placing a finger to the screen and swiping the notification banner.

My heart swells in my throat because I get one chance of making something of myself, and this job is it.

Jet engines blasting, our regional jet zips over the runway. On my phone’s screen, Aether Airways’ award-winning app redirects me to the Crew Review page that both staff and customers can access twenty-four-seven. My profile pops up with my full name, Cezanne Silver, and employee picture. I was so proud of that picture, of my badge where it was later plastered—the first ever professional version of myself. Officially going somewhere. My garnet-red hair blown out, long glossy layers draped at either side of my gray uniform blazer; my dark-rimmed faux glasses accenting my face with that studious air of purpose.

Purpose that eluded me my whole life.

During new-hire I heard the crew chatter about employee’s love-hate relationship with Aether’s rating scheme. I even had the nerve to believe I had what it takes to earn high ratings. Hell, I’d been groomed by my godmother since I was six-years-old and could refill hers and Mom’s empty wine glasses without spilling any. The secret, of course, being in the twist of the bottle at the end of the pour. So how could I ever earn anything less than three-stars?

But here in bold red font the words New Rating appears just below my profile heading. To its right, is Aether’s review grid used to mark every crew member in the company, and it’s metrics have become synonymous with preferred schedules, glamorous long-haul routes, and top-dollar bonuses. And my very first entry, is that new rating. A hopeless little castaway… one single star.

Below it, a review entitled, Worst Flight Attendant Ever.

My heart plummets to my stomach and sloshes around like a dying fish.

“What a tool,” Sofia says, her head hovering at my shoulder.

I expand the review:

Terrible flight, terrible service. This young lady was the worst. No regard for my personal belongings. I’ve flown twice a week for over ten years. Last year I moved all my business to Aether because I believed in their customer-comes-first philosophy. After this experience I’m reconsidering where I place my loyalty, because being a member of the Titan Club didn’t matter to this employee, which means it must not matter to the company.

I wince. My skin crawls with a million tiny twitches of anxiety.

“Well, that’s just plain rude of him,” Sofia whispers.

In disbelief, I swipe right to see what the rating did to my overall score. My stomach gurgles, heart flops around some more. I’m going to be sick.

Sofia lets out a little gasp. “Yikes, I’m sorry. But look at it this way, in a few months you should be able to bring up your score, maybe catch the eye of a decent crew team leader. A good team leader can make all the difference.”

“A few months?” I scoff quietly. “My total score just bottomed out. I could lose my job.”

“Relax,” Sofia says. “They over-exaggerate in training to keep you from getting lazy. Not that anyone ever wants reserves.”

“My crew rating is 11. Even if I’m not fired this means I’ll be on regional reserves till I’m like thirty. No team will want me.”

Sofia’s head tilts. “It’s true nobody likes reserves, but you never know. Surprises can happen. Sometimes we get traded around when a Future Star or Rising Star upsets the team recruiting process.”

“You’re saying getting recruited to a top team could save my job? Do they ever choose anyone fresh out of probation?” My nerves climb and fall like an anxiety thrill ride.

“Not usually. It will take time to build up your score. No one waltzes out of probation as a Future Star. At least, not that I’ve ever heard.”

My eyes close and part of me wants to keep them that way. “If I get another bad rating, I’ll be toast.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Sofia says. “Here, let’s see…”

I watch her punch into her phone.

“Okay,” she regards the screen, “Crenshaw’s review weight is worth… ew, his VIP status really packs a punch. That’s what killed your overall score. Recovery will be tough, but not impossible. If you work extra hard on bringing in some good ratings, you may be able to average a decent score by the time your probation is over. Average means consistent. Without consistency, ratings can plunge like that.” She snaps her fingers. “As you’ve just witnessed.”

“It wasn’t even my fault…” I stare at the bulkhead wall. “That’s what gets me. I was going by protocol.” I force a swallow, my sinuses burning again. “I can’t lose this job.”

Not after I basically told everyone who used to talk trash about me back home to kiss my ass. I can’t go back there jobless and eat crow. I just can’t. I’m supposed to only return home now and then, between jet-setting to Spain and Italy and France, just like Pam used to do.

“You’ll figure out something,” Sofia says gently.

The plane lifts off the ground and I pop my ears. “I interviewed for two other airlines. But Aether topped my list. State-of-the-art. Revolutionary. That’s what everyone said. I mean, sure the rating-based routes and pay sounded tricky and all, but everyone wants to work for Aether. They say the waiting list to get hired is into the thousands.”

“True,” Sofia says, admiring her finely lacquered nails. “We’re the first carrier to operate an inflight staff based on popularity reviews, which puts Aether in a different playing field. But, love it or hate it, the novelty of rating staff in real time gives a false sense of power to customers who don’t necessarily deserve it. I started out flying with a traditional legacy carrier, so I’m still getting used to all of it myself.”

“I was so proud after new-hire,” I muse, staring at the bulkhead’s gray plastic wall. “I was meant for this job.” I glance at her sympathetic little smile. “I don’t know what I’ll do without it.”

Sofia sighs. “Come on now, one bad rating does not an attendant make. It’s not like you’re flying the plane—think of how the pilots feel when they get one-starred. Do your best and focus on your average. They won’t fire you unless you really screw up big. One guy’s opinion won’t cost you your job… I don’t think, anyway.”

I shift my gaze away. Not looking at Sofia makes it easier to pretend she and I aren’t so different—how even her fingernails are more sophisticated than my naked, uneven nails that ain’t never grown out smooth, not after years of digging up crawdads and shucking clams.

Air pressure squeezes in on my ears and I swallow again. “Let me guess—you have a permanent line.”

“Matter of fact, I do. Europe.”

My chest flutters. I lean in closer. That’s what I want. Of all Pam’s stories, her European escapades were my favorite. I used to promise myself that would be me someday. That I wouldn’t end up like mama—talking a big game but never leaving the bayou.

“Are you on a top crew team?” I ask. “How long did it take for you to get there?”

Sofia’s little smile goes smug. “I had to pick up a ton of overtime but I finally got recruited for a mid-list team and won a permanent cross-country route. A month later an even better team with Notable status recruited me and that’s where I am now. I work the Zurich long-haul twice a week.”

“Sounds like you made it happen pretty fast. Where are you based?”

“Jacksonville. Wait till you work one of our brand-new wide-bodies, it changes everything. If you get the option, put in for a Jacksonville base. New-hires always pick JFK and SFO because they offer more routes, but Jacksonville’s got a non-stop every other day to Zurich. From Zurich you can get almost anywhere in Europe within a couple hours. Planes, trains, or automobiles. The Swiss railway system happens to be the best in the world.”

“I didn’t think we got to choose our base?” I say.

“Not until you’re recruited to a top crew team. They see it as incentive to bring in high ratings. And it’s the only way out of the pits of despair otherwise known as reserves. No more spending all day on-call at the airport in uniform.” She grins and her soft brown eyes sparkle. “The thought of just me and my Zurich long-hauls, with days off in Europe all to myself… ah, that’s the life, right?”

That’s the dream. Envy’s rotten stench seeps through my pores, into my nostrils. Subject change please. “Why are you jump-seating to Chicago?”

“Commuting. I have to fill in on a flight to Geneva tomorrow. Luckily this aircraft had an extra jump-seat. Everything else was full.”

I drop my head into my palms because all I want to do is sulk, but the speed of the plane indicates we’re almost at cruising altitude. I still have to serve refreshments and pretend it’s the best day ever after the rating of doom.

“Sofia,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Thank you for today. My job means the world to me and I’d do anything to save it. Any suggestions on how to get five-star ratings fast?”

Sofia’s lips twist to one side. “Ratings can be tricky. No one tells you that in training—they want you to have your sights set on the stars. But most passengers are quicker to leave feedback when they’re upset and emotional. I’ve found a polite request before landing can sometimes help—as long as they’re not someone like Crenshaw.”

“Maybe I should hand out swag or something, you know, with those little scanner codes.” I’m only half kidding.

“Takes time to find your groove.”

“It’s crazy, just this morning I worried about how I could get a long-haul route so I can start making a regular salary. Now I’m just praying to keep my job.”

I don’t mention the fact I spent the last few years working my tail off waiting tables to help Mom with Nana’s medical bills. My bank account is on the verge of total depletion.

“You’re from the last round of new-hire batches, aren’t you?” Sofia asks.

I perch on the edge of my jump-seat and nod.

“Your foot’s in the door, as they say, and that’s getting harder to do with all the positive press surrounding Aether. Are you a genuine New Orleans native?”

“I grew up in a small town south of N’awlins, east of Lafayette. You wouldn’t know it.”

You can take the girl out of the swamp…

Pam cringes whenever I make that joke. Ever since I can remember, she’s made it her personal mission to refine me with things I never used to care about, like table manners, matching shoes with accessories, pairing wines with meals. She never actually said so, but I think she tries to forget she’s from the swamplands herself. Mama, of course, is the stone-cold opposite. Despite Pam’s best efforts, Mama insists I stay true to our small-town swampland blood, and she’s the first to chuckle whenever I remind Pam no matter where in the world folks like us end up, the swamp can never really be taken out of the girl.

“Well,” Sofia says, “New Orleans is one of my top five favorite cities, which is why I picked up on your accent. Plus, your full name’s uncommonly French. Cezanne, like the painter?”

“My dad’s an art dealer. He was into the Post-Impressionist era when I was born. He lives in South America.”

“Oh? I have family in Venezuela. Have you been south of the equator before?”

I shake my head. I haven’t been nowhere, and I really don’t want to get into the shitty details of how my American-born father never once flew me down to Bolivia, or how he’s been a ghost in my life for pretty much all of it, under the excuse that the wino rants of Cassie Peagram, AKA my mama, are too high maintenance for him to deal with. Thanks to his black-market gigs, his passport has spent more time on the federal alerts list than El Chapo’s.

“Someday I’ll get down there,” I say.

If I get to keep this job.

Sofia leans closer, her long silky locks brushing my arm. “Listen, I remember what it was like being fresh out of new-hire and praying to make it onto a halfway motivated crew team. And I know how heartbreaking a bad review can feel. If you’re serious about bringing up your crew score fast, my best advice, is find out how Val LaSalle does it. Maybe you can even get her to recruit you.”

My back straightens. “Who?”

“Val LaSalle. I’m surprised you didn’t hear of her in training,” Sofia whispers, her expression cautious, as though what she’s about to share can never leave this space. “I’ve been following her blaze, and she just made team leader—set a new Rising Star record for fastest crew climb to the top. She works a Tahitian route twice a week, and her team’s already Notable status, already hit pay dirt. As soon as they reach top tier status, they’ll get whatever schedule and route they want: permanent international long-hauls, bonuses to rival Wall Street, and no more reserves. Ever. I heard she’s actively recruiting.”

“No kidding?” I ask, mystified. “How does she do it?”

“Wish I knew. I tried keeping up with her for a while, in the hopes she’d recruit me, but honestly, she’s kind of intimidating. I’m okay with my current crew team. Plus, my team leader is great, and Zurich is heaven.”

I fidget with the metal ridges of the wings pinned onto my lapel. Maybe Val LaSalle can help me save my job, and get me what I ultimately want—what every Aether flight attendant wants.

“How do I find her?” I ask, my voice monotone, like it’s under a spell.

“Good question.” Sofia holds my gaze. “I’m not so sure you can.”