Page 3 of A Discovery: Love and Other Things
But she hated flying. She had taken so many white tablets at the start of each leg of our trip that I was pretty sure the associated drug-information pamphlets had warnings about dosing at the levels that were currently coursing through Angela’s body. That would explain why she was no longer digging her nails into my arms like she had at take-off, and probably also why she had slept so long. Her stiletto nails proved to be long enough to have drawn blood from my tender skin, which had luckily scabbed over by now.
I was just thankful she had actually shown up because I had bet against myself that she would ditch the internship to spend her summer yachting off the coast of St. John with some hot deckhand named Ryan.
Reaching into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me, I extracted a can of room-temperature Diet Coke and passed it to my left. “I saved this for you.”
“God bless you,” Angela croaked as she reached for the can.
I winced as she opened the tab—the click of her nails and dramaticpssshtof the aluminum tab releasing gas rang louder than expected since I had popped my drums to accommodate the increase in air pressure. Still, I watched happily as my friend slurped down her can of caffeine, grateful that she’d opted out of first class to sit with me in coach.
Our bodies jolted forward as the plane made contact with the runway, eliciting claps around the cabin.
“Oh, thank God!” Angela proclaimed in her sweet Southern accent like she was front row in church on a Sunday as she signaled the sign of the cross on her chest. She wasn’t particularly religious, but her Christian upbringing conveniently surfaced at times of duress.
I packed away my tablet into the cross-body bag in front of my feet. “You’re feeling awfully spiritual today, aren’t ya?”
“What time is it?” she asked, looking at the sun beating through the cabin window.
I checked the time on the media screen in front of me. “About three p.m. local time.”
“Fuck. Why do I feel like it’s four in the morning?” Angela groaned, rubbing her hands over her face.
“It’s probably because of all the Xanax you took, and the time difference—but more so the pills.”
“Bitch, you’re lucky I took that many, else you would have had to peel me off the emergency exit.”
“Nah, I would have just pretended not to know you,” I teased.
The plane rolled forward, finally stopping at the gate. Thebingon the sound system was a welcome relief. I immediately stood up, even though our row was toward the back and it would be a while before we deplaned. The rush of blood to my numb legs felt foreign after sitting for so long.
Slowly, the line ahead of us filed out of the plane. I kept busy on my phone catching up on my missed messages and updating my location on social media, thanks to my international plan. A gentle shove to the shoulder from Angela signaled I was holding up the line, so I moved into the aisle with my shoulder bag, ready to grab my roller bag from the overhead compartment.
“What’s wrong?” Angela asked with her Louis Vuitton roller bag next to her, busy drawing the handle up.
My eyes flashed from compartment to compartment, unable to locate my black bag with the polka dot ribbon tied to the handle. “My bag’s not here.”
“What do you mean, it’s not here? Where did you put it?”
I pointed to the now empty compartment as the line of passengers anxious to deboard murmured behind us.
“Damn. Someone must have taken off with your bag?”
“What am I going to do? I didn’t bring any checked luggage.” How was I going to manage two months in a foreign country without any of my clothes or toiletries? The cross-body bag that I did have was only big enough to carry my tablet, cellphone, and wallet and I’d had to stuff my laptop into my bigger carry-on bag. I needed that laptop if I were going to do any sort of research during this internship.
“Don’t worry about that. You can wear my clothes until your bag shows up, but you should probably report it to the flight attendant.”
I rushed to the front of the cabin, where three of the hostesses who’d served our flight were smiling their farewells through perfectly glossed lips.
In my sub-par Arabic, I explained that my luggage was missing.
My grammar must have been shaky because one of the women opted to continue the conversation in English. “Miss, if you believe your baggage was stolen, you will need to file a complaint at baggage claim. If by chance the bag is found, then they can contact you.”
“What am I supposed to do without my bag?! I’m here for two months on an excavation project! What will I wear? What if my mentor assigns an impromptu project? How will I look up the mummification procedure of the eighteenth dynasty?!” The words flew out a mile a minute, leaving the English-speaking attendant slightly dazed, which only wove me deeper into the web of frustration that I had spun.
“I’m sorry that I cannot help you any further.” Her lips fixed into a stern smile as she eyed the line of people behind me, signaling that my time on the plane had officially expired.
“Come on, Kitty.” Angela wrapped her hand around my wrist and led me along. “We’ll talk to the agent at baggage claim and see what they can do. Hopefully, someone just took it by accident and they’ll return it.”
I hoped she was right, because if it had been stolen, then I’d be placing an ancient Egyptian–style curse on thekleptowho had my bag. Although, I’d need my laptop to Google ancient Egyptian curses first.Fucking irony.
