Just then the plane lifts off, tilting us back, and Emily grips the armrests hard, all her attention focused on the window.
“Scared of flying?” I ask. If she needs the earbuds to listen to music that soothes her anxiety, I’ll give them back. I’m not a sadist.
“No,” she says. “I’ve never flown before. It just surprised me.”
I wait until we’re up to flying altitude and let her enjoy the view for a few minutes.
“So cool,” she whispers as we glide through the clouds toward Denver.
"Do I need to worry about you throwing up on me?” I ask.
She doesn’t even glance my way, but says, “No,” in a small, quiet voice.
“You sure? I didn’t pack an extra change of clothes for this flight, so I don’t want what I’m wearing messed up.”
She shifts to look at me, sullen. “I haven’t even eaten anything today. I’m not going to throw up on you.”
“Ah, hangovers suck, right?”
“It’s really not that bad. I’m just queasy.” Her eyes widen as she realizes what she said, and she slaps a hand over her mouth.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“I’m just like hungover from eating bad food,” she says quickly. “You know, like I still feel bad. Not anything else.”
I tap my chin as I debate whether to let her continue with this lie. Unfortunately, that won’t serve my purpose. “So, you ate something bad and then threw up all over your sister? You’re what? Ten? Can’t you make it to a bathroom on your own?” I fully know how old she is. I’m purposely trying to rile her up.
Her cheeks redden. “I’m fourteen and it, um, I got sick, like, really fast. I couldn’t make it to the bathroom.”
“Yeah, you can keep lying to me, but I know you were drunk last night.”
She gasps, her face paling. “How do you know? Are people talking about it?”
“I know, because you’re a terrible actor and the scent of booze is leaking out of your pores. You stink of a night filled with poor decisions.”
She sniffs her wrist, but I doubt she can smell herself. She’s been living in that sickly-sweet scent for too long. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t tell anyone as long as you tell me what the hell happened. I know there’s no way you got drunk on Gentry’s watch.”
Her eyes flash, and she shakes her head. “It’s her fault. I had to sneak out because she wouldn’t let me go to the party. If she’d just let me go and dropped me off there, everything would have been fine. But everyone saw her when she came to get me. It was so embarrassing.”
“Interesting. How’d you sneak out to a party if you can’t drive?”
“I got a ride from my boyfriend.” She winces. “Ex-boyfriend. He doesn’t want anything to do with me after Gentry was so mean to him.”
I’m not a parent, but I used to be a rebellious teenager. And I know exactly how much danger this little girl put herself in last night. Gentry must have been terrified.
“Wow,” I say. “Are you trying to end up pregnant by fifteen? Or in foster care?”
“I’ll just go live with Brodie,” she says. “He’s a lot nicer than Gentry.”
I stare at her. I know teenagers can be irrational, but this is ridiculous. “A lot nicer than a woman who spends her night tracking you down at a party you never should have gone to? Who takes you home and doesn’t leave you there as punishment, but brings you on a trip most kids would kill for? A lot nicer than a woman who buys you books and cinnamon rolls even when you act like a spoiled, selfish brat?”
Harsh, but someone needs to tell her the truth.
I halfway expect Emily to burst into tears, but not this kid. Oh, no. She gives condescending glare almost as good as Gentry. “You’re an asshole. And Gentry just dragged me out of that party because she’s jealous. She doesn’t have an amazing boyfriend who invites her to the best parties. She has like four friends who never do anything interesting.”
“Wow,” I say. “First of all, any boyfriend who’s going to dump you because your sister makes you leave a party you shouldn’thave been at in the first place was never your boyfriend. You’re better off without him. You should thank Gentry.”
