Bad Pet (His Pet)

And playing croquet was one of my last happy memories of my mother.

Footsteps tap on the walkway behind me, and I slam the pamphlet into my lap so I can cover it with my hands. There is no need for anyone else — even a stranger — to know that I’m considering having plastic surgery. Especially not the baby-faced flight attendant that has been calling me ma’am even though we are about the same age. I may be a year or two older than him, but that’s it.

“Can I get you another glass of wine, ma’am?” He leans over me, smiling big and getting a little too close.

I grin back up at him, keeping my hands pressed firmly on the brochure in my lap. I want to find a way to cover the rest of them on the seat next to me, but I also don’t want to make any movement that will cause this man to notice. So, I stay frozen, even when his eyes wander to the seat next to me.

“Yes,” I say, just a little too tartly, drawing his eyes away from the pamphlets. He frowns slightly at my tone and stands up stiffly. I give him another grin, trying to ease over any bad feelings. “I’m sorry—” I glance at his name tag— “Bobby, but do you happen to know if we will be getting off the ground soon? I have a crucial meeting at the Pentagon this evening.”

Bobby smiles. He really is a decent-looking guy, but the way he treats me, like an older woman, has me annoyed. Although it is possible I’m currently being a little sensitive about that. It has been recently brought to my attention that I dress a little too matronly for my twenty-six years.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We should be leaving soon. We are just waiting on a last-minute passenger.”

I look him square in the face and raise one solitary eyebrow. “All of this is for one passenger? Who is it? The queen?”

Bobby snort-laughs. When he squints his eyes, he’s even cuter, and I’m starting to regret my earlier snootiness with him. Joining the mile-high club might make this flight worth it. He leans in a bit and whispers, “Honestly, this airline will wait for anyone who has enough money.”

He nods, taps the side of his nose, and hurries along to check on the man seated in front of me.

Rich, huh? I ease back into my chair and wonder why someone who has that much money would fly on a commercial airline. But to be honest, my father never bought a jet, and we had plenty of money.

Now that Bobby, the flight attendant, is out of range, I pick my brochure back up and start studying the information about the doctor again. This particular doctor did a few years at the Mayo Clinic, which should be good. Next to the list of credentials is a woman who has the cutest little chin. It’s not quite pointed, but the slope of her jawline is perfect. I wonder what I would look like with a jaw like that. It’s so prim, so proper, so feminine.

“My mom got fillers one year, and they totally made her sick. She had to have them sucked out a year later.”

I drop my pamphlet and look to the seat next to me. There is a young girl, maybe around twelve, sitting there now. She’s picked up all my pamphlets and is flipping through them. I didn’t even hear her come by.

Not looking up at me, she continues, “She really should have known better. She got a boob job a few years before and had to have them removed as well. You see, what you don’t realize is that a lot of the people who get work done are sensitive to the chemicals that they use.” She flips to the following brochure. “Oh no, you don’t want to use this guy. He’s a hack. Ruined my friend’s cousin’s stepmom’s nose. Now she can only breathe out of one nostril…like a cyclops…but for noses.” Lazily, she crunches that pamphlet into a ball and starts looking over the next. “I mean, why do you even want to get any work done?”

Our eyes meet as she looks up at me. Hers are a light blue and partially hidden by huge, black-framed glasses. Glasses that she pushes up her nose a bit as she studies my face.

“Oh,” she says before I can even reply.

I feel validated about my interest in plastic surgery and disheartened at the same time. Yet, another person, this one only a child, has found my face to be ugly. I suddenly want my refill of wine very quickly. Where is Bobby?

As I look around for my dream-boy flight attendant, the twelve-year-old next to me keeps rummaging through my stuff. I notice that she has an earpiece hanging from one ear that is playing music much too loudly. It sounds like some kind of death metal.