Page 10 of Tilly in Technicolor
The attendant lets out a loud sigh through her nose, closing her eyes. “Be right back,” she says.
A few moments later, I watch her and another attendant huddle around the puke. They’ve put on face masks and rubber gloves, and are aggressively whispering to each other as they point at the spot.
It seems like one of them loses the quiet argument, and bends over, using a single paper towel to wipe at the mess. Seemingly satisfied with that sub-par scrubbing, the other opens a silver package and sprinkles coffee grounds over the remaining smear. They then grab one of the thin airplane blankets, fluff it out, and drape it over the whole mess like it’s a dead body.
Gathering up their trash, they turn and move toward the back of the plane.
“Is that all you can do?” I ask, standing up and hitting my head on the ceiling. Again. “A blanket? Where’s the… I don’t know? Airplane carpet cleaner?”
“We don’t have everything we need to clean it properly right now,” the attendant says, shooting me a bland look. “We’re landing soon anyway. It’ll be fine.”
Fine?Fine?Absolutely no part of this circle of hell parading as an international flight has beenfine.
I’m scrambling for words to keep arguing, but they walk away before any of the thoughts can form. Slouching back into my seat, I slowly bang my skull against the headrest.
After a few more minutes, Tilly drags herself down the aisle and crawls into her seat.
“Are you okay?” I ask, eyes glued to the window and my fingers tapping away at my side.
She clears her throat. “Not to be dramatic,” she says, her voice quieter than it’s been the entire flight, “but I imagine there are exhumed corpses that are in better shape than me.”
I glance at Tilly, and I can’t say she’s wrong. Her twin alien buns are skewed, spiky black hair sticking out every which way. Her eyes are red-rimmed and skin a grayish green. I reason that agreeing with her verbally could potentially offend her.
Choosing the safest, most comfortable option, I stay quiet the rest of the flight.
Chapter 7Ugh
TILLY
We finally touch down and my body/spirit feels like I’ve sprinted a marathon. This was not how I expected to start my grand European adventure.
When the plane comes to a stop and the overhead speaker dings with the OK to unfasten our seat belts, I hop up, wiggling out my legs and arms. Oliver is slower to unfold his long limbs from his seat, and I watch as he stands and stretches his neck from side to side.
Damn. He really is cute—tall and gangly with a soft but vibrant energy that has me believing countless thoughts are swirling under that quiet façade. Or, more likely, I’m just romanticizing the hell out of him as my too soft heart tends to do.
But I’m disappointed this tortuous flight did not a romance make. I don’t know why, but my brain is always hooking on to random people, wanting so badly to find a connection with someone, even when there’s no logical reason for one.
I’ve always had trouble relating to my peers, saying or doing the wrong thing no matter how hard I tried to be like them—observing the way they interact with each other and trying tomimic it with very little success. It’s exhausting trying to make friends while pretending to be someone you’re not.
As people toward the front of the plane slowly start to trickle out, I squeeze into the aisle, wrestling my suitcase down in the limited space, then duck back into the row.
I look at Oliver again, and he must feel my stare, because he glances at me.
And he tentatively smiles.
Ugh, that quick flick of his lips slaps my silly heart around my chest.
Something in me shifts. Determination, maybe? A hopeless need to make something monumental out of the disastrous flight? The past ten hours have been so bad, they literally couldn’t get worse, right?
Should I do it?
I think I should do it.
I’m gonna do it.
What’s the point of this summer if I don’t take my life into my own hands? I’m no longer the person squeezing herself into shapes and molds that don’t fit. I’m bold and brazen Tilly Twomley, and I will shoot my shot with hot airplane strangers, so help me God.
“CanIhaveyournumber,” I say (yell).
