Free Fly Me to the Moon by Alyson Noël Page B

eyes.
    “Done,
fini.”
She clapped her hands together twice, bringing an end to the bartering.
    Shaking my head, I settled onto the crappy, lumpy couch, which would now double as my bed, and wrote her a check for the first and last months’ rent, secretly hoping the first month would be the last.
    “I’ll come by later with my stuff,” I said, exchanging the check for a set of shiny gold keys.
    And as I headed for the door I stopped and turned, glancing from Lisette to the couch, knowing I’d just been completely had. But I also knew that if I was going to find my own way, I’d have to start here.
STERILE COCKPIT
     
Flight attendants are
prohibited from engaging in
any activity that could distract
the pilots from their
performance.

 
     
     
     
    My first night on the couch had not gone well. Never mind the lumps, the bumps, and the creaky springs, not to mention my own germ-phobic paranoia about its murky origins and sexual history. The main reason I hadn’t slept was due to the constant sound of Lisette and her pilot boyfriend going at it so loudly that two earplugs, two pillows, and a thick down comforter thrown over my head couldn’t drown out the noise. And by the time it was finally, mercifully over, well that’s when the snoring started (both his and hers). And before I knew it, it was 3:45 A.M . and my clock radio was blasting the oddly appropriate “All Out of Love,” which would play in my head for the rest of the day.
    I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the taps, and peered in the mirror as I waited for the water to warm. My hazel eyes had bags the size of checked luggage, my hair was a frizzed-out mess, and if I wasn’t mistaken, my chin held the promise of what by day’s end would surely be a freakishly large zit. And as I opened the glass shower door and cautiously stepped inside, I asked myself.once again, why I always traded my afternoon trips for ones that signed in early, when clearly I was not a morning person.
    Yes, it was true that all I had to do was survive two quick yet tediously boring round trips to Washington, D.C., and back, but if the small gash I’d just made while shaving my legs was any indication, my hand-eye coordination was severely hindered. And as a person whose secondary responsibility is to get piping hot coffee swiftly and safely into the hands of the politicians and newscasters who frequent the shuttle (even though they think it’s my
only
responsibility), my early-morning handicap would surely work against me.
    But the flip side was that a 5:00 A.M . sign-in often made for an early-afternoon return. And I knew that once I’d choked down a few cups of that brutal airplane brew, I’d be just coherent enough to get through the first flight of the day bomb check that was now required of me.
    Freshly showered, with one towel coiled around my head and another tucked tightly around my body, I was bent over the sink, spitting mouthwash into the bowl, when a pale, paunchy, middle-aged man, unfortunately clad in a pair of tighty whities, threw the door open and demanded, “Have you seen my bag tag?”
    I turned to face him, mouthwash bubbles racing a speedy slalom down my chin. “Excuse me? Don’t you knock?” I grasped my towel against my chest while narrowing my eyes at Dan, Lisette’s creepy captain boyfriend, who also happened to be half the reason why I’d barely slept.
    “Have you seen it?” he demanded, peering around my shoulder and barreling his way into the tiny bathroom. “I need to get out of here. I have a 5:00 A.M . commuter flight home, and I can’t find it anywhere.”
    “Wait. You can’t fly without your bag tag?” I asked, clutching my towel and standing my ground, refusing to be pushed around.
    “Would you please just start looking!” he yelled, glaring at meand shaking his head in exasperation as he rifled through my makeup bag. “It’s just a plain gold band. You can’t miss it.”
    I stood there, growing increasingly confused as