The Trouble with Flying

by Rachel Morgan

  “Nobody’s perfect,” I say, though I think Aiden is pretty close. Or at least pretty close to being perfect for me. “I mean, he doesn’t eat fish, which means he can never enjoy the gloriousness of sushi. And there’s his over-the-top fear of heights and flying.”

  “Well, you can’t exactly blame him for that, can you?” Elize says with wide eyes.

  “I … can’t?”

  “Of course not. Not after what happened to his dad.”

  I frown. “What happened to his dad?”

  “You don’t know?” Elize says, somehow managing to look horrified and gleeful at the same time.

  “No, Elize, that’s why I asked.”

  She closes the door and jumps onto her bed. “O my genade, it was so terrible. Well, it’s not like I remember it happening, but the story sounds terrible. Aiden’s dad was a pilot, and he was flying one of those small planes, and something went wrong when he was trying to land, and the plane just … crashed. Like nose-dive crashed. The whole thing exploded and Aiden’s dad and the three passengers were all killed.”

  I stare at her, my mouth open and my hand loosely covering it. “That’s … that is horrible.”

  “I know.”

  My hand drops to my side. “How old was Aiden?”

  “Mmm … I think he was seven.”

  I shake my head as I think back to the way Aiden acted on the plane. No wonder he never wanted to get on one. I wouldn’t either if that’s how one of my parents died.

  I gather my things and head to the bathroom. The hot water is deliciously warm against my cold, damp skin, but it doesn’t distract me from the story I just heard. I’m still thinking about it when I leave the bathroom, and instead of going left towards the room I share with Elize and Simone, I turn the corner of the passage, walk to the end, and knock on the door.

  “Yeah,” Aiden calls out, which I take to mean ‘come in.’ I push the door open and find him sitting on the edge of a bed pulling socks on. His hair is wet, but he’s wearing dry clothes. He must have used a different bathroom instead of waiting for me to finish. “Oh, hey,” he says, looking surprised to see me standing in the doorway clutching a towel and a bag of toiletries.

  “I … uh … Elize told me what happened to your dad, and … I just want to say I’m really sorry.” I feel like I need to say something else, but I’m not sure what those words are supposed to be. So I end up standing awkwardly in the doorway wondering if I should wait for Aiden to respond or simply leave.

  He gets to his feet and pushes a hand through his wet hair. “I probably should have told you. Then you wouldn’t have had to wonder why I was being so weird on the plane.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t think you were being weird. I liked the fact that you weren’t all cool and confident.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think I’m cool?”

  Damn that mouth of mine. I look down at the carpet as my face heats up. “I just mean that … it made it easier for me to talk to you.”

  When I peek up again, he’s smiling at me. “I know,” he says. “I’m just teasing you.” He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m glad Elize told you.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. It’s not something I really like to talk about. I mean …” It’s his turn to look at the carpet now, but not because he’s embarrassed. It’s as if he’s looking through it, seeing something that isn’t there. “I have memories. My mum tried to shield us from it all, but we saw things. Videos on the news. Photos in the newspaper. And talking about it brings up all those images in my head.”

  Crap, and now here I am talking about it!

  “But I wanted you to know about it. So, yeah, I’m glad she told you.”

  I smile at him as a shout from downstairs informs us that dinner is ready. “I’ll see you down there,” I say, twisting around. I head back to my room with a lighter step. I don’t know why, but it makes me happy that Aiden wanted me to know about his dad. It makes me feel kind of like … I matter to him.

  I step into my bedroom—and surprise shoots through me at the sight of Matt sitting on one of the beds. He’s leaning back against the pillows, his arms crossed over his chest. “I see you’re getting to know my extended family quite well,” he says. “Or one of them, at least.”

  I put my things down on top of my suitcase, then turn and face him. “You’re talking about Aiden.”

  “Yes. The guy who managed to distract you so much that you got lost while coming down a perfectly visible mountain trail. The guy you were so desperate to talk to when you got out of the shower that you didn’t even stop by your room first to put your things down.”

  I look down at my hands. “Elize told me what happened to his father. It sounded so … horrific. I couldn’t stop thinking about it in the shower, so I went to talk to him afterwards. I just wanted to say that I was sorry about it. Because, you know, I didn’t know before. And now I do.”

  Matt purses his lips, then says, “And the mountain? What happened out there?”

  “Nothing happened. I showed him the forest and the waterfall and the view, and we were talking while we were coming down, and we somehow ended up on one of those smaller side paths that criss-cross all over the place. Then it started raining, and the rain was really heavy, so we sat under a tree till the storm passed.”

  “You sat under a tree during a storm?”

  “Yes, we—Oh.” I guess I really was distracted. “Look, it wasn’t an isolated tree, and the lightning wasn’t, like, right there.”

  Matt sighs as he climbs off the bed and comes towards me. “Sarah. You need to stop daydreaming so much and pay attention to what’s going on around you.” He rubs his hands up and down my arms. “And I’m sorry about earlier. I was just so worried about you, and when I realised you were safe, I kind of overreacted.” He leans forward and kisses my cheek, then takes my hand and leads me out of the room. As we head towards the stairs, I hear a creak in the floorboards beneath the passage carpet somewhere behind us, but when I look over my shoulder, I don’t see anyone there.

  From: Alivia Howard

  Sent: Sat 21 Dec, 11:25 am

  To: Sarah Henley

  Adam Anderson

  Subject: The robots won’t find us here

  Squeeeeeeee! I’m gonna be home tomorrow night! I’ve missed you guys so much (and Logan too, but he’s a gigantic butthead for ignoring all of us since we left school, so I’ve finally given up on trying to make contact with him). ANYWAY, you are hereby officially invited to my house on Tuesday. 10 am ish. Please respond with one of the following:

  1) Yes

  2) Yes!!

  3) Oh, HELL YEAH, I’ll be there.

  As you can see, ‘no’ is not an option. I’ll text you the code on Monday morning. See you on the other side!

  xx Livi

  P.S. Be ready for an overload of junk food. My hosts have insisted on feeding me rabbit food for the entire year.

  _____________________________

  From: Sarah Henley

  Sent: Sun 22 Dec, 7:08 am

  To: Alivia Howard

  Adam Anderson

  Subject: Re: The robots won’t find us here

  My response: 1, 2 and 3! Can’t wait to see you both!

  P.S. I’ll bring the zoo biscuits.

  _____________________________

  From: Adam Anderson

  Sent: Sun 22 Dec, 7:43 am

  To: Alivia Howard

  Sarah Henley

  Subject: The robots will always find you

  4) I’d rather have every hair on my body plucked out individually.

  5) Kidding :) Obviously 1, 2 and 3.

  P.S. I brought home a backpack stuffed full of American choc / candy / biscuits / other life-threatening junk food. You’re welcome, Livi.

  P.P.S. I thought that most rece
nt photo of you on Facebook looked suspiciously like a lettuce leaf …

  _____________________________

  From: Facebook

  Sent: Sun 22 Dec, 7:48 am

  To: Sarah Henley

  Subject: Aiden Harrison has accepted your friend request

  _____________________________

  I’m lying on my tummy on my slow-leak mattress typing a reply to Adam about how individual plucking of his hair can most certainly be arranged when the Facebook email about Aiden accepting my friend request pops up. Feeling a zing of anticipation shoot through me, I tap my way to my Facebook app and log in for the first time since I logged out on Friday morning. Now that we’re officially Facebook friends, I can check out everything Aiden’s posted on his wall. And that does not make me a stalker. Everyone does this. It’s just one of the ways people get to know each other in the modern age.

  Wait. Hang on. That probably means Aiden’s checking out my profile. Eeek! I quickly go to my own page and scroll through it to see if there’s anything overly embarrassing there. Aside from some less-than-attractive photos of Jules and me posing at various tourist destinations in London, my page seems fairly tame.

  I navigate back to Aiden’s page and start looking through his recent activity. He doesn’t seem to be on Facebook too often, not like those people who post and comment and share and like hundreds of things every day. The most recent item on his wall is a digital artwork of a ship on a choppy sea with a woman standing at the bow looking out, her hair blowing back from her face. A dramatic sky is filled with orange, red, and dashes of purple, the colours reflected in the water. It’s originally from a page called The Luminaire Artist, and Aiden’s shared it along with one word: ‘Awesome.’ I have to admit, I agree. Sophie would definitely appreciate this.

  I open a private message to her—no way am I sharing the image directly from Aiden’s page, otherwise he’ll know I came straight online to snoop around his profile—and type, ‘Found this cool artist’s page on FB. The Luminaire Artist. Kinda reminds me of some of your stuff. Check it out.’

  I’ve just pushed ‘Send’ and gone back to Aiden’s page when a shout from downstairs—“Breakfast is ready in ten minutes!”—reminds me that Nan said she was cooking a fry-up for everyone this morning. I drop my phone onto my pillow and jump off the mattress. I am so not sitting at the breakfast table with creased pyjamas and hair that looks like several mice crawled through it during the night.

  I grab my shower stuff from my suitcase as Elize rolls over and mumbles, “Mmwawasthat?”

  “Breakfast in ten minutes,” I say, then run down the passage.

  By the time I get back to the bedroom, she and Simone are gone. I hurry downstairs to the dining room and find the enormous table already crowded with people. Matt waves me over, and I slip into the seat he saved for me before everyone looks up to see who walked in late. The table is laden with plates of bacon, eggs, mushrooms, sausages, tomatoes, baked beans, and toast. Despite having already consumed a ton of food this weekend, my stomach grumbles in anticipation.

  Matt squeezes my knee and says, “I’m glad to see your face doesn’t look anything like Rudolph’s.”

  I frown at him. “Rudolph?”

  He gestures across the table. I look up, and when my eyes fall on Aiden, I start laughing. “Oh no! How did you get so burnt?”

  Aiden touches his red cheeks and his even redder nose. “I thought I put sunscreen on, but I must have imagined that part.”

  “I guess your English skin just wasn’t ready for our sun,” Matt says. There’s a tightness to his voice that matches his grip on my knee. He smiles at Aiden, but I know him well enough to know it isn’t a genuine smile. “So,” he says, turning back to me, “everyone seems keen to hang out by the lake today. Shall we take one of the rowboats out?”

  “Uh, yeah, that sounds nice.”

  “Cool.” Matt reaches for the nearest serving spoon and starts dishing food onto my plate. “I guess you’ll have to keep out of the sun today, Aiden” he says. “Wouldn’t want that burn to get any worse.”

  ***

  Matt stays close to my side for the remainder of the weekend. He says it’s because he wants to spend time with me after our weeks apart, but it kinda feels like he’s watching me. By the time he and I leave mid Monday morning, I’m feeling rather smothered. Saying goodbye to everyone I know in the farmhouse takes a bit of time—and is hardly private—so I don’t get to say much more to Aiden than ‘Goodbye,’ ‘Nice to meet you,’ and ‘Maybe I’ll see you again before you leave.’ I half expect Matt to start interrogating me about my last words to Aiden the moment we’re in the car, but he doesn’t mention it.

  “You know,” I say once we’re driving down the dirt road away from the farmhouse, “I could have driven myself here. Now you have to drive all the way back after dropping me off at home.”

  “It’s fine,” he says, his eyes on the road. “I like driving you around. Besides, I’m seeing an old school friend this evening. Wiggins. You remember him, right? So I’m only driving back here tomorrow.”

  “Christmas eve,” I murmur, wondering how it snuck up so fast.

  “Yip.” Matt turns onto the tar road. “Big family Christmas at the farm.” He turns the radio up as a news broadcast comes on. I watch the mountains growing smaller and wonder if this is what the rest of my life will be like: Matt in the driver’s seat and me doing little more to influence the direction of our journey than a passenger.

  The sun bakes the roof of my trusty old Opel Corsa as it carries me along the coastal road towards Ballito on Tuesday morning. With no air conditioning, I’m forced to wind the window down to keep myself from melting. The air whips strands of hair across my face and fills the car with that distinctive smell of the sea. The ocean itself is startlingly beautiful. With barely a breath of wind to churn the crests of the waves into white horses, the water is a glistening stripe of deep blue, bleeding into almost-green as it reaches the shore.

  I turn off the road and drive up to the imposing entrance of Zimbali Coastal Resort. Like always, I feel completely awkward and out of place, as if I’m a lowly commoner trying to gain entrance to the royals’ palace. My little car is like a piece of tin compared to Ostentatious Oversized Vehicle Number One that just drove past me and Extravagant Expensive Vehicle Number Two that glides into the estate ahead of me beneath the residents’ boom.

  I pull up beside the guardhouse and wind my window all the way down as the guard walks over. “Hi, uh, I’m here to visit someone. I’ve got a code.” I remove my phone from my handbag and find the message Livi sent me this morning. I show the screen to the guard, who leans down and squints at the numbers. He nods, then disappears back into the guard house where I see him speaking briefly on a phone. He returns and hands me a plastic access card.

  “You know where to go?” he asks me.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He opens the boom for me, and I drive beneath it. I follow the perfectly paved road past the resort and hotel area and towards one of the residential areas. All the houses are at least four times the size of my parents’ house, but nestled amongst the trees and other expertly maintained vegetation, they somehow manage not to look so grandiose.

  I make a few turns, drive beneath another boom—hence the access card I was given—slow down to allow a buck to leap across the road, and eventually arrive at Livi’s house. I head up the driveway and park in front of the garage next to a white Jetta I recognise as Adam’s mom’s car.

  Excitement races through me as I reach around to grab a beach bag from the back seat. It’s only been a year since I saw my friends, but after having spent every day of high school with them, it’s felt more like an eternity.

  There were four of us—Alivia, Adam, Logan and I—who gravitated towards each other at the beginning of high school and formed one of the nerd herds. It would have been nice to be popular, of course, but as long as I had
a few good friends I wasn’t terrified of speaking to, I didn’t mind what label I had.

  At the end of high school, I decided to study in Pietermaritzburg with Matt, Logan went off to the gigantic, popular University of Cape Town, Livi got herself an au pair job with some noble family in Germany, and Adam went to America to spend the year working and travelling. Logan obviously became too cool to stay in contact with his nerdy high school friends, but Livi, Adam and I exchanged emails throughout the year. They told me all about their exciting experiences while I studied hard like a good girl and wished I had been brave enough to take an overseas gap year like they did.

  I slam my car door shut and skip up to the front door. I consider knocking, but Livi always seems to be too far inside the house to hear me. I twist the knob and step inside the palatial home Livi’s parents decided would be adequate for them and their only child. I leave my handbag and beach bag on the table in the entrance hall and head to the living area. It extends across the whole front of the house with nothing but floor-to-ceiling panes of glass separating the inside from the outside. Beyond the infinity pool in the garden, the golf course stretches out, blending into a line of blue sea at the horizon.

  I hear laughter coming from the direction of the kitchen, and I follow the sound. I step through the doorway and find Livi sitting on a counter while Adam shows her something on his phone. She looks up as I walk in. “Sezziiieee!” she squeals.

  “Liviiiiiii!”

  “Eeeeeee!” Adam joins in the jumping up and down. “Let’s all do the high-pitched, girly squeal thing!”

  Livi punches his arm, and he falls all over the counter pretending to be injured while she runs across the kitchen and almost knocks me over with the force of her hug. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, don’t ever let me leave home again for so long.”

  I laugh and squeeze her tight. “Like I could ever stop you.”