Fly Me to the Moon

by Alyson Noel

  I glanced at the sink overflowing with dirty dishes, the stove covered in crusted cruel, the counters slathered with onion skin, meat juices, and cheese crumbles, and cringed.

  “Mother, please,” Adonis pleaded. “You cannot talk to her like that.”

  “I am not speaking to you, Adonis. I am talking to her, this, this—”

  She pointed at me, shaking with rage, and I knew if she dared call me a putana just one more time, I would reach around Adonis and punch her.

  “Mother, this is ridiculous. I am a grown man, and if I want to marry Hailey, I will do so.”

  Um, excuse me? Marry? Uh, who said anything about getting married?

  I looked at Adonis, my eyes wide and mouth hanging open in shock as he pulled me close, placing his arm firmly around my shoulders.

  “Is this true?” she asked, her eyes blazing into mine.

  But I just shrugged and stared at the floor, wishing it contained a trapdoor, or some other easy form of escape.

  “I haven’t asked her yet, but if she agrees, then yes. We will be married,” he said, gripping me even tighter. “I can’t believe you tricked me, Mother. That’s an all-new low. Even for you.” He shook his head angrily and started to move past her. And I watched as Irene Vrissi glanced from me to him, then clutched at her heart and staggered backward, as though she would fall onto the cold marble floor.

  But I knew a fake heart attack when I saw one, so I just stood there, shaking my head and rolling my eyes as Adonis shouted “Metehra!” and rushed to her aid, managing to catch her just seconds before her knees pretended to buckle. “Mother, are you okay? Please God!” he yelled frantically, struggling to hold her upright.

  And while Adonis’ eyes were squeezed shut, as he begged the gods to spare his mother’s life, Irene’s remained open, narrowed, and fixed on mine.

  And then, gazing up at her son, she whispered, “Why don’t you say good night to the girl, Adonis? I’m so weak, and I’m not feeling well.”

  And I stood there watching in complete disbelief as he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.

  I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and headed for the sink, rinsing all the dirty pots and pans before stacking them in the dishwasher. I mean, obviously Irene was acting out in some kind of frantic, last-ditch attempt to get her son’s attention away from me and back on her. So clearly it was only a matter of time before he calmed down and clued in. And while I waited, I figured the least I could do was get the place cleaned up; then maybe we could head out to town and grab a drink at one of the two bars that stayed open during the off-season.

  I shut the dishwasher, grabbed a damp sponge, and had just started wiping the counter when Adonis appeared. “Hey,” I said, going over to hug him. “Is everything okay?” I searched his face while keeping mine straight. I mean, even though I thought the whole thing was pretty hysterical, I knew better than to be the first to laugh.

  But Adonis didn’t hug back. He just stood there stiffly. And then taking a deep breath, he looked at me and said, “I think it’s better if you stay at Kat’s for the next few days. I’m afraid your being here will only aggravate my mother’s condition.”

  I just looked at him, my face breaking into a smile. “Oh, okay,” I said, already starting to laugh.

  “It is for the best,” he said, turning his back on me in a way so final I just stood there, staring at the back of his head, as the truth slowly began to sink in.

  Adonis was dumping me for his mother!

  “Just take the Vespa,” he said from over his shoulder.

  “But Adonis—” I started.

  “Hailey, you don’t understand. She depends on me. My father is ill, and I’m all that she has.”

  And when he finally turned to face me, I saw that his jaw was clenched tight and his eyes were all red and watery. And knowing that anything I said would be pointless, I just nodded, grabbed my stuff, and left.

  I buttoned my coat and flipped my collar up around my ears, to guard against the cold night air. Then I hopped on the scooter, kick-started the engine, and had just flipped on the lights when I noticed a small white car parked at the end of the drive. Assuming it was Irene’s, I drove right past it and turned onto the street, my eyes watching the road while my brain tried to make sense of what had just happened.

  Obviously I’d been ambushed, sneak attacked, and sucker punched. Hoodwinked in the Greek mama equivalent of shock and awe. But how Irene had found out was beyond me, as Adonis had sworn time and again that she never set foot on the island during winter.

  Noticing someone following closely behind, I moved to the side of the road, allowing them plenty of room to pass. And as I watched the little white car go by, with two smiling faces hanging out the windows, I knew.

  And I just sat there, feeling breathless and shaken as I watched Stavroula and Eleni speed away. Leaving me with the sound of their laughter filling up the sky and echoing back at me in the crisp, still night.

  Then after a while I gripped both handles and headed to Kat’s. heeling thankful she’d had enough foresight to leave me a key.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Kat said, leaning in to hug me.

  “Me too.” I gazed around the Athens International Airport, thinking how even though I’d miss her and my long afternoons of doing and thinking about nothing, it was time to get back in the game and stop procrastinating. Because while that life might be great for Kat, I was way too young to retire.

  Besides, Kat had no mother-in-law to contend with, and who’s to say where I’d be if there’d been no Irene Vrissi. Because the truth was, saying “s’agapo” just wasn’t the same as saying “I love you.” So I guess in a weird way, I had her to thank. I mean, Irene Vrissi had saved me from myself.

  “Yanni and I will be in New York in the next month or so. I miss my kids.” Kat smiled. “But don’t worry. I want you to stay put. My home is plenty big enough for all of us.”

  I looked at Kat, and I knew it was time to stop taking advantage of her abundant generosity. “I think it’s time I find a place of my own,” I told her. “But I promise to keep feeding the cats.”

  She just nodded, and as I turned to leave she called, “Hey, it’ll be a New York crew! Say hello if you see anyone I know!”

  I smiled and waved, then headed for the boarding area, wondering if Kat missed flying. Probably not Atlas, I decided, handing over my ID, but definitely the people.

  As I settled into my Business Select aisle seat, I wondered if this would be the last time I’d get to do this. Because even if by some small miracle Atlas didn’t give me the boot, I knew it’d be a while before I’d get this kind of time off again.

  Shoving my carry-on under the seat in front of me, I inserted my iPod earpiece and retrieved my yellow legal pad and pen. I’d decided to heed Martina’s advice, and rewrite my story the way she suggested.

  I mean, ever since I’d finished my first Judy Blume book, I knew I wanted to be an author, a published author. And now that I was being given the chance, I knew I had to take it. And even though I still thought Martina was a nut bag, and totally disagreed with her inane ideas, it all came down to one thing—my desire to be published overrode just about everything else. And pretending as though journaling and writing for myself was enough was completely delusional. Besides, everything else I’d tried had failed. So it’s not like I had much of a choice.

  I was tapping the end of my pen against my pad of paper when someone tapped me on the shoulder. And when I looked up I saw Lisette.

  “Oh, hey,” I said, removing my earpiece. “What are you doing on an Athens flight?”

  “I wanted to fly something different.” She shrugged.

  “So how’s it going?” I asked, thinking this was the most we’d talked since the day I took the apartment.

  “Okay.” She glanced briefly at the woman sitting next to me, then whispered, “Sorry about the way things turned out.”

  Bu! I just shrugged. Because while it really was
n’t okay, the truth was, I’d gotten over it a while ago.

  “Did you find a new place? Because I’m looking for a roommate.” She smiled awkwardly.

  “What happened to Dan?” I asked, wondering which one had tired of the red-hot ass spankings first. But she just rolled her eyes and shook her head. And while I did need a place to crash, it certainly wouldn’t be with her. Because now that I was starting fresh, I was determined that all of my mistakes be new ones. “Well, I’m actually set right now,” I told her. “But I’ll let you know if I hear of anyone.”

  And as she started to walk away, she said, “Oh hey, do you want this? I was gonna throw it out, since it’s from two days ago, but you probably haven’t seen it.”

  She handed me the New York Post, and I shoved it in my carry-on. Then I focused on my legal pad and got back to work.

  It wasn’t until I was on the subway heading back into the city and fighting to stay awake that I remembered the paper Lisette had given me. I retrieved it from my bag, and glancing briefly at the cover, I decided to continue my news strike for just one more day. I headed straight for Page Six (which in this particular edition was actually on page eleven), searching for the “just Asking” section, which was like a jumble for velvet ropers.

  “Which seemingly straight Slavic supermodel slinks out after sunset to swap saliva with her same-sex sweetie?”

  “Which handsome hotelier is hooking up with a hot hot hot Helsinki hellion?”

  “Which massive married movie mogul is making moves on his male manicurist and masseur?”

  And even though I didn’t know the answers to any of these clues, that didn’t stop me from guessing. Then, after reading about the latest on Britney Spears’ marriage woes and Madonna’s latest children’s hook, I glanced at the bottom, where in the lower right-hand corner was a picture of Cadence.

  Novelists were not the usual Page Six fodder, unless they were involved in a major real estate transaction, had engaged in something sexy or scandalous (or both), had a drug and/or drinking problem, had written a tell-all about the fashion industry, or in what was probably Cadence’s case had so much freakin’ beauty and talent that people just wanted to take their picture. So in an act of complete and total masochism, I held the paper close to my face and stared at the photo, soaking in every last detail.

  Cadence was wearing a slinky white dress, and gold stilettos that made her legs look even longer than they already were. Her long shiny hair was held in a sleek, low ponytail, and her tan, sinewy arm was wrapped snugly around the waist of a familiar short-haired blonde dressed in low-cut jeans, a tiny white tank, and silver stilettos. And they were both looking directly into the camera, smiling radiantly.

  I stared at the two of them, guessing at what they could possibly be engaged in.

  Just another night of fun and frolic, and celebrating their fabulousness?

  On their way to a Beautiful Members of Mensa photo shoot?

  Or had Cadence simply run out to buy the fixin’s for her dinner with Dane when she ran into an old friend?

  Shaking my head at my pathetic envy, which apparently knew no bounds, I decided to just read the caption and get it over with.

  LITERARY SENSATION CADENCE TAVARES AND HER LONGTIME

  GAL PAL, EVIE KEYS, ARRIVING AT THE OPENING OF-

  Wait—gal fall I stared at the picture again, my heart beating faster as I studied the photo with newly informed eyes. Okay, this was the New York Post, not the Podunk Periodical, and the only time you ever read the word “gal” in this rag was when it was followed by the word “pal.” And since everyone knows that “gal pal” is code for “sapphic sister,” “same-sex sweetie,” or the more blatant “lesbian lover,” there was no mistaking what this meant.

  Oh. My. God. She’s gay!

  It wasn’t until the guy sitting next to me peered over my shoulder, looked at my paper, and said, “Who’s gay?” that I realized I’d said it out loud.

  “Um, no one,” I said, quickly folding it up and shoving it back in my bag.

  “Hailer? Are you better now?”

  Oh great. I was in the JFK flight attendant lounge, with just moments to spare before I had to go brief, when Lawrence decided to pay me a visit. I didn’t need to look up to know it was him; I’d recognize that smarmy voice anywhere. I glanced up from my keyboard and concentrated on keeping my face calm, still, and expressionless while waiting for him to continue.

  “I’ve yet to receive your doctor’s note,” he said, one hand placed firmly on his hip while the other fondled his Drakkar Noir—drenched neck.

  “That’s because I don’t have a doctor’s note,” I told him, focusing back on my computer screen, looking for a good trip to pick up.

  “I need a doctor’s note,” he insisted.

  “Larry,” I said, knowing how much he hated to be called that. “Cut me some slack, will ya? That was my first sick call in over a year.”

  “And if you read your memos you’d know that we’ve recently remodeled the sick-leave policy. You must now provide a doctor’s note for every sick call, making sure it includes the three Ds—doctor’s name, diagnosis, and dates of illness. Yours is way overdue, and I need it on my desk by the end of the week.”

  “Fine,” I mumbled, refusing to look at him, though his pervasive cologne assured me he was still there.

  “And make sure you sign up for ‘Aware,’ as bids are due by the end of the week. And if you have any questions, please, don’t hesitate to ask.” This last part he said in a loud, upbeat, “we’re all just friends here,” singsongy voice that told me the base manager was somewhere in the vicinity.

  “Hey, I have a question for you,” I said, turning to face him. “Why are we spending all this money flying all these employees to all these bases—springing for food, hotel rooms, and instructors—when you’re furloughing flight attendants, cutting the pilots’ pay, no longer reimbursing us for that measly dollar we tip the hotel van drivers, and according to both the The Wall Street Journal and your daily memos, we’re supposedly on the verge of bankruptcy?”

  I watched his jaw clench and his face turn red as he glanced briefly at Shannon, our base manager, and then back at me. “Well, Hailey, as you know, customer service is the primary, cornerstone component of this industry,” he said in his “Academy Award winner acceptance speech” voice.

  I crossed my legs and nodded.

  “And with the impending companywide operational transformation Atlas has implemented due to the current climate of unprecedented industry struggle, we feel it imperative to immediately address the alarming decline in morale and overall lack of commitment that is currently being displayed amongst the flight attendant group.” He paused, sneaking another peek at Shannon, who as far as I could tell hadn’t heard a single word of this. “So in response to your feedback, we’ve formed an advisory committee, who paired with a review board, who then met with an outside consultant, who instituted a program that we believe will efficiently provide for a positive impact on employee production, resulting in a renewed dedication to the return of profitability of Atlas Airlines.” He smiled triumphantly.

  I waited for a moment, to see if he had anything to add to that, but apparently that was all he’d memorized. “Okay,” I said, nodding and getting back to my computer.

  I mean, I knew I’d have to attend “Aware”; I really didn’t have a choice, as Atlas loved nothing more than their annual flight attendant roundup, where we’d sacrifice an off day to attend a seminar that would explain the “new direction” the company was taking, and what we must do to “prepare.”

  During the last six years, I’d already survived “Backstage Pass,” where fashion-challenged supervisors tried to convince us that Atlas Airlines was the hottest, most exclusive ticket in town, while subliminal techno music pulsed in the background; “The Encounter,” where we lounged in crazy round chairs that required assistance to get in and out of, drank company Kool-Aid out of a plastic volcano cup, and watched a film on corpo
rate branding that left us with an identity crisis so severe we were no longer sure if we worked for Atlas, Target, Nike, or Starbucks; “Verbal Judo,” where we learned how to be sympathetic but firm oral warriors; “SASSY,” where we discovered that the new Atlas message was Safe Affordable Stylish Savvy and all about You (but that’s You the customer, not You the flight attendant); and “Atlaspalooza,” which is still too embarrassing to talk about.

  Atlas had tried to reinvent itself so many times, I felt like I was working for Madonna.

  So later that evening, when I returned to the penthouse, I picked up the phone, called Kat, and asked her to get one of Yanni’s doctor friends to write me a note, including a detailed explanation of my inability to work due to illness, and making sure every single word was in Greek. I mean, it’s not like Lawrence ever specified what language it had to be in.

  Ever since my return from Mykonos, I’d been so busy with flying and writing that nearly two weeks had passed before I actually found time to see Clay.

  “Hey,” I said, rushing up the stairs in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “Am I late?”

  “Not at all.” He leaned in to hug me. “I got here early. It’s such a beautiful day I just wanted to be outside. Wanna take a walk?” He smiled hopefully.

  “No, let’s go inside while we can still get in free,” I said, fearing the loss oi yet another Atlas perk—free membership to the Met.

  He looked at me, eyebrows merged together, and [ knew he was thinking of the best way to negotiate this. “Okay, one exhibit, a quick spin around the gift shop, and then Belvedere Castle,” he offered.

  “Two exhibits, ixnay on the gift shop, and then you buy me a pretzel in the park,” I said, waiting as he weighed his options.