Fat Girl On A Plane. Kelly deVos

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СКАЧАТЬ when I stick in my card.

      Still, I make magic when I make clothes. If I can get Miller and LaChapelle to see that, then it won’t matter that my grandma’s rainy-day fund is barely enough to cover the application fee to the school. They’ll make sure I get a scholarship and, come next year, I’ll be packing for Parsons.

      You have to make this work. In my head, I repeat this mantra over and over.

      But what happens if I can’t get on the plane? I can’t afford a hotel. My luggage is already checked. It’s going to JFK with or without me.

      The whole thing is all my fault, I know that’s what everyone is thinking. Saying behind my back. If I would just stop stuffing my face with candy bars and fettuccine Alfredo, everything would be perfect.

      I have to do it. I have to call Tommy. He’s been mowing lawns since the fifth grade and stashing the money in a savings account. He’s my best friend, and I’m pretty sure there’s something in the Friendship Rule Book that says he has to come through in times like these.

      “I didn’t know who else to call,” I say into my cell phone. They’re reading unfamiliar names over the intercom system. The waiting area is filling up, and the pilot passes me on his way to the plane.

      “It’s okay,” Tommy says. It’s noisy on his end too. He’s busy being nerdy at a FIRST Lego League competition.

      “The flight attendant said I’ll probably be able to get a refund. If not, I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

      “Cookie. It’s okay.” He doesn’t even ask why I need the ticket or seem to care when I’ll pay him back. He’s that nice.

      “I’m really sorry, Tommy.”

      “Don’t worry about it.”

      I luck out, I guess, and there’s a cancellation. The gray-haired woman types in the number of the credit card that Tommy’s dad gave him for emergencies. She gives me another boarding pass and a large red sign that reads THIS SEAT RESERVED in bold, black letters. That’s when the fun begins.

      When I say she helps me board the flight, believe me, I mean it. She opens up the door to the ramp even before preboarding begins. She takes me and another man right onto the plane. He’s probably eighty. He’s got a jumbo oxygen tank connected to his nose. It’s on wheels, and the flight attendant pulls it behind her as we walk.

      She helps him into an aisle seat in the first row. “You can sit anywhere you like,” she calls out to me. Since AirWest is one of the few airlines where you can still choose your own seat, I make my way to the middle of the plane. “Just place the reserved sign on the seat next to you.” She finishes with the ancient man and brings me a seat-belt extender.

      “You know, you look very familiar. Miss Vonn, is it?” she asks.

      “I get that a lot,” I say. “I guess all fat people look alike.”

      She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. Like she’s just finished being extraordinarily kind and I’m a jackass for not appreciating it.

      “Enjoy your flight.” This is her last burst of insincerity before she leaves.

      For, like, twenty minutes, it’s me and the geezer, alone on the plane. He keeps turning his head around, as much as he can, maybe trying to figure out why I’m there.

      The plane fills up. Everyone that passes stops to read the red sign. I make up a few stories in case anyone asks.

      A woman with a slobbery toddler does, in fact, point to the sign. “That’s reserved?” she asks. I see she has several other kids in tow and the remaining seats are spread out.

      “I’m traveling with the Federal Air Marshall,” I say.

      Her mouth drops open, but she keeps on walking.

      I start to organize myself. Make sure my magazines are within easy reach. A couple more people filter by as I’m untangling my headphone cord.

      A girl in a Marc Jacobs striped maxi dress, reeking of Kenzo Flower perfume that barely masks the cigarette stink, approaches my aisle. From her dangly earrings to her cheek bronzer, there’s something so impersonal about her look. Like someone else dressed her. Maybe she went to net-a-porter.com and clicked the “shop the issue” link. This is what happens when you have more money than style.

      The girl eyes me with disdain, like she’d rather sit next to a monkey wearing a diaper than a fat person. I expect her to move on. Instead she reaches for the RESERVED sign.

      I put my hand on it, making sure the sign stays put. “That seat is reserved.”

      “Yeah, for me, I guess,” she says. As she taps her foot impatiently, her head wobbles oddly on her neck, making it look like her chin-length bob is some kind of weird wig. “This is the only seat left on the plane.”

      The way she says it—Like, duh, stupid, do you think I’d be sitting by you if I didn’t have to?

      “It’s mine,” I growl. “They made me buy it.”

      “It’s. The. Only. Seat. Left.” She jerks her head from side to side as she spits out the words. People are turning around. A flight attendant is making her way up the aisle.

      “What’s the problem, girls?” the flight attendant asks.

      “I need to sit here. Obviously,” Miss Money Bags says, smoothing down her thick black hair.

      “This is my seat,” I say. “They made me buy it.”

      The flight attendant glances around. “It’s the only seat left on the plane.”

      “They told me at the gate that I’m too fat to fit into one seat and they made me buy a second ticket,” I say. I can’t get hysterical.

      “But you can fit into one seat,” the flight attendant says.

      “Mostly,” the girl adds.

      “That’s what I told them. But they made me buy another seat anyway.” I want to cry but I don’t; I can’t. You cry, and people know they’ve got you. I’ve had years of practicing waiting until I’m alone. In the shower or in bed late at night.

      “Well, if this young lady here sits next to you, you’ll automatically qualify for a refund. I’ll make sure your credit gets issued as soon as we land at JFK.” She smiles kindly at me. “It’s win-win for everybody.”

      “I don’t want a refund,” I tell the woman in a dull, low voice. Everything is quiet on the plane. No one else is talking. “I’ve been humiliated at the airport. Had to wait on standby. Had to call my best friend and beg for money. Gotten escorted onto the plane with a man so old he could be my grandma’s grandpa. I had to carry this—” I shake the red sign “—like it’s my Scarlet. Fucking. Letter.”

      Pointing at the seat next to me, I keep going. “I don’t care about refunds or win-wins. Or if this plane crashes into the fucking ocean. I want this goddamn seat.”

      The flight attendant drops all pretense of friendliness. “We make the call on whether or СКАЧАТЬ