As Far as the Stars. Virginia Macgregor

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СКАЧАТЬ He clears his throat. ‘The plane’s missing.’

Chapter Four

      15.23 EST

      It’s been two hours since the UKFlyer official told us that the plane is missing. The plane with 267 crew and passengers on it. And Blake. Possibly. Or possibly not. I’m not sure what’s worse: knowing for sure that the person you’re waiting for is on a plane that’s vanished into thin air or not knowing whether the person you’re waiting for even got on the plane. I guess I do know. I guess that being on a missing plane is worse. But still, you get my point: this whole situation sucks.

      I text Blake for like the millionth time – on both the numbers, the one from the other night when he asked me to book the flight and the other one where he told me that he was heading to Dulles. And I get that it’s stupid because he’s probably nowhere near either of those phones right now, but I don’t know what else to do.

       Where are you?

      I wait a beat.

      Still no answer.

      So, I text his actual cell in the hope that he found it:

       Hi Blake, please tell me where you are – got to get to the wedding.

      I shove my phone into the back pocket of my shorts and look around at the people who’ve been waiting with me for more news. They’ve gone quiet, like they’re scared to say anything out loud.

      How can a plane just disappear? It’s not like Mom’s car keys or Dad’s hairline. We’re talking about thousands of tons of aluminium with hundreds of people on it. And it’s not like it’s an obscure route – planes from Heathrow land in DC all the time: it’s a clean, well-worn journey over the Atlantic. And they’d have been in contact with air traffic control the whole way, wouldn’t they?

      Ground crew from the airline hand out water bottles and meal vouchers, like we’re the victims of some kind of natural disaster. Then they let us go back to the arrivals lounge where the cafes and restaurants are.

      Whenever someone from UKFlyer talks to us, they say the same thing:

       We’re on the case.

       We’ll keep you updated on any developments.

       Try not to worry.

      So, we wait.

      And wait.

      And wait some more.

      Which is driving me totally crazy. Because waiting is the one thing I can’t afford to do right now.

      Blake’s going to be fine. He’s always fine. Being fine is in his DNA. Born under a lucky star and all that. What’s not going to be fine is him ruining our sister’s wedding.

      The arrivals terminal has got even busier. A few people managed to get chairs. Most of us are standing or sitting on the floor.

      I notice the toddler who was screaming earlier, sprawled on his dad’s lap, asleep.

      And I notice the quiet, tangle-haired guy. He’s making another paper model from a sheet of newspaper, some kind of small bird, its wings spread wide. It’s totally amazing how quickly he makes those models. And how they go from being this big piece of paper to a tiny representation of something, like he’s creating a miniature world.

      He brings the newspaper bird over to the woman with the baby, who’s been crying for what feels like the last hour. She’s taken him out of his sling and is bouncing him on her knee to calm him down. It takes her a few seconds to notice the guy standing there, with his paper bird.

      He holds it out to her. She looks up at him.

      ‘For your baby,’ I hear him say.

      The mom takes the bird from him, places it in her open palm and stares at it, as though she’s waiting for it to flap its wings and take off. When the baby notices the bird, he stops crying and starts swiping at it with his chubby fingers.

      ‘Thank you,’ the mom says.

      The guy gives her this nod, accompanied by a little bow, and then goes back to sitting on the floor and takes another piece of scrap paper out of his backpack.

      And then a new wave of people pours through the arrivals gate.

      That’s the worst thing about all this: the fact that other planes are landing all the time. Planes full of people – including planes from Heathrow.

      I keep scanning the passengers coming through, hoping to see Blake’s crazy black hair sticking up over everyone’s heads. I’m totally ready to storm up to him and make a scene, to lay into him for, well, being Blake: late, disorganised, unaware of anything else that’s going on in the world besides himself – and infuriatingly loveable with it so that just as I’m yelling at him I’ll want to hug him too. Because I’ve missed him this summer. I miss him whenever he’s away.

      I get my phone out to text him again but then realise how stupid it is when I don’t even know what number to call, so I put it away.

      Blake probably lost his cell on purpose. He gave up his smart phone a few years ago, claiming that it interfered with his creativity. The one he’s got now only texts and calls and rarely has much connectivity. Mom makes him have it for safety reasons – and so we can stay in touch with each other as a family. But if he had a choice, he’d toss it in the trash.

      We get weird looks from the people who come to collect the passengers from the other planes: they’re wondering why we’re all hanging out here in the arrivals lounge. But then they find whoever it is they came for and walk off and we get left behind again.

      I sit with my back against the wall.

      My phone buzzes. I grab it out of my pocket thinking that, at last, Blake’s getting in touch.

      But it’s a message from Mom.

       Has Blake landed? Tried to call him, no answer.

      I get that stomach-acid taste at the back of my throat again.

      I texted her when I left DC – the first time. Before I got halfway to Nashville and had to turn around again because my brother messed up his travel plans. Which I haven’t told her about. What Mom thinks is happening is that I’m standing in Nashville International Airport waiting to pick Blake up and that we’re going to drive to the hotel together and that we’ll be showing up anytime now.

       Not yet

      I text back.

       What’s going on?

      She texts back, almost as soon as I’ve sent my message.

       Plane’s late

      I write back.

      And then my СКАЧАТЬ