Fly Me to the Moon (34 page)

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

“Great! Really, really busy though, flying, writing . . .” I met his eyes reluctantly, knowing I wasn’t at all convincing.

But he just nodded. “Where you headed?”

“Mark’s. My best friend and his partner are moving to L.A., so we’re meeting for a last supper.”

“We’re headed that way too. Mind if we tag along?”

I glanced down at Jake, who was gazing up at me with those irresistible big brown eyes, and then I looked at Dane and shrugged.

And as we headed across the street, weaving our way through traffic, we pretended not to notice when our hands awkwardly bumped together. “So how was Greece?” he asked as I sank my hands deep into my pockets, keeping them safe from any further accidental contact.

“I stayed a little longer than planned,” I admitted.

“I hear Atlas is going to furlough. Will that affect you?” He looked at me with concern.

“Well, they sent me a warning letter. But it really depends on how many people take the leaves they’re offering.”

“Are you taking one?”

“I wish,” I said, shaking my head. “My friend Clay, the one who’s moving, hes taking one. But unfortunately, I don’t have anything else lined up yet. I guess I’ll just stick around and see what happens.”

“And the book?” he asked, gazing at me.

“Five rejections, and one pending.” I shrugged, not wanting to tell him I’d decided to revise my work as per the suggestions of a reality-challenged editor. “Well this is me,” I said, peering in the restaurant window, searching for Clay and Peter and hoping they wouldn’t see me talking to Dane, since I’d never hear the end of it.

“Well, good seeing you.” He smiled.

“Yeah, you too,” I said, bending down to pet Jake.

“Call me if you want to hang out sometime,” Dane called as I went inside.

But I just smiled and waved, knowing I’d be moving to a new neighborhood soon. Then I’d never have to run into him again.

After accepting Clay and Peter’s offer, I coaxed Jonathan Franzen into a plastic bag, packed my belongings, and headed for Chelsea. And even though Jonathan would no longer get to enjoy a room of his own, I made sure to position his tank near a window so he could appreciate the view of the fire escape, and the dirty brick building next door.

With the deadline for the Atlas leave program long gone, and still no word from the sixth publisher, my dreams of following Clay and receiving low-priority stand-by travel for the next five years were sadly not to be. So all I could do was just sit back and wait while Atlas tabulated the takers, so they’d know just how many heads to chop.

The second I finished the rewrite for Chance Publishing, I dropped it in an envelope and sent it to Martina, adding “Requested Material” in big, bold letters along the front, so that who-ever handled the package would know that someone actually wanted to see it, and that it wasn’t just another wannabe destined for the circular file. And now that it was out there, making its waythrough
the system, I tried to stay focused on how awesome it would feel to finally be a published author, while ignoring the voice in my head that was calling me a sellout and accusing me of writing a book I’d never want to read.

I still spoke to Clay nearly every day, and I could hardly wait till he and Peter were settled so I could go visit. I’d even considered swapping my Atlanta “Aware” seminar for the one in L.A. so I could see his face when I mocked the supervisors, reenacted the skits, and relayed just how stupid it all really was.

And even though I spent nearly all of my time either flying or working on my second book, in the moments when I found myself alone with nothing to do, I couldn’t help but feel incredibly lonely.

I’d just returned from a Brussels layover and had swung by the flight attendant lounge to check my mailbox before catching the bus, when Jennifer, whom I hadn’t seen since Puerto Rico, rushed toward me and said, “The numbers are out.”

I stared at her, taking in her red and watery eyes.

“The cutoff was just below you. You’re safe.”

“And you?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

“I’m junior to you. So it looks like I’m outta here,” she said, sniffing and looking away.

“I’m sorry.” I felt awful for her, and more than a little guilty that I’d been spared. “What’re you gonna do?”

“I guess I’m going home.” she shrugged

“To
Alabam?”
I asked, unable to hide my surprise. I mean Alabama might have been home, but Jennifer was East Village through and through. During the last six years she’d even managed to lose her accent, and I just couldn’t imagine her living any-where else.

“Both my roommates got axed, so they’re leaving too. I have nowhere else to go.” She tried to smile, but it was too much of a stretch.

“You can stay with me,” 1 offered. “I have plenty of room.”

” “Thanks, but I already called my parents. Besides, I want to buy a house someday, with a real yard instead of a fire escape. And I’ll never be able to do that here.” She shrugged.

I just nodded, knowing it was true.

“Well, good luck,” she said, leaning in to hug me. “Call me if you get a Mobile layover.”

I watched as she grabbed her bags and left; then I sat at a vacant computer, logged into my e-mail, and clicked on the one regarding “Atlas Transformation Furlough Notice,” scanning the document and feeling a twinge when I saw the cutoff was just two below me.

Which meant I was now the third most junior person in the en-tire Atlas system.

I just sat there staring at the screen, not quite sure how I felt about that. Because even though I’d managed to keep my job, the job as I once knew it was over.

In my new life as number three from the bottom, I’d no longer choose when and where I flew, as now the good people in scheduling would be deciding that for me. I’d be required to keep my cell phone turned on, fully charged, and by my side at all times during my “on-call” periods, which could last as long as a week and encompass an entire twenty-four-hour period, I’d be forbidden to consume any alcohol, or stray too far from home, and my bags must always be packed, and my uniform pressed and ready, in the event I was needed to fly anywhere in the world, at any given time, on a moment’s notice.

In briefing, I’d be the last to sign up for duties, which meant I’d be assigned to all of the tasks no one else wanted. And the crews would treat me as though I was new, even though I had six solid years stashed firmly under my apron.

With the drop of a snowflake, or a hint of rain in the southeast, my cherished and few “off” days would transform into “on” days. And I could definitely plan on spending Christmas, New Years, and
all other holidays anywhere within the Atlas system—except home.

I would be a Ready Reserve. Which in the Atlas caste system made me an untouchable.

And since I’d barely survived this dreadful existence during my first year and a half of flying, I had no illusions about what I was in for.

So once again, my life was regressing. But this time, with the way things were going at Atlas, it held little promise of moving forward.

I logged off, grabbed my bags, and headed for the bus stop, knowing I should be grateful for keeping my job, even though I was pretty sure I no longer wanted it.

The first time I was charged with a Failure to Be Accessible I’d just returned from a seven teen-hour duty day, and was so exhausted I forgot to call scheduling and ask permission to go home. And for my punishment, I was banned from flying until I’d contacted Lawrence, apologized profusely, and followed up with a signed letter detailing exactly why and how the unfortunate event had occurred, including a point-by-point outline of how I’d ensure that I never, ever “jeopardized the integrity of the Atlas operation” again.

The second time took place when I failed to notice I had limited cell phone reception on the third floor in Bloomingdale’s.

“Hailey Lane, please.”

I shifted my two Medium Brown shopping bags to my other arm and squeezed my phone between my ear and shoulder. “Speaking,” I said, wondering who I could possibly know with such an insincere, affected voice.

“This is Lawrence Peters.”

But of course,
I thought, pushing through the revolving glass door and making my way to the corner of Sixtieth and Lex.

“Hailey? Is this you?” he asked, sounding a little irritated.

I considered snapping it shut and pretending we got cut off
but I knew he’d only hunt me down eventually. “Yeah, it’s me,” I sighed, pausing to gawk at a table full of knockoffs.

“I need you to come to my office immediately.”

I rolled my eyes and picked up a faux JP Tod’s purse. “I’m busy,” I said, running my hands over the smooth, slick vinyl.

“Yes, I can see that. Apparently you’ve been too busy to answer your phone. Because for your information you’ve just received your second Failure to Be Accessible,
which, I might add,
requires a face-to-face meeting with
me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, shaking my head and moving on to the fake Burberry scarves section. “I only have one FTA,
which, I might add,
I’ve already apologized for.” I dropped the scarf and smiled at the dead-on voice impersonation I’d just delivered.

“Scheduling tried to reach you approximately two hours and ten minutes ago. You were to fly a Cincinnati turn. But even though you’re on call, you failed to answer your phone.”

“That’s totally ridiculous. I’ve had my phone with me the entire day, and it hasn’t once—” I held the phone away from my ear and looked at it.
Oh crap!
There was an envelope on the display, and the red light was flashing! Had scheduling really tried to call me? And how had I missed hearing it ring? “Um, I’m not sure how this happened,” I said, breaking into a cold, clammy sweat, and attempting a verbal backtrack. “I’ve had it on this whole time, I swear. I mean, is it too late? Because I can still get to JFK—”

“You’ve already been replaced,” he said, back to his usual, smug self. “I expect to see you in my office tomorrow afternoon, one o’clock sharp.”

“But that’s my only day off! Can’t we do this before my next trip?” I pleaded. The last thing I wanted was to go to the airport and see him.

“If you care about saving your job you’ll be in my office tomorrow at one, where I’ll move you from Verbal Warning to Written Warning.

I stood on the corner of Lex and Sixty-first, fuming.
“If I care about saving my job?” Who the hell is he to threaten me like that? And what if I’ve just now decided that I
don’t
actually care about my job? What then? I mean, obviously I’m just days away from getting the call from Martina that will change my entire life. So why am I still putting up with this crap?

“So what comes after Written Warning?” I asked, adding a little chuckle to the end of that, so he’d know just how seriously I
wasn’t
taking his threats.

“The next step is
Final Warning,
followed by
Termination.
And trust me Hailey, you don’t want to go there.”

“Hmmm,” I mumbled, crossing the street against the light. I was living dangerously now.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, in my office, one o’clock. Or I’m afraid I’ll be forced to take drastic measures,” he said, with barely concealed rage.

“I’ll pencil you in,” 1 said, rolling my eyes and snapping my phone shut.

When the landing gear is
inoperative, the aircraft will
slide across the runway until
coming to an eventual stop.
You should then evacuate
using any available exit.

Dressed in the brand-new sweater and jeans that had gotten me into this mess in the first place, I headed out the door and over to Fifth Avenue, so that I could feed the kitties, collect the mail, and straighten up a little before Kat and Yanni’s visit next weekend.

I found the cats in the library, sleeping side by side on the velvet settee, and I settled alongside them, petting their soft, white fur while I sorted through a pile of mail that seemed to be mostlyjunk, until somewhere in the middle I came across a plain white envelope with the words Chance Publishing embossed on the front.

I just sat there, holding it in my hands and thinking how light and insignificant it felt considering how the contents were about to change my entire life. Then, hooking my finger under the flap, I tore it gently along the top, knowing I’d want to keep this for many years to come.

Then I took a deep breath, unfolded the single sheet of paper, smoothed it across my lap, and read:

Dear Ms. Lane:

 

While I appreciate the opportunity to read your revised manuscript, I’m afraid that the plot, with its lack of conflict and struggle, makes for an insubstantial read and just doesn’t work for us.

Though I wish you the best of luck in finding it a good publishing home.

Sincerely,

Martina Rasmussen