In the Bag (26 page)
Solange,
You’re a dream to let us stay here.
Lots to talk about when you come to Chicago.
xxoo Daisy and Coco
I was surprised to find the taxi still waiting outside. Of course the driver couldn’t be bothered to load our luggage for us. But at least he waited while Coco and I crammed our bags in the dirty trunk and then settled ourselves in the backseat of the cab.
By the time Coco and I were finally sitting on the plane to Chicago, I was too exhausted to be bothered by the sight of Andrew and Webb boarding. I simply smiled at Webb and ignored his asshole of a father.
Chuck That
.
The plane was full and noisy. Flight attendants prodded lagging passengers to hurry along.
“The plane cannot depart until everyone is seated,” a flight attendant said. She was a tired-looking woman, probably my age, who looked inordinately sick of life. Or maybe she was just sick of her job. Sick of people. Sick of travel. Even the scarf around her neck drooped a bit.
As soon as everyone was seated, the pilot made an announcement from the cockpit.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,” he reported. “Our departure time has been pushed back. We have been ordered to comply with this nonmechanical delay.”
I couldn’t help groaning.
“Can I get you something while we’re waiting?” the tired-looking flight attendant asked dully. “Coffee, juice, water—”
“I’ll take a couple of those little bottles of cabernet, please,” I said. Then, trying to be considerate I added, “In fact, bring me three and I won’t ask for another thing until we land.”
She handed me a depressing fistful of miniature bottles without making eye contact. I turned to see what Coco wanted to drink, but her eyes were closed. She’d been quiet all morning. Nothing new there. I chalked it up to her general moodiness. Then it hit me:
This was her prom night.
Poor kid. Why couldn’t I cut her some slack? She and her friends had been e-mailing all week about the drama surrounding prom. (Did Coco really think I didn’t know where she was going on those alleged trips to the patisserie?) And yet Coco refused to admit that any of this bothered her. Maybe it didn’t. I hoped it didn’t.
Then again, wouldn’t it have been fun for her to get dressed up and go on a date—a
real
date—with a nice kid like Webb? I loved the sweet and awkward way he’d approached my table at breakfast. I applauded his respect for my privacy, even though I tried to make it clear with my body language that he wouldn’t be bothering me if he wanted to eat his croissants at my table. (“Look,” I tried to say with my eyes. “I’m just reading the paper. I won’t bite!”) He was a sweet boy. It wasn’t his fault that his dad was an ass.
The pilot was making another announcement. “We have been told to expect an indefinite delay. Please remain seated. Passengers are not allowed to move from their ticketed seats. However, cellular phones may be used while we are detained.”
I remembered Solange’s cell phone. I reached under the seat in front of me and pulled the phone from my bag. When I turned it on, a closed envelope icon indicated I had a message. I clicked on the icon.
Fr: Solange@com
To: DaisyS@com
Subject: Fine
Daisy: I am fine. Will call soon. Andrew = perfect for you.
I fumbled around with the phone until I found the reply button.
Fr: DaisyS@com
To: Solange@com
Subject: Re: Fine
No, he’s not perfect for me. But it’s OK. Fine, in fact.
Everything’s just fine.
I stared at the last line.
Just fine.
My tired brain twisted it into a headline: “Daisy Sprinkle’s Just Fine. But Thanks for Asking.”
What a load of shit, as Coco would say. And she would be right.
I could feel my eyes burning. I wished the damn plane would take off already so I could get away from this stupid continent.
I started to put the phone back in my purse, but then saw, once again, that ridiculous note from Mr. 13C.
I reread it. And then with hot tears in my eyes, I responded to Lineman@com.
It was, perhaps, the truest thing I’d ever written.
O
h, God.
Eight cops carrying automatic weapons were boarding the plane.
I turned to Dad. “What the hell?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
For several minutes we had no clue what was going on, other than the fact that we were in the middle of something serious. Finally, there was an announcement.
“This is your captain speaking. We have received an order that this aircraft will be detained while security measures are enforced.”
I looked at Dad. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” He was a terrible liar.
One of the cops began giving directions in French, English, and then Spanish.
“All cell phones and mobile communications devices must now be turned off while we conduct our investigation,” the cop said, walking to the back of the plane. “Please have no worries about the dogs. They know what they are doing.”
Two hyperactive search dogs were released at the front of the plane. They made their way toward the back, sniffing every row.
“What are they looking for?” I whispered to Dad.
“Drugs, I guess,” he said.
But this looked more serious than a simple drug bust. “Should we get off?” I asked, panicking. “Let’s just fly home tomorrow.”
“They won’t let us off now,” Dad said. “Relax. It’s probably nothing serious.”
The dogs were at our row, sniffing like crazed anteaters.
“All cell phones, BlackBerrys, iPhones, and pagers must be turned off,” the cop said.
I looked at Dad and then at his BlackBerry.
He nodded. “It’s off.”
A second team of dogs had started working the other side of the plane.
“Whatever they’re looking for, I don’t think they’re finding it,” I said.
The plane was buzzing with excitement. Even the flight attendants looked rattled. I heard a note of anxiety in the pilot’s voice when he made the next announcement.
“This is your captain speaking. The police have informed me that there have been numerous terrorist incidents across Europe today.”
Screams and gasps of disbelief made the next part hard to hear.
“Shhhh,” a flight attendant said, holding a finger to her mouth. “Be calm. Listen!”
“Residue from an explosive material has been detected in a piece of luggage that was checked for this flight,” the captain continued. “The bag was not marked, so the police will need to question passengers on this flight.”
O
h, shit.
The cops were everywhere.
“Attention,” the main cop said in a French accent. He was trying to be a hard-ass, but he was using a dinky microphone to amplify his voice. My old karaoke machine had better sound than his contraption.
“Should I be scared?” I asked Mom.
“No,” she said. “They’ll find whatever it is they’re looking for, and that will be that.”
The hard-ass cop was fumbling with his Mister Microphone. “We can protect the passengers on this aircraft only if we have complete cooperation. Please, be calm so we can investigate this matter without injury.”
A younger cop came on board. He was wearing gloves and carrying a gray plastic bin with a piece of luggage in it.
A black L.L.Bean duffel bag.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.
Officer Hard-Ass pointed at the bag. “Who does this bag belong to?” he demanded. “Come forward if this is your bag.”
No one moved, including me. I felt paralyzed in my seat.
“Whose bag is this?” Hard-Ass continued in a louder voice. He motioned for the younger cop to unzip the bag. Then, with gloves on, Officer Hard-Ass reached inside. The first thing he pulled out? My freakin’ pink foam-padded bra.
“This . . .
item . . .
belongs to a woman, perhaps?” Hard-Ass asked, waving my stupid bra over his head for all the world to see. “Or possibly a man.”
Mom looked at me in disbelief. “Coco, is that
your
—”
And in that instant, I completely fell apart. “Mom,” I cried. “
Do
something. Please. I’ll
never
get into the undergraduate honors program now.”
I was sobbing. My tears made everything look shiny and bubble shaped. Mom stood up and raised her hand.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Hello! That bra you’re holding belongs to my daughter. That’s her bag. I thought it was properly identified.” Mom turned to me. “Didn’t you have your name on your bag?”
“It’s in the side pocket,” I said.
“Oh, right,” Mom said. She cleared her throat and spoke directly to Officer Hard-Ass. “In any case, I can assure you that—”
Hard-Ass snapped his fingers at his underlings and then pointed at Mom and me.
“Detain them,” he ordered. “They are perhaps terrorists.”
“
Terrorists?
” Mom said.
“Actually,” I said. But then I stopped because Mom was glaring at me. “Er, not
actually,
but just . . . What I’m trying to say is, there’s been a huge mistake.”
“No mistake,” Officer Hard-Ass said. “We have found bomb residue inside your bag. Come with us now peacefully, or we will detain you with force.”
“Wait!”
It was Webb. He was running from the back of the plane.
“
Arrêtez!
” yelled Officer Hard-Ass. “
Arrêtez!
”
“Webb, he’s telling you to
stop,
” I called.
But Webb kept running. Hard-Ass grabbed his gun.
“Webb, stop!” I yelled.
“But I can explain everything,” he said. “Please!”
“What is it you want to explain?” Officer Hard-Ass demanded.
Webb took a deep breath and then started talking really fast. “I put some sparklers in Coco’s bag. Look in the very bottom.”
Officer Hard-Ass grabbed my bag from the young cop and began pawing through it. Sure enough, seconds later he pulled out five sparklers.
“I bought them on the street in Madrid,” Webb said. “I thought it’d be fun to light one the first time we kissed in Paris.”
“Kissed?” Mom said. “
Paris?
” She turned to Officer Hard-Ass. “He means Barcelona. We had dinner together last night in Barcelona and—”
Webb was still talking. “And if we did something else, well, I thought it’d be cool to light a sparkler then, too.”
“Something
else
?” I asked, sniffling. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Webb said quietly. “We never got around to something else because you thought I was an idiot.”
“
I
was the idiot,” I whispered. “I was a complete freakazoid. You were great.”
“Really?” Webb asked. “You thought I was great? Because I thought
you
were great.”
“Seriously?” I said.
Officer Hard-Ass cleared his throat. “It appears someone thought someone was
great
enough to need these,” he announced, pulling a box of condoms from the bottom of my bag.
“Coco!” Mom said.
“Oh, I put those in there, too,” Webb said. “Just in case.”
He smiled at me.
My hero.
Officer Hard-Ass made a sour expression. He was still rifling through my bag. “And the
fromage
?”
“Cheese?” I asked.
“Yes,” Hard-Ass said. “There is the smell of fermenting cheese in this bag.”
I looked at Webb.
“I have no idea what that’s about,” he said, shrugging.
One of the junior cops approached Officer Hard-Ass and whispered something in his ear. Hard-Ass spun around and yelled in French to another cop, who pulled a photograph from his pocket. He handed the picture to Hard-Ass, who held it next to Webb’s face.