Survival in Style Read online

  Chapter 2: Bullet Holes

  The plane was so small that there were no overhead storage compartments, so I had to shove my backpack underneath my seat. With four seats to choose from - two facing backward, right behind the cockpit, and two facing the cockpit itself - I figured I’d have plenty of room to stretch my legs. I didn’t realize that I was frowning until the pilot said, “Great, another spoiled rich brat with plenty of attitude. I waited three hours for this?”

  “No, you waited three hours so you could get paid,” the young man said, taking the co-pilot’s seat as if he belonged there.

  “Thank you,” I said, but my words got lost in the echo of the engine.

  The boy must have thought that the roar covered his voice, too, because he said, “She’s kind of pretty, Chris. This could be a good trip.”

  I pretended like I didn’t hear him. “How long is the flight?” I called. They didn’t hear me, so I had to call louder.

  “Three hours,” the boy replied. He turned and flashed me a friendly grin, which, to my surprise, caused my stomach to do a flip-flop.

  Chris thumped him on the shoulder. “Tony. No flirting with the customers,” he grunted. “Now hand me that checklist.”

  Tony winked at me before passing a clipboard to the pilot.

  Embarrassed and flattered at the same time, I looked around the cabin and spotted my suitcase secured behind the seats in a webbed net. I considered throwing my cloak back there, too, but then I realized it was kind of chilly on the plane. I was glad Mom made me wear it.

  The pilot noticed me looking around. “Your suitcase is in the net,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Tony didn’t drop it or anything.”

  “Thanks,” I said

  “And he didn’t steal anything, either.”

  I wiggled around on one of the forward-facing seats, trying to find a comfortable position before fastening my seat belt.

  The pilot continued to watch me. “Not cushiony enough for you?”

  “I drove up from Minneapolis this morning. I’ve been sitting for a while.”

  “Well, it’ll be another three hours,” he said, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Were you expecting a flying limousine?”

  “This is good,” I mumbled. Why was he being so mean? Was it because Mom had made me so late? “Thanks for waiting,” I said again.

  He just shrugged.

  “Lay off, Chris,” said Tony. “She doesn’t know you’re joking.”

  I turned my face to the window in an attempt to tune out Chris’s further comments. If that was his style of joking, I’d hate to earn his real disapproval. Was it my clothes? A lot of kids at school called me a rich snob, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. It’s true that I carry a purse and a backpack that look like designer fashions, and that my clothes are perfectly tailored. But that’s because Mom insists on making my wardrobe herself. She says I’m her best source of advertisement, and even if she doesn’t sell anything, I’m still her living dolly. I guess you could say that I’m her only dream come true, which is why I don’t fuss too much.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love her clothes; she always chooses the most comfortable materials, and everything is always the right size. But sometimes I resent my wardrobe, too. I’m more of a nerd at heart, but the other nerds at school don’t hang around me because they think I’m one of the cheerleaders. The cheerleaders don’t like me because I’m too quiet and I always have my nose in a book. And half the time, I don’t like myself. I’m not the person I want to be. I wish I were more outgoing and friendly, instead of so shy. I wish I could just waltz into a party and make people smile, but the truth is that I hate small talk and I hate parties and I’d rather be playing my guitar or sketching landscapes. Mom’s clothes are a constant reminder of elegance and sophistication, or the way I want to be, instead of how I am now. Sometimes I wish she’d just let me wear something lazy, like a tee-shirt and sweatpants. Instead, she wraps me up in a living sermon; when I wear her clothes, I’m supposed to be ladylike.

  I didn’t blame the pilot for thinking I was the sort of person I dressed to be. But if he had looked past the clothes into my heart, he’d have seen that I was just a lonely kid who hated flying, and only did it to go see her dad.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as the plane climbed high into the sky, pushing me back into my seat. The noise in the cabin was deafening, and the plane felt as if it would shake itself to pieces any minute. The strong scent of fuel made my stomach churn; I was glad I had skipped lunch, because I might have made a mess otherwise.

  When we leveled out, the farm squares below looked like brown and green patches on a quilt. I squeezed Dad’s present so hard that the sides got dented. To take my mind off the constant vibrations of the plane, I read the note that was attached to the wrapping.

  To my cupcake on her 16th birthday. Wilderness Glamour Prototype: my latest collection. Wear it when you meet me. Can’t wait to take you camping. Dad.

  I grinned. Wilderness Glamour? It was an awful name, but it sounded exciting. I opened it up. There were several pieces inside - earrings, a bracelet, a watch, a ring, a belt with a fancy buckle, even a necklace of sorts. Most of it was easy to figure out, like the belt. Its woven fabric had hidden little pouches of moist wipes, bug spray, matches in a plastic tube, and tiny first-aid items. There was no denying Dad’s fascination with woodland fairies; the golden belt buckle was etched with miniature runes and dainty Celtic designs. Those same designs were repeated in the earrings, which doubled as fishing lures.

  I didn’t see much of a market for the belt or earrings, but the ring-watch was adorable. Made of platinum and eighteen-carat gold, it was encrusted with diamonds, and there were ruby dots for each cardinal direction. I pointed my finger around the cabin and watched as the compass kept steady with North.

  The brooch was a tube the size of my thumb, gold like the other pieces, and covered with a delicate vine design. I squeezed and pushed and shook it; nothing happened. Finally it occurred to me to flip it open. It was a petite cigarette lighter. Since my parents would have killed me if I ever tried to smoke, I had to imagine myself lighting a bonfire instead. I pinned it to my cloak, aware of the ironic symbolism of Mom’s cloak and Dad’s jewelry complimenting each other so nicely. I hoped it wouldn’t be the last time Mom and Dad would be in the same place together.

  A sudden bit of turbulence made the tiny airplane shake and then drop. My gifts nearly spilled off my lap. I decided to wear them for safe-keeping. It wasn’t easy getting the earrings on without a mirror, but the belt was comfortable enough.

  Some of the pieces confused me. The watch told time, of course, but I couldn’t figure out the other buttons. One of them began pulsing a bright blue light when I pressed it. No matter what I pressed, I couldn’t turn it off. The crystal face lifted off, and I remembered how Dad had once mentioned burning ants with a magnifying glass as a boy. It snapped back into place easily. I didn’t mess with any of the time zones because Dad had already set it. Then I put it on my wrist and checked out the other pieces.

  After staring at the necklace for a while, I remembered Dad’s penchant for hidden springs. When I pushed on its sides with my thumb, it popped open. There were three fishhooks and some fishing line inside. I shook them out, revealing a tiny picture of Dad and me on one side and the inscription “Happy 16th” on the other. The locket part was obvious, but his choice of chain puzzled me. It was stiff and encrusted with a really rough powder - diamond powder, I suspected. Instead of a traditional hook clasp, it had two rings big enough for me to stick my thumbs through. I didn’t like it, but Dad asked me to wear it, so I did. But I’d be taking it off as soon as I saw him.

  Now, the bracelet was the ugliest things I’d ever seen! Set in the center of a two-inch-wide bronze wristlet, it had an unformed, unpolished stone of dull gray that couldn’t possibly be a gemstone or anything else precious. It was cold and heavy and didn’t seem to do anything. Its raised edge wasn’t even
sharp enough to cut anything. I decided to ask Dad about it.

  I’d been up since five that morning, so I let my eyelids close. The crinkling sound of peanut packets being dropped in the empty seat next to me forced them open.

  “Sorry,” Tony said, staring down at me. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Thought you might be getting hungry.”

  I blinked, disoriented by his magnetic black eyes. Realizing that I was staring at him, I turned my attention to the peanuts. “Thanks. How much longer?”

  “About two hours. We’re nearing the Canadian border right now. You did bring your passport, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Get back to sleep, if you can.” He ducked back into the cockpit.

  I couldn’t help but notice how nicely his shirt stretched across his back, his shoulder blades causing his muscles to ripple under the fabric. He was definitely what my friends would call a hottie. Still, I had to frown when Chris took his hands off the controls and handed the plane over to Tony. Was this a flight lesson, and I was part of an experiment? I wanted to object, but nobody could hear me up there anyway, and Chris would probably make more fun of me. So I sat there, tense, to see how long Tony would fly the plane. It wasn’t long, maybe two minutes, but it felt like forever. I was glad when Chris took the controls back.

  Down below, the scenery had changed from farmland to forest. Gone were the straight brown lines in plowed fields. Gone were the occasional farmhouses, or even any houses of any sort. The pine trees were so thick that I couldn’t see the ground, except for the occasional lake. It was like flying over an ocean of green, with trees in all directions as far as I could see.

  A glint of sunshine caught my attention. I spotted a helicopter not far from our airplane. It was so close that I could make out the pilot in the cockpit and two men strapped in side chairs with their legs dangling out the open door. I waved at them.

  They raised rifles and pointed toward the plane.

  “I didn’t know people hunted from helicopters,” I shouted.

  Chris laughed at me. “You can’t hunt from a helicopter,” he replied. “Too high up.”

  “Hunters?” Tony asked, craning his neck to see.

  “Maybe they’re hunting birds,” I suggested.

  “And how are they going to retrieve those birds, princess?” Chris pointed out.

  “Well, they’re pointing at something,” I insisted. Just then, I saw silent yellow sunbursts around the muzzles of the rifles. “Us!” I cried. “They’re pointing at us!”

  “Swerve!” Tony ordered, putting his hand over Chris’s on the controls.

  We swerved, but not fast enough. A bullet ricocheted off the propeller. Chris slumped forward, limp, causing us to veer sharply off course - which was a good thing, since the next volley of gunfire missed us. Even so, I whacked my head on the window hard enough to see a blank wall of white with sparkly blue stars for a few seconds.

  “I knew they’d find me,” Tony said.

  I didn’t have to strain to hear the panic in his voice.

  Tony shook Chris, trying to wake him up. It was no use. “Help me,” he called.

  I stared at Chris. Bright splotches of blood blossomed around the neck of his white shirt. My stomach clenched. “I can’t,” I gasped.

  Tony turned to face me. “Help me or we’ll crash.”

  The quiet seriousness of his voice scared me more than the rifles or the blood. I unlatched my seat belt and climbed into the seat behind the pilot. I closed my eyes as I grabbed Chris’s shoulders, pulling him into an upright sitting position. “Is he... dead?”

  Tony just nodded as he grasped the controls. “Try to stay down.”

  As if that would help! The walls were only an inch thin.

  It was a nauseating game of zig-zag. Tony alternated his pulls and pushes, causing the little plane to lurch up or plunge down. We seemed to be outmaneuvering the shooters until several bullets tore into the tail of our plane.

  “Why are they shooting at us?” I asked.

  “Bad guys,” Tony answered, as if that explained everything.

  “No. Really?” I wanted to be more sarcastic, but I felt my stomach clench. I’ve always hated flying, and this was my worst fear coming true. The next steep drop bucked me so high into the air that I knocked my head on the ceiling. My bumpy landing back on the floor was all I needed to start vomiting - right into Dad’s empty gift box. I knew I’d be covered in bruises and probably have a concussion, too, if we survived this. If we survived? The realization that I could actually die washed over me like ice in my veins. “Oh, my God. We’re going to die.”

  When my stomach stopped squeezing, I put the lid on Dad’s box and prayed that it would stay closed. Then I crawled back up to the seat. “We’re going to die,” I announced.

  “Not yet,” Tony said. His face, drawn and white, told me that he was just as scared as me.

  “Well, who are they? Why are they shooting at us? What do they want?”

  “Look,” he said, his words clipped, “I can either fly or talk. Which will it be?”

  I glanced at Chris to see if he was blocking the controls again. From his slumped angle, I knew he was dead. I turned around and fastened my seat belt. The sharp scent of fuel tickled my nose. “We’re leaking gas,” I told Tony.

  “Hold on,” he said, and I heard him muttering to himself. “Left rudder, left turn...”

  We banked, giving me a clear view of the helicopter again. They were so close. They fired at us, and Tony sank forward onto the controls. Our plane began a nosedive. One of the men waved bye-bye to me and I watched, helpless, as they cut a wide u-turn in the sky and flew away.

  The ground was coming up awfully fast. Everything was so clear - two small lakes on one side, a hill with a bare patch and a large boulder, a doll-sized cabin off in the distance with white smoking coming out its chimney... I felt a strange sense of calm, almost like I wanted to laugh instead of scream, until I touched Dad’s brooch pinned to Mom’s cloak. Then I lost it. “Tony? Tony?” I twisted my neck to look over my seat. “Please don’t be dead,” I begged.

  He sat up. “Had to play dead, or they never would have left.” He grabbed the controls and tried to pull the plane’s nose up. Nothing.

  “I thought you could fly this thing,” I said.

  “Fly, yes. Land, not yet. I only started taking lessons a month ago.” He looked at me. “Better brace yourself.”

  The thought of our dead pilot and the stench of my own vomit made me hysterical. I remembered the radio. “Call for help.”

  “Can’t risk it,” he replied.

  “What?” Dizzy with fear and vertigo, I knew he was keeping a secret. I fumbled with my seatbelt, ready to vault over the seats and get to the radio, when he spoke in a low voice.

  “Looks like it’s gonna be the lake, so there’s hope. Cover your head.”

  Somewhere, out of the corner of my eye, I even spotted a single cabin with smoke rising from its chimney. The treetops were so close. We missed them all and plunged into the heart of the lake. I’d been rear-ended once in Minneapolis; some lady didn’t see the stoplight, and she just ran into us. It gave me whiplash. This was way worse than the car accident. The jolt nearly knocked me unconscious.

  As we sank into the water, I became very aware of things. I could smell the leaking fuel - even taste it - and I noticed little dirty flecks and swirls as the murky lake water pouring in around my ankles, my knees, my neck. Yet I couldn’t move. “I never got to go camping with Dad,” I said. It was my last thought as the cold water washed over my head.