"You have to bring this dress," my mother gushed, holding up a ridiculously fancy, ankle-length frock. "It makes you look so tall and lean."
"I already have two nice dresses, that's plenty."
She wagged her finger at me. "You can never have too many."
"Why are you here?" I demanded, putting my hands on my hips. I'd been packing for a half hour and Mom had been there for twenty minutes of it, giving me plenty of unsolicited advice. "You never did stuff like this when I was growing up- I packed for college entirely on my own. What's changed?"
"I... regret not being more involved in molding you as a child; I want to make up for it now!" Her voice was overly peppy, makeup sinking into the creases of her face.
Smirking, I folded my pink leggings, throwing them into my suitcase. "I get it. You saw Dad beating up on Steve, and you were so filled with guilt for being a bad mother that you decided to make it up with me, instead of trying to protect your son like an actual good parent would do."
She growled sharply like a startle chihuahua and stormed out, but returned in less than five seconds. "Never say anything like that again, certainly not on this trip, and double-certainly not in front of the Hargoves."
"Whatever," I snapped before slamming the door in her face.
The only person in the world who I might be able to vent to about our parents was Steve, and he hadn't spoken to me since Dad told him I gave my blessing to invite Billy and his family on our skiing trip. I couldn't blame him, it was a spineless thing to do, but dealing with Mom's neuroticism alone felt terribly lonely.
"What's cooking, good-looking?" Sal asked while I ate cereal in the dark kitchen, the pale light of pre-dawn giving things a shape, but no color.
"I thought our flight was at eleven, so I got up at seven to be ready."
"No, our flight's at 3:40, so we're leaving at eleven."
"Yeah, I know that now," I grumbled. "My dad was not happy when I woke him up to ask him why no one was dressed yet."
After a moment, Sal busted out laughing at my expense, and I folded my arms, turning away from him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm just imagining it all playing out. Don't be like that." He reached down, spinning the top of the stool so we were eye to eye again. "I think it's cute that you're all ready, sitting here eating your cheerios in the dark. You're very punctual."
One thing that irked me about Sal was how patronizing he could sometimes be, but I let it go, knowing he had good intentions. "Now I have too much time to perseverate."
"Are you scared of flying?"
"No, I'm not scared, not of crashing anyway. Mostly it's the idea of all those people crammed on one plane, breathing the same air. It's not about the germs, I just don't like the feeling of being trapped, of all those thoughts and emotions floating in such a tiny space."
"You're claustrophobic."
He didn't get it, probably cause my words didn't make any sense. "Yeah, sort of."
The strangest thing about the trip, at least in my opinion, from Indianapolis International to Denver International was the fact that the flight itself was only about thirty-five minutes longer than the drive from Hawkins to the airport, at least with the holiday traffic. Those kinds of things always boggled my mind, probably because I knew nothing about science or engineering.
But the most embarrassing part, hands down, was sitting in First Class, on the aisle next to Steve, watching the Hargroves shuffle past to Coach, the far back of the plane.
My father worked in advertising, an exec at a company that worked with large and small businesses alike, but he usually only rubbed elbows with people who contributed a lot of revenue, which Neil Hargrove clearly didn't. If he did, then he'd be flying in our section.
I kept my eyes on the Theodor Roosevelt biography I'd brought, the same book I'd had on my train ride back from school (before the vodka made my eyes go blurry); it was so dense I'd barely made a dent in it. Just as they passed, I realized avoiding eye contact with the plebians is rude and distinctly upper class, an aura I wanted to avoid putting out. I whipped my head around my seat, peering down the aisle, but only saw the back of Billy's head. Sighing, I almost returned to my normal seated position, when he turned around, as though he could sense me staring. I froze, looking into his unreadable blue eyes. His mouth remained a flat line, neither quirking up into a smirk or pulling down in a scowl. Then he let the curtain between Coach and First Class fall, disappearing behind it.
I'm so sorry this chapter is so unforgivably short and filler-y, but I just wanted to get the characters to the ski lodge...
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