I could hear the heaviness of her breath.
“Don’t Hulk out on me, girl,” I tried to joke. “Your veins are starting to show.”
Gemma was a sensitive soul. I’d once seen her burst into tears because she’d found a dead ladybug on one of our flights. Her emotions ran both ways though—from tears to quick anger. I’d heard this particular rant before. Ugly, obnoxious passengers who showed no consideration for others tended to make my sweet friend snap.
She shut her eyes and shook her head from side to side as if trying to reset her emotions. When her eyes re-opened, a peculiar smile had taken residency on her pink, painted lips. She pulled a small, plastic tray from a compartment in the galley and—almost mechanically—set clear plastic cups on top of the tray.
“What are you doing?” I questioned.
She grabbed a large plastic water bottle from another compartment and began to fill each of the empty glasses.
“Business Class looks like they might be getting thirsty,” she clipped.
My eyes grew in wonder. “No.”
Gemma ignored me and marched down the center aisle, her weapons activated and fully loaded. I watched helplessly from the rear galley, both fearing and eagerly anticipating what she might do next. She paused at a few passenger rows and dropped off single glasses of water, but her eyes remained trained on the front of the plane, like stalking her prey.
When she finally made it to the front of the plane, several water glasses remained on the flimsy plastic tray. She stopped at the third row and bent slightly over the man sitting in the aisle seat. I was too far away to hear their conversation and the plane’s engines were too loud, but I could see the saccharine smile on her painted lips.
My breath caught in my throat when she grasped one of the cups and offered it to the passenger. The handoff was clumsy and inelegant, and the plastic cup slipped from Gemma’s fingers and fell onto the man’s lap. Her body snapped to attention and a manicured hand went over her mouth in mock horror and surprise. It was a familiar act; I’d performed the same routine many times.
Gemma rushed back down the aisle. The false apology on her features morphed into a smug smile halfway down the plane.
“I can’t believe you just did that!” I said when she returned to the rear galley.
“Where’s your bingo card?” she demanded.
“Oh, uh, in my bag,” I stumbled, still stunned at what I’d witnessed.
“Get it,” she commanded. She grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins, presumably for the man in 3B while I retrieved the bingo card from my purse.
She held out her hand expectedly. “You need confirmation for seat specific tasks, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah, but…” I didn’t finish my sentence. The serious look on her face told me it wouldn’t matter to her if I pointed out that she had been the one to accomplish the task, not me.
Gemma snatched the card from my outstretched hand and scribbled her flight ID number and initials on one of the open squares.
“There,” she said with finality. “You have my blessing. Let’s win this thing.”
+ + +
Over the next few days, with Gemma’s blessing, I accomplished several more of the bingo card challenges. I’d spoken in a fake Southern accent while obtaining the phone number of a family of four on their way to Disney World. I’d worn a deflated life preserver around my neck on a short flight from LaGuardia to Boston’s Logan Airport. I’d bumped into passengers in-flight while blaming it on non-existence turbulence. I’d checked off one box after another in less than a week’s time.
By the time Wednesday rolled around again—the day of the week I worked First Class for my friend Kent—I was feeling confident. I’d made amazing progress only one week into the competition. My mind was on the remaining bingo squares while I handed out glasses of water and recorded our Business Class passengers’ drink requests. I paused at each row, my eyes not really focused on anything, as I went through the pre-flight routine.
No one had puked on-board for me to assist just yet, but that was bound to happen within the month. The toilet paper gag required I walk the length of the airplane with toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I could do that on a Thursday flight to Chicago since it was the smallest plane I worked that month. I still needed to get a passenger to buy me a