Girl on a Plane by Miriam Moss

Author:Miriam Moss
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

27

1745h

“I keep,” Sweaty says. “You go there.” He points to beyond the trenches around our plane, past some low, scrubby bushes, to where there’s a semicircle of tiered boxes and crates, Jeeps and trucks. Several of the women hostages are already over there: Mrs. Newton, Rosemary and Celia, looking tense and out of place, the two blond sisters, pressed together, the sun reflecting off their silver bangles. Nearer to me, Mrs. Green, holding several boxes of pills, is refusing to be separated from Susan, who stands desolately crying. Maria, now separated from the bald man and escorted by two guards, walks self-consciously toward the Jeeps, stopping to flick her hair from her face every few steps.

The male crew are already climbing back up the ladder under escort. The other men being herded back toward the plane are calling out to us or shouting at the guards. I see Tim and David stop on their way back to the plane, worry written across their faces. Mr. Newton is arguing with one of the guerrillas.

“This is outrageous!” he shouts. “You can’t just take the women off like this! Mary! Come back! Come back here!”

It’s going to kick off, I think, pressing the edge of the small metal shield-shaped badge deeper into the palm of my hand. Someone’s going to get shot . . . Someone’s going to die . . .

I stop walking, stand dead still. The guard urges me on, but I feel strange, otherworldly. Sounds become muffled. Everything slows down. I feel a long way off . . . distant . . . in a vacuum.

Quite alone.

It’s so quiet.

Faces press against the windows, Sweaty’s mouth moves, Mr. Newton is taken away. They have nothing to do with me.

The Giant’s huge hands are open. He’s nodding. He wants me to do something. I don’t know what. He looks like my father. His eyes. They’re the same blue-gray color as . . .

. . . as Dad’s.

My face screws up, tears come. I stand there, helpless, as they stream down.

Rosemary, shading her eyes by the trucks, beckons to me.

I walk slowly toward her. Trembling. In a daze.

She puts an arm around me. “It’s all right. There’s been a misunderstanding. We didn’t realize what they meant. The hijackers just want us for their photo.”

“Wh—” No word comes.

“They’re having a photo taken to remember the hijack. They want the women in it. We’ll be fine.” But there’s a faint patch of pink, like a rash, blooming on her neck.

More women arrive. They stand in loose groups, clumped around the first line of boxes. Maria stands slightly apart from the rest of us, pulling her shirt down and chatting with Sweaty. She leans over and touches him on the shoulder and laughs. And I feel shocked. How can she bear to be near him? The two sisters in miniskirts look frightened; the younger one picks at her fingernails. Rosemary goes over to reassure them. She’s bare legged now and without makeup, her hair loose, her nail polish chipped.

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