LITMIR.BIZ

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ancient man and brings me a seat-belt extender.

      “You know, you look very familiar. Miss Vonn, is it?” she asks.

      “I get that a lot,” I say. “I guess all fat people look alike.”

      She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. Like she’s just finished being extraordinarily kind and I’m a jackass for not appreciating it.

      “Enjoy your flight.” This is her last burst of insincerity before she leaves.

      For, like, twenty minutes, it’s me and the geezer, alone on the plane. He keeps turning his head around, as much as he can, maybe trying to figure out why I’m there.

      The plane fills up. Everyone that passes stops to read the red sign. I make up a few stories in case anyone asks.

      A woman with a slobbery toddler does, in fact, point to the sign. “That’s reserved?” she asks. I see she has several other kids in tow and the remaining seats are spread out.

      “I’m traveling with the Federal Air Marshall,” I say.

      Her mouth drops open, but she keeps on walking.

      I start to organize myself. Make sure my magazines are within easy reach. A couple more people filter by as I’m untangling my headphone cord.

      A girl in a Marc Jacobs striped maxi dress, reeking of Kenzo Flower perfume that barely masks the cigarette stink, approaches my aisle. From her dangly earrings to her cheek bronzer, there’s something so impersonal about her look. Like someone else dressed her. Maybe she went to net-a-porter.com and clicked the “shop the issue” link. This is what happens when you have more money than style.

      The girl eyes me with disdain, like she’d rather sit next to a monkey wearing a diaper than a fat person. I expect her to move on. Instead she reaches for the RESERVED sign.

      I put my hand on it, making sure the sign stays put. “That seat is reserved.”

      “Yeah, for me, I guess,” she says. As she taps her foot impatiently, her head wobbles oddly on her neck, making it look like her chin-length bob is some kind of weird wig. “This is the only seat left on the plane.”

      The way she says it—Like, duh, stupid, do you think I’d be sitting by you if I didn’t have to?

      “It’s mine,” I growl. “They made me buy it.”

      “It’s. The. Only. Seat. Left.” She jerks her head from side to side as she spits out the words. People are turning around. A flight attendant is making her way up the aisle.

      “What’s the problem, girls?” the flight attendant asks.

      “I need to sit here. Obviously,” Miss Money Bags says, smoothing down her thick black hair.

      “This is my seat,” I say. “They made me buy it.”

      The flight attendant glances around. “It’s the only seat left on the plane.”

      “They told me at the gate that I’m too fat to fit into one seat and they made me buy a second ticket,” I say. I can’t get hysterical.

      “But you can fit into one seat,” the flight attendant says.

      “Mostly,” the girl adds.

      “That’s what I told them. But they made me buy another seat anyway.” I want to cry but I don’t; I can’t. You cry, and people know they’ve got you. I’ve had years of practicing waiting until I’m alone. In the shower or in bed late at night.

      “Well, if this young lady here sits next to you, you’ll automatically qualify for a refund. I’ll make sure your credit gets issued as soon as we land at JFK.” She smiles kindly at me. “It’s win-win for everybody.”

      “I don’t want a refund,” I tell the woman in a dull, low voice. Everything is quiet on the plane. No one else is talking. “I’ve been humiliated at the airport. Had to wait on standby. Had to call my best friend and beg for money. Gotten escorted onto the plane with a man so old he could be my grandma’s grandpa. I had to carry this—” I shake the red sign “—like it’s my Scarlet. Fucking. Letter.”

      Pointing at the seat next to me, I keep going. “I don’t care about refunds or win-wins. Or if this plane crashes into the fucking ocean. I want this goddamn seat.”

      The flight attendant drops all pretense of friendliness. “We make the call on whether or not you need two seats.”

      “I know. The nice lady in the terminal explained all this when she took my six hundred bucks.”

      She sighs and turns to the other passenger. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go back to the gate and work this out.”

      “Are you fucking kidding me?” the girl demands. “Tell Cankles to move her red sign and the plane can take off.” She again tries to slide into the seat next to me.

      The flight attendant places her arm across my row to block the girl and then backs her to the door as their conversation continues. “Since she has two tickets, I have to treat this like an overbooking situation. In these cases, the passenger with the last boarding pass issued gets booked on the next flight.”

      “The next flight? Tomorrow?” the girl asks. Her voice is becoming higher pitched and semi-hysterical. “But I’ll miss...”

      I don’t get to hear what she will miss. The instant she’s back on the entry ramp, another attendant closes the plane door with a thud. The guy on the other side of the aisle gives me a dirty look.

      At the front of the plane, I spot a blur of curly, beachy hair. Tommy. The feeling of relief passes as my rational mind connects the dots. Tommy’s back in Mesa, and the guy up front is stowing his girlfriend’s purse in the overhead compartment.

      I close my eyes as the pilot reads a bunch of announcements and the flight attendants give instructions. A few minutes later everything is quiet and still.

      The plane charges down the long runway, the cabin lights dim and I try to picture myself up there in first class, holding hands with Tommy. That reality feels reserved for the posh and perfect. It’s a members-only club I don’t know how to join.

      What I do know is that, after this trip, I’m not doing this again.

      I’m done being the fat girl on the plane.

       SKINNY: Later on Day 738

      “Thank God,” he says as he smiles at me.

      It’s him. After all this time, I’m meeting Gareth Miller.

      And he’s smiling at me.

      The plane has stopped in Dallas, and it would figure that my fashion idol would get on and plop down next to me. I’m filled with dread. Or panic. The kind of panic that makes me consider heading for the emergency exit and taking the evacuation slide onto the runway.

      He takes the aisle seat. “There’s some whale of a woman raising all kinds of hell in the airport because they want her to buy more than one ticket.”

      And he’s a douchelord.

      Never mind. I’ll push him down the evacuation slide.

      Gareth Miller leans in toward me, like we’re now in a conspiracy together and says, “I hate to be rude.” It’s a hushed whisper. “But she needs two. At least two. Back before I had my own plane when I had to fly commercial, I always got stuck next to them. Them and the crying babies. Or sometimes fat gals with crying babies.”

      I scoot back and glare at him. “Sounds like you’d be a lot happier on Air Force Asshat,” I blurt out. I sort of wish I hadn’t said it. I’m on my way to New York to interview the guy and it’s probably not the best idea to pick a fight with him. I turn to the window and try to seem busy stuffing my iPad in the pocket

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