Read Online Bloody Fabulous by Ekaterina Sedia - Free Book Online
Authors: Ekaterina Sedia
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them the information is for my boyfriend—as if I had one, or that he could ever get buzzed past the front door, but that’s not really the point.
Meanwhile I spend every flight in a white polyester blouse, green polyester jacket and green polyester slacks. All that green makes me look airsick. The only reason I work for this airline is that all the others in the European Union make female attendants wear skirts, and I won’t.
“Auntie Colleen doesn’t like frills,” is how my sister explains it.
No frills, no lace, no perfume, no fancy haircuts; just me, with my short dark hair and absolutely minimum makeup (stupid regulations) and the lowest heels I can get away with. Transcontinental flights are hard on the body enough without shoes that pinch your toes or heels.
Like tonight, for instance. We’re thirty thousand miles over the ocean and four hours from Boston. Most of my First Class passengers are asleep but 5B keeps ringing his bell: another soda water please, a ballpoint pen please, do I have another pillow? If I have to get up one more time—
The plane bounces on turbulence. Pain cramps through my uterus. I grab the edges of my folding seat and bow over a little.
“Are you okay?” Linda asks.
“Fine,” I lie. “It’s that time of the month.”
In the lavatory, I try to will the pain away. But you can’t deny Sorrow when she comes riding on the winds with her red eyes weeping. Someone on this plane is about to die or lose a loved one. Maybe 3A, immaculate in pinstripe Yves St. Laurent, will suffer a stroke. Maybe 5B will meet his fate in traffic, regardless of his H. Huntsman tweed sports coat. Maybe Sorrow is coming for the woman in Economy who tried to sneak herself past the curtain to the first class lavatory, or for the American soldier a few rows behind her.
Another cramp cuts through me. Sorrow swirls around the fuselage, snakes writhing in her hair. Her tears rattle the hull like hail. We bounce again. The fasten seatbelt indicator chimes and lights up.
I begin to sing a lament. A soft, lilting tune meant to soothe Sorrow. Sleeping passengers might hear it in their dreams, but most won’t notice a single note. Not unless they carry the blood of the Great Houses. She’s coming for one of them or one of their kin.
Hunched over on the toilet lid, I sing and sing.
I’m twenty-four years old and I’m a banshee. Unlicensed, unsanctioned. Illegal.
Luckily no one on this flight is likely to report me to the Queen of the Fairies for a code violation.
When Sorrow departs and I step back outside, Linda’s flipping through the pages of a magazine. The first class passengers are all asleep or absorbed in their computers. I peek past the curtain to Economy, and most of them are dozing as well.
The American soldier is awake, though. He’s a muscled fellow with a square jaw and short dark hair. He’s gripping the aisle armrest as if he wants to rip it off, and his gaze is fixed out the window at the wing. Later, when I’m in the jetway and passengers are disembarking, I can see the nametag sewn on his jacket: O’Neill. One of the greatest houses in all of Irish history.
Chances are, I was singing for him. But he’ll never know, and our paths will never cross again. Small shame, that. He’s handsome indeed, and he wears his uniform well: steel-tipped boots, a well-fitted top, a cap snug on his head. A girl like me could use an outfit like that. Maybe it’s not too late for me to join the army.
A week later, I’m sleeping off a late flight in my tiny apartment in Dublin when my phone buzzes: See Maeve.
Two simple words, but better than an entire pot of coffee for waking me up. After a hot shower, I pull on a blue and gray sweater vest and pressed trousers and waterproof boots. November in Dublin’s not a kind season, so I add a gray trenchcoat as well.
“Still you dress like a boy,” says Loman when I let myself into the office not far from O’Connell Bridge.
“And still you
Meanwhile I spend every flight in a white polyester blouse, green polyester jacket and green polyester slacks. All that green makes me look airsick. The only reason I work for this airline is that all the others in the European Union make female attendants wear skirts, and I won’t.
“Auntie Colleen doesn’t like frills,” is how my sister explains it.
No frills, no lace, no perfume, no fancy haircuts; just me, with my short dark hair and absolutely minimum makeup (stupid regulations) and the lowest heels I can get away with. Transcontinental flights are hard on the body enough without shoes that pinch your toes or heels.
Like tonight, for instance. We’re thirty thousand miles over the ocean and four hours from Boston. Most of my First Class passengers are asleep but 5B keeps ringing his bell: another soda water please, a ballpoint pen please, do I have another pillow? If I have to get up one more time—
The plane bounces on turbulence. Pain cramps through my uterus. I grab the edges of my folding seat and bow over a little.
“Are you okay?” Linda asks.
“Fine,” I lie. “It’s that time of the month.”
In the lavatory, I try to will the pain away. But you can’t deny Sorrow when she comes riding on the winds with her red eyes weeping. Someone on this plane is about to die or lose a loved one. Maybe 3A, immaculate in pinstripe Yves St. Laurent, will suffer a stroke. Maybe 5B will meet his fate in traffic, regardless of his H. Huntsman tweed sports coat. Maybe Sorrow is coming for the woman in Economy who tried to sneak herself past the curtain to the first class lavatory, or for the American soldier a few rows behind her.
Another cramp cuts through me. Sorrow swirls around the fuselage, snakes writhing in her hair. Her tears rattle the hull like hail. We bounce again. The fasten seatbelt indicator chimes and lights up.
I begin to sing a lament. A soft, lilting tune meant to soothe Sorrow. Sleeping passengers might hear it in their dreams, but most won’t notice a single note. Not unless they carry the blood of the Great Houses. She’s coming for one of them or one of their kin.
Hunched over on the toilet lid, I sing and sing.
I’m twenty-four years old and I’m a banshee. Unlicensed, unsanctioned. Illegal.
Luckily no one on this flight is likely to report me to the Queen of the Fairies for a code violation.
When Sorrow departs and I step back outside, Linda’s flipping through the pages of a magazine. The first class passengers are all asleep or absorbed in their computers. I peek past the curtain to Economy, and most of them are dozing as well.
The American soldier is awake, though. He’s a muscled fellow with a square jaw and short dark hair. He’s gripping the aisle armrest as if he wants to rip it off, and his gaze is fixed out the window at the wing. Later, when I’m in the jetway and passengers are disembarking, I can see the nametag sewn on his jacket: O’Neill. One of the greatest houses in all of Irish history.
Chances are, I was singing for him. But he’ll never know, and our paths will never cross again. Small shame, that. He’s handsome indeed, and he wears his uniform well: steel-tipped boots, a well-fitted top, a cap snug on his head. A girl like me could use an outfit like that. Maybe it’s not too late for me to join the army.
A week later, I’m sleeping off a late flight in my tiny apartment in Dublin when my phone buzzes: See Maeve.
Two simple words, but better than an entire pot of coffee for waking me up. After a hot shower, I pull on a blue and gray sweater vest and pressed trousers and waterproof boots. November in Dublin’s not a kind season, so I add a gray trenchcoat as well.
“Still you dress like a boy,” says Loman when I let myself into the office not far from O’Connell Bridge.
“And still you