Luck is on My Side

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

I stood up and rushed to my bedroom. I would have to work fast. At any time, my father could emerge from the den and beat me further. It has happened before. In my head I was making a list: shirts, pants, underwear, my iPod, my dad's credit card, my ID, and (of course) deodorant. All the things I would need to make a quick get away. I searched the room, the room of my happy childhood. Nothing has really changed in there since I was about 3 years old. I had the same small twin mattress for a bed, the same paint-peeled draw for my clothes, and the same rose-petal pink walls.

As I rifled through my draw for some suitable clothing, I was formulating a plan. I would steal my dad's credit card from his bedroom across the hall and his car from the garage. And drive to where? The airport? I contemplated. It was certainly very risky, using Dad's credit card to pay for a flight to God-knows-where. But flying would get me farther away from him faster than a car would. That sounded really good, getting away from him.

I pulled my duffel bag from underneath the draw and threw the clothes, deodorant, and my iPod in haphazardly. I checked to make sure my ID was still tucked safely in my back pocket. Then I slung the duffel bag onto my shoulder painfully, still sore from the beating not ten minutes prior, and tiptoed silently into my father's chamber. His bedroom was much larger and more finely furnished than mine was the product of his greed. I slid open his draw, agonizingly slow, and when I made a sliver big enough for my slender hand, I reached in though his socks and underwear (ewe) and pulled out the shiny gold Visa card. I couldn't help the Cheshire cat grin that slipped onto my face. I would finally be free. But there was no time to smile now. I had to get to the airport. Fast.

Packed and ready, I descended the staircase. I reached the front door and took a deep breath. It was now or never. I swung open the door, a gust of November wind blasting me. I smiled as I remembered the paint chips I didn't clean up. Our garage was separate from our house, and you had to go outside to get to it. I opened side door and approached the worn down Cadillac, slipping into the crusty driver's seat. My dad, being the not so smart guy he is, always leaves his keys in the ignition, and with a quick flip of the wrist, I pulled out of our driveway.

Jackson-Evers International airport was a short, 15 minute drive from Delta Springs. I pushed the poor Cadillac as fast as it could go. The 20 year old car groaned but did as I commanded and went up to 55 mph. As I drove, I practiced breathing in and out, working to stop from letting tears of joy spill over. I wasn't out of this mess yet, I told myself. I wasn't out until the plane took off, and even then, Dad could come after me. Stop thinking like that, Ginny! You will get out of this! You have to.

All of a sudden, the huge international airport came up on the horizon, the sunset giving it a heavenly glow. My salvation. I drove up and parked close the entrance, the parking lot empty as not many people are at the airport at 6 o'clock at night. I left the Cadillac there, alone, and went cautiously through the modern glass doors of the airport. The room was nearly vacant, only a few frazzled-looking businessmen stood independently, all on their blackberries or iPhones. I walked hesitantly up to the exhausted counter lady. I cleared my throat to gain her attention. She looked at me lazily.

"What do you need?" she said followed by a large yawn, showing her coffee-stained teeth. I tried to hide my disgust as I answered rather hastily.

"I need the first flight that leaves here, please."

"Oh, well that will be the 6:20 in terminal 1. How will you be paying?" she replied typing away on her computer in a way that didn't make her seem tired at all. I reached into my bag and fished around for the Visa card. I found it and handed it to her. She grunted and swiped it. The computer made a dinging sound and printed out a ticket. She handed me back the credit card and the ticket, still hot from the printer.

"Have a nice time" she called dully as trudged off to find terminal 1. The airport was silent as I strolled through. Starbucks, Burger King, and McDonald's were all closed. It didn't matter. According to the time on the ticket, I only had five minutes to board the plane.

Finally, at the end of the long corridor, I spotted terminal 1. I ran. I couldn't help but think how unpractical having terminal 1 at the back of the airport is. I jogged up as soon as the stewardess was closing the hanger doors.

"Wait! Wait! I'm supposed to be on this flight." I reached her and showed her my ticket. A frown came across her make-up covered face, but she saw how I was breathing hard from desperately running for the terminal. A bit of sympathy crossed her face.

"All right, in you go" she ushered in a distinctly British accent. Huh, that's cool, a British person working in America. I entered the plane and saw about 20 or so people on it, most men. "Just take a seat anywhere, darling" said the stewardess.

"Thank you..." I trailed off looking at her name tag, "Victoria." I sat in the first seat I could find, stowing my duffel bag under the cushioned, leather seat. Hmm, nice plane, I thought. Something above me dinged, similar to the school bell. Wait, school? What was I going to do for school?

I was just beginning to panic when a voice came from the ceiling. The voice was again British, a man this time.

"Ladies and gentleman, this your pilot speaking. Thank you for choosing our airline, and I hope you have a good flight to London, England." He clicked off.

All my earlier alarm went out the door and was replaced with a whole new type of panic. Did he just say LONDON, ENGLAND?!?!?!