The Love of My Family

(2) The Love of My Family

I heaved over, throwing up once more into the fifth barf bag of my trip.

Groaning, I leaned back into my seat. I had been throwing up all four hours of the flight that had passed. Sipping my ginger-ale that one of the over-eager flight attendants had brought me to wash out the disgusting vomit-taste that throwing up had left me with, I tilted my chair backwards and sighed.

Barfing my freaking guts out had taken up all of my energy.

New Goal In Life: Never, ever get on a plane again. Ships, trains, and hot air balloons, only.

Dad should've told me that I would riding on a plane would be such a nauseous experience. Ugh! We shook again with turbulence. I fought down another roll of nausea as we tilted, nose downwards. There shouldn't be much left of the flight, I comforted myself.

And, wearily, I fell asleep.

*

I woke to somebody yelling - literally - in my ear.

I jumped and was held back by a seat belt. Glancing around blearily, I realized that the plane was empty and had landed. I saw the same flight attendant with the attitude from California.

I'm in New York! I thought excitedly.

"I tried to wake you, miss, nicely," the man said, "but you wouldn't wake. So I shook you. You still didn't wake. Then I yelled."

I blushed, knowing how I never woke up, even when they were working on my bedroom bath with drills and hammers. "Sorry," I muttered. I retrieved my bag and stood to ask the attendant what time it was, since my cell was running on Californian time, but he had disappeared.

I sighed. What a rude guy.

Stretching, I walked down the hall uncertainly, until I found the exit, marked by a sign. Outside, I found a set of stairs and a bus, stacked with people, waiting.

I barely had time to breathe in the amazing "After-Rain" smell, before a voice behind me said, "Hurry up!" Whirling I saw the irritable flight attendant, standing, formidable, at the exit. I squeaked in horror and ran down the steps, shuddering at the cold. I threw myself into the bus among the others and mumbled an apology to the annoyed passengers.

Standing in the packed bus, I held onto a pole, and stared out the window. The air was freezing; the clouds were solid, thick, and dark, dark gray. I shivered, glancing down at the outfit my mom had dressed me in. A dress. I sighed. She wanted me to make a good impression. I stared out, broodily, missing my parents, and thinking of how lonely Mom must be, by herself.

Then I brightened, remembering I had packed a mini long-sleeved cardigan, and a letter from my mom. It was cheesy, but sweet. She said that when I missed her, I should read it.

We stopped suddenly, and everyone rushed to the doors. I walked out last, new to the whole airport-travel thing. Digging in my bag, I pulled out my bright blue cardigan, the color clashing with my eyes, and the gray skies above me. I stared at the airport looming in front of me, excited. I tugged out my camera and snapped a picture of it, grinning. Stalking into the airport, I stuffed my camera away and pulled out my ticket. I read the gate number and put it away, too. According to the clocks posted all around, I still had an hour and a half until my flight.

I grimaced, not look forward to throwing up for nearly ten hours on my way to France. When I reached my gate, I found it packed. All of the seats were taken except for one next to a slouching figure. From the clothes and broad shoulders, I judged it to be male. I sat down and pulled my bag into my lap, tugging out the book I had wanted to read on the plane.