1
IVY
“Chicken or Fish?” My smile doesn’t waver even as a tremor rumbles through the plane, making everyone’s lowered trays shudder and clatter in their seats.
The passenger in seat 32D stares at me with wide eyes and clutches at her armrest. “Is now really the time for food?”
“It’s just a little turbulence, Ma’am, and the captain isn’t worried. There’s no cause for concern.”
“Maybe the captain needs his head checked,” grumbles the passenger next to us as he tightens his seatbelt around his waist. “This isn’t normal.”
“I can promise you both that a little turbulence is perfectly normal,” I assure them both with the same practiced smile. “It’s a pocket of rough air that we can’t avoid, but once we’re through to the other side, our flight will return to being as smooth as it was at take-off.” My attention slides back to 32D as a subtle burning ache forms in my lower back from my bent over posture. “So, would you like the chicken or the fish?”
She looks at me with a twisted mouth and a deep frown. “I can’t eat at a time like this!”
Another shudder rolls through the plane, testing my balance, and when I reach to grab the back of 33D for balance, 32D’s eyes widen.
“I knew it! This isn’t normal! We’re going to crash!”
“Ma’am, please calm down. I assure you that everything is in order and this turbulence really is natural. It’s like feeling the pull of a strong wind while driving or being out at sea and one wave crests higher than you expect. This is no different.”
She shoots me a withering look, clutching at her armrest for dear life. Luckily, no other tremors shake the plane and a few minutes of smooth flying finally calms her down. After assuring her once more that we’re in no danger, she finally chooses the chicken and an extra bread roll. It seems being scared really worked up her appetite.
I resume my walk down the aisle, repeating the question to every seat with a light on until the food cart I’m pushing is empty of everything except the vegetarian option. Something the passenger in seat 46D is very unhappy about.
“I paid the same ticket as everyone else on this damn plane,” he scolds gruffly, clutching an empty miniature in his left hand. “I should get the same options as everyone else and when I say I want fish, then you'd better damn well bring me fish!”
“You’re absolutely right, sir,” I say with the same fake smile that makes my cheeks throb. “Let me head back on up and I’ll see if there’s a fish there for you.”
“There'd better be,” he snaps, blinking owlishly up at me. “Or I’ll be lodging a complaint!”
“That is your right, sir. I’ll be right back.”
“It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
“I’ll be two minutes.” Clutching the trolley, I straighten up and subtly stretch each leg while wheeling the cart back up the plane toward the dining area, quietly praying that no one decides to steal my attention.
An eighteen-month training course and two years on a shitty airline finally led me to my dream position as part of the cabin crew on Alpine Airlines, but it wasn’t until I got here that I realized the passengers on an airline as expensive as Alpine are just as full of complaints as any other commercial airline. The beautiful uniforms and healthcare benefits almost aren’t worth the mix of entitled and just plain idiotic passengers.
“How was it?” Tasha, the other member of the crew in this section of the plane, flashes me a sympathetic smile when I come through the curtain.
“As expected. 32D can’t handle the turbulence and the man next to her in 32E is stoking the fire about the pilot’s abilities. 41H is pissed that I cut off his alcohol, and 46D is demanding fish.”
Tasha finishes laying out much more appetizing meals onto two gold trays and nods along. “There should be more fish in the back just there.” Her head jerks over her shoulder, causing the neat silver Alpine hairpin to unbalance from her tight bun.
“Let me.” I move forward and catch it, cupping her bun with one hand and sliding the hairpin back into place.
“Thanks.”
“I got you.” Ducking behind her, I open the cupboard and rummage through the leftover meals, but despite the number we have, there isn’t a single fish dinner left. “Damn. There’s no fish.”
“Are you sure?” Tasha turns to me, her pale brows knitting together. “Did we really run out already?”
“Looks like it.”
Tasha picks up the clipboard from my trolley, skims through it, and then gently edges past me to crouch down next to me. “Can you take those meals to the pilots for me?”
“Yes, of course. Do you think I miscounted?”
