Today's Reading
Dylan tugs my sleeve, and we walk toward the gate agent. She scans my boarding pass and mumbles, "Enjoy the flight," and I thump down the long, echoing ramp to the largest private jet I've ever seen. Dylan's parents own one—a Gulfstream, I think—and I've flown on it a couple of times with him and Nikki, but it only seats twenty.
Nothing like this plane. Engines on the wings, white exterior, with THE BONHOMME FOUNDATION painted in ginormous blue letters between two rows of windows.
Yes, two rows. Apparently, the foundation is loaded. The upper row stretches all the way to the tail, like the Flying Palace—the huge plane that rich guy owns in the Middle East.
At the bottom of the ramp, the blond flight attendant I saw earlier stands to one side of the open plane door, only now she's wearing a cap to match her suit and a gold name tag that reads JENNIFER O'CONNOR. Her face is molded into the perfect professional smile, and she extends one hand toward the open door like we're filming a TV commercial.
"Welcome," she says. "Please enter and turn right to head aft, which means toward the tail."
Not kidding—my eyes nearly pop out of my face when I cross the threshold into the plane. Behind me, Dylan lets out a gasp that falls somewhere between Who is this freaking rich? and Where do I get one?
We're standing in a literal entryway. Dylan, who's pushing six feet, doesn't have to duck. And instead of being dark and cramped and plasticky, like you'd expect on an airplane, light bounces at me from every angle. A crystal chandelier hangs over a pedestal holding a vase of fresh-cut flowers. The floral scent helps mask the smell of stale recirculated air and jet fuel. Beside the vase sits a gold mesh basket full of cream-colored envelopes. Mirrors line the walls, and every surface that isn't crystal or mirrored is gilded.
A staircase sweeps upward through the glitter to the second level. It's hard to see what's up there, but I'd guess access to the flight deck. Maybe also space for the staff, or private quarters for the foundation's CEO. Will he be on the plane? The thought terrifies and excites me at the same time. I've only seen him on the videos our headmaster showed to introduce the competition prior to taking the first round of qualifying exams. Sir Robert Hamlin, British expatriate living in Paris, benefactor of humanity.
If he wants to share some of his excessive resources with me, I won't complain.
At the base of the stairs, another flight attendant stands beside an open door leading to the right. She's younger than the blond one, maybe late twenties, with shiny black hair and deep-brown skin. "Right this way, please. Straight through the entertainment salon, and on to the guest seating."
We pass through a short corridor with a coat closet on the left and a lavatory on the right, and then I nearly collide with the boy in front of me, who's standing with his mouth open in the entrance to the next compartment.
"Sorry," he says. "It's hard not to stare." He's shorter than me, but with his ruffled dark hair, his brown skin, and his wide grin, he's cute. In fact, everyone here is rather attractive. Did they factor in our appearance? Maybe because the winner will have so many publicity events for the foundation?
I'm guessing he must be Amir, the tech genius and the youngest competitor. Another person who could be a real advantage on a team.
The girl in front of him turns to flash a wide smile at both of us, her curly black hair swishing across her shoulders. A pair of gold eyeglasses complements her brown skin and frames her eyes, and a tiny diamond sparkles on one side of her nose. "I can't believe we're here!" she says. She must be Taylor, the one who loves theater and singing. If the gray-and-blue tartan skirt matching Amir's tie didn't give it away, her silky, resonant voice would. Her vibrant yet polished manner is going to be hard to match if we're evaluated on public speaking.
So far, I'm losing to Simon and Amir on brains, and Taylor for interview skills. Then there are all the athletes . . .
Who, exactly, do I have a shot at beating? A band tightens around my chest.
Behind me, Dylan lets out low whistle. "Get a load of this place," he murmurs, so close he's practically breathing in my ear. His nearness sends a tremor zigzagging down my back, which I attempt to hide by hoisting my bag strap a little higher on my shoulder. I take another step to put some distance between us.
A giant flat-screen TV fills the bulkhead wall next to us, and the rest of the space holds a tasteful assortment of cream-colored seating and wooden side tables. Along the back wall, a smaller screen hangs above shelves full of books and board games. It looks remarkably homey, for an airplane. Certainly better than a Subaru Outback.
I cross the compartment to the far side, where the other bulkhead conceals two sliding doors into the next section. Finally, we've reached something that resembles a traditional airplane, albeit maybe the first-class section. Between the two bulkheads stand three rows of seats, six in each row. Two aisles separate the seats into pairs, and overhead bins wait to receive our carry-on bags.
A third purple-clad flight attendant, this one with light brown hair, directs us to choose seats. Taylor and Amir stuff backpacks into the bins in the center of the last row. I glance back at Dylan. "Where do you want to . . . ?"
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