that managed to be both unnecessarily friendly and unnecessarily rude.
“Uh, sorry.”
“And, ma’am?” the flight attendant asked. Emily realized her blanket was covering her seat belt, as well, and lifted the blanket to reveal that it was, in fact, fastened. Not that it would mean anything, if there were a terrorist on the plane. Why did anyone even check this? They should have been going around making eye contact with all the passengers to check for secret signs of nervousness, the way she once heard people did in Israel. Why didn’t she live in Israel? Her cousin Rebecca did Birthright in 2007 and kept going on about how the police presence “ruined the experience.” Of course, Rebecca was being stupid, because police were the only thing making the experience possible in the first place. Maybe if Emily lived in Israel, she’d feel safer. Except there would be a lot more threats in general—she wasn’t sure if the police presence outweighed the increase in threats.
“Thank you,” the flight attendant said.
“Oh, I have a question,” Emily said.
“Sure, ma’am.”
“Did you call me ma’am because you thought I was old, or because you say that to all women over the age of eighteen?”
She cocked her head. “I’m confused. Would you prefer something else?”
“I mean, I don’t prefer anything because it’s not like I’m going to be hanging out with you loads of times, but I just want to know what calculation went through your mind when you looked at me and thought, She’s a ma’am.” Emily could see David wincing out of the corner of her eye.
“Well, you’re an adult woman, so we say ma’am to be polite.”
“It’s not that polite, though. I mean, you obviously weren’t trying to be rude, but when I hear ma’am I don’t think the person is being respectful. I think my crow’s feet are showing and that I look forty.”
“Well, how old are you?”
“How old did you think I was?”
“I don’t know, thirty-two?”
“I assume you were rounding down not to offend me. You probably meant thirty-five or older. I’m twenty-eight. Thanks.”
The flight attendant looked like she was about to say something but thought better of it and walked off.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” David asked. “She thinks you’re a weirdo now. Why do you always do that? For the last time, you don’t look older than your age. Stop freaking out.”
“Everyone thinks I look older than my age. You only say that to flatter me, which, trust me, I appreciate. But this isn’t just my anxiety. You can attribute a lot of stuff to my anxiety but not this. Everyone agrees with me except for you.” Emily longed for the days when “I thought you were so much older” was a compliment. It was great when she was nine and trying to look grown-up, useful when she was eighteen and trying to buy alcohol, mildly annoying by the time she hit twenty-three and devastating now that she was twenty-eight. Worst of all, nobody else seemed to relate. Even people she thought looked terrible for their age loved to regale her with their arsenals of stories of how they were mistaken for fetuses when trying to see R-rated movies.
David shook his head. “It’s really not you. People are just terrible at guessing ages. The other day at LifeSpin, one of the new trainers asked me if I was there with a parent because you need to be eighteen to have a membership.”
“See? This is exactly what I mean. Everyone else gets guessed as younger. That never happens to me. I was actually offered a free Jazzercise class.”
“If you’re referring to JazzSweat, that’s not for older people. It’s actually super intense. They give you free cashew powder if you get through all six classes without passing out.”
“Sure. Fine. But that flight attendant definitely thought I looked old.”
“No, she didn’t. Even if she thought you were thirty-two, that’s, like, no different from twenty-eight. You’re freaking out over something so tiny. Even for you.”
“Okay. Full disclosure, I asked her that because I actually was offended by her use of the word ma’am but the good news is, she thinks I’m crazy, so now we don’t need to worry about her bugging us while I give you a hand job.”
“You’re actually going to do that?”
“After the safety demonstration.”
Emily
AT SOME POINT during her Benadryl-induced stupor, Emily had gotten chilly, stolen David’s heather gray sweatpants from his carry-on, and put them on underneath her dress. By the time they landed at JFK around seven in the morning, she was too tired, and still too cold, to remove them.
“I thought you said you needed to look good every day this week or it would be embarrassing,” David teased.
“Not now. I’m freezing. Why do they make planes that cold? And then they offer air-conditioning on top of that? When it’s negative a hundred degrees outside, why not offer adjustable heat dials instead of AC? I know why—because they’re sadists.”
“Let’s just get to your mom’s house. We’ll feel a lot better when we see Lauren, my biggest fan.”
“Are you still upset about that? I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s actually not a bad thing. I can finally stop pretending to like her.”
“So you didn’t like her before?”
“I didn’t really interact with her long enough to form an opinion. I saw her—what, once, that time in Brooklyn? We had lunch in that Americana dim sum place with the grilled cheese gyoza.”
Emily turned to David. “Be honest. Is there anyone else in my family you don’t like? I may even agree with you.”
“Same question to you.”
“I like your family.”
“Okay, same answer.”
“Except you don’t actually like them. Your family is a million times nicer than mine.”
“Yeah, my family seems great, but trust me when I say they can be annoying too. What about my brother?”
“Oh, well, I mostly meant your father.”
“He’s not perfect either, believe me.”
“Emily!”
She turned and saw a young woman with long curly brown hair, a wide friendly smile and a Muppet-like bouncy walk. Emily couldn’t place her at first but squinted and got a better look as she approached. Finally she recognized the ten-year-old frayed cross-body bag with the faux tribal stitching. It was Stephanie Morris,
