Book #3 in the Medley Series
ZEKE MITCHELL:
With the World Championship in swimming approaching and our medley team in better condition than ever, nothing can stop us.
Expect, as the season starts, an old injury rears its ugly head again, potential...
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I am not going to vomit on this plane.
Especially not in the lap of the seemingly nice lady in the aisle seat. Even if her pleated skirt is an affront to fashion.
The little screen in front of me informs me we'll be landing in less than half an hour. I grip the armrest so firmly that my nails dig into the plush material, trying to breathe through the mounting panic.
Why did I think I could do this?
"Are you okay?" Pleated Skirt Lady asks me, head cocked to the side. It's the first time we've spoken since leaving Amsterdam, my connecting flight from Julius Nyerere International Airport.
I nod because I'm afraid I'll projectile puke all over her if I open my mouth. Her lips tilt and she gives me an unconvinced look. Her skin is tanned, and her blonde hair is almost white from sun exposure like she's spent two weeks lying on some beach in Zanzibar.
Oh, why aren't I heading to Zanzibar?
"Afraid of flying?" she goes on.
It's a fair question. I've spent the past nine hours completely stiff in my seat, every muscle in my body tensed. My pinkie is cramping, and a nerve in my right eye keeps twitching. I must look positively freaked out.
I am, but not because of the airplane. In the past six years, I expect I've been on upwards of thirty planes. Maybe more? I'm not afraid of heights, almost the opposite. There's something about looking down at the ground from a plane window that makes everything more manageable.
Like my dreams and people's expectations of me and all the ways those two things happen not to coincide is a little less all-consuming.
Except, as I glance down through the receding cloud coverage and get my first peek at Michigan, I feel far from calm, and my problems nowhere near manageable.
I shake my head, wondering if Pleated Skirt Lady will assume I'm mute, when in fact, I'm having a stern conversation with my gag reflex. I will not throw up.
Shit.
She tilts her head to the side for a second before her eyes widen. "Is it your first time in the US?" she asks, her voice raised and slower like she suspects I might not understand her. Or speak English.
I plaster a smile on my face, deciding to risk the vomit express - who cares if I ruin her skirt? "No," I say, mimicking her tone. "I was born there. Here."
And haven't been back for six years, but who's keeping count?
"Oh." Pleated Skirt Lady seems at a loss for words, which is fortunate since I have no more mental capacity for this conversation. I turn my attention back to the screen in front of me.
Twenty minutes till we touch ground in the States.
I'm going to be sick.
I've been on edge for the past week, and when I woke up yesterday morning, I was so nauseous I couldn't even eat breakfast. Which is a damn shame because breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. My shangazi had made a whole spread of fresh fruit and chapati, and I only managed a few bites.
