For Real(27)

I touch his shoulder. “Will, what’s the matter? Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?” There’s always one on board in movies, but does that happen in real life? Are there enough doctors to go around?

“Not sick,” Will whispers. “Just really hate flying.”

I’ve never seen somebody have a panic attack before, but this must be what it looks like. And as scary as it is to see him fall apart, I’m relieved that his sudden withdrawn attitude has nothing to do with me. As the plane starts picking up speed, Will makes a low, terrified sound in the back of his throat, and when the wheels leave the ground, he gasps and crumples in on himself. Very gently, I loosen his death grip on the armrest and give him my hand to hold instead. He clamps his fingers around mine so tightly it hurts, but I grit my teeth and let him squeeze. His fingers are ice-cold and sweaty.

“What can I do?” I ask. “Do you want some water? Should I get a flight attendant?”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to do but wait it out.”

“How long does it usually take for you to calm down?”

There’s a small bump in the air, and he gasps again. “Depends,” he says in a strained voice. “Sometimes half an hour. Sometimes more.”

“How are you going to do this race if you’re afraid to fly? We have to be on planes, like, every other—”

He winces. “Claire, you’re really not helping.”

Wow, I am officially the worst partner ever. “Sorry, sorry. Forget I said that. Maybe you could do deep-breathing exercises?” My fifth-grade teacher made us meditate together first thing every morning to “clear our minds and center ourselves,” and although I’ve always thought it was kind of stupid, maybe there’s something to it after all. I stroke the back of Will’s hand rhythmically with my thumb. “Here, try it. Close your eyes. Now breathe in through your nose for three counts, then out through your mouth for five.”

He tries it once, way too fast. “I feel really stupid.”

“No, you have to do it slowly. I’ll count with you, okay? In, two, three … Out, two, three, four, five. Good, that’s it. Again. In, two, three …”

I coach him through a couple minutes of slow breathing, and by the time the plane levels off, Will’s grip around my hand is starting to loosen. A bit of color has returned to his face, and a proud little voice in the back of my mind shouts, I did that!

“You’re looking better,” I say.

“I feel better. Thank you so much.”

“Of course,” I say. “Now that you know what to do, the rest of the flights should be easier, even if I’m not with you.” The thought of him holding some other girl’s hand as he tries to calm down makes me feel a bit sick, but I try not to show it.

“Keep distracting me,” he says. “Ask me a question or something.”

I’d really like to know more about Prawn Fork Girl, but that doesn’t seem like an appropriate topic. “What’s NYU like?” I ask instead.

“Not that kind of question. Something fun.”

“Oh. Okay.” I scour my brain for something Will might find clever. “Um, if you could choose a superpower, what would you pick?”

He doesn’t hesitate even for a second. “The ability to transform things into cheese.”

I laugh. “What? Cheese? Wouldn’t you rather be invisible or something?”

“No, think about it. I could turn toxic waste into cheese and solve the pollution problem and hunger problem at the same time. And I could turn trash into cheese and sell it, so I’d be filthy rich. Plus, I’d always have a snack.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?”

“Well, duh. Who hasn’t?” He smiles at me, and I see that his color is almost back to normal. “What would yours be?”

“Teleportation. My town is super boring, and I’d love to be able to pop over to Thailand for lunch or something and be back in time for calculus class.”

“Ooh, that’s a good one. And you’d win the race for sure.”

“I wouldn’t even need to do the race. I could just teleport into a bank vault, grab a million dollars, and zip back home.” He laughs. “Okay, your turn for a question.”

“Say we get off the plane in Surabaya and the airport’s full of zombies. What’s your survival plan?”

I love how effortlessly creative he is. “All I’d really have to do is run faster than you, right?” I say.

“Good luck with that. I did track in high school. I’m super speedy.”

“Well, in that case, my plan is to hop on your back and kick you until you speedily carry me to safety. Maybe Greg would let me use his camera as a weapon. Seems like it would be good for bashing in zombie heads.”

“I doubt you could even lift that thing. You probably weigh, like, forty-seven pounds.”

“I’m not that small!”

“You’re minuscule!”

“Then you shouldn’t mind me riding you.” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I feel my face turning bright pink. “Please tell me I didn’t say that out loud.”

Will smirks at me. “You want to ride me, huh?”