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Seat 34B. Almost all of my flights are on my dad’s private jet. I rarely fly commercial and when I do, it’s in first class where the rows are usually single digits. “This can’t be right,” I say. “Do planes even have this many seats?”
I consider pulling this trench coat over my head and hiding the moment I see her face. The eye roll, the snarl, the something-smells-like-shit expression. It’s another one of those times when I come across like a total privileged asshole and don’t realize it. I’m usually better at being aware of these moments and remember to say exactly the opposite of what I’m thinking.
It’s why I want to do this internship on my own in New York this summer. I need to experience a life less sheltered than the one I have in Korea. I hate being so privileged that I don’t even have the basic understanding of how people do things and behave in certain situations. It’s like I’m from another planet sometimes. And though every person in Korea knows of the Lee family of Haneul Corp—we’re considered chaebol, the wealthiest and most connected of families, after all—I doubt anyone even knows or cares about that here in America.
“Security check-in is to the left.”
I nod and smile, though I’m sure it’s lost behind my mask. Well, as my dad always says, “If they’re not gonna be important to you later, they don’t need to be important to you now.”
Wow, come to think of it, that motto’s a lot dickier than I ever realized. If I’m not careful, those kinds of thoughts are gonna stick and I’ll turn into the junior version of Chairman Lee Jung-Hyun after all.
I can’t control the shiver of horror. I’m terrified that it could become a reality.
I put my passport back into my backpack and head toward security.
The line zigzags back and forth for as far as I can see. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many people at an airport before. Where are they all going at the exact same time?
I eventually get to the front and hand my ticket over to the stern-faced worker seated there.
“Lower your mask,” she says without inflection.
I pull my mask down and try another of those “look, I’m just like everyone else” smiles on for size.
She barely spares a glance at me before looking back down at my ID, nods, and waves me into yet another long line of impatient people. I’m not quite sure why they’re all taking off their shoes, removing jackets, placing everything in dirty gray bins. But I just follow their lead.
It suddenly occurs to me that all of this might be my dad’s form of punishment for my less-than-enthusiastic reaction to the summer job. It would be just like him to book me a trip that any average person would take rather than that of a Korean chaebol, foreign royal, or K-pop star.
Well, that’s fine with me. I’m in no hurry. I can stand in line with everyone else. In fact, I enjoy being just like anyone else with no special treatment. I pop my earbuds in and turn up my SEVENTEEN playlist, waiting for my turn to go through security machines.
It’s not like this plane is going to leave without me, right?
I’m dripping in sweat and gasping for air by the time I reach the gate. I was putting my Jordans back on at the security screening when the first announcement of my flight’s boarding came over the intercom. By the time the final announcement was made, I was still twenty gates away. I started to run.
I’m going to murder my stylist for putting me in this black wool trench coat during summer in LA.
I hand my boarding pass to the attendant who beeps me in and hurries me down the jet bridge. I step on the plane just as they close the doors behind me.
I walk down the narrow aisle passing the unhappy faces of basically every passenger on this plane. My eye catches on a girl in row four, her long black hair tied up in a messy bun, bangs cut slightly crooked. I notice her wide-eyed and smiling out the window. She couldn’t be more out of place. I doubt anyone else on this plane is smiling.
What makes someone that happy?
After the first few rows, the aisle gets even narrower and the faces unhappier. I almost stop in my tracks at what I see.
How can so many people be piled in like sardines into the back of this airplane? This flight is over five hours long. People of all sizes, mothers holding crying babies, others fanning themselves with the airplane’s brochures, and not a glass of champagne or pillow in sight.
I keep walking, finally reaching the back of the plane and row thirty-four, seat B. The only empty spot is the one in between a man who looks like he may be training for Olympic weightlifting, and a very tall Asian guy about my age whose one leg is jammed up against the seat in front of him and the other straightened out into the aisle.
I point to the empty seat next to him. “Um, that’s me,” I say.
He frowns but unbuckles his seat belt and stands up to let me through. I take a moment to figure out if it’s even possible for me to get past, and if I should scootch in facing toward him or facing away. I choose the latter. I’d rather risk an awkward ass rubbing than an almost kiss with a stranger.
I squeeze my way through and collapse into my chair, my knees hitting the one in front of me. “Sorry,” I say to the back of a head. I push my backpack under the seat at my feet and tuck my elbows in since the passengers on both sides of me have draped their own arms over each armrest. I’m sweating like crazy and all I want to do is take off my coat. But there’s no way. I can’t even move an inch.
Okay, Dad, you win. Lesson learned.
I press the button to lean my seat back but realize there’s a wall behind me blocking it. Great. I knew my dad was a tyrant, but this is crueler than I ever imagined.
This is going to be a very long flight. But I can survive five hours in a cramped seat that doesn’t recline with the chemical odor of the bathroom wafting in the air.
