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At least I’m not heading home to Korea to face a summer working with my dad. If this is as bad as it gets, I’ll be okay. I’m tougher than he thinks.
But, if I had known then how much worse this summer would get, I would never have gotten on this plane.
3
jessica
I’ve never flown first class before and the difference is remarkable. I have enough room in my seat to tuck my legs up under my blanket and relax. I didn’t want to be a burden to the flight attendant, but since she comes around asking regularly if I want anything to drink, I try each of the different kinds of juices they have stocked on board: orange, apple, cran-apple, grapefruit. Which makes having a bathroom for just the first-class cabin, one that rarely has a line, super convenient.
It’s best not to get too used to it all, though.
I’m not sure what’s gotten into my dad to make such an extravagant purchase. We’re not first-class people. We’re most definitely of the economy, nonrefundable, every-restriction-possible variety. But maybe he’s feeling guilty for being so resistant to the internship in the first place. Maybe it’s his way of telling me he’s proud of me. I swallow back the lump in my throat just thinking about it.
The email from Haneul’s Internship Coordinator, Mira Im, mentioned that a shuttle would be waiting to take all the interns to our accommodations. After landing, I look up all the other interns’ flights and calculate that I’ll likely have to wait about two hours for the rest of the cohort to arrive from their respective cities. I could explore all the sights and sounds of Newark Liberty Airport, but I’m just too tired and don’t want to get lost. So I decide to search for the shuttle driver and wait it out.
When I make my way down the escalator to the arrivals area, I look for anyone holding a Haneul Corporation sign as instructed. What I don’t expect to see while scanning the group of men dressed in black holding various different signs is a tablet screen held up reading “Lee Yoo-Jin.”
I shake my head and do a double take. Yes, that’s my name. But that driver can’t possibly be just for me. Why would I have a separate driver?
But who else would it be for? My name is right there. My face stretches into a smile. Haneul Corp is going all out for their interns. Nice. My dad has always complained about this company. How they never respect his hard work, or anyone’s for that matter. But maybe he’s just grouchy and exaggerating. I feel like they’re giving me the royal treatment. And if they treat their interns like this, it’s a pretty good sign that it’s a great place to work.
“Hi,” I say, trying to put on my most confident smile. “That’s me.” I point to his tablet. “Lee Yoo-Jin. Would you like to see some ID? My American name is Jessica Lee but all my IDs still list me as Yoo-Jin Lee, my Korean name, so I’m sure they’ll validate that I’m who you’re here to pick up. I also have the address of the accommodations if you want me to show you that as well. But I’m guessing you already know where we’re going. At least I hope so. This is my first time in New York City and I would be useless in helping direct you. Though, I could type the destination into Google Maps if you’d like me to help navigate.”
The handsome driver’s face remains blank as he stares at me. I think I’ve stunned him. It wouldn’t be the first time. He nods once and reaches for my Coach tote.
“Oh, um, I can carry this,” I say, holding on tightly to the straps. “I, um, checked a bag as well.”
“Baggage Claim is over here,” he says gruffly. I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings. It’s awfully nice of him to want to carry all my stuff, but the most important things like my wallet, phone, and paperwork are in this bag. It’s safest if it stays with me at all times.
He starts to walk briskly toward the carousels. It’s like he’s gaining speed with each step and my short little legs struggle to keep up. I focus on picking up the pace...
...and run right into a human wall.
“Oof, sorry,” I say as I watch the entire contents of my bag spill to the ground in slow motion, and a searing pain shoots up my arm. Ouch, that’s gonna leave a mark.
I drop to my knees and start grabbing anything and everything off the floor, trying not to think about how many feet, many of which have just come out of public bathrooms, have walked this ground.
The worst horror imaginable is having the world see what one decides to put in their bag for travel. Well, I’m sure I can actually imagine worse horrors, but in this moment, this is what I’ve got.
I stuff my wallet, my travel-sized hand sanitizer, two granola bars, an extra pair of socks, my knockoff brand AirPods, and the ginseng candy I hate but my mom insists I keep for any and all ailments ranging from indigestion to the flu back into my purse. That would leave just...
Why is it when you’re about to face the most humiliating moment in your life, everything slows down to super slo-mo? It’s like life just wants you to never forget how very embarrassing this moment is going to be. You know, that moment when you glance over at the black Nike gym shoes, track upward to the perfectly torn knees of the slim-fit black jeans, and finally, to an outstretched hand...holding your in-case-of-emergency extra pair of undies.
Or is it just me?
I grab them quickly and jam my hand into my purse. “Watch where you’re going,” I try to say curtly. But it comes across instead like I’m about to cry. Come to think of it, I just might die of embarrassment here and now and that surely will be accompanied by some tears.
“Sorry,” a voice says. I expected something deeper from a man in all black. Apparently all-black means Darth Vader in my mind. But the voice is surprisingly soft, melodic. I squeeze my eyes shut for one breath, wishing for this day to start over. Maybe just from after we got off the plane since I wouldn’t want to miss out on the first-class experience.
Then I open my eyes and brave a glance.
I pull back in surprise as I recognize him as the guy from the airport back in LA. The international jewel thief. Renowned con artist. Rude to his mother. Damn, hedoessmell good.
“I was distracted and not paying attention to where I was going,” he says. He reaches out his hand—did he even retract it after offering me back my undies (ohmigod)? I stare at his long fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Maybe not a jewel thief, since these hands have clearly never scaled the wall of a Sotheby’s or meticulously tried to crack open a safe ever. These are the hands of someone definitely rich and pampered. Not a hangnail or callus in sight.
I look up into his eyes. They’re the only things I can see between the black of his ball cap and the black of his face mask. They’re warm, smiling eyes, with eyelashes that look as long and thick as a camel’s.
So, I’m never gonna be a poet, okay?
