First World Problems

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

For the next week, I moped like a pro. I had never not gotten what I wanted. Of course, I broke up the moping here and there with calls and text messages to Dad, and even one to Vincent, hoping maybe he could talk some sense into our asshole father. None of them worked. None of my old tricks—not guilt, not whining, not manipulation, not blackmail, not even kissing ass—worked. Which was how I found myself, unbelievably, holding a ticket to Guyana in a busy airport exactly seven days after Dad and Anne had delivered my sentence.

I checked my bags and arrived with one huge Vuitton tote tucked under my arm at the gate just as the attendant announced they were boarding first class. Thank God I wouldn’t have to sit in one of those filthy airport seats. I handed my ticket to the attendant at the scanner, and she looked at it, then looked at me.

“I’m sorry, hon. We’re not boarding coach yet.”

I sniffed. “I know. I’m first class.” I enunciated the words. Clearly this girl was mentally slow.

She held her hand out for my ticket and examined it. “No,” she said, loud enough for the whole damn waiting area to hear, “you’re in coach.”

Poise and control, Sofia. Poise and control.

“That’s not possible. It’ll need to be changed.”

“I’m sorry, hon, but there are no more first class seats available.”

I restrained myself from punching this woman—why couldn’t anyone address me by my name anymore?—by pulling out my phone and texting Dad.

My tickets got messed up. They’re in coach. Can you get me on a new flight?

A few seconds later: There’s nothing wrong with your tickets. Flying coach is the least of the changes you’re about to experience. It’s a good way for you to get used to things.

My jaw dropped open. I understood that there might be tiny houses or whatever in Guyana, but at least I would have personal space there.

Coach wasn’t a change—it was barbaric. I snapped the phone off and tossed it with much more force than necessary to the bottom of my tote.

As soon as my second flight took off from Miami—realizing the flight wasn’t direct set off a whole new column of steam in the geyser building up inside me—I popped a handful of sleeping pills and tugged my satin sleep mask down over my eyes. I was glad I’d brought a good stash of sleeping pills—I was going to need to sleep through as much of this year as possible.

Beginning the descent to Georgetown, Guyana lifted my spirits before I realized it. Blue ocean stretched as far as the eye could see, and then, suddenly, sandy brown beaches with some craggy rocks rose up against it. Closer and closer, I noticed a church, a hotel, even a mall. If there was a mall here, the people of Guyana knew something about my world and shared some of my values: surrounding yourself with stuff is important and that stuff should be beautiful. Maybe I could even stop for some shopping on my way to the interior of Guyana so I could jazz up my room a little bit.

I shouldered my tote and stretched my legs, then lumbered down the aisle of the plane, sniffing at its worn carpet and tiny drop-down TVs. As I stepped off, the pilot smiled a bleached-white mouth full of perfect teeth and said, “Welcome to Guyana.” The only thing that would have made the arrival more peaceful would have been a hot guy putting a lei around my neck. Or bringing me a drink.

But that was the last moment of peace I would have. Instead of walking down a carpeted bridgeway into an air-conditioned airport lobby, the only way to go was down. Specifically, down the set of rickety metal rolling stairs I thought they only used in emergencies. Three carts stacked with luggage waited there with no attendant, so I started to look for mine. Relief rushed through me when I found my small Louis Vuitton rolling bag. The other two should be easy to find, especially amidst all the other bags. Most were cheap vinyl or canvas that showed obvious wear. I stuck my arm into the pile to move them aside, frowning when the back of my hand brushed a particularly dirty bag. But seconds after I found my second suitcase in the stack, a middle-aged man with the darkest skin I’d ever seen rushed up to me.