Girl on a Plane by Miriam Moss

down the stone stairwell.

18
Revolutionary Airstrip, Jordan—​0900h
    When I wake again, I’m slumped sideways in my seat with the pattern of the material printed on my cheek. My neck and shoulders have seized up. When I move, I feel like I might crack in half. It’s warmer now, thank God, and everyone seems to be awake.
    What must I look like? I try running my fingers through my hair, but it’s far worse now, really thick with tangles. How stupid to forget to bring a brush. It’s always so matted in the mornings. When I was little Marni would spend ages trying to brush the knots out and, to distract me from the tugging, would say that the fairies had been dancing in it again in the night. And I’d feel proud to have been chosen by them.
    â€œNice hairdo.” David’s grinning face appears over the top of the seat behind me.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œI thought beehives had gone out.”
    â€œEr . . .” I nod at his hair.
    â€œIt’s the new look,” he says. “Wild Hostage. Tim hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet, have you, Tim?” Tim pops his head up. “He’s still sporting the Prep School: a practical cut that stays put in extreme situations.” Tim’s expression is so impish, he’d look perfect sitting on a toadstool.
    David nods at my window. “You seen out there yet?”
    â€œNo . . .” I shift over and look. “Blimey!”
    Fifty yards from the plane are hundreds of reporters sitting on the sand, surrounded by all their stuff: camera bags, lenses, tape recorders, microphones, folding ladders, TV booms . . .
    â€œYes, the world’s press has arrived!” David says ceremoniously.
    â€œWhat do you think they’ll do?” I ask.
    â€œTake pictures?” he suggests.
    Tim’s eyes light up. “So we’ll be allowed off?”
    â€œI doubt it,” David says. “After all, we might make a run for it.”
    There’s a brief moment while we all consider the possibility, then discard it.
    â€œHow did you sleep?” David asks.
    â€œDreadfully.” I yawn. “Tried under the seats too.”
    â€œI might try that tonight,” he says. “Is there room for two down there?”
    I roll my eyes. “There’s hardly room for one.”
    â€œHey! Look,” Tim says. “Something’s happening.”
    We crowd around the windows. A tall man wearing traditional dress—​a long, crisp white cotton
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and a black and white keffiyeh—​walks out from under the plane holding a loudspeaker. He stops directly in front of the crowd of reporters and raises his hand, waiting for silence. Then he starts addressing the reporters, who either listen intently, film him, or take notes.
    â€œWish we could hear what he’s saying,” David says, exasperated.
    â€œI know, it’s really annoying. It sounds blurry, like we’re in a fishbowl.”
    â€œGod,” he says, “we’re always the last to know everything.”
    After a few minutes, the man leaves, and the reporters stand and brush themselves down. They start collecting their things, shifting into groups. Some stay talking to each other; others file toward our plane and form a line by the ladder.
    At the front, the captain gets to his feet and addresses us. “Good morning, everyone,” he says. “I hope your night wasn’t too uncomfortable. As you can see, we’ve got visitors. I’ve been asked to tell you all to stay seated while they come aboard to interview some of us and take film footage for TV. Please be as helpful as you can. We need the rest of the world to know what’s happening here. This may very well help to secure our freedom.”
    Behind him, the Giant puts down his gun and goes to help the first reporter up into the plane. He’s a large, plump man with a shock of white hair, wearing a crumpled khaki safari