Jessica Khoury: Vitro

Sophie’s stomach rose and for a single moment she felt entirely weightless. Within seconds, she was looking straight ahead at the island instead of down at it; the plane seemed so close to the sea that she imagined she could reach down and drag her fingers through the water.

The plane began to jerk and shudder the lower they went, and Sophie gripped her seat and felt her stomach turn over, threatening to slosh up her breakfast. Jaw clamped tightly shut, Sophie trained her eyes on Jim, as if somehow she could will him to make the wind stop throwing itself against the plane. He must have noticed her discomfort, because he gave her a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry,” he said, rolling his shoulders as if he was on a casual stroll down the beach. “I can handle this.” “Then shut up and start handling it,” she said through her teeth.

Jim laughed. The plane tilted violently onto its side and for a moment, she was certain they would roll over and slam into the ocean. The grin on Jim’s lips slipped, and then she really began to feel nauseated.

“What’s wrong?” she shouted, resisting the urge to grab onto his arm and hang on for dear life.

“We’re fine!” he insisted.

The island rushed up to them. Too fast too fast, she thought, pressing into her seat with her eyes stretched wide and her heart pounding. Palms whipped past them, and suddenly there was a ribbon of tarmac unraveling below. The plane slammed onto the ground and Sophie was certain that was the end, it was over, she would die—but Jim was

laughing and saying, “See? No problem! That was easy as—” POP POP POP.

Something snapped, something Sophie knew was most likely not supposed to snap, and the plan went into a violent spin, skidding out of control across the pavement. She was thrown against the door, then against Jim, her seat belt cutting into her diaphragm and making it hard to breathe. Everything whirled around her as if she were caught in a giant blender, colors and shapes coalescing into a dizzying rush. An earsplitting screech sliced through her head, a thousand nails on a thousand chalkboards, or forks scraping china plates, so loud that she felt it vibrating in her teeth.

She felt Jim’s arms around her, holding her tightly against him, and she pressed herself into him and was so seized with terror that she couldn’t even manage a scream.

Though it felt like the crash dragged on in slow motion, it only lasted a few seconds before the plane ground to a stop, propped on its wing and nosing slightly upward. The propeller still spun in front of them, clawing at a sky it could not reach.

For a long moment, Jim couldn’t move. His arms were still locked around Sophie, who had her hands over her face. Her slim form trembled against him. She was utterly silent, and had been through the whole ordeal. He was dazed and shocked—the landing had been going perfectly, smooth as water over glass, and then . . . What? The runway was clear, but it felt as though they’d hit a boulder.

Carefully, Jim extricated himself from Sophie, keeping one hand on her shoulder. He gently pulled her hands away and found her staring blankly at nothing, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He shut off the plane and the propeller slowly wound down.

“Sophie?” He looked her in the eye, but sensed she couldn’t see him. “Sophie, are you okay?”

Slowly, her gaze focused on his. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and for a moment, he thought she might start hyperventilating. Hell, what do I do? He thought vaguely of a brown paper bag, but he didn’t have one and anyway, he didn’t see how that would help.

Thankfully, she seemed to gather herself. She pulled away and looked around. They both seemed more shaken than the plane was, though Jim would have to climb out and inspect the exterior before he could know how bad the damage truly was.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No,” she said, her voice wavering. “I don’t think so. You?”

“I’m fine. Come on, let’s get out. Be careful.”

She still seemed hazy, so he reached across her and opened her door, then clicked her seat belt off.

“If you wait, I’ll come around and help you.”

“No, I’m okay.” She slid out of the plane, dragging her backpack with her.

After he was sure she could stand on her own, Jim jumped out his side and gave the Cessna a quick once over. The underside of the floats were streaked and smelled of burning metal from where it had scraped across the pavement, and the wheels lay in four deflated puddles on the runway.

Jim stepped back, ran his hands through his hair, and let out a long, deep groan. Sophie stood beside him and stared at the damage.

“Can you . . . fix it?” she asked tentatively.

“The landing gear is trashed. Look at that—tires blew out, each one of them. No way.” He rubbed at his face and winced, looking up the runway. Maybe the cracks in the pavement were worse that he’d thought. “But the floats are still intact.” He dropped into a crouch to get a better look. The floats were dented and scraped and a bit loose, but if there were some way to get the plane into the water . . . She could do it. Maybe. He’d have to patch the holes in the floats and then do a complete engine check, to be sure there wasn’t any internal damage. The only other option would be to ask for help from Sophie’s mom, perhaps. There had to be a phone on the island, or some way he could contact his dad. He felt ill. Of all the places to be stranded . . . “Some holes in the floats. I’d have to patch it up.”

“How? There isn’t exactly an airplane shop around here.” She swept her hand, indicating their isolation.

“Duct tape,” he said.

Sophie raised one eyebrow. “Duct tape.”

“Oh, yeah. I use it for everything, and it’s never let me down.” He climbed back into the cockpit, dug through a compartment in the back, and emerged with three rolls in each hand. “See? The stuff is practically made of miracles.”

“Right.” Her tone was flat and skeptical.

Jim sighed and studied the damage, knowing that even with the tape, it would take a real miracle to get the plane back into the air.

Sophie was edgy, looking around and pacing to and fro, wondering where her mom was, Jim guessed. He pulled his eyes away from his plane. “See her?” he asked.

She shook her head and mechanically shrugged her backpack onto her shoulders and then stood still, staring around. From where they were, Jim could see the entirety of the little islet. Unlike its much larger neighbor, this island was mostly flat, composed of a thin scattering of palms, a lot of sand, and the airstrip. Tall grasses shimmered around them, bent by the salty wind, and old coconuts littered the ground.

Skin Island looked closer than it really was, rising out of the sea into a series of green peaks. It was probably too mountainous for an airstrip, which is why they’d used the smaller island, Jim reckoned. He knew Skin Island had once been a posh resort in the seventies and eighties, but had shut down for several years and fallen into disrepair. Then a group of scientists moved in and set up camp. They never seemed to use the airstrip, at least from what he could tell; the helicopters landed elsewhere. He’d never known anyone to ask questions about what went on there; people seemed to sense that whatever it was, it was best left alone. It was one of the few things his neighbors actually didn’t pry into. Jim had a running theory based on what he’d seen of the island communities in and around Guam—the smaller the island, the more time everyone spent in each other’s business. Half his neighborhood had known about his parent’s split before even he did. In fact, the morning his mom stormed out with all her belongings in two suitcases, there had been a crowd gathered to watch. They were all huddled in the neighbors’ yards, trying to be surreptitious and failing miserably, and Jim had refused to speak to any of them for months.