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Then I realized I’d been awake for almost twelve hours without a single morsel of food and it would be another two hours before I could find any.

As it turns out, I . . . have considerably less pride than one might imagine.

Yeah. Went there.

When I relayed this story to Stacey after the fact, I explained my actions by referencing the reality show
The
Colony
.

“You’re saying that TV encouraged you to eat dog food?” Stacey asked. As part of my policy of saying yes, we were having lunch at The Bagel. Apparently my story impacted her enough to cause her to set down her Reuben.

“No,” I replied. “Well, actually, yes, a little bit. See, the premise was that the Colonists were in a postapocalyptic world and this diverse group of people, each with very specific skills, like mechanics and nurses and engineers, had to find a way to build a vehicle that would take them to safety.”

“I never heard of the show. Is it like
Survivor
only where everyone is smart instead of hot?”

I nodded and dunked my crisp, salty French fry in a puddle of cool ranch dressing. If America had a flavor, this combination is exactly what it would taste like. Mmmm, patriotism!

I’d been back only a couple of days and I was still making up for the trip’s caloric deficit. I had a wonderful stay once I landed, with really lovely hosts devoted to a worthy cause. However, I was so busy with the various charitable events the entire time, either giving speeches or signing books or Enlightening Tomorrow’s Leaders, that I barely had a minute to ingest anything, let alone find and savor me some grits. (Praise be for carry-on Biscoff.)

I chewed thoughtfully before answering her. “Basically, yes. Thing is, everyone understood they were on a reality show, but they were encouraged to
believe
the false circumstances, and after a bunch of simulated attacks and positively grim living conditions, their fantasy really seemed like reality.”

Stacey nods affably. “Ergo, you ate dog food. Makes perfect sense.”

“You’re going to be so embarrassed when I get to my point. You’re gonna be all,
‘Jen, you are actually kind of brilliant.’
”

“Undoubtedly.”

My sarcasm detector was pinging but I went on anyway. “These guys were stuck in this New Orleans warehouse in an area that was never fixed after being devastated by Katrina. The producers had planted useful items here and there within a mile of where they were, but some of the stuff they scavenged was simply what was left when the area was abandoned. It was amazing to see them build combustion engines out of nothing but junk.”

“That actually doesn’t sound like complete Bravo nonsense,” Stacey admitted. Although we both love all things Bravo, we’re
aware that it’s ridic. Case in point, I’m extraordinarily volatile, and yet I’ve never once flipped a table or yanked a bitch’s weave.

Stacey was having a potato pancake with her sandwich. I watched as she delicately spread thin layers of sour cream and applesauce on her bite, which seemed kind of wrong. And yet, I was the one who ate dog food, so I didn’t share my musing.

I deliberately chewed another fry before I continued. “Right? Anyway, this old physicist found a few tins of cat food and after so many days starving, he relished the opportunity to eat them. Everyone asked him,
‘Does it taste like chicken?’
and he laughed and said no, it was more like low-grade tuna, but he was so hungry that to him, it was delicious. And that is what was in my head when I found the dog food.”

“Was the dog food delicious?”

I tried not to retch at the memory. “Oh, God, no, it was pretty horrible. Grainy. Bitter. Left an oily residue in my mouth, too. I guess I have different taste buds from the dogs, because they seem to love it.”

Despite having lived in Chicago her whole life, Stacey can dole out the super-Southern-bless-your-heart-slow-blink like she’d been raised by the O’Hara clan at Tara herself. “Your dogs also love the taste of tossing their own salads.”

“True. Plus, I had a tummy ache for the next three days, but I don’t know if it was because I didn’t have time to eat while I was there or if it was the kibble. Maybe it was the stir-fry?”

Stacey blotted her lips with a paper napkin. “Do me a favor?”

“Of course!” I quickly agreed.

“When you tell everyone the story of eating dog food—and I guarantee you will—be sure you include the TV part, too.”

“Because it makes more sense that way, right? Like, it was a good rationale,” I said, pleased to have convinced her of my great pragmatism.

“Yeah,” Stacey said, “let’s go with that.”

“And the dog food? Wasn’t even the funniest bit!”

Stacey places her hand over mine to reassure me. “Don’t sell yourself short, peanut. It’s plenty funny.”

“No, see, I had to go Enlighten Tomorrow’s Leaders while I was there. The charity had me talking to a couple of groups of high school kids as part of their community outreach. An English class, I think. Anyway, I had a whole lesson plan devised, but the kids were not into what I had to say, like, at all. I thought they’d dig me because the Purdue thing went so well, but no. Not the same. I kept telling these kids that their moms would love me, but apparently, not a selling point.”

“This is brand-new information to you?”

“Actually, yes. See, I thought they’d participate and answer my questions and we’d all leave, believing we’d learned something from one another. I was all set to
Stand and Deliver
, but really I was more
Bad Teacher
. I figured I could fill the fifty minutes, but no. Not even a little. Twenty minutes in, I’d breezed through all my points and then we were all sort of looking at one another in this really fancy private school theater.”

Stacey began her career as an educator and was already familiar with the fact that kids will not give you an inch. “Awkward.”

“I’ll say. You know how I get that nervous talking thing?” Stacey flinched and nodded, having witnessed this firsthand on a number of occasions. “I ended up babbling about all kinds of stuff—like, telling the kids how I flunked out of college and how I lost my job and had my car repossessed and how forty girls in my high school got knocked up my senior year because there was no Planned Parenthood in Huntington County in the 1980s. My plan was to tie all these stories into a redemptive arc about not giving up, also contraception, but then the bell rang and they all left believing my life was a country music song.”

She clamped her hand over her eyes in a show of secondhand
shame. “How many sets of parents would you estimate called the school later that night? Five?”

“That’s my best guess,” I admitted. “But that’s not the bad part.”

“Sweet Jesus.” She slow-blinked again.

“I had another class come in. And this time, they weren’t a bunch of quiet freshmen. These kids were all seniors and some of them seemed into having me there—they’d even read my books, so I really wanted to be able to connect with them. Drop some knowledge bombs, yo.”

Stacey sipped her diet black cherry soda and slow-blinked some more. “Really, LL Cool Jen? Do continue.”

(Sidebar: I admit BackSpin is becoming unduly influential.)

“I wanted them to take something away from the experience. Like, teaching the youth of America something useful could be my legacy. Years from now, one of them could win the Pulitzer and during his acceptance speech, he’d say that a chick lit writer who visited his English class back in 2014 inspired him. Let’s be honest—that’s the closest I’m coming to any Pulitzer who isn’t Lilly.”

I took a bite of my tomato and bacon–enhanced grilled cheese, again pleased at the opportunity to savor something that nine out of ten veterinarians hadn’t recommended.

I continued. “Having learned from my last class, I decided to prompt participation by calling on them. Had ’em all go around the room and tell me something about themselves.”

“Which killed two minutes.” Stacey blotted a stray bit of Thousand Island with a paper napkin.

“That’s two minutes I didn’t blather, so, victory. As we were talking, I noticed this group of six kids sitting in the back, giggling and grab-assing. They struck me as ringleaders and I decided I’d need to keep my eye on them.”

“They were the John Hughes movie villains?
‘What about prom, Blane? What. About. Prom?’
” Stacey banged the table for emphasis, causing our drinks to ripple.

“Exactly. When it came their turn to talk, I noticed most were sucking out of sport water bottles. Didn’t read too much into it, assuming they’d just come from doing some rich-kid sport, like lacrosse.”

“Perhaps they were playing polo or racing their Ferraris.”

“Right? But then one of the girls held up her lidded paper cup when it was her turn to speak. I could hear the ice rattle and she exclaimed, ‘I like coffee!’ and then cracked herself up. That seemed odd. As I talked, they kept interrupting and trying to go off on nonsensical tangents. That’s when I realized,
these kids are fucked-up
.”

“As in troubled? As in poor James Spader who could buy anything he wanted, save for Molly Ringwald’s love?”

“As in
full of booze
. They were day-drinking! Think about it. They were seniors at a private school, minutes away from graduation, all enrolled in college—they didn’t care about rules because they’re at the age where they believe they’re invincible.”

She grinned at the familiarity of this story. “Sometimes I miss the high school kids I used to teach and . . . sometimes I don’t.”

I shifted in my seat, reflecting on how very awkward the whole scene was. “Clearly they were new at drinking in class, seeing how they were terrible at it. But it was obvious and disruptive and I was pissed at their level of disrespect. I thought,
‘I ate dog food to come here and interact with you little shits.’
Uncool. Sure, I screwed up the first hour, but I was ready to kill it in the second. I was getting my redemptive arc, damn it, and I was not about to let the gin-soaked Plastics throw me off my game.”

(Sidebar: My streak of referencing
Mean Girls
in every book I’ve ever written is also intact.)

“Devil’s advocate here—how can you be sure they were drinking? That’s a hefty accusation.”

“Stacey, I was in college for
eleven years
. Trust me, I know what drinking in class looks like. The ice was a dead giveaway.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Point taken. You say anything?”

“Hell, yes, I said something! I go, ‘
Are you guys cocktailing back there?’
And just like that, these six smug little bastards went pale, suddenly realizing the potential consequences of their actions. Busted.”

“Did the teachers intervene?”

“No, at that point I’d already lost all credibility with the grown-ups in the room, but
I
knew. That was enough. I suspect I put enough fear in them that they won’t do it again, though. So I added
scare kids straight
to my bucket list.”

“Does it count when you retroactively add something you’ve already accomplished to your list?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a true American hero.”

“Damn skippy. Someone should carve my face on a mountain in a national park. Hey, did you know that Mount Rushmore isn’t a natural formation?”

“I feel like I should be concerned that you didn’t.” She took another small bite of her potato pancake, dabbing a bit of stray applesauce from her lip. “So, what’s your takeaway from all of this? What was the big announcement you wanted to make when you invited me to lunch?”

“My takeaway is . . . I’m upgrading to Business Class on my flight to Rome! I figured if I’m going to be stuck on a plane for an undisclosed amount of time, I should at least be able to recline.”

“Sometimes you’re a genius,” she said, before quickly amending her statement. “Not about geography, though. You know you’ll be flying over water this time, right?”

“Sort of?”

And so that’s why I’m now here, crowding the gate, waiting
to steamroll my way to my very first international Business Class seat.

Sorry I’m not sorry.

•   •   •

When I board the plane, the flight attendant instructs me to cut through the galley to get over to the left side of the plane. I crane back to see if there’s a curtain on the other side, but I can’t actually tell if there’s a First Class section on this flight or not. If it’s here, it’s hidden, which is kind of badass. They don’t need to mix with the hoi polloi that is us. So I make my way back to 5G.

I’d hoped this was to be one of those two-story planes, but no such luck. Stacey said she flew on one once and it was glorious, so perhaps I’ll add that to my list at some point. (Again, retroactively counts.) Yet because this is such a special experience and since I waited so long in my life to do this, I don’t want my thoughts muddied by wishing for something else in the middle of what’s already a dream coming true. I just want to be in the moment.

I’m immediately taken out of the moment when an angry old lady with a battleship gray perm rams her plaid carry-on into my spleen as I lift my own bag into the overhead compartment. And she’s not sorry she’s not sorry. I guess I’m not proceeding quickly enough for her and she huffs with rage at having to wait for me to get out of her way. Listen, Betty White, crowding is acceptable only
at the gate
. Now that we’re on the plane, you need to check yo-self; otherwise it’s going to be a really long eight hours.

The old woman is traveling with her entire extended family—multiple kids and adult children trail in her wake, followed by a beleaguered older gentleman who I can already tell has taken more than his fair share of blows to the spleen. He looks to be plotting his escape. He and I exchange glances and he offers me a shrug of his defeated shoulders by way of apology.

The family has assigned seats in the pods all around me, but
that doesn’t stop them from halting the boarding process for everyone else at the gate while they allow the children to try out each and every seat in determining which one they want. I watch as the tormented grandfather of the group sits as far away from his wife as humanly possible while still technically being a part of flight 110.