III.

Wendy could see from where she sat, at the aisle seat, feeling exposed and uncomfortable, even though the softness of the seat remained the same, Ms. Bae shifting her Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses so that it acted as a headband, sweeping the loose strands of hair from her face into the rest of it that were wrapped up in a tight bun. Wendy’s eyes widened for a short second when she met Ms. Bae’s eyes, not expecting the tyrant with the porcelain skin to turn her way. Ms. Bae remained expressionless when she asked—interrogated, “How did you manage to be here? In the first-class area? I guess I am paying you too much.”

Wendy’s eyes widened, wider than before, as she scoffed. Since when did Ms. Bae—Irene—knew how to insult anyone? To be rude and…overconfident?

Ms. Bae answered back with an eyebrow raised and a cutting glare that turned Wendy’s annoyance into jitters. Wendy gulped and diverted her gaze to the 20-inch flat screen that showed the approximate distance of the flight and its time of arrival. “M-Ms. Kang. She gave it to me.”

“Ms. Kang? Seulgi gave it to you?” Ms. Bae’s tone was still composed but it was lethal, as if her words were coated in venom.

Wendy felt sweat form on the tips of her forehead, underneath her copper blonde fringe. Ms. Bae should be a cop or a detective, like those people who pointed a gun into one’s mouth to make them answer their questions. Her head dropped, chin tapping her collarbone as she nodded.

The interrogation continued. “Why?”

Wendy took some time to answer. Was it a good idea to tell Ms. Bae that she borrowed some money from Ms. Kang and that this was Ms. Kang’s idea of repaying it? Probably not. “W-Well…Ms. Kang couldn’t use the ticket because she had other plans and she said it would be a waste to just throw it away and so she decided to give it to a simpleton like me, allowing me to fly to Korea in first class. And I—“

There was that hand again, like a stop button on a music player. “You sure get a lot of privileges, Wendy.”

Wendy shivered at Ms. Bae’s words, as if a draft of the cold autumn air touched her arms, through the fur-padded jacket she was wearing. She heard Ms. Bae shift so she peeked at her direction, then exhaled the breath she didn’t know she was holding when she saw Ms. Bae now reading the latest issue of Vogue.

Wendy could see Ms. Bae gracing the front cover of the magazine, modelling her own clothes, her own designs. Her brunette hair being dramatically blown by an artificial wind, voluptuous lips painted red in a grunt expression, and her left hand very suavely extending the collar out of a pink cotton polo shirt. It was breath-taking. Beautiful. Unreachable.

Wendy felt proud. Happy her friend had gone so far. Yet Wendy couldn’t help but feel down. The feeling of being left behind, etched in her heart, a pang that she needed to get rid of. Now wasn’t the time to be emotional.

Besides, Ms. Bae was a different person now, ruthless and unfeeling. Cold-hearted. Wendy had only been under her oppressive rule for two weeks and she could tell from the first day that this person wasn’t the Irene from high school with the meek voice and slumped shoulders as if she was somehow terrified of the world yet at the same time being sweet and naïve and innocent like a child. It took a toll to have power. So much expectations and pressure and deadlines. These could turn a person numb. Wendy couldn’t help but worry.

No… Ms. Bae could handle herself well, clearly. She didn’t need Wendy’s worry. Ms. Bae didn’t deserve it…right? Not after all the harsh remarks, the frigid glares, and the not caring. Yes. Ms. Bae didn’t care about Wendy anymore.

So it was right for Wendy to not care about Ms. Bae too. To hate her. To despise someone who had become a goblin. But why was it so difficult? Sure, she wanted to pull Ms. Bae’s hair out, to possibly put laxatives in her de-caff, no foam, non-fat caramel brulée latte that had to be served exactly at 75°C. But she didn’t mean it. She knew inside she didn’t—couldn’t—hate Ms. Bae, no, Irene.

Joohyun.

Ah. Bae Joohyun. Yes, that was her real name. Korean name. Wendy almost forgot about it. Joohyun, the innocent, cry-baby who hadn’t aged after ten years, still with the same marshmallow cheeks that demanded for a pinch, her face still pudgy and cute. Yet now it had that extra something. A little edge, eyes always so intense and unfaltering, head always held high.

Wendy heard an announcement then it was followed by the routine choreographed demonstration by the stewards and stewardesses acting out what could be seen on the video that played on the screens. She put on her seatbelt and straightened in her seat, preparing herself for what was to come next.

She felt the soles of her feet vibrate then her seat as the plane’s engines were , the noise reverberating in the spacious yet confined first-class area. Then there was the feeling of going up and Wendy found herself clutching the thin yet classy sweater Ms. Bae had on, creasing it, as she grasped Ms. Bae’s arm for support. Desperately. Never mind if Ms. Bae would hang her and then roast her later. She needed that arm! She needed her friend. She needed Joohyun.

Irene, surprised at the sudden grapple on her £200 DKNY navy blue sweater, nearly jumped up from her seat, then tried to calm her startled aging heart by tapping it lightly with her right hand. Her lips then twisted into something menacing, an eyebrow arching upward as she scrutinized the squirming bundle of hair before her. She tried to push the bother away and entangle her arm from the grasp but the grip just got stronger.

There was a subtle increase in pitch in Irene’s voice when she said, “Get off it, Wendy!”

But Wendy didn’t budge. Instead she quietly shrieked, eyes shut tight, praying to the Heavens that this gravity-defying horror scenario would end soon.

“I said GET. OFF. IT,” Irene repeated. Sternly. Annoyance in her voice so evident that the grey-haired businessman sitting across the aisle from them glanced their way. Irene noticed and shot him that glare. The glare she saved for times like this.

The man raised his shoulders in defence, clicking his tongue then resumed to his newspaper. Women.

The plane stabilised, reaching its right altitude and the squirming nuisance stopped. The kidnapping, er, armnapping, of Irene’s arm was over. She tch-ed as she tried to straighten the crinkles in her expensive sweater.

“Seriously, Wendy,” The irritation in her voice was distinct. Did Wendy think that there was no hierarchy here?

Wendy ducked her head in apology. “I-I’m sorry, Ms Bae. I just hate it when the plane takes off. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster and I hate rollercoasters.”

Rollercoasters? Irene suddenly recalled the time when she and her friend went to the carnival at the pier in Busan: the colourful lights, blinking, beckoning them; the upbeat roar of the