ALEX WAS ALL cheerful the next morning, just like a guy who hadn't threatened to institutionalize me. I ignored him and took an Uber to the TransGlobal training facility in the new World Trade Center.

Once there, the security guard check me in and directed me to a nearby classroom. I walked in and started to gag. The noxious smell of fake designer purses filled the room.

I took a quick gander around the room; sure enough, on practically every desk was a purse or accessory that screamed copyright infringement. Clearly my fellow TransGlobal trainees had taken a trip down to Canal Street, the home of designer knock offs.

I was not surprised. Going to Canal street was kind of an out-of-towner thing, like riding the Big Bus tours or going to the Statue of Liberty. I'd only been once or twice myself, but that's because Little Italy's a couple of blocks over and my fiance has still has ties to the community there.

This made me wonder if I was the only local. I heard someone yell in a loud, grating Texan accent, "Y'all. Stop! Y'aaaalllll."

I think I was. I was the only local.

Freaking copyright criminals. Don't they respect intellectual property rights? Don't they know that copyright infringement is not a victimless...whoa. Was that Chloe purse a knock-off or original? My feet began moving me towards it...and then I mentally slapped myself.

What do I need fakes for? I don't. I can buy the real thing. Hell, I probably have the real thing. I turned my back on temptation and claimed a desk on the far right of the room. On my right sat a haughty looking Latin dude. I nodded at him. "S'up?"

The Latin dude studied me closely, then nodded at my purse. "Is that real?" His accent was Castilian; his disdain was tangible.

"Is what real?" I looked around. Was he seeing something I wasn't?

"Your purse. Is it real?"

I touched it. "It feels real to me. It's definitely not imaginary." I felt around it. "It feels solid. Things aren't falling out. Therefore, I'm going to firmly state that yes, it is in fact, real."

He muttered something in Spanish and turned his back to me. Since I'm not the type to be easily dismissed, I tapped him on the shoulder. "What's up with the knock-offs?"

"They went to Canal Street yesterday," he sneered. "They're very...American."

"Yeah, those Americans. Am I right? I'm right, right?" I stuck out my hand. "I'm Siobhan, by the way. I hail from the great Midwestern state of Iowa, the birthplace of John Wayne and the only state with vowels as its first and last letters."

He looked down at my hand with scorn, and then slowly panned back up to my face. "Jorge," he answered without shaking it.

I kept it out there. "In America we traditionally greet each other with a handshake, Jorge."

He shifted in his chair, gave my hand the most minimal of shakes, and turned his back to me. Damn. If that's what passes for friendly here, I'm in like Flynn. "So where you from, Jorge?"

"Madrid." I noticed the extra roll on the "r" for emphasis.

"¡Bienvenido a los Estados Unidos, amigo!" I exclaimed with a strong pat on the back. "Donde esta la biblioteca!"

He glanced back at me, eyes flashing, hateful retort poised on his lisping lips, but before he could spew his bile the doors of the training room opened with a bang.

There she was. Frances. The BFF I made during my TransGlobal interview a couple of months back. With her coal black hair, pale blue eyes, and pale skin, she still reminded me of Snow White. Rather, she reminded me of a pornographic Snow White, because the woman had an amazing rack and a saucy attitude towards indiscriminate sex.

That's one of the reasons we're BFFs. I have an amazing rack and a saucy attitude towards indiscriminate sex myself.

Frances's arrival surprised the room into silence. People stopped talking and stared at her. Everyone except me, that is. I thrust up my hand and began waving. "Over here! Over here."

Seeing me, she smiled, ripped off her sunglasses, and runway model walked her way over to the seat next to mine. I loved how her mink coat fluttered open enough to show her tasteful Von Furstenberg wrap dress and knee high leather boots.

Besides similar cup sizes and sexual appetites, Frances was a rich girl, like me, and kept, like me. It was fate. We had to be besties.

She dropped her lambskin Balenciaga classic town bag, plopped down in the seat next to me, and yawned. "How you doing, Red?"

I winked. "How you doing?"

"I'm all good, Red. All good." She looked over at the rest of the room. "What's up with the fake shit?"

"They went to Canal street."

"God. Fake shit gives me hives." She shrugged out of her coat and yawned again. "I'm exhausted. I just got in from Geneva."

At that Jorge swiveled around. "Are you Swiss?"

"No." Frances stared at him. Frances wasn't friendly, either. I liked that about her.

Taken back by her succinctness, Jorge stumbled for words. "But didn't you say that you came in from Geneva?"

Frances turned to me. "Who's the Spaniard?"

"Jorge," I replied. "He's kind of a European elitist, but I think I can turn him."

She raised a perfectly threaded eyebrow. "How's it going?"

"It's a learning process," I explained. "I'm starting with some of the more basic cultural mores, like smiling politely and handshakes."

"Wait. I know you two." Jorge's self-satisfied sneer turned into self-satisfied smugness. "They were talking about you last night. Is it true you two shagged after the interview?"

I was confused. "Do people really say shagged? I thought it was a made up word."

"No," Frances replied as she pulled out an Evian spray bottle and spritzed her face. "People say it."

I snapped and pointed at her enthusiastically. "Oh, like boinked!" I turned back to Jorge. "Remind me, after class I'll give you a list of American euphemisms for sex. It'll help with the assimilation process."

Jorge stared at us. "Did you two have sex or not?"

Frances fluffed her hair, dropped the Evian spray in her purse, and exchanged it for a compact.

I shook my head and spoke slowly. "Jorge, it's not considered polite in America to ask strangers if they have had sex."

Frances snapped the compact closed. "She's right. It's not polite."

Jorge, now scowling at us both, swiveled back around and began flipping angrily through the orientation materials."

"So. We're the gossip." Frances was unfazed. "Cool."

I shrugged. "People. They need to talk."

Frances dropped the compact in her purse and got out a tin of Altoids. She took one out and held out the tin for me. "True. Anyone we know here?"

I waved away the Altoids. "Possibly. I've been too busy instructing Jorge to pay any attention."

Frances loudly snapped the tin shut, threw it back in the bag, and scouted the room. "Wait. I recognize one."

I looked in the same direction. There was the tall, blonde Texan mean girl I met at the interview. We had named her Miss Buttfuckegypt because she was a small town beauty queen. I waved at her. She did not wave back. Instead, she smirked and placed her hand over her mouth to whisper to the girl next to her. That girl smirked at us, then whispered something back.

Having spent a large majority of my life socially ostracized, I was unfazed. I nudged Jorge. "Did you see that? That was an example of unnecessary rude behavior. When people smile and wave at you, smile and wave back."

"Leave me alone," he muttered and flipped a page.

Frances did not add a smile. Frances glared. "Did that dumb bitch just throw down? I think she just threw down."

"She threw down," I concurred. "Is that everyone? It feels like we're missing someone."

"Valentina," Frances said through her teeth as she death stared at the Texan.

"Who?"

"The Argentine."

I glanced over at the Texan, who was now pretending to not see Frances staring at her. Frances could be intimidating. Yet another reason why I liked her.

"What Argentine?" I asked. "There was an Argentine?"

At the same time I said that a gorgeous dark haired girl dramatically slammed open the classroom doors. She paused, delicately catching her breath, until she spotted Frances and me. For some reason she walked over to us. "Am I late?" she elegantly panted. "Che, perdón por llegar tarde."

"Ola, Val." Frances nodded without removing her eyes from Miss Buttfuckegypt.

So that was Valentina. I said hi. She said hi back as she gracefully took the desk behind Jorge.

Jorge whirled around in his seat. "Hablas español?"

She flipped her hair back. Yep. This girl was the prettiest girl in the room. "Sí, che, soy de Argentina."

Jorge said something else in Spanish; Valentina laughed and did the hair flip thing again. I poked Frances. "Look. Jorge is bonding. Isn't he cute when he's not being a dick?"

"Huh?" Frances had finally grown bored eye threatening the Texan and slithered back into her seat. "Is there coffee? Why am I here?"

"No. Because you like people and love to travel."

"I lied." She put her head on the desk.

"And you need a W-2." Frances wanted the job so she'd have something to show the I.R.S. at tax time. I thought that was very pragmatic of her.

"Oh yeah." Frances lifted up her head and pulled out her phone.

I watched her text until I got bored and turned to my orientation materials. At the bottom of the papers, tax forms, and whatnot was a huge looseleaf manual. I started thumbing through it. Shit. How much was I expected to know? Unfortunately, before I could really get into the reading, the sound of clapping got my attention.

At the front of the room were four people; three of whom I recognized from the initial interview. There was the perfect Ken doll guy I had named Tad, the incredibly beautiful black woman from check in, and Hector the gnome. A short woman with big hair and a designer suit stood on the end. I didn't recognize her.

"TransGlobal Trainees, we want to welcome you to the TransGlobal Flight Service Academy!" Ken doll Tad cheered.

Everyone started clapping. I poked Frances and started clapping.

"What?" she whined. "I'm texting."

"It's starting. Clap."

"Oh." She put her phone away and clapped.

"I'm so happy to see you all again!" Tad emoted. "I'm Christophe, and I am proud to say I met you in your initial interviews!"

Christophe? I thought his name was Tad. Huh.

"Now on my right is Hector, and on my left is Helena." He paused dramatically. "But it is my real pleasure to introduce to you the Director of Flight Service, Elaine Petrizzini."

He stepped back, and the short, big haired Italian woman stepped forward.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I want to welcome you to TransGlobal." For such a short woman she had huge New Jersey accent. It was so huge that it made my ears want to bleed. "I believe all of you have the potential to be excellent flight attendants and employees of TransGlobal." She paused dramatically. "Now take a look at the person on your left."

We dutifully turned and looked at the person on our left. The person on my left was the wall.

"Look to the person on the right."

We dutifully turned and looked at the person on our right. The person on my right was Jorge.

Elaine smiled like a shark. "It is likely that one, if not both, of the people sitting by you will not make it through training."

The room gasped as a single person. I wondered if I should gasp, too, but it was too late.

As if she knew I hadn't gasped, Elaine turned her gaze directly at me. "It might even be you who doesn't make it. At TransGlobal, we only hire the best, most qualified people. That means you may not be qualified. Don't expect to get a participation trophy here." She continued to stare directly at me. "You might even be doing your very best, but your very best may not be good enough for us."

I heard a muffled snort and turned. Frances was laughing. She tried to hide by covering her mouth, but it wasn't working. I looked down at my desk and bit my lip.

Elaine scanned the room. "Any questions? Ladies? How about you? Questions?"

I looked up; Elaine was calling us out. Silly of her.

Frances choked back a laugh. "No, ma'am. I'm good."

"Actually, I do," I said brightly. "When you say that our best may not be good enough, what's your rubric?"

Elaine stared at me.

"Is it based on objective criteria?" I continued. "Or do you use a subjective conformity test?"

Elaine half smiled."Read your manual. Pass the tests. Try to remember the social pleasantries that make life worth living." With that, she waved. "Good luck, everyone." She turned to me and nodded. "You, too, Miss McIver. Good luck."

We watched as she clicked out of the room on her ridiculously high heels.

"Wow," said Frances, turning to me. "She knew your name. You are so out of here."

"Oh, please. She knows everybody's name," I poo-pooed. "She probably knows your name."

"Yeah, well, she called you out." Frances nodded knowingly. "You're out of here."

Judging by the looks I was getting and the murmuring, no doubt the rest of the class was betting on how long it would take to get me kicked out, too. Tad cleared his throat, once, twice, to get our attention back. Finally he did one of those piercing taxi whistles. "People. People. Now let's talk about the first test you'll have after lunch."

Panic ensued. A test so soon? Stop. I yawned. "Now I need coffee."

"Me too," Frances agreed. "After you get kicked out, will you go to Starbucks for me?"

"Shut up. If I'm out of here, you're out of here, too."

"Probably."

Tad raised his hands in the universal quiet down gesture. "Indoor voices, people. This is an office building as well as a training center! If you have a question, raise your hand like so!" Tad demonstrated the raising of the hand gesture.

I raised my hand.

"Yes," Tad nodded at me.

"What's the test on?"

"It will be on city codes," Tad replied. "In aviation, airports are assigned city codes. It's necessary for you to be able to recognize a destination by city code on site."

I raised my hand again.

This time Tad blatantly ignored me. "Now go ahead and open your training manual and take out your syllabus. Let's talk about the first week of training!"

I waved my hand back and forth.

"Yes," Tad finally acknowledged, his smile frozen. "You have another question?"

"When is this test, and how much time do we have to study?"

"The test will be after lunch. You can study during your lunch time."

I shot my hand back up.

"What?" Tad was starting to lose his patience. "Last question. We really need to move forward."

"What's the format of the test?"

"Matching. Anything else?"

I thought for a second. "Is there a curve?"

Tad's smile flickered. "No. There is no curve. You must achieve a 90% or higher on all tests to remain in the program." I began to raise my hand, but Tad waved his hand at me. "Miss McIver, why don't you save your questions until we're finished going through the syllabus?"

"How many questions are on the test?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Frances damn near stuck her fist in her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

"Oh my God. I don't know!" Tad threw up his arms and exploded into a Ken doll of rage. "There's a lot of cities with air service, and I don't know how many, it's a lot, okay? It's a lot. Let's just say that. Is that all? Can we move forward. Can we? Move forward?"

I blinked. "Are you alright? You look frazzled."

Tad began fanning his face. "Alright. I'm alright. Whew. Alright. That was an example of losing one's patience. Let's take a five minute break, and then we can go through your syllabus."

Frances turned to me. "You are so kicked out," she told me as she pulled a package of Twizzlers out of her bag. "Twizzler?"

_____ * _____ * _____ * _____ * _____

Yep, this is Stew School. I figured, why not add it?

Thank you so much for taking time to read Siobhan's story! I look forward to your comments, and if you liked it, please remember to vote!

©Copyright Liz Charnes May 2018

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