Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m finally here, at Maruba. It seemed a little weird when Charity handed me the plane ticket yesterday. She’d interviewed me just the week before for a hostess position at a private club, so I’d assumed I’d be staying local in New York.
“What is this?” I asked yesterday, staring dumbly at the white piece of paper.
“It’s a plane ticket, what else?” she said, rolling her eyes. “Haven’t you been on a plane before?”
I stare at the ticket in my hand.
“Yes, but I’ve never heard of Elite Air. Is that a branch of United Airlines, or American? I know they sometimes brand their puddle-jumpers differently. Or is this a budget airline that’s new?”
Charity snorted, wrinkling her nose.
“Hardly. Sweetheart, get a clue. This is the opposite of a budget airline – it’s a private flight that caters to the wealthy and powerful.”
I was still confused.
“I’m sorry? Private how? In what way?”
Now the middle-aged woman had had it. She rolled her eyes and blew her bangs out of her face with an exasperated puff of air.
“It’s private in that it’s not commercial, silly. When you were interviewing for this job, did you really think your bosses were going to fly commercial? Please, Ava. Get some common sense. I thought you were better than that.”
My mouth snapped shut at her admonishment. Of course, Charity was right. During the job interview, she’d told me that I’d be catering to rich people in a secluded setting, but I figured it meant I’d be working at an exclusive bar or club somewhere in New York City. By contrast, now I was being handed a plane ticket for a destination called Maruba.
“But where is Maruba?” I asked, still squinting at the paper. “It sounds like a tropical island.”
Charity sniffed.
“Because it is a tropical island, dummy. Maruba is a paradise owned by your employers because they don’t want to associate with “regular” people. You think the Four Seasons or the W is going to cut it for these folks? Or the British Virgin Islands or St. Bart’s? Hell no, sweetheart. These people are fabulously wealthy, and everything with them is shih-shih and totally exclusive. And you’re the one who’s going to make sure their every need is catered to.”
I nodded. That wasn’t a surprise to me. I was hired to be a hostess after all.
“Okay, no problem. So I should to be at the airport tomorrow morning, 6 a.m. sharp, right? I guess I should pack khaki shorts and polos? Sandals? Flip flops? Sunscreen?”
Charity rolled her eyes again.
“No, Ava. You really are clueless sometimes, you know that? You’re not a guest, so you won’t need to bring that stuff. Your employers will provide all the clothing needed. Just bring some undergarments, and that’ll be fine.”
I made a face.
“Not even a swimsuit?” I asked, feeling disappointed. If we were going to be on a tropical island, I was hoping that I’d at least have some time to myself for a dip in the ocean. Of course, I’d be working, but everyone gets days off, right?
Charity rolled her eyes again.
“Fine, bring a swimsuit,” she sniffed. “But remember, your employers can be very particular, so don’t be surprised by their requests.”
I could live with that. I’ve learned over the years that rich people can be eccentric, if not downright strange. But no matter. I just wanted some time off to enjoy the balmy island setting and hot tropical sun. After all, all work and no play makes Ava a very boring girl, and I wanted to spice up my life a bit.
But now I’m at the airport, or more accurately, the private airplane hangar at the Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, and my jaw drops almost to the floor.
“So this is it,” I say to myself, marveling at the sleek white plane waiting on the cement surface. It was smaller than your usual commercial jetliner and much thinner too, kind of like a white tube that flies through the skies. The words “Elite Air” were emblazoned on the side in elegant script and my eyes grew wide at the red carpet leading up the stairs.
“Is this really for me?” I asked.
A cheery voice sounded from behind me.
“Nope, it’s for us,” it said. I whirled around to see a curvy girl with long brown ringlets and rosy-red cheeks. “Hi, I’m Amelia,” she greeted, sticking her hand out. “Are you here for the trip to a private island?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I just got hired.”
“Me too,” said Amelia. “And I can’t wait to par-tay now!”
I giggled despite myself.
“But wait, I thought we were going to work,” I said, confused. “I was hired to be a hostess. How about you?”
“Same,” she nodded with a grin. “Did you interview with Charity?”
“Yep,” I said. “But honestly, Charity didn’t tell me much. She said that our employer is quote-unquote ‘very private’ and that he would require quote-unquote ‘the utmost discretion.” Do you know what any of that means?”
Amelia shrugged.
“Your guess is as good as mine. But if you ask me, all rich people are like that. They always think that the world wants to know about them, when actually, no one’s interested. It’s the Kim Kardashian effect,” she said with another roll of the eyes. “They think being wealthy automatically means you’re going to be in the spotlight too, but honestly, how interesting are rich people? Not at all, if you ask me.”
I nodded.
“I guess so. I just wish we knew more. I mean, Charity had me sign a confidentiality agreement, so I don’t understand the need for all this secrecy.”
Amelia shrugged.
“Yeah I signed one too. I think we all had to, in order to get this job. But who knows?” she asks rhetorically. “All I know is that all expenses are paid, and that I really need the money. So I’m down with whatever.”
I nodded. The truth is that I really need the money too. I graduated from college with a degree in Sociology, and I wish someone had told me when I was picking a major that Soc wasn’t going to pay well. I guess I sort of knew that when I selected my focus, but still, I didn’t know the job market was going to be that bad. I must have applied to at least five hundred jobs after graduation, and gotten five hundred rejection letters as a result. The papers are currently buried beneath my mattress, and sleeping on them was a constant reminder that I was a professional failure of sorts.
So now, I have tens of thousands of dollars in student loans. It’s crazy, right? I’m twenty-five, and saddled with an enormous mountain of debt. The last couple years, I’ve been working as a waitress to try and pay down some of the burden, but the fact is that I can only afford to pay the interest on my loans. Most of the principal is still there, and at the rate I’m going, I’ll be paying these loans for the next fifty years. Heck, I’ll be sitting in a retirement home and still making checks out to Sallie Mae.
That’s where this job comes in. Even though it’s just a temporary gig, I’m getting paid thirty thousand dollars for three months of work. Isn’t that crazy? I made thirty thousand at my old waitressing job in a year. The minute Charity made me the offer, I took it. Hopefully, this opportunity will give me a chance to put some money towards my loans, and maybe even provide some breathing room so that I can contemplate next steps.
Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted.
“Hey girls,” hissed a sibilant female voice. Amelia and I turned. There were three other girls on the tarmac, all of them blonde and slim, and looking eerily similar. Was this a re-play of Heathers? Why did they all have their hair done in side ponytails, while also wearing matching t-shirts and denim miniskirts? Not to mention, the blank look in their eyes. I was a little creeped out.
“Hey,” says Amelia in a bright tone. “Are you guys headed to Maruba too? Are you also hostesses?”
“We are indeed,” says Barbie One, smiling to show her perfectly square, white teeth. “My name’s Candy, and these are my sisters Mandy and Tandy. We’re identical triplets.”
I nodded. I knew it wasn’t my vision. These girls looked eerily alike, and now I knew why.
“So nice to meet you Mandy, Tandy and Candy,” I say with a friendly smile. “My name’s Ava,” I add, holding out my hand for a shake. “I guess we’ll all be working at Maruba together.”
But the three sisters merely look at my hand as if it’s diseased and covered with SARS.
“We don’t shake,” says Tandy.
“No thanks,” adds Mandy with a sniff, flicking her long blonde ponytail over one shoulder. “It’s not our thing.”
Candy smiles again, her red lips parting.
“Sorry, we’re very sensitive to germs and such,” she says with a fake-apologetic laugh. “But let’s go!” she adds vivaciously, while eyeing the private jet. “I can’t wait to get to Maruba because it’s going to be so much F-U-N. I love billionaires.”
As the three of them prance up the red carpet to the plane, Amelia and I share a puzzled look. Did that really just happen? Are we going to be stranded with these three blonde zombies on a private island? And who are the billionaires she alluded to?
Shrugging at one another, Amelia and I hoist our bags over our shoulders and ascend the ladder to the waiting flight. Maruba, here we come. I try to appear cheerful but inside, I was beginning to have doubts. Thirty thousand for three months of work is a lot, but why were they paying us so much? Suddenly, a stone formed in my stomach and with a sinking feeling of dread, I buckled myself into the waiting seat.