If I Had You

I woke to the soft murmur of music. I couldn’t hear who was singing, but I immediately recognized the tune as “The Reason I Lie ” by The Phoenix. I wasn’t a big fan of him, but I did like this song. For a while, I just lay with my eyes closed, listening to the soft almost inaudible rhythm of the song, singing the lyrics in my head. I snuggled against my pillow and let out a hum.

Then, it hit me.

I didn’t have a pillow. I was on a plane. My eyes shot open, and I found myself on Sour-Puss’s shoulder. I jerked my head up, giving me a bit of a head rush, and the blanket that I hadn’t noticed slipped off me onto the floor. I stared at it, wondering how it got there, then at Sour-Puss, asleep against the window, earphones in his ears playing The Phoenix's song. (In my mind, I wondered how he managed to fall asleep listening to a hard rock song). Did he know I was sleeping on his shoulder? I turned red.

Sour-Puss, at a closer glance, was quite handsome, and almost… familiar. His long black hair was disheveled, which only made him cuter, and his small frown as he slept seemed to say yes-I’m-cool-even-when-I-sleep.

Too lazy to get my cell phone from the bottom of my bag, I stopped the attendant as she passed with the refreshment cart. “Ma’am?” She stopped. “How much longer till we land?”

“Just about an hour,” she answered.

I smiled. “Okay, thank you.”

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Um, a Cola with no ice, thank you.” She quickly poured me a cup of Cola and pushed her cart down the aisle.

Behind me, there was a groan. I looked and saw Sour-Puss rubbing his eyes.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

His face held no emotion as he brushed his hair back, combing out his cute disheveled hair with his fingers. He turned off his iPod. “Yes,” he said bluntly.

A sour-puss will always be a sour-puss, I suppose.

“Any idea how much longer I have to be on this stupid plane?” he asked.

“The attendant said an hour…"

“Huh.” He scratched his arm. Again, not much of a talker.

There was a pause, and Sour-Puss eyed my drink that I was glaring at because I just noticed there was ice in it after I said I didn’t want any. I didn’t know why, but I had something against plane ice. I was still going to drink it, as I was parched and wasn’t going to wait for the attendant to come back. However, Sour-Puss said, “Hey, give me that.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Excuse me?”

“That drink.”

“Why?”

He glared. “Cos you still owe me for using my shoulder for a pillow.”

So he knew about that, after all…

I frowned. "You don't even know what kind it is."

"I don't care."

I handed him my drink without much of a fight. I figured an argument with a Sour-Puss would be useless. He seemed like the sort of guy who usually won his arguments. He chugged down my drink in a few gulps.

"Hey, I'm sorry using you shoulder..."

"No big deal." Wow, I thought. Sour-Puss said something unsour.

He saw me staring and he glared. "What?"

"What?" I said, smiling.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?" At this point, I think he knew I was teasing.

"Staring."

"I'm not."

His eyes narrowed. "You are."

"Am not."

He snarled and turned to the window.

"Sour-Puss," I mumbled, when I thought I saw him turn on his iPod.

He whipped his head around. "Huh?"

I smiled. "Nothin'"

He glared again.

Perhaps it was a bad idea to mess with a sour-puss, because we spent the next full hour in an unpleasant silence. I went back to my book, and he went back to his iPod and opened up his mysterious notebook, and the hour went on like that (except when the attendant came back and I ordered another Cola).

“Excuse me, passengers,” the pilot finally announced. “We’ll be landing in LA in approximately ten minutes. It is 1:46 in LA and nice and sunny. We ask that you remain in your seats until we land. Thank you for riding Air USA.”

When we finally touched down on the runway, Sour-Puss took out his phone. “Hey, dad,” he said. He paused. “Yea, we just landed.” Pause. His eyes shifted at me. “Nah, she doesn’t know who I am.” Pause and a laugh. “Yea, I know.”

I frowned. Who he was? I didn’t understand.

“Dad, for the last time, it’s Cunningham Academy, not Cunning Lamb. That doesn’t even make sense,” he said.

I sat up straight. Cunningham Academy?

“Yea, alright. Fine. Bye.”

“Who are you?” I asked as soon as he shut his phone.

He smirked. “I’m William Phoenix Jr.”

I stared at him, like I heard wrong. “William Phoenix… Jr.?” I repeated. “Like… The Phoenix’s son?”

He chuckled, placing his notebook and iPod in his bag. “Welcome to LA,” he said.

I blinked.

“We have now landed in Los Angeles, California. It is 1:55 and sunny out. Thanks again for riding Air USA,” the pilot said.

William Phoenix Jr. stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said.

Dazed, I stood and let him pass by me. Our bodies brushed each other, sending shivers down my spine. He was The Phoenix’s son… I just sat with The Phoenix’s son for five-and-a-half hours without knowing, I thought. I watched as he was the first to exit the plane. He turned back for a moment, and I thought he looked at me. After he left, I remembered: hadn't he said something about Cunningham Academy?