My eyes snap open, my hands instinctively gripping the armrests just as the cabin lights flicker on, illuminating the shaking scene: passengers rushing back to their seats, a businessman frowning down at his computer screen as it wobbles violently in an impressive attempt to continue working, others jolting out of their sleep the way I did seconds ago, eye masks sliding up, blankets slouching over onto the carpet. It feels as if a giant toddler’s fist has shot out from the clouds to shake the plane around like a rattle toy. I try to ignore the sour jump of nausea in my mouth as we swerve sharply to the left, then to the right again.

A serene male voice floats down from the speakers:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing some heavy turbulence … Please fasten your seat belts …”

A much less serene male voice sounds right beside my ear in a hoarse whisper:

“Good god.”

I turn. Cyrus is staring straight ahead, his face and knuckles white as he clasps his fists over his lap, his teeth clenched around a curse. His rigid spine is pressed so tight against the seat that it looks like he’s trying to physically meld himself with the backrest.

“You’re scared of flying,” I say. It’s not a question, but it is a revelation. I don’t remember Cyrus being scared of anything: not spiders, which he would kill without hesitation whenever we found one in the classroom; not tests, which he would always hand in half an hour before everyone else; not the dark, or the horror movie the teachers showed us thinking the animated art style automatically made it kid-friendly, or the receptionist who had earned the nickname Scary Carrie.

“I’m not—scared,” he says, even as a muscle twitches in his jaw. “I’m—”

The plane pitches forward again, fast enough to make my gut churn. I can hear all the heavy bags knocking against one another overhead, a woman fussing over her airsick daughter in the row behind us, the rustle and metallic click of seat belts being readjusted. A plastic cup rolls off someone’s tray and bounces down the aisle.

“Alert,” Cyrus finishes on a ragged breath, “seeing as we’re about to plummet down to earth.”

Finally: a weakness. Just what I need to start softening him up and reeling him in. And even though it should be physically nauseating to comfort a boy I hate, whatever my ulterior motive is, his eyes are wide with such raw, open fear that it feels almost natural to do so.

“That’s not going to happen,” I tell him, trying to talk loud enough to distract both him and myself from the creaking in the wings. “It’s only a bit of turbulence; it’ll be over soon. In the meantime, just imagine that we’re already on the ground.”

“Except we’re not,” he points out. “We’re most definitely in the air.”