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272 pages, Hardcover
First published May 18, 2021
To fly as an unaccompanied minor was to enter a topsy-turvy world where children were, for once, the most important people. We boarded first and had our own reserved rows, always aft, close to the galleys and the staff. We were served our meals ahead of all the other passengers, and we were given tuck boxes of games, colouring books, comics, pencils, and, inevitably, a die-cast model Boeing 747 or DC-10. The flight crew became our surrogate parents. The stewardesses were our mothers, only more patient and more elegant than our real mothers. These Stepford mothers possessed bright smiles, soothing voices and limitless supply of snacks. The never ignored us, rather came whenever we called. The uniformed captain already looked like a hero, he commanded three hundred tons of aircraft and two hundred passengers. He did not bother much with us until after take off, when his smooth voice sounded over the tannoy: 'This is your captain speaking.' And we raised our heads to listen. For six hours, we lived inside the perfect patriarchy.
Baloo up close was not the Baloo of the Jungle Book film or even Baloo of the ice. This Baloo had a face made of plastic, and hard plastic paws. And his eyes were not soft, brown, bear eyes. Through the cut-out holes of the mask, I could see the small, blue eyes of a man. I cried out. I wriggled. And I fought. But Baloo was strong. Baloo held on tight. And then we were on the ice, speeding away from everything I knew. The audience clapped and cheered. 'Take me back,' I cried. And Baloo, my once beautiful Baloo, dug his fingers and thumbs hard into my body, leaned forward and hissed with hot breath into my hear: 'Shut up, you little shit!'