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Special helper idea -  As she sits beside her boyfriend on the flight, she wonders what babies have to cry about, surely it must be so nice to have everything taken care of, but maybe she's about to find out herself. - Sarah

ONE

American Flight 325, LAX > JFK

At 32,000 feet, Dasha listens to music on her phone. She has just turned twenty-one and takes this technological miracle for granted. 

She receives a poke on her arm.

Mark gestures a question, tilting his head and pointing to his ear. What are you listening to? 

Dasha removes an earbud and dangles it in front of Mark’s face. Long enough for him to catch the drum machines and thumping synth bass. He wrinkles his nose. 

Dasha grins. Correct. He’s not supposed to like Molchat Doma. New-wave, post-punk. He’s more the 1940s swing crap he listens to when driving, thanks to Sirius. He’s more old radio whodunnit dramas whodunnits with clunky plots. 

Mark, who sits beside her. Mark, who is fifteen years older. Mark, her much too old boyfriend. She has mocked his age – texted links to blood pressure medication, asking what life was like before electricity – but really, she revels in their difference. A man old enough to click through the TV channels instead of searching YouTube. A man who refuses to get the hang of Snap Chat. 

Yeah, old enough. After all, if their relationship didn’t drive her parents nuts, what would be the point? 

And yet Mark is fun. Sexy fun or safe fun, depending what the occasion calls for. 

Safe before the flight, taking care of check-in, helping avoid the near-miss of Dasha leaving the apartment without her driver’s license. 

Sexy later? Some under-the-blanket fun? A five-and-a-half-hour flight to New York City; even Dasha can’t just play with her phone all that time. And Mark is old, ancient, about to hit 40, but he’s still handsome. Slim, toned, and he’s the most confident, as well as the most patient, man that Dasha has ever known. 

She smiles, removes the second of her earbuds and rolls them around the palm of her hand. “When’s lunch?” she asks. 

Mark takes the menu card from the seat pocket and waves it at his girl. “Whenever you want it.”

“Mmm,” says Dasha. First class is just so…well, as long as they don’t crash, because then all the passengers are equal, all jam or soup together. 

No, they’re not going to crash. Sexy, fun Mark will see to that. They’ve been together five months, and Dasha wonders sometimes if her boyfriend is actually made of magic. 

She scans the menu. “Nothing vegan.”

“You’re not vegan.”

She shrugs. “I could be.”

Mark laughs. “Tell that to DeStefano’s!”

Dasha pats her flat stomach. “Like I was gonna say no to their ribeye.”

You need to finish college. 

Dasha blinks at the thought of her father, delivering the booming instructions that had been scripted by her hysterical mother. 

If you think this man is doing all this out of the goodness of his heart, you have another thing coming. 

Yeah. If Mark is a monster, Dasha will run. But for now, he takes her to fun places and surrounds her with luxury. 

Out of the goodness of his heart? No. Dasha isn’t as naïve as her parents believe. She knows what Mark gets of this. Something fresh and pretty beside him at parties and clubs. Someone to challenge him but to look good while she does it. 

And she sees the look on his face when they’re checking in for flights or hotels or the float studio, and the reception is wondering, Is that his daughter or his lover?

When that happens, Dasha answers the question, standing on tiptoes to deliver a kiss to his cheek, his neck, his perfectly masculine mouth. 

And right now, Dasha kisses Mark. Irritated by the seatbelt, she unbuckles, and for a fleeting moment, she imagines crawling onto his lap. She laughs softly. That would probably be a bit much. 

“Thanks,” Mark says. He puts his fingers in her brown hair. “You’re being such a good girl,” he says, his tone just the right side of patronizing. “So brave on the airplane, no whining.” He winks at her. “You probably deserve a treat. Pink and white, or something marble?”

Dasha grins, thinking of the wool coat from Veda or the stone earrings from Anthom. How many boyfriends go shopping with their girl, how many actually pay attention to what she has her eye on? She pats Mark’s knee, her fingers lightly drumming their way along his thigh. “Pink and white,” she whispers, deciding on the coat. And then she frowns. “That baby is way too loud.”

Mark glances towards the start of first class and the end of economy. “Probably has sore ears. Babies don’t hand changes in air pressure very well.”

An only child, and most of her lifetime away from playing with dolls, Dasha could care less about babies. She glances at the curtain separating them from the have-nots. “They should have a proper door,” she says, dropping the earbuds into the pocket of her jeans. “They should have sound-proofing.” She shakes her head. “No one needs to hear that.” No one, meaning her. 

“Take it easy,” Mark says, which is the closest he ever gets to criticizing her. He strokes the back of her neck. “Cranky baby,” he whispers, and for a moment Dasha takes offense, but of course, he doesn’t mean her. He means the actual baby!

She giggles and then lets her head roll forward. 

“That cranky baby will be asleep soon enough,” Mark says softly. “Probably its mom or dad is rocking it right now, don’t you think, singing it a song?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Dasha closes her eyes, enjoys her boyfriends massaging, stroking fingers. She’s so relaxed, she could almost ignore the baby’s wailing. Almost. 

“Who’s putting that cranky baby to sleep?” asks Mark, his tone shifting to that patronizing softness that never fails to make Dasha feel utterly spoiled and indulged. “Is it the mommy or the daddy?”

Dasha smiles, warming to the game. “Daddy,” she whispers. 

“Daddy puts the cranky baby to sleep,” confirms Mark confidently. “Pretty soon, that cranky baby will be in dreamland.”

“Mmm.”

“Daddy’s rocking that cranky baby,” Mark murmurs. He shifts his hands to Dasha’s shoulders, and the girl giggles as he rocks her gently side to side. “Rocking her back and forth, back and forth.” His speech is as slow and gentle as the movement. Dasha exhales slowly, and she’s so relaxed that she could fall asleep. 

She could go to dreamland like that cranky baby. Except Dasha’s not cranky, of course. 

“What’s Daddy singing?”

“Mmm?”

“What’s Daddy singing,” Mark asks, “to get his cranky baby girl to sleep?”

Dasha searches her slowing, cotton-filled mind for answers. She yawns. “Tinkle…twinkle twinkle?”

“That is a good lullaby,” says Mark, and the rocking ceases, replaced by gentle stroking of Dasha’s neck. “Aren’t you a smart cookie.”

Dasha smiles, the condescending praise warming her cheeks. 

“But…I think it’s a different song.” Mark leans in and sings, barely above a whisper, Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird.”

Yes. That’s must be the right song. Just thing for sleepy, cranky babies. 

“And if that mockingbird don't sing, Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring.”

Dasha manages to giggle, despite her sleepy mouth, despite her cottony brain. Is Mark going to propose? Is he going to be her princess and make her his princess? How romantic, to be sung to! And who knew that Mark could actually sing? A deep voice, but so musical – a world away from Mochat Doma and their lead singer’s relentless monotone. Eyes closed, Dasha’s mind is filled with wedding dresses. 

No, wait. Not wedding dresses. Princess dresses. Disney princesses. 

“Is that what Daddy’s singing?” asks Mark, so softly, so lightly, that Dasha isn’t quite sure she heard him. 

She nods, her head heavy and useless. She is a puppet; she’ll do whatever Mark tells her. 

“Is the cranky baby in dreamland now? Did she go sleepy-byes?”

Mark’s voice turns even sweeter, a new level of patronizing, and Dasha is offended, her line crossed, until she listens to the sounds around her and understands. Yes! The baby in economy is asleep! All thanks to Daddy and his special lullaby!

“She’s gone…” Dasha murmurs, her tongue heavy as concrete. “Baby’s gone sleep…sleepy-byes.” She wasn’t going to use the childish term, but then she does, and she’s rewarded with the sweetest tingle between her ears, right in her cotton-filled skull. 

“And if that diamond ring is brass,” sings Mark, so gently, with fingers stroking so softly, “Papa’s gonna buy you a looking glass.”

Yes, a looking glass. That’s fancy words for mirror, Dasha knows that. She knows all kinds of things because she’s smart cookie. She sighs happily, drifting into a dream of her own, where she looks into a mirror and sees the prettiest little brown-haired girl smiling back at her.