Flying Lessons & Other Stories: "Flying Lessons" by Soman Chainani

Posed imperiously at the window, she was already done up in a matador-red chiffon dress, her dyed caramel hair teased into a beehive, her brown eyes drenched in blue mascara and her lips coated the color of blood.

I could hear the Chanel clerk through the handset, trying to get a word in, but Nani was prattling away...

On the bed table, there was a gilded tray of two cafés con leche, ham and cheese croissants, and tostadas slathered in tomatoes and olive oil.

Three hours later, I'm chasing Nani across the sun-drenched shores of La Mar Bella, wearing a striped Chanel red-and-white swimsuit so tiny and tight I keep peeking down to make sure it's still there, while Nani sweeps across the golden sand in her couture dress, red stiletto heels, and a white fur coat that make her look like the Indian version of Cruella de Vil.

But she's already sashaying away.

She just flounced into our kitchen at eight a.m. on a scorching June morning, wearing a Dior sweat suit, drinking a Power Greens juice, and extolling the virtues of Pilates, before informing my mother she was taking me on a three-week trip across Europe and that I'd need a passport, haircut, and a new wardrobe that wasn't from Old Navy.

She just flounced into our kitchen at eight a.m. on a scorching June morning, wearing a Dior sweat suit, drinking a Power Greens juice, and extolling the virtues of Pilates, before informing my mother she was taking me on a three-week trip across Europe and that I'd need a passport, haircut, and a new wardrobe that wasn't from Old Navy.

She just drained her juice, gave our plates of soggy French toast a pitying glare, and jaunted out of the house.

And yesterday, on our first night in Spain, I dressed up in a suit and combed my hair so I'd look nice for the "theater," only to end up cowering in the front row at an adults-only burlesque.

"By the time I came back, the beach was teeming with families," says Nani, taking a big swig of champagne.

I forgot to bring a towel, so I wince as I sit down in smoldering sand, a fair distance from the sea and the kids swimming in it.

He's only asked me to be nice and absolve himself of guilt for pelting a lonely tourist.

It doesn't matter, I grouse, fumbling for the dried mango in my bag and trying to forget about Tomas, this beach, this entire trip.

Nani commandeers our paella—she's both a brilliant cook and quite competitive, already throwing darting looks at the other teams—while she leaves me the lone task of chopping the shrimp.

I snap out of my stupor and see her sprinkling parsley over the pan.

Instead, I slip my still-wet swimsuit under my shorts and ask pretty, bubbly Yamila at the concierge desk to call me a taxi to the beach.

You're not just a loser, I think. You're delusional.

Luckily, I found a swimsuit at the hotel boutique that didn't look too tawdry.

I'm about to say, No, I've never seen this woman in my life, and run for the parking lot, but Nani preempts me by lifting herself gingerly and clinging to Tomas's arm like a raft.

I'm about to say, No, I've never seen this woman in my life, and run for the parking lot, but Nani preempts me by lifting herself gingerly and clinging to Tomas's arm like a raft.