“Okay,” Wes says. He stares at the tiny white plane with writing on the side that says Grandpa Charlie’s name on it. It looks old and beat-up, like it’s toured the world for years and years. For a moment, Wes wonders if it’s safe. But if Grandpa Charlie trusts it, then why won’t he?
Grandma Betty comes out with her cane and waves. “You two be safe out there! I can’t wait to hear all about your trip.”
“Love you, Grandma Betty,” Wes shouts.
“Love you, too, puddin’!”
Then Wes and Grandpa Charlie climb into the airplane.
Grandpa Charlie starts up the engine of the plane, and it roars to life so loud that Wes flinches. The propellers begin to rotate slow and then fast, making his eyes get big.
“Make sure to buckle up!” Grandpa Charlie’s voice comes through Wes’s headset. Wes does as he’s told, tightening the strap so there’s no way he can fall out of the plane.
Wes stares at all the buttons and switches and lights and gadgets. He’s never been in an airplane before, let alone in the seat next to the captain of the plane.
Grandpa Charlie gently guides the plane onto the runway, which just looks like an abandoned track.
“Hang tight!” Grandpa Charlie shouts.
The plane slowly picks up speed and Wes clenches his fists tightly next to him—not because he’s scared, though. He’s just trying to do everything he can to brace himself for the thrill of a lifetime.
And then, at once, they’re off.
Wes feels like he’s sinking or falling, even though he knows they’re climbing up in the air. His legs are shaky, his hands are cold and sweaty, and his head is pounding, but he’s smiling through it all.
It doesn’t take long for them to break through the clouds, and when they do, they’re soaring soft and gentle, like the clouds are carrying them forward.
“Wow!” Wes says, staring out the window.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Grandpa says to him. “If I could live anywhere in the world, it would be up here.”
Wes silently agrees. He’s been to Los Angeles to visit his aunt Ruby and uncle Ray, but they took their minivan, and he’s seen photos of some really cool places around the world, but he’s never seen anything as beautiful as this. The earth rolling beneath the wings of the plane, clouds of all shapes and sizes looking softer than cotton balls, softer than cotton candy, softer than any blanket Grandma had ever made him. Seeing birds of all kinds soaring from above. Up here, everything is so blue and bright, like Wes imagines Heaven might look like. Wes and Grandpa whirl through the air, but all the earth seems so silent beneath them. It’s almost like…magic.
Wes wishes he brought his sketchbook to bring back a glimpse of this beauty to Grandma Betty. But also, Wes thinks the reality of being above the clouds is better than any sketch he could ever come up with.
“Everything looks even more perfect from above,” Wes says.
“Watch this,” Grandpa Charlie says, and the plane tilts sideways. Wes grabs on to a nearby handle and lets out a whoop.
“Whoa,” Wes exhales. “So cool, Grandpa.”
Grandpa Charlie just smiles and tilts the plane again and again; each time Wes shouts with more and more excitement. Wes and Grandpa Charlie continue to bob through the air, weaving amongst the clouds for over an hour, before Wes spots snowy mountains on the ground below.
“Are we still in Birmingham, Grandpa?” Wes asks.
“We’re hovering over the Appalachians right now. There’s Cheaha Mountain right there,” Grandpa Charlie points out.
“Have you ever been there?”
“Years ago. I hiked it overnight and nearly passed out when I made it to the top.”
“One day, I want to hike that,” Wes says, and goes back to staring out the window.
It gets quiet for a moment. There’s only the sound of wind pushing the aircraft in the air, making it bounce like a car driving fast down a bumpy road.
“Grandpa, could you tell me another one of your war stories?” Wes asks.
“Of course,” Grandpa says with a wide smile. “Well…when I was a young boy, I loved reading Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon comics. I had read so many books about the Red Baron. My own daddy would always joke at me that I wanted to fly before I could even walk.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Back during the war, I wasn’t eligible to be a military pilot because I didn’t graduate college. But the war had gotten so bad that America desperately needed fliers. So, they let me and a bunch of others become fighter pilots. That’s when I first met George.”
Wes rests his head back and listens.
“Eventually, they shipped us overseas, and George and I were assigned to the 332nd Fighter Group. My plane was called the Nighthawk. It was a name George came up with.”
“Nighthawk. I like that name.”
“Me too.”
“It sounds like an Avenger.”
Grandpa grins. “Well, it was April fourth…”
“Mm-hm.”
“We were flying into combat against a German fleet. We had destroyed at least two of their planes in the air. We were flying so long in the battle that my legs went completely numb. My butt got tingly, too, from sitting down for so long.”
Wes snickers at the mention of Grandpa’s butt.
“All of a sudden, a bunch of enemy planes came from out of nowhere and surrounded us. We had to do a lot of tricks with the plane just to escape them.”
“Tricks? Like what?”
“Well, like this…” Grandpa proceeds to tilt, flip, and turn the plane in different directions to show exactly what he means. Wes’s stomach swoops.
He shuts his eyes, imagining how he’d draw it in his sketchbook.
Everything is black-and-white. Wes sees smoke all around him. He sees enemy planes around them, firing at their plane.
Sparks of red and orange and yellow flash before him as bombs release and collide in the air, hitting targets. Enemy planes explode in midair. Some divert and flee.
The colors are so bright.
The planes are so fast.
The clouds are so dark.
The shots are so loud.
Grandpa gives him instructions on how to attack the enemy planes by shooting at them. Wes presses all the buttons he needs to so that they can fire back.
It’s only a few minutes but feels more like hours to Wes.
“But then that’s when Nighthawk was struck by a series of bullets. I could feel them pierce the airplane and it caused us to jerk all over the place.”
The plane is going down. Sirens are blaring inside the aircraft, lights are flashing red, and they’re spiraling through the air, thick funnels of black fog around them as they plunge to the ground.
“MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY!” Some siren shouts robotically in the aircraft.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Grandpa shouts to Wes. “Pull up!”
Wes grabs the yoke in front of him, and he pulls up as hard as he can. Grandpa grabs on, too. Together, they’re able to stop the plane from spinning and jolting out of control.
“Dang it!” Grandpa shouts.
“What?”
“We’re losing fuel!”
“That’s not good.”
“No, it isn’t. We need to get to the ground immediately…”
“Okay!”
“Prepare for a hard landing. Brace yourself!”
Suddenly, Wes is pulled back to the moment.
“Whoa.”
“Were you asleep?” Grandpa Charlie asks him.
“Um…no…I don’t think so,” Wes answers. But as much as it felt like he was dreaming, it also felt completely real.
“Okay. I was just saying that we’re gonna turn around soon,” Grandpa says to Wes. “We’ve gott
a head back before it gets dark.”
Then he looks at Wes with a gleam in his eye.
“But I want you to help me fly this thing.”
“Wait. Really?” Wes’s eyes bulge from his head.
Grandpa nods.
“How?”
“Well, the first thing you need to know is to stay calm no matter what.”
“Okay. I can be calm,” Wes says.
“The next thing you need to do is place your hands on the yoke like this…”
Wes mimics holding the yoke in front of him just like Grandpa Charlie shows him. Then Grandpa guides Wes’s hands onto the yoke, and just like that, Wes is flying! The whole flight back to Birmingham, Grandpa teaches him about all the different switches and gears.
At one point in the flight, Grandpa looks over at Wes and asks, “What’s your dream, kiddo?”
“My dream?”
“Yeah. Every kid has a dream. My dream was to be a military pilot. My dream was to have your dad. My dream was to have you.”
“Hmm…I don’t know,” Wes says. He’s never really thought about it before. There are so many thoughts popcorning around in his brain right now. He’s just so glad that he’s doing this.
“Come on, kiddo. Think about it. What’s your dream?” Grandpa nudges him.
“To be like you, Grandpa,” Wes answers. And he means it.
They smile at each other for a while, soaking up every part of this moment.
“Well, that’s very special, kiddo,” Grandpa says. “I’m glad that you want to be like me, but I want to be like you.”
“You do?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen your sketches. They’re so beautiful.”
“You really think so?”
“Oh, I know so. You keep it up when you’re older, you can be a famous artist someday.”
“Thanks, Grandpa.”
“Of course, kiddo. I love you to infinity…”
“…and beyond,” Wes finishes.
“And beyond that,” Grandpa adds, and winks at him.
Eventually they break through clouds and touch back on the ground, landing safely in Birmingham. When they land, his mom is standing next to Grandma Betty, who’s holding a pan of something covered with foil. Once Wes steps out of the plane, his legs wobble like Jell-O and his butt has fallen asleep, just like Grandpa Charlie described earlier.
He runs over to greet Grandma Betty, who whispers that she’s made him her famous apple pie and homemade vanilla ice cream. His mom grabs him and hugs him tight, too. Grandpa Charlie comes up behind them with the biggest grin on his face that Wes has ever seen.
Wes grins right back, because he’s got his own story to tell now—the story of their epic venture together.
THE DEFINITION OF COOL
BY VARIAN JOHNSON
I pull the pink-and-peach Hawaiian shirt over my head, then check myself out in the mirror. The colors don’t exactly match, and my shorts are a little too baggy, but otherwise, I look just like DJ Amplified from Juice Box Squad. I had been planning this outfit for six months—ever since we bought the tickets to the concert. JBS—that’s what us superfans call them—always picked people from the crowd to show on the jumbotron during their concerts. This outfit was guaranteed to get their attention. I mean, I’m even wearing socks and sandals—just like DJ Amplified. If that’s not dedication, I don’t know what is.
I swipe through my phone until I find my favorite song, “Like a Bobblehead,” then turn up the volume. It’s a bass-heavy song—the type that injects itself into your bones and practically forces you to dance. So that’s what I do—I close my eyes, wiggle my shoulders, and tune out everything but the music. And there I am, moving and grooving, jumping and jamming, popping and locking, slipping and sliding, and—
“Des! Did you even hear me?!”
I whip around to face my sixteen-year-old brother, Roosevelt. He’s wearing one of his new, overpriced “designer” T-shirts. I won’t lie, it looks good—I’d seen Juice Box Squad wearing that logo—but I’m not about to tell that to Roosevelt. His ego is already as big as a swollen mosquito.
“Can we go? Brandy is probably already there. It’s almost…” He glances at his wrist, then scowls. He stopped wearing a watch two months ago—I guess they aren’t “in” right now.
“You mean Brandy and my friend Kordell,” I say, following him out of the room.
Well, technically Kordell isn’t my friend. Not really. He’s just a cool, popular kid who’s been in all of my classes since kindergarten—and Brandy’s little brother. But thanks to JBS, that’s all about to change.
“By the way, I hope you aren’t planning to dance like that at the concert,” Roosevelt says. “You’ll look like a stupid nerd.”
“That doesn’t even make sense, Roosevelt. Nerds aren’t dumb.”
“You know what I mean. You dance like your arms are broken. And your shoulders. And maybe your back, too. You look like a stick made of Jell-O.”
“You’re just jealous because Dad never taught you how to do the King Cobra.”
“Ugh. Please don’t call it that outside of the house.” He looks over his shoulder and down toward my feet. “I’m surprised those little twigs you call legs don’t— Desmond!” He screeches to a halt so quickly that I almost run into him. “You can’t wear that! Socks? And sandals?”
I sidestep him and keep right on walking toward the kitchen. “They were good enough for DJ Amplified.”
I hear Roosevelt’s angry footsteps charge behind me. “Mom! Dad! Tell Des that he has to change!”
Mom and Dad have already risen from their seats at the kitchen table. “Roosevelt, stop worrying about what your brother is wearing,” Dad says. “It doesn’t matter how you look—as long as you feel like you look good.”
Mom coughs, clearing what must be a little tickle in her throat. “Are those black dress socks?”
I nod. “Cool, right?”
“Of course they are!” Dad says as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “Now, this is just emergency money.” He hands each of us a twenty. “And, Desmond, if something goes wrong and you can’t find your brother, or if—”
“I know, I know.” I stuff the money in my pocket. “I’ll call you.”
Dad strokes his almost fully gray beard. “Maybe I should go up there with y’all. Show you boys what it really means to get down.” Dad starts jutting his neck, kind of like he was a bobblehead. “Remember how we used to have those dance parties around the living room? Back in the day, I could dance for two hours without breaking a sweat.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “That’s not what your deodorant said.”
Dad isn’t paying attention to Mom, though. He’s already on a tear. “Shoot, I was so smooth, the word ‘cool’ didn’t exist until I was born. Fellas were just plain corny before that.” Dad laughs, way louder than he needs to. Then he slaps his very round belly. “I wonder if they have any extra tickets—”
“Dad, we’re going to be late,” I spurt out. “My friend is probably already waiting on us.”
Dad’s eyes crinkle—just for a moment—and then he grins. “Sounds good, slick. Be sure to tell me all about it when you get home.”
“Got it, Dad,” I say, giving him a high five. Just last year, I was still hugging him. But…that doesn’t seem to be the right thing to do anymore. I never see any of the other fifth-grade boys hugging their dads. Plus, Dad probably doesn’t want to hug me anyway. Whenever I come home from soccer practice, he’s always complaining about how I smell like boiled cabbage. I’ve never eaten it before, but Dad claims that it tastes like soggy celery.
I may have been able to get by with just a high five from Dad, but Mom isn’t letting me off that easy. She blocks my way to the door, and doesn’t mov
e until I open my arms for a hug.
“Have fun!” she says after a quick squeeze and a kiss on my forehead.
“We will!” Roosevelt says with keys in hand and one foot already out the door.
“Bye,” I add, waving to my parents one last time. Mom and Dad wave back…and then Dad goes right back to dancing around the kitchen table.
* * *
I crank up the new JBS album as soon as we get into the car—partially to enjoy the music…and partially to block out all the blah feelings swirling around in my head. Here’s the thing: I had watched a million video clips of JBS concerts, and the one thing you never saw in the crowd was parents. Especially parents like my dad, who thinks he’s fifteen instead of forty-five. Who thinks dressing up means wearing skinny jeans and retro sneakers. Who likes to dance to both old eighties music and the cool new music that my friends listen to.
So when I heard Kordell talking about the concert earlier this year, I knew I had to get tickets…and I knew I had to go with someone cool. Enter Roosevelt. He didn’t want anything to do with the concert at first—until he learned that Brandy, his long-term crush, was taking Kordell. Then Roosevelt suddenly got super gung-ho about it.
I wasn’t really sure how Dad felt about me going with Roosevelt—I kind of asked Mom while Dad was gone on a business trip. But he seemed to be all grins later when we talked about it, so I figured he probably didn’t want to go in the first place.
I mean, Dad may be a great dancer, but honestly—I cannot take him to a JBS concert. He understands that, right?
I’m so deep in thought, I don’t realize that we’re at the civic center until Roosevelt is turning into the parking lot. He pulls into the first available spot, then checks his phone. “Brandy’s waiting on the east side of the building.”
As we snake through the parking lot, I check out some of the other people there. Most are kids around my age—though some are a little bit older. And some even have their parents tagging along. Poor suckers. As much of a pain as Roosevelt can be, he comes in handy every now and then.
Once we round the building, I see Kordell and Brandy.
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