Girls Don't Fly

by Chandler, Kristen

  “Damn. He’s driving the speed limit,” she says.

  “Of course he is.”

  She puts her gun back in the holster. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You sure?”

  My knees wobble. I lean on the window of the truck and try to act like I’m just being friendly. I look into Bobbie’s wrinkled, freckled, beautiful face. “I could use a ride back to my car,” I say. “And maybe some of your ice cream.”

  “You can have a ride,” says Bobbie. “But you gotta carry a permit for the ice cream.”

  31

  Striking:

  When a bird bites you to let you know who’s in charge. Not you.

  The only good part about school for the next week is that nobody expects me to do much brain crunching anymore, except Ms. Miller. The rest of my teachers are as sick of school as I am. There’s the busy work that goes with the “transition” into “real life” (which doesn’t sound ominous or anything), but mostly school is just about showing up now.

  Unfortunately, that means I have to show up in biology with Eric. But thankfully, Jonathon is all about this movie he’s making so he manages to keep me distracted.

  “... then my cousin put his hand right in the blender and I had my camera totally focused on him the whole time.”

  “How did his mom like you filming while her kid got maimed?”

  “That was the best part. The tattoo on her forehead actually changed color. There was blood in the batter. Isn’t that a great title?” He holds out his hand so I can see it in lights. “‘Blood ... in the Batter!’ ”

  Ms. Miller sighs loudly in our direction. Her hair looks grayer than it did when we started the school year. She points to her timeline on evolution. I thought we had covered this unit, but she seems to be circling back to it for some reason. “We don’t take up much room. In fact, we are hardly a blip. But we’ve changed the way the earth does business. For better or worse we have altered the earth’s chemistry.”

  “If we blew everything up tomorrow, wouldn’t it all eventually go back to how it was before us?” says Jonathon. “All that stuff in the timeline?”

  “Time only moves in one direction, Jonathon. It’s reasonable to think the earth would be less polluted without us around, but depending on what we did to exterminate ourselves, that might not matter much.”

  “Isn’t that assuming that all this is just random?” says Erik.

  “We aren’t talking about the purpose of the earth, Erik. Just the history.”

  Jonathon studies the board for a change. “Like, I see what you’re saying, Ms. M, but how do you know any of this? How do you know that evolution isn’t some bogus theory. Like spontaneous generation? Or, like, how do we know that the way we figure out the age of everything isn’t wrong? Maybe our whole idea of the universe is wrong and we’re really just a dust speck on a giant cosmic dandelion.”

  We all look at Ms. Miller.

  “Well, aside from the fact that we haven’t found any evidence to support your ‘Horton Hears a Who’ Theory, there are some things we can almost know. I say ‘almost’ because nothing is absolute. Let’s look at evolution. What did Darwin discover that made him question the popular beliefs of his time?”

  I say, “One thing he saw were finches that were adapted to each of the Galápagos Islands. It didn’t make sense to him that God had made each one of them from scratch.”

  “Nicely put, Myra. Let’s make it personal. Do you see any evidence of evolution in your own family, or in your own life?”

  “You mean like how my family gets taller with each generation because we marry hot, tall women?” says Jonathon. He nudges me and clucks.

  Ms. Miller nods, frowning.

  “Tall kids and finches with funny beaks don’t necessarily mean that God doesn’t exist,” says Erik.

  “Of course not,” says Ms. Miller. “Many people, including Einstein, believe, or believed, there is a divine origin to evolution. But our understanding of evolution does suggest that a certain amount of change is inevitable and what direction that change takes can alter the future permanently.”

  The tight T-shirt girl says, “Well, duh. We’d all die of boredom if nothing changed.”

  See, there you go. Just when I thought I knew everything, I learn something in school.

  The bell rings. Ms. Miller points to the reading for next time. “And I need to see Myra after class.”

  The class says, “Ooh ...” in unison.

  Ms. Miller waits until everyone is gone. I organize my backpack about six times until the last person walks out the door.

  She sits close to me and fingers a file folder. “There’s been a complaint.”

  “About what?”

  “About your application for the scholarship.”

  “I haven’t even turned it in yet.”

  “There is a concern that you’re getting extra help on your application.”

  “From whom?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Who’s helping me, or who’s complaining about me?”

  “Either.”

  We sit looking at each other. I would love to tell her the whole gory story just to make sure she felt sorry for all the times she’d ignored me and treated Erik like an academic demigod. But then I realize that Erik fooled me too. I can’t expect Ms. Miller to believe me.

  “Erik is mad because I’m not giving up.” I’m not going to talk about the other reason Erik is mad.

  She taps the folder. “These are serious complaints, Myra. Not just about you.”

  Okay. That rips it. I dig in my backpack and hand her my notes. “No one is doing my homework but me. Unless Pete’s dictated all eight drafts of it to me.”

  She reads through my latest draft. She doesn’t skim. The other class is filing in, but she keeps reading. Her face retracts into a giant frown. Why should she believe me? I’m Myra, the boy parasite. I don’t know if she’s frowning because it’s bad or because it doesn’t prove Pete hasn’t helped me, but whatever the reason, she looks seriously depressed by my ideas on cormorants. Then her face does this melting thing. It’s so much worse than the disappointed face. I wonder if she’s going to cry.

  “Ms. Miller?”

  “All this is your work? Pete hasn’t seen it?”

  “No. I mean, he tries to help all of us in class. But a lot of the technical stuff goes over my head, so I don’t even know what to ask. I have more work to do. I can make it better.”

  She shoves back my papers. She doesn’t even straighten them. She looks me in the face and frowns again. She coughs. I must be in bigger trouble than I thought.

  She says, “You have to look past the people who don’t believe in you, Myra. Sometimes we’re just too tired to notice. But that’s no excuse. Neither is a phony little creep with a 4.0.” She drops her fist on the folder. The kids coming into class stop talking. “Win or lose, don’t you wimp out, honey. Don’t you dare!”

  I don’t mention the complaint at work. But I stay away from Pete. Ms. Miller may be the teacher, but she doesn’t know Erik like I do. He knows how to win. And now it’s more than a field trip for both of us.

  32

  Twittering:

  Short birdcalls to keep in touch with members of the same species. Birds did it first.

  By Friday I’m seeing sea turtles and cormorants in my breakfast cereal. I hear dolphins squeaking in the dryer instead of bathroom mats. I’ve dreamed of the Galápagos every night for a week. I walk around the house in a sun hat and cutoffs. I expect to start speaking in fluent Spanish at any moment.

  Friday night I come home from work and make artificial crab enchiladas and canned mango smoothies. I get the smoothies done before my mom leaves. She gives me this look like I need to be in an institution for the criminally goofy. But she licks her lips when she drinks it. “What’s the occasion? Are we all taking a cruise?”

  “Why not?” I say. “You’ll be staying in the deluxe ca
bin, with a masseur and a cabana boy to do your bidding.”

  “Could he start by working my shift tonight?”

  “I’ll check with the captain.”

  Mom rolls her eyes. “How about you fill up my cooler with another round of this stuff? Is it legal for me to drink this and drive?”

  “Yes, Mother, it’s virgin.”

  Melyssa waddles into the room and sprawls across a kitchen chair.

  Mom says, “I’m glad something is.”

  “Nice, Mom,” says Mel. “Real nice.”

  After dinner we are all so stuffed we have to lie on the living room floor like beached whales. Mel is the most convincing. I’m not sure how we’re going to get her back up. My dad joins us, but on the couch with a newspaper. The smell of the seafood lingers in the house, heavy and sweet.

  “Story time,” says Carson.

  I’ve never told any of my stories around my parents. It’s a violation of the code. And I’m exhausted from cooking and eating too much. “Maybe later,” I say.

  “Come on.”

  Melyssa attempts to roll on her side and fails. “Yeah, why do you always hide in the bedroom when you tell your stories?”

  “Because they’re bedtime stories.”

  “Don’t you have any I-ate-like-a-pig-and-I-can’t-move stories?” she says.

  “Yes, but they all have sad endings.”

  “Tell your pirate one,” says Andrew. “That’s not sad.”

  “It is tonight.”

  “Does the prince die?” says Carson.

  “The prince?” says Melyssa. “We can only hope.”

  I lower my voice. “Where were we when last we left our pirates?”

  “They had just escaped the bad pirates,” says Danny.

  “Indeed they had, mate. And now, with a few barrels of food and drink, they were off on the real journey. Sailing the sea for the island of Isabela.”

  “Isn’t that the big one? That had an earthquake last year?” says Melyssa.

  “It’s a real island?” says Andrew.

  “Yeah, it’s one of the Galápagos Islands,” says Melyssa. “Didn’t you get that?”

  “All righty then. I’ll be telling this tale, missy, and I’ll be thanking you to put an extra-strength sock in it.”

  “Sorry,” says Melyssa.

  “The trip was long but beautiful. The wind was with their sails. Almost as if the breath of Fate herself was driving them. The closer they got to this mysterious island, the warmer it became. Gulls, terns, and albatross—which are not actually bad luck at all—escorted them in a grand parade. The sails sang with the gentle hum of the travelers. The fish trailed in the ship’s wake; they seemed so lucky in speed. The sun warmed the crew’s bones in the morning and sparkled on the water in the evening. But all was not well on the magical cruise.”

  “It never is,” says Brett.

  “So true. For it seems that the prince was not keen to share the glory of his conquest with his fellow Deadendiers, especially not the mild scullery maid.”

  “She’s so annoying,” says Brett.

  “Not as much as you are,” says Andrew. The two scowl, but no punches are thrown.

  “On the last night before they were to set anchor on the beloved Isabela, the prince had a very unroyal idea.”

  “Did he poison her?” says Andrew.

  “No. Her nose was too keen. But he did poison the crew with lies. Lies of the darkest kind. He told the crew that she spoke the language of the birds because she was a witch.”

  “He’s mean,” says Danny.

  “Arrr,” I say. “Too true. The prince may not have spoken bird, but he spoke pirate. And a masterful storyteller, he was. When he was done weavin’ his web, even the pirate king himself couldn’t convince the simple-minded crew that the prince was lying. In fact, the prince even told them that she had gotten unfair help in passing the bird test. He claimed she had bewitched the pirate king and taken wicked advantage of his pirate heart! Called her cheater and a ...” I look at Danny. “A wench.”

  Melyssa shoots me a look of disbelief. Sometimes it’s nice that she gets me. “He did not.”

  “Oh, yes, he did. In no time at all they had the poor maid on the plank, headed for her doom. And they were thinking about putting the pirate king up next if he complained. So off she went.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” says Mel. “I’m going to kick the tuna out of that kid.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s the main character. She can’t die,” says Brett forlornly.

  I give Brett the evil eye. “And off the plank she went. Sinking to the bottom of the beautiful blue sea. Sinking. Sinking. Sinking ... in a cold, salty tomb.”

  Danny puts his thumb in his mouth.

  “But just as she was surrendering her last innocent breath, she felt the slice of a hard object at her tied wrists and feet. It was none other than the knife of the mean old first mate, who had slipped off the ship and come to her rescue. It seems the first mate had fallen in love with her biscuits and he couldn’t bear to have her die. When the maid burst through the surface, the crew thought ’twas a sign from the sea. They decided that the prince was probably exaggerating the whole witch thing anyway since they’d had such an easy trip getting there.”

  “Did they make the prince walk the plank?” says Andrew.

  “No. He was a royal, even if he was a royal pain, so they decided his punishment would be that everyone would treat him like a peasant from then on.”

  “That’s not good enough,” says Mel. “They shoulda killed’im. With their bare hands.”

  “They were landing on the island of Isabela and they had bigger fish to fry.”

  “What happens next?” says Carson.

  “My little brothers go to bed is what happens next.”

  “Awww,” says Danny. “I wanna know if they get killed by natives.”

  My dad lowers his paper. “Me too. I love a good killing by the natives.” I had no idea he was listening.

  “There’ll be plenty of time for killing people tomorrow,” I say. “Bedtime.”

  “I think the prince gets knifed by an angry native and turned into soup,” says Melyssa.

  “No.” I sigh heavily. “This is a realistic fairy tale.”

  33

  Thermals:

  Rising warm air, perfect for bird joyrides.

  It’s our last day of class. As I drive to the marina, I look longingly at the sky, streaked with yellow and rose. Summer’s coming. I roll my windows down, even though it’s cold. Noisy robins line the old trees on the side of the road. The smell of grass and flowers comes in waves.

  Pete is standing in the office talking on the phone when I come in. “It is a lot of money. I agree,” he says.

  I go into the club room and see Pritchett and the twins. No Erik or Dawn. Ho-Bong and Ho-Jun look like they’re on their last supercylinder. Ho-Jun’s hair is actually messy. Come to think of it, so is mine.

  Pritchett says, “Hey.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Dawn’s out,” he says. “She’s on the phone with Pete right now.”

  I feel sick. “Why?”

  “Hard to make a thousand bucks selling lattes.”

  “I know about that,” I say.

  “Not me,” says Pritchett. “I have a good gig.”

  “What do you do?”

  “In a band.”

  This shouldn’t surprise me. Pritchett reeks of personality. I just have never met anyone who’s really in a band. “No way. What do you play?”

  “Bass, vocals, and style.”

  “Huh. Are you any good?”

  “Good enough to make more than I would selling lattes.”

  Pete walks in. He’s not happy. “Okay. We’re going to make it short today. Dawn’s out of the competition and Erik isn’t coming because he has a track meet. The due date for your proposals is May first. That’s three weeks. When you have your work done, all you have to do is mail it in. Otherwise I can
help with questions. I hope you enjoyed the tour.”

  “We came down here for nothing?” says Pritchett.

  I have to admit I’d feel the same way, except I have to work in an hour.

  “Do you have any other questions?” says Pete.

  Pritchett throws his backpack on his shoulder with a dramatic sweep. “Do you think I’m going to need to get the SPF 30, or will I be okay with 15?”

  “I’d hand your paper in before you pick out your Speedo,” says Pete. “If there’s nothing else, I have a ton of work to do.”

  Ho-Bong and Ho-Jun walk to Pete and hand him two envelopes. “We’re done.”

  “That’s great, guys, but I want nothing to do with your papers. Just mail them in and the judges will make their choices. I am not a judge, juror, or referee for any of it.”

  “Well, I guess that’s it then,” says Pritchett. “Nice knowing ya.”

  I’m sorry to see the last class end on such a sour note. I know Pete’s mad about Dawn, and I suspect he’s heard about Erik’s complaint.

  I say, “Hey, Pete? Do you have one last cheer for us, before we go?”

  Pete scowls. “I would need caffeine and seven more hours of sleep for that this morning, Myra. But you go for it.”

  I pull out my chair and climb up on it. The four guys in the room look up at me like I’ve sprouted wings. I think about my chicken moves and start it up.

  “When I say ‘go,’ you say ‘south.’

  “Go.”

  “South.”

  Pritchett’s the only one who chants back when I point to him.

  “Go.”

  “South,” chants Pritchett.

  “When I say ‘Galápagos,’ you say ‘Islands.’

  “Galápagos.”

  “Islands.”

  “Galápagos.”

  “Islands.”

  “When I say ‘gimme,’ you say ‘money.’

  “Gimme.”

  “Money.”

  “Gimme.”

  “Money.”