Roscoe let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be danged. You know, I always thought she was still alive. There was just no way . . . that close to home, she wouldn’t let herself not make it all the way back. No, sir. Even if the plane went down in the Pacific, Amelia sure seemed like a woman who’d find her way back into the air. Can you tell me—” He coughed, sounding winded from the excitement of the news. “Can you tell me how you know? Have you seen her? Spoken with her? Was she turned into a spy during the war?” His eyes shined bright with the possibilities. “Say, did something happen to her like that plane in World War Two, the one that crashed and marooned soldiers in Shangri-La? Did she live on a desert island? Or in a jungle?”
Pidge shook her head. “I don’t know. We’ve only communicated through letters I mysteriously receive—but they are letters full of things nobody but my sister could’ve written. She hasn’t told me the whole story, only bits and pieces. Some of her words are even scribbled out, perhaps by someone else. I’d show them to you, but we lost them on our way here. Anyway, there must’ve been something very secret, and very important, to keep her away all those years.” Pidge raised her chin in certainty. “There’s no way she would’ve left me alone down here otherwise. Not Meelie. But soon enough, I’ll hear the whole story. From her, in person.”
Roscoe let out a low whistle. “Wowee. Here I thought I was just going to get myself some surreptitious pie and a sammie. Not help solve the mystery of Amelia Earhart.”
Beep BEEP! Somebody behind us tapped out a warning that Roscoe had ignored the changing stoplight. He waved his right hand above his head in apology as we continued on. We were out of the town now, driving past acres and acres of green and golden wheat—crops unlike the citrus groves and avocado trees I was used to seeing in Southern California. I liked the look of the neat rows, the hearty stalks still undulating with the breeze and glistening in the late afternoon sunlight. It reminded me of a song we always sang in elementary school, “America the Beautiful,” and the lyric about spacious skies and amber waves of grain. Now I could see how Midwestern farmland could inspire the opening lines for an anthem about the whole wide country.
“Well, here we are.” Roscoe pulled the car onto a gravel driveway and up to a well-kept barn-like structure.
“Shouldn’t we be at the airport?”
“Nope. I keep ’er in the hangar there, and the runway’s right out back. Don’t worry—we’ll find a proper place to land in Atchison. I’m like what they used to call a barnstormer, I suppose. Although it’s frowned upon these days—the officials want hobbyist pilots like me to fly in and out of municipal airports.”
Roscoe was already out of the car and walking toward the hangar, telling Pidge and me to “have a rest and digest” for a few minutes while he got the plane ready. “Her name is the Serendipity.”
“How perfectly fitting,” said Pidge.
While we waited, I joined Pidge in worrying.
I had been on an airplane once before, when was five and my parents and I flew out to Boston to see Pidge. That trip was the last time I’d seen her before this summer. I don’t remember much about the flight—mostly the puffy white clouds like cotton candy. I had wanted to roll down the windows, like we were in my father’s car, so I could touch them. My mother had laughed and explained that airplane windows must stay shut, which made me pout. My father had woken me up to see the mountains as we flew overhead, but I’d sleepily told him I’d look after my nap and curled back into my seat, to his great disappointment. I hadn’t been afraid to be up in the air, but I don’t remember being afraid of much when I was five, other than a neighbor’s dog that snarled and snapped as I ran past its tether. Unlike now, when I had journals full of the many things that scared me.
Now that I was about to do it, I realized one of those things was going up in an airplane. I might have been less frightened if we were at the airport in Burbank, where I’d been a few times to pick my father up from business trips. The stewardesses paraded past in their cute uniforms, and the pilots tipped their caps to one another. Skycaps whisked luggage away. The travelers waited calmly in chairs, flipping through magazines and newspapers. They often were dapper and glamorous, people with rich or important lives waiting to go up in the air for a drink and meal and be over another state before they could wipe their mouths.
Anyway, at the Burbank airport there were official people all around, checking tickets and waving the planes here and there. The control tower used its bird’s-eye view to keep everything in order. We were in an empty field, with nobody watching. What if something happened? I thought about the stories of Amelia and Snooky at Kinner Field and the times that they had trouble getting off—or staying off—the ground. Hitting a copse of trees, or worse. Who would know to rush into the wheat fields to save us if Roscoe botched takeoff?
I turned to Pidge, to ask if we should really be letting a stranger fly us across the state. Her eyes were closed and her hands were clasped together, like she was praying. I paused, tracing my fingertip along the edge of the backseat window. The clouds were high in the sky, as puffy and pretty as they were on my only other flight. But even though I was sitting in the backseat of a parked sedan, I already felt like I was up in the air, dipping and diving with the turbulence of my nerves. “Pidge?”
She turned to me. Her mouth, tight with fear, attempted a smile. Pidge looked like she needed a long nap and a solid meal—more solid than the sandwich she’d picked at while we sat at the Bon Voyage Diner. “I can’t do this, Beatrice. I thought I could do anything to get back, but . . . not fly.” She sucked in a breath like she was trying not to cry. “I’m so ashamed. Meelie once wrote that ‘courage is the price.’ And here I’m so close but I can’t pay it.”
After all the distance we’d traveled, this couldn’t be where our journey ended. “No, Pidge,” I said firmly. “You can. I’m also scared. But Meelie—and you—have taught me that’s no reason not to keep going. I’m willing to be brave for this. You can be too!”
Pidge looked down at her hands, shaking her head. I continued, “Think of that telegram you sent Amelia when she landed across the Atlantic. ‘I knew you could do it and now you have.’ I know you can do this, Pidge. We might be almost out of money, but we can scrape up enough courage, between the both of us.”
Pidge wiped at her eye, staring out the window. She took a deep, shuddery breath. Then she reached out and grabbed my hand. Squeezing it hard, she said, “All right. Let’s be brave together.”
SEVENTEEN
Courage Is the Price
Roscoe called us over not long after. His plane, he proudly explained, was a Cessna Skyhawk. It wasn’t actually little, just a lot smaller than a jet. Outside, it was white with cheerily painted red stripes. The wings were placed over the top of the cockpit—or whatever the inside of the plane was called, since the front seat with the controls wasn’t separate from the backseat. There was a cute propeller on the nose, which gave the plane a human face and, for some reason, made me think of someone sneezing. Serendipity looked friendly. That was a good sign. I took a deep breath and tried to take her at her name: a pleasant coincidence, like kismet. The sweat on my palms and trembling I felt inside were hard to ignore, though. To counter them, I focused on Meelie.
I climbed in, staying clear of the front seat because of all the dials, controls, and pedals. What if I bumped something and messed it up? Even though we were still on the ground, I buckled up tight. Pidge was about to follow me into the backseat when Roscoe stopped her.
“Say, why don’t you sit up front? Then I can tell all my pals that I had ‘Earhart’ as a copilot.” He winked.
Pidge looked back at me. “Is that all right with you, Beatrice?”
It was probably for the best. Whether from nerves or excitement, I felt like I might throw up, and I didn’t want to do that all over Pidge’s pants—even if they were already covered in stains.
She sat down in the left front seat, and Roscoe finished up checking on th
ings outside of the plane. I heard him bang a few parts, punctuated by his whistling. My stomach made a gurgle so loud that Pidge glanced back at me. I forced a smile. Bea, brave. I tried to imagine how wonderful it would feel when we were on the ground again—in Atchison. At long last and with time to spare.
Pidge leaned back, holding up her arm to show off her bracelet. “A lucky charm is a nice balm for frayed nerves.” I grinned and raised my hand to show mine. “Although the best mascot is a good mechanic,” she added. “You know, I used to work on my sister’s planes, in the early days.” Hadn’t she already told me that? Or perhaps Meelie had written something similar. Pidge’s stories and the letters blended together in my head.
Roscoe finally arranged himself in the pilot’s seat. “Buckle up, gals,” he said, in between breaths. He had a slight wheeze I hadn’t noticed earlier. “That patty melt is not agreeing with me today,” he said sheepishly. “Or perhaps the eggs.” He let out a small burp. “Or pie.” Pidge’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment for him, or maybe nervousness.
Roscoe fiddled with some knobs and controls, and then the chortle of the engine started. The smell of airplane fuel filled my nose. I squeezed the elephant bracelet around my opposite wrist, and stared out the window at the ground. Suddenly I didn’t want to leave it. But at the same time, I did. I thought of every beautiful thing that Amelia had said about flying. She had seen wondrous things in the air. She’d given her whole life to it—so being up there must be magical. I took deep breaths. Courage is the price. I was ready to pay it.
Then we were taxiing down the bumpy bare field, racing past tall stalks of wheat. I peeked into the front and saw Pidge clutch the edges of her seat, the skin of her knuckles white as the bones beneath. I felt us speed up and I squeezed my eyes shut, silently begging please let us be safe please let us be safe please please please. Then the rumble of the ground below the wheels stopped, and the bumping turned to the smoother shakiness of liftoff. I pried my eyes open and stared out the window at the fields waving good-bye below us, farther and farther away with every rickety second. The plane banked a few times, and the force of it either pushed me back into the seat or slid me from one side to the other.
“Wahoo!” Roscoe yelled back to me, grinning. The noise of the engine was loud. He was saying things into the radio—maybe to a control tower somewhere? But unless he leaned back in my direction, it was too noisy for me to make anything out. Pidge’s head was turned so she could stare out the window. Her eyes glistened with tears. She closed them, and stopped clutching her seat to wipe them away. When she opened her eyes again, she caught me watching her.
“It is beautiful up here,” she said, shouting so I could hear. “You should be looking out the window.” She pointed out at the view. “Beatrice, I feel like I’m already with her.” The tears came back to her eyes. I reached my hand up to grab hers, and I squeezed it. That stopped the lump in my throat from leading to tears of my own, but just barely.
I let go and turned to my window, pressing my nose to the cold glass. We were not as high as I had thought we’d be, and the clouds weren’t below us. There weren’t really any clouds, in fact—the evening was clear. The angle of the sun had fallen, and golden light cast into the plane. I looked down at houses, roads, trees, and fields. A small blue lake, glittering. I could see children playing at one edge, with a raft that looked like a doughnut. We passed over a big red barn with white trim. I saw farm stands and mail trucks and land that looked like a patchwork quilt, with its neat square areas of different-colored crops. It was beautiful—overwhelmingly so. I’d never seen the world like this, from the viewpoint of a bird or a plane or a superhero. It was a funny thing—despite all the ugliness of war and injustice, up in the air, the world still looked like a perfect place, a utopia. Wondrous. This must be what Amelia felt when she flew. I could see how it made the hard things in life—like her dad’s sickness—fade away, at least temporarily. I closed my eyes and imagined being alone up there. It was terrifying, but also exciting. I did feel kind of free. If we saw Amelia, when we saw her tomorrow—I would have so much to ask. I opened my eyes again.
At the controls, Roscoe took one hand away from the thing that steered, and rubbed at his chest again. Maybe he’d gotten a mosquito bite. I turned back to the window, not wanting to miss any more of the views.
I was in the middle of snapping a picture with my Brownie when the plane made a sudden jolt. I quickly looked to the front seat, but Roscoe seemed calm at the controls, and Pidge was still gazing out her window with rapture. I turned my attention back to world below us and marveled at the steeple of a small white church. A bird flew by the right-side wing. It was so close I could see its feathers.
Then the plane made a sudden dip.
I shrieked and slammed my hands down onto the seat, pressing to steady myself. What is Roscoe doing up there? Maybe he was stunting, some kind of maneuver to impress us. A figure eight or a loop-the-loop. The plane leveled off, and I leaned forward. “What was that?” Pidge had turned and was blocking my view of Roscoe. At the same moment, we realized what was going on, and our mouths dropped slack.
Roscoe’s face was red as a ripe tomato. Beads of sweat had formed at his white hairline. His right hand was still clutching one of the controls; his left was clutching his chest. He let out a wheeze and struggled to get the words out. “I—think—I’m—sick.” Then the plane took another dive, us screaming along with it.
EIGHTEEN
Brace Position
My first thought, as we plummeted, was actually of Sally. I pictured her back in my bedroom, playing with my old dolls. Reading my other journals. Scratching up my favorite records. Replacing my Beatles poster with one of the Monkees, and pulling down all my magazine photos. Curling up on my bed with my books and smearing things on the pages. But I wasn’t angry, imagining her like that. Sally would spend the rest of her life thinking about the stepsister she’d lost. She’d be like Pidge—years would add lines to her face but never erase the sadness behind her smile. Maybe someday she’d make a pilgrimage like ours, to this spot in Kansas where she lost her sister—or the closest she had to one. Unlike Pidge, Sally would know what had happened to me. But somehow I wasn’t sure that would make any of it easier, and I felt a deep sadness for her.
But those thoughts of Sally filled my head for only a few seconds. Then my attention snapped back to what was happening in the front seat. By then Roscoe had let go of the controls with both hands and was doubled over, grabbing at his midsection. Serendipity moved on her own, not downward, but unsteadily forward in the air. The wind, or something, buffeted the plane. “Take the controls!” Roscoe grunted, in between moans. Then he turned his head and threw up, all over his shirt and the window. I screamed again, and thought I would be sick myself.
But Pidge was in action. She’d unbuckled her seatbelt and had scooted over to grab the steering things. The donkey bracelet dangled from her wrist in between knobs. “Roscoe, stay with me. Tell me what to do to get us on the ground!” Her voice was sharp and frantic but strong. Without looking back at me, she yelled, “Beatrice, get in a brace position—put your head down and hug your knees.” In response to my whimper, she added, “I promise you, darling, that I will keep you safe!”
Pidge could barely open her billfold. How was she going to control a plane with her shaky hands? I tried to unbuckle and move up to the controls to help her.
“Get back in your seat and buckle up!” she screamed at me. “Brace position. Now!” I obliged. With my head between my knees, I couldn’t see outside of the plane, nor the chaos up front. I could only feel Serendipity bucking like a bronco. I could hear Pidge shouting questions at Roscoe and him grunting answers. I closed my eyes and mouthed all the prayers I could remember and squeezed my elephant charm. I tried not to think about Amelia’s plane over the ocean, thirty years ago.
From the front seat, I heard Pidge crying out. “Oh, Meelie. Get us out of this mess, please. Meelie, I need you, sis. Don’t let
me be alone up here. Help me remember what to do.”
Roscoe was still moaning in between commands. But the movements of the plane became a little smoother, even as I felt the pressure of us heading quickly toward the ground below. For what felt like an eternity I cowered in my seat, not knowing what would happen.
Roscoe exclaimed, “That’s it, that’s it . . .” A huge thudding bump rocked the plane. Smaller bumps continued, like we were kernels inside a movie-popcorn machine. My seatbelt hugged me to the seat, but every part of my body rattled, from my toes to my teeth. My ears ached from the change in pressure. Bile rose in my throat.
The plane stopped. I jolted forward, then the seatbelt tugged me back.
The sudden calm was overwhelming. It still felt like we were moving—and in my seat, I was: breath panting, heart pounding, body shaking like a leaf. I slowly unfurled from my brace position. Were we on the ground? Were we okay? Or was this how the afterlife started?
All was quiet from the front of the plane. I rubbed my eyes and looked out the window. We were on a small dirt road in the middle of a cornfield. Clouds of dust swirled around us. Trembling, I unbuckled my seatbelt. “Pidge?” I tried to whisper and barely made a sound. I coughed and cleared my throat. “Pidge?” My voice came out shaky and craggy.
I tried to stand up, but my knees buckled. Hunched over, I climbed toward the front seat. Roscoe was passed out in his, throw-up covering the front of his neatly pressed shirt. But he was breathing. Pidge sat next to him, still clutching the controls. Her eyes were open. She blinked.
“Pidge! Are you all right?”
She gingerly let go of one of the steering things. “I—I think so. I might’ve bopped my head.” She pushed the strands of hair that had escaped her chignon back from her face. She blinked again, like she had just woken up. There was a reddish smear on her cheek, but I think it was from her lipstick, not blood. “It’s very odd,” she said, her voice getting dreamy. “Meelie’s first crash happened on this day in 1921. July 23.” She paused. “You know, she was up there just now. Helping me.”
The Last Grand Adventure Page 16