Tomorrow night? The knot in my stomach grew bigger. Oh, geez, Mom would be home tomorrow night! In all the craziness, she’d slipped my mind. I ran my hands through my hair. Tomorrow night. Mrs. Roosevelt and Fala had to be gone by then, or else….I groaned. I had no choice.
I turned to the First Lady. “Let’s protest,” I said.
* * *
***
Mrs. Roosevelt became a whirlwind of activity. Pacing the room, she began tapping her forehead with her gloved finger. Every tap seemed to knock out another idea.
“Signs and posters. We shall need dozens of signs and posters.”
Tap-tap!
“And a speech.”
Tap-tap!
“Most importantly, we must get the word out. How can citizens join our protest if they are unaware of it?”
She stopped pacing and looked at the wall clock: eight-thirty. “It is already so late.” She sighed. “If only there were a fast way to contact hundreds of people within minutes.”
Olive grinned. “Ellie,” she said, “have I got a surprise for you.”
Before Mrs. Roosevelt could correct her, Olive grabbed the First Lady’s arm and led her into the computer room. She started typing.
I looked at the screen.
Who knew my little sister had her own Kidschat page?
I did a double take.
Or that she had so many followers?
“The Princess of Norway?” I exclaimed.
Olive shrugged. “What can I say? I post regularly, and my content is interesting.” She clicked a few more keys.
I had to hand it to Mrs. Roosevelt. She grasped the basics of social media pretty quickly. She especially liked Twitter. “Oh, I wish Franklin and I had such a wonderful means of communication. Just imagine the morale-boosting messages we could send to the American people!”
We brainstormed for a few minutes and finally came up with this post:
Olive added pictures of a bulldozer, an abandoned park, and mermaid Princess Aquamarina.
“Are you sure about the mermaid?” I asked.
“Trust me, Nolan,” she said. “It’s all about grabbing attention.”
I nodded. If anyone knew about that, it was Olive.
“There’s just one last thing,” she said. She clicked even more keys. “I’m adding a link to my website. We can put even more stuff about us protesting there.”
“You have a website?” I said. “Does Mom know?”
“Of course,” replied Olive with a roll of her eyes. “She monitors it every day.”
“Geez, I hope she sends me to technology day camp next summer,” I said.
While Olive put the final touches on her website—more pictures of mermaids, along with puppies and something she called a chimera—“Part lion, part goat, part snake!”—I went up to Mom’s studio for colored markers and cardboard.
Then the three of us sat around the dining room table and tried to come up with ideas for our protest signs. Sure, Olive has computer know-how, but I’m pretty good at art. I think it’s because of all the graphic novels I read. Anyway, I started doodling, and in no time at all, I hit on this idea:
“Imaginative,” said Mrs. Roosevelt. She held up her poster. “What do you think of mine?”
“Er…nice handwriting,” I said.
“Look at mine! Look at mine!” cried Olive.
“But it’s not quite finished.” Olive picked up a brown marker.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, snatching it out of her hand.
“What?” said Olive. “I just wanted to color in her eyes.”
Yeah, right.
We worked for a long time.
Then Olive let out a huge yawn and…Thump! Just like that, her head dropped to the table.
I reached over to shake her.
“Do not disturb her,” said Mrs. Roosevelt. “I will carry her up.”
I must have looked doubtful, because she added, “As a regular practitioner of yoga, I am stronger than I look.” And before I could say another word, she did this.
And this.
And this.
Then she picked up Olive. For a moment her features softened as she looked at my sister’s sleeping face. “Sweet,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.
A string of saliva oozed from the corner of Olive’s mouth.
“Not,” I said.
Mrs. Roosevelt looked at me. “You need to get some sleep too, Nolan. Remember, with the new day comes new strength and new thoughts.”
With a yawn, I followed her up the stairs.
IT WAS STILL DARK when the doorbell rang. Blurry-eyed, I looked at my bedside clock: five-thirty.
With a groan, I stumbled out into the hallway.
Olive came out of her room too. “What’s happening?”
Mrs. Roosevelt looked up at us from the entry hall. “Good morning, children!” she chirped. She looked wide-awake and brimming with energy. Even her hairnet was neatly in place. “Look who’s here….Mr. Selff!”
“At this hour?” I croaked.
“I saw your post on Kidschat and I came to help.”
“You’re on Kidschat?” said Olive.
“My grandkids are,” he replied.
“Well, we are thrilled that you have joined our ranks,” said Mrs. Roosevelt. “And you are just in time for breakfast. Will you stay? I cooked.”
We all went into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
“Where’s Fala?” I asked.
“Hiding,” said Mrs. Roosevelt. She clattered some pots and pans on the stove. “As I said, I cooked.”
Mr. Selff and I exchanged worried looks, and Mrs. Roosevelt started spooning food onto our plates.
“Scrambled eggs with tomato sauce,” she said.
“Poached prunes.”
“Prunes will give you a real run for your money,” said Mr. Selff.
“And…”
“Gross!” exclaimed Olive. “What’s that?”
“Mashed potatoes on a slice of whole-wheat bread.”
The three of us stared at our plates.
“It is a seven-and-a-half-cent breakfast,” declared Mrs. Roosevelt.
“Overpriced,” I muttered.
Mrs. Roosevelt looked indignant. “I will have you know that I devised this meal myself. It is inexpensive as well as nutritious.”
I poked at the prunes with my fork. “You and President Roosevelt don’t actually eat this stuff yourselves, do you?”
“Of course we do,” replied Mrs. Roosevelt. “There is a Great Depression going on.”
“A Great Impression?” said Olive.
“Depression,” I corrected her. “Back in the 1930s, lots and lots of people were out of work because the economy crashed. It seemed like everybody was poor, or hungry, or homeless.”
Mrs. Roosevelt nodded. “Well told, Nolan. That is exactly right.”
I blushed. Geez. My teacher, Mr. Druff, would never believe it.
“How come you and Frankie eat this stuff?” Olive said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re not poor, are you?”
“It is President Roosevelt,” Mrs. Roosevelt corrected her. “And no, we are not poor. But Franklin and I believe it would be wrong to dine on seven-course meals while our fellow citizens stand in soup-kitchen lines.”
A guy had to admire that, even if it did mean eating slop. Picking up my fork, I poked at the tomato-drippy eggs. Disgusting! Still, there were people starving back in Mrs. Roosevelt’s time. I put a tiny bite in my mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Covered my mouth and tried not to gag.
“They’re not so bad,” I lied. But no way was I touching those prunes.
Mrs. Roosevelt sat down. She smiled at Mr. Selff. “I am just so pleased you are with us.”
“You can carry a sign at the protest,” added Olive. “Or…wait! You can hand out candy!”
“It’s a protest, not a parade, doofus,” I said. “Nobody’s handing out candy.”
“Make balloon animals, then?” asked Olive.
Mr. Selff chuckled. “All those jobs sound like fun, little miss. But I had something a bit different in mind.”
The sudden twinkle in his eyes made me uneasy.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like flying the plane,” he replied.
IT TURNED OUT MR. Selff had been a crop duster before he retired, which means he knew how to swoop, and dive, and…
“Skywrite,” he said. “What better way to advertise your rally than to write big—big enough for everyone who isn’t online to see?”
“Who isn’t online?” asked Olive. She shot me a smug look.
I ignored her and thought about Mr. Selff’s suggestion. It was pretty good. Everyone reads skywriting. I mean, who can resist a puffy white message stretched across a clear blue sky? It’s even more of an attention grabber than Olive.
“When are you going to do it?” I asked.
“Right now,” he said, slapping his hands on the table and standing. “The sun should just about be up by the time we get to the airstrip.”
“You mean you,” I corrected him. “By the time you get to the airstrip.”
“I can’t very well fly without a copilot.” He smiled knowingly at Mrs. Roosevelt.
She smiled back.
Olive looked from one to the other. Then she burst out, “You can fly, Ellie? Wow! Are there even planes back in your time?”
“Mrs. Roosevelt,” retorted Mrs. Roosevelt. “And yes, of course there are airplanes. It is true that airline travel is in its infancy. Still, I am a stalwart advocate.” She stood too. “I am ready when you are, Mr. Selff. And the children, I believe, will enjoy the experience.”
“Um…I—I think I’ll just stay here,” I stammered, “and…uh…finish these, uh, delicious eggs.”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Roosevelt replied in a firm voice. “You and Olive are my responsibility while your mother is away. I will not shirk my duty by leaving you alone.” She snapped her fingers.
I went upstairs to get dressed.
As I was pulling on my shorts and T-shirt, Fala poked his head out from under my bed.
“You better stay hidden,” I warned him, “or Mrs. Roosevelt will make you go up too.”
Fala whined.
“I know. I hate heights. Seriously, standing on a step stool makes me dizzy.”
“Arrr-woof!” barked Fala, as if he agreed. He scooted back under the bed.
I dragged myself into the bathroom. Just the thought of soaring hundreds of feet above the ground was making me queasy. I opened the medicine cabinet, took out a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and downed a swig. After that, I ate two Tums and shuffled downstairs and out the door. I crawled into the backseat of Mr. Selff’s gold Buick.
“And we’re off!” cried Mr. Selff. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, he inched out onto Kenton Street, then oh-so-carefully maneuvered the car around the corner onto Harrison Road. We crawled out of town.
Olive cupped her mouth and whispered in my ear, “And I thought Great-Aunt Mildred drove slow. I sure hope he flies better than he drives.”
I burped. Eggs and Tums. Gross!
Keeping his eyes glued to the road, Mr. Selff asked, “When was the last time you were up, Mrs. Roosevelt?”
“In a private plane?” she replied. “Oh, I have not done that since I flew with Amelia.”
“Earhart?” I gasped.
“The one and only,” replied Mrs. Roosevelt.
“I’d like to hear about that,” said Mr. Selff.
“Me too,” I said.
“Me three,” added Olive.
Mrs. Roosevelt smiled. “It appears I have a story to tell.”
And as she spoke, pictures filled my mind.
Mrs. Roosevelt fell silent after that. So did we. No one spoke until we inched onto the airstrip—a single runway carved out of the middle of a cornfield. A rusty hangar stood off to one side. Parked in front of it were two airplanes. One looked like something that had actually been around since Amelia Earhart’s time—all beat-up and covered with rust spots. The other one was sleek and modern. Its silver shone like a diamond in the early-morning light.
We climbed out of the car and followed Mr. Selff as he hobbled over to the second plane.
I felt myself relax a little. At least his plane looked safe.
He patted one of its shiny wings. “I just don’t see the need for these fancy ladies,” he said. He turned to the rust bucket. “Now, this old gal may not have all the modern geegaws, but she can still get the job done. I tell you, she’s a real workhorse.”
Mrs. Roosevelt smiled. “She and I have much in common.”
Mr. Selff opened the small door of the old-timey plane. I poked my head inside and froze. This was it? Just four seats—two in front and two in back—crammed into a tiny tube of metal? Nuh-uh. No way. I was NOT getting in.
Olive shoved me from behind, then clambered in after me.
Mrs. Roosevelt took the front passenger seat.
“This is soooo cool!” squealed Olive.
I burped up another taste of Tums.
It took Mr. Selff a few minutes to climb into the pilot’s seat, what with his cane and stiff knees and all. Then he took a long, careful look at the controls, pushed a few buttons, and played with some pedals on the floor. At last, the engine sputtered and the propeller started whirling.
“Here we go,” he said, moving the control stick.
The airplane taxied down the runway, picking up speed bit by bit.
“Whoopee!” shrieked Olive. She raised her hands above her head like she was on a roller coaster. “Isn’t this fun, Nolan?”
I put my hand over my mouth as my stomach lurched. I could feel every dip and bump on the runway as we roared over it, faster and faster, until…
“We’re flying! We’re flying!” crowed Olive.
My heart lodged in my throat as we went up…up…up.
Mr. Selff banked the plane right, and I looked down at the airfield and watched the hangar getting smaller and smaller until it looked like a toy. Staying beneath the clouds, we leveled out, and Rolling Hills came into view. I recognized the library and the town hall and Pewey Park with the bulldozers still waiting at the edge of the baseball diamond.
“Look, there’s our house!” hollered Olive. A second later she added, “And is that…Tommy Tuttle?”
It was. I’d recognize that trench coat anywhere. He was going from window to window and peering in. I burped again. There was only one reason for Tommy to be lurking around my house. I thought of the crystal radio sitting out in the open on the kitchen counter. Why hadn’t I taken the time to hide it? I knew from experience that Tommy wasn’t above sneaking into people’s homes.
I pounded on the airplane window. “Get away, snoop!” I hollered, even though I knew Tommy couldn’t hear me.
“Problem, son?” shouted Mr. Selff above the roar of the engine.
I pointed.
“Ah, Tuttle trouble!” he said.
“You know him?” shouted Olive.
“Everybody knows the Tuttles!” Mr. Selff shouted back, like that explained it. Which, actually, it did.
Circling the plane back around, he came in lower.
We could see Tommy clearly now. As we passed overhead, he whirled and pressed his binoculars to his eyes. A second later, his mouth dropped open and his eyebrows rose all the way to his bushy hairline.
“Buzz him! Buzz him!” shrieked Olive.
“Problems are never solved by buzzing!” Mrs. Roosevelt shouted.
/> “But we’re too far away to slug him!” Olive shouted back.
Below, Tommy hopped on his bike and took off pedaling. I didn’t like the determined look on his face.
Then Mr. Selff banked again. In moments, we were past the town and flying higher over a sea of corn and soybeans.
“Take the controls, Mrs. Roosevelt!” he shouted.
A confident smile spread across the First Lady’s face as she gripped the stick.
I clutched my seat belt, all thoughts of Tommy evaporating. I braced myself for stomach-churning bucking and bumping.
But Mrs. Roosevelt flew smoothly. I almost started to relax and enjoy the scenery.
Then Mr. Selff shouted, “Reach on up here and give it a whirl, son!”
“What?”
“Reach up here and take the control stick!” he shouted again.
“I…I can’t.”
“Whyever not?” shouted Mrs. Roosevelt. “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”
I shook my head.
“Life is meant to be lived, Nolan. Seize the day!” she shouted.
“Seize it!” shouted Olive.
“Don’t be afraid. You can handle her!” shouted Mr. Selff.
I still don’t know where I found the nerve to do it. But quickly, before I had a chance to think about it, I leaned forward—my seat belt digging into my hips—and grasped the stick just above Mrs. Roosevelt’s hand. For a moment, both of us were steering the plane.
Then she let go.
And I was flying—actually, truly flying—an airplane.
My hands were sweaty, but my heart was steady. Suddenly, I wasn’t just flying a plane; I was floating above all my troubles and worries. I felt calm. I even stopped burping.
That was when Olive grabbed for the stick. “Let’s do a loop-de-loop!”
Eleanor Roosevelt's in My Garage! Page 6