Up in the Air

by Ann Marie Meyers

  Table of Contents

  Cover Image

  Front Title

  Front Images

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1—The Big Flight

  2—Chimeroan

  3—Exit Points

  4—The Door

  5—Door, Door, Door

  6—Flying Paraphernalia

  7—Dinner

  8—Who Says Eavesdropping is a Bad Thing?

  9—The Bathroom

  10—Clue No. 1

  11—Choices

  12—Hoarders and a Pot of Gold

  13—Patrick O'Hara

  14—Unicorns

  15—Jibber Jabbers

  16—Sean's Secret

  17—Snake Encounter

  18—Andrew

  19—Delays

  20—Clue No. 2

  21—Confessions

  22—Dreamstar

  23—Clue No. 3

  24—The Rescue

  25—What Are the Odds?

  26—The Accident

  27—Resolution

  28—Endings and Beginnings

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgment

  Bio

  UP in the AIR

  a novel by

  Ann Marie Meyers

  Illustrated by

  Ethan Aldridge

  Provo, Utah

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 by Ann Marie Meyers

  Illustration copyright © 2013 by Ethan Aldridge

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Jolly Fish Press.

  www.jollyfishpress.com

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy or copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  First Hardcover Edition: July 2013

  First Trade Paperback Edition: July 2013

  For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at

  rights@jollyfishpress.com.

  For general information, write to Jolly Fish Press, PO Box 1773, Provo, UT 84603-1773.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013942762

  ISBN 1939967694

  ISBN 978-1-939967-69-5

  For my daughter, Eliana, my inspiration and my joy,

  and my husband, Paul, who always kept his faith in me.

  1

  The Big Flight

  I’ve been flying as long as I can remember, but no one ever notices. They call it jumping or leaping or skipping. They never see the wind wrap around me, holding me up. Even now, seconds before my first long-distance flight, it tugs at my clothes, impatient, as excited as I am.

  My head buzzes, my stomach swirls, my hands so slippery it’s hard to grip the chains as the swing sweeps forward and back. As soon as I’m up again, I gulp down a mouthful of air and . . .

  Let go.

  Wind in my hair, whistling in my ears. I soar high. Free!

  The next second, the wind sputters. Then dies. I drop.

  My elbow bangs into the back of a bench and pain shoots up my right arm. I crash onto the playground’s rubber surface and lie there, panting. I was sure I’d reach the sandbox. The wind had been strong and steady. What went wrong?

  Adults and children flock toward me, eyes wide with concern. Mine open even wider. Their mouths are moving, yet no words come out. A part of my mind notices the wind, soaring and whistling as it stirs up leaves, races over the grass, ruffles my hair. I shiver. The air smells of roses, and my heart does this weird little tap dance. Last night I dreamed I had wings made of roses.

  “She’s still in the park,” a girl’s voice whispers in my ear. Her voice quavers just like mine sometimes does when I speak softly.

  My neck prickles as I search the faces of the children peering at me, but they’re too far away for me to have heard them whisper. Besides, though they’re all babbling, I can’t hear a word they’re saying.

  So who spoke?

  Something. Is. Wrong.

  The wind dies down as suddenly as it did when I was flying. There is complete, eerie silence. Even the squeals from the kids splashing in the fountain have gone silent. I struggle to stand, but my legs buckle under me and I fall to my knees.

  Voices explode around me, shouting, asking questions, more questions. Everything is back to normal. Maybe I imagined the whole silence thing. I take a deep, shaky breath.

  A woman breaks through the crowd, knocking a few people over with her wide hips. By the time I realize who she is, it’s too late to run away or even hide my face.

  “Melody?” she shrieks.

  I groan. Mom is supposed to be at the gym. Not here. She grabs my hands and pulls me up. The crowd scatters like leaves in a windstorm.

  “You’re hurt,” Mom says.

  “No. I slipped. It’s no big deal.” I don’t dare look at her eyes or she’ll see the truth, so I focus on the tiny dimple beneath her lips.

  Mom tugs several tissues from her humongous handbag and dumps half the contents of her water bottle over them. I wince as she dabs at the two new scrapes on my right elbow. Next to the old scab they form a perfect triangle. Mom wipes away some blood on my shoulder, exposing a bruise.

  She frowns. “You were trying to fly again, don’t deny it.”

  “Um. N-no.”

  Mom huffs and strides toward the fountain, hips jostling from side to side. She doesn’t check to make sure I’m following, but yanks half a muffin from her handbag and crams it in her mouth. I glance at the swings. Every pore in my body aches to jump back on and fly away.

  A cool breeze tickles my nose. There’s the smell of roses again, but stronger, sweeter. I spin in a circle. My eyes glide over the ice cream vendor, the man twisting balloons into animal shapes for the kids lined up in front of him, women pushing strollers, men seated on benches and reading newspapers, but no one is carrying flowers. And roses don’t grow in the park, so where is the smell coming from?

  I first caught the scent after I fell; I couldn’t hear people speaking, except for the girl who sounded kind of like me. The stiffness in my neck eases as I realize what happened. I must have banged my head. I don’t remember that—but then, wouldn’t not remembering be a definite sign that I did bang my head?

  Wind twirls about me, and despite the stinging in my elbow and shoulder, I spread my arms, skip-flying to catch up to Mom.

  By the time I reach her, Dad has almost made it around the fountain. His armpits hunker over his crutches, which he shoves in front of him and drags his legs behind. Mom called him an otter once and he burst out laughing as if it was the funniest joke on earth.

  That’s my father, an otter on crutches. If only I could laugh it off like he does.

  Dad nods at me to join him. I’m about to go when I spot three kids from my class: Natasha and Wendy, the fourth-grade bullies, and Andrew, whom they’re backing against a tree. Andrew looks up. Our eyes meet for a second. Then he looks away.

  I lower my head and pretend to examine th
e cuts on my elbow. Andrew better not tell Natasha and Wendy I’m here.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Dad heave his way over while Mom walks at his side, munching away at another muffin. Sweat drips from every inch of Dad’s exposed skin. Not a spot on his clothes is dry. With a grunt, he slides into his wheelchair and holds out his crutches for me to take. What if Natasha and Wendy notice? I peek over my shoulder, but Andrew is speeding away from them in the opposite direction.

  Run fast, Andrew. Faster!

  I grab the crutches from Dad and lean them against a nearby bench.

  “Twice around,” he says, panting. “Not bad, hmm?”

  “That’s great.” I stare at the jagged scars on his cheeks. They belong on me. Not him.

  “Melody tried to fly again,” Mom says. “Just look at her arms. She could have broken her—”

  “It’s nothing,” I say, showing off my new injuries. “They barely hurt.”

  Dad leans over in his wheelchair to check them out. “She’s fine, Ruth. I got into worse scrapes when I was ten.”

  “You were a boy, Charles. Melody isn’t. Remember the time we found her on the roof?”

  Why did Mom bring that up? She knows all I wanted was to see how far the ground was from up there. Plus, I promised I’d never do it again, and I intend to keep my word . . . when I’m awake. But when I dream, I fly right off the roof.

  Dad reaches for Mom’s hand. “I’m famished. How about a salad? Or some fruit?”

  Mom squints at him like he spoke Japanese. “I’ll get a pizza. And Melody, no more foolish stunts.”

  Luckily she doesn’t wait for a reply before leaving. I let my breath whoosh out of me, then glimpse Natasha and Wendy joining the line in front of the ice cream vendor. Andrew is nowhere in sight. I’m so glad he gave those bullies the slip.

  Dad pats the arm of his wheelchair. “Have a seat and talk to your old man.”

  “What?” I back away. “I’m too big to sit there. Can I fl— swing one more time?”

  His smile fades. “Don’t be long. And remember what your mother said.”

  “Yeah.” I ignore the pang of guilt in the center of my chest and angle his wheelchair to face the fountain. This way he won’t see me fly.

  “Melody?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you ashamed of me?”

  My knees go weak.

  “Melody?”

  I dash for the swings as quickly as my wobbly legs allow. All five are taken. I glare at the kids on them. Hurry and get off. Hurry and get off.

  My face prickles as if dozens of needles are poking into it. I glance back. Dad has spun the wheelchair around and is staring straight at me. Even from this distance, I can tell he’s slouched in his seat, shoulders hunched over.

  Saliva sticks in my throat. I face front. Two of the swings are now empty and I make a beeline for the closer one.

  I didn’t plan to fly with Dad watching, but I’m already in trouble so it doesn’t make any difference anyway. I fix my eyes on the clouds and pump my feet. Wind whips my hair over my face. I take a peek at Dad. He hasn’t moved. I pump harder. Harder.

  My body is above the bar. Oh, wow. This is the first time I’ve been able to get this high. I bet it’s a sign I’ll make it all the way to my destination. The swing surges up. Not the usual steady motion but the heady, awesome speed of a roller coaster ride.

  I release the chains.

  Gusts of wind push against my back. I zoom past the bench. The sandbox comes up fast. I will make it.

  Next thing, I’m going down, down, down. A bunch of toddlers gather directly below me. I wave my arms and kick my feet, trying to fly away from them.

  “Move!” I shout. “Move!”

  But they don’t glance up. No one rushes to save them.

  Wait a second. Everyone is walking way too slowly. I’m taking forever to reach the ground.

  “Move!”

  Chills whirl up my neck. I didn’t say that.

  A girl appears in front of me, flailing and kicking the air like me. She has on the same jean shorts with a flower on the pocket. And the same beige T-shirt. Her hair, loose like mine, is the same mousy color. Our eyes meet.

  She looks like me. Exactly like me. Even as my mind screams that this is the most impossible thing in the entire world, she reaches out. Our fingers touch.

  Then everything goes white.

  2

  Chimeroan

  What. Just. Happened?

  A second ago I was in broad daylight, and now I’m in the middle of a fog, lying flat on my back. Strangely, I don’t feel any new bruises. Thick wisps of fog furl and curl above me, tickling my skin. It reminds me of the light brush of a butterfly’s wings.

  I sit up and become aware of something cool and moist between my fingers. Curious, I bring my hands to my nose. Grass.

  Goosebumps up and down my spine.

  There are long blades of grass in my hands. I should have fallen on the playground’s rubber surface, not grass. And the kids who were directly below me, where are they? I should at least hear voices: adults talking, children crying in terror.

  Instead, it’s silent. I jump up, eyes wide. Nothing but thick, swirling whiteness. I must be dreaming. Of course. That must be it. I reach for my left wrist and pinch.

  “Ouch!” This is so not a dream.

  The scrapes from my first fall burn when I straighten my arms in front of me. I shuffle forward, one baby step at a time. Blades of grass brush against my ankles. Some reach above my shins—long grass I’ve never noticed in the park.

  Suddenly . . . voices. Someone laughs. A girl screams, heat blasts me, and then the fog clears. My head shifts from side to side, denying what my eyes see, denying that fog cannot simply disappear.

  “Dad! Mom!” But I know, deep in the pit of my stomach, they’re not here.

  Children. All around me. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Some talk. Some laugh. Some stare, eyes wide in a panic that surges through me. Many teenagers are here, too. They’re dressed in Halloween costumes and talking to the frightened kids, consoling them. Several glance at me. They smile, but don’t come over.

  This time I pinch both my arms. “Ouch.”

  Take it easy, Melody. Take it easy. There’s a logical explanation for all this. There has to be.

  I gulp down a few breaths before I feel brave enough to examine my surroundings. The first thing I notice is a mountain, way in the distance. My entire body goes numb.

  There are no mountains in Manhattan.

  After a few more breaths, I continue to look around. I’m in a huge meadow. Except for a wooded area to my right, the field extends for miles. The sky is a strange shade of violet and orange. There’s a row of towering, jagged rocks close to the woods.

  Where am I? How did I get here?

  Tiny little things with shiny wings flit by inches from my face, humming a lively high-pitched tune that, to my amazement, makes me want to dance.

  “Fairies,” I mumble. “Those were fairies.” When they disappear into the crowd, my heart soars after them.

  I’m no longer afraid or gasping like I’ve run a mile, because it’s obvious what happened. I should have thought of it before. When I fell from the swing, I must have hit my head pretty hard. I’m in a coma.

  Or dead.

  I wait for my body to react to that last thought, but don’t feel any trace of shock, which makes sense because I’m in a coma.

  A trio of teenage elves and three kids my age walk past me. No. Way. I rub my eyes. Andrew is in the middle of them. I’d recognize his brown, curly hair anywhere.

  “Andrew,” I scream, overcome with relief to see someone I know. I sidestep a group of sweaty dwarves and grab Andrew’s arm. “Do you know what’s going on? Where—”

  It’s not him. This boy has no freckles. He doesn’t have a pug nose.

  “Take it easy,” he says. “This place is—”

  “It’s not for you to explain,” an elf with red hair says. He smile
s at me. His eyes crease just like Dad’s.

  My breath heaves up my throat and I back away.

  A kid with spiky hair walks up to me. “What’s go-go-going on?” he stutters. “I was on the bea-bea-beach and then I w-w-was here, and—” He gags and points at the sky with a trembling hand. Five helicopters are speeding in our direction toward the jagged rocks. No. They’re birds. No, they’re . . .

  “Dragons,” I gasp.

  Kids trip over each other as they hurry as far away from the landing dragons as possible. I fall back with them in a daze.

  First fairies. Now dragons.

  And come to think of it, there are no adults here. Or toddlers. Or babies. Or really old people.

  Teenagers dash about, shouting, “The dragons are friendly.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “They will NOT hurt you.”

  “GRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOAR.” The roaring of the dragons drowns out all other sounds.

  I get the impression they’re angry at being called friendly.

  But it’s foolish to be afraid if I’m in a coma. Or dead. Most of the other kids seem to think like I do because, as soon as they’ve cleared a wide space around the rocks the dragons are landing on, they start cheering and clapping and whistling.

  The dragons roar again. Then, with slow, deliberate down-strokes, their wings settle at their sides. Their scales are a dazzling bluish green that reminds me of the sea. One of them twists its head in my direction and winks.

  I get this urge to wink back, and an even stronger urge to ride on it.

  Someone taps my arm. I jump, unable to hold back a squeal. An Asian girl is smiling at me. She’s about sixteen with dark brown hair loose to the middle of her back. She’s wearing a black leotard, black tights, and black ballet shoes.

  “Hi, Melody,” she says. “I’m Sara, your guide, and you are my Guided.”

  “How do you know my name? Who are you? What’s a Guided? Where am I? Am I in a coma or dead? What’s happ—”

  Something shiny flashes over her shoulders and a jolt goes through me. I step to the side to get a better look.