It’s a relief to be outside—until I realize we’re on a ledge so high up the clouds are below us. The ground is barely visible.
The mountain wall behind us is a dazzling orange. I get the impression it’s so no one will miss it from the air.
A gust of wind slams into me and I stretch my arms out to keep my balance.
Claudine backs away from the edge, her face a sick white. “I can’t do this,” she yells.
The guide with magenta-colored eagle wings takes her arm and leads her through a gap in the wall.
Sean snickers. “And she wants to be a flier.”
I hate to admit he’s right. If Claudine is afraid of heights, what is she doing here? Just then, I notice a flock of humongous, gangly-looking birds circling above. I shade my eyes to get a better view.
No way! Those are people flying.
It hits me then, full force. Soon, that will be me.
One of the fliers drops away from the group. He’s spinning out of control! His wings flap uselessly as he tumbles lower and lower. None of the other fliers makes a move to help him.
“Sara, do something,” I say, grabbing her hand.
“I can’t,” she says.
“Of course, you can. Just fly up there and . . .” I glance at her. She has this bland expression on her face, like she’s watching a boring movie. None of the guides acts as if anything is wrong. And they’re totally ignoring Fiona, Sean, and Liz, who are screaming and waving their arms.
“You can’t just let him fall,” I shout. “Kevin. Help him.”
He doesn’t even look at me. What’s wrong with them? Don’t they care what happens to that poor flier? Don’t they care about us?
“He’s up again,” Jackson shouts, high-fiving the air.
My body goes limp as the flier rejoins his group. It occurs to me we could be seriously hurt. Maybe even die. I press my hand against my chest, feeling the thudding beat of my heart. We’re at the mercy of the guides up here. Fiona might not be so wrong to be suspicious. Sara is definitely hiding something. All the guides are.
Maybe it’s not too late to leave. I spin around. Then do another full circle, unwilling to believe my eyes.
“Where’s the door?” I ask.
“It’s a one-way door,” Kevin says. “You have to fly out of here. Didn’t I tell you?”
The other Guided and I exchange glances. Even Jackson is pale.
I try not to look as freaked out as I feel. There’s no going back now.
5
Wings, Wings, Wings
I’m last behind Sara to pass through the gap in the mountain. My jaw literally drops open as I take in the cave. It’s gigantic.
Dozens of people can fly about without bumping into each other. The ceiling disappears into the shadows above. Tree stumps, some wide enough to hold six people, provide the only seats. Wooden tables of varying shapes and sizes are scattered about the room. The walls are smooth and luminescent, as if lights are shining from within.
A black door looms in the back of the room and my heart flutters as I remember Kevin’s words. The only way to leave this mountain is to fly.
“Where are our wings?” I’d pictured them lined up waiting for us.
“Down that corridor.” Sara points to a narrow, creepy looking passageway.
“Why does it have to be dark?” Liz groans.
“Wings mature best without light,” Kevin says.
“Man, you talk like they’re alive,” Jackson says.
Kevin shrugs. “Well, they’re not made from dead feathers and sticks.”
“So, are they alive or aren’t they?” I ask.
Kevin grins and his wings flutter even though there’s no wind. In a deep, mysterious voice, he says, “They are as alive as you allow them to be.”
Jackson laughs like he finds what Kevin says funny, instead of just plain dumb.
“Where’s Claudine?” Fiona asks.
“Getting her wings,” the guide with the yellow, oblong pair says.
I glance at Sara, and she gives me a tight smile. Ever since I zombied Sean, she’s acted cold towards me. Or did she start acting strange when I saw the Exit Point? A chill trickles down my back.
We approach the gloomy corridor, where Kevin takes the lead with Jackson. Their shadows slink up the uneven walls like—I groan—snakes.
Not even a minute passes before Jackson stops. “Hold up, Kevin, I saw a wolf down there.” He points to a narrow opening on the side of the wall.
“That’s our stop then.” Kevin and Jackson both squeeze through.
“Are Jackson’s wings in there?” I ask Sara.
“Yes,” she says.
“Did he really see a wolf?”
“Probably.”
I bite my tongue so I won’t howl at her. Why doesn’t she answer my question? It’s just my luck to get a newbie for a guide.
The corridor veers left and the air has this dank, stale odor to it. It gets even darker and Liz groans. Something trips me and I reach for the wall. My hand slips down the slimy surface and I slide to the cold, uneven floor. I’m up in an instant, but the stinging in my knees means I have at least two more bruises to add to my collection. I wipe my sticky, smelly hand against my shorts, wishing for a bathroom with soap and a nice dry towel.
Soon, we reach a fork in the corridor.
Sean peers left and points. “What’s that sparkling thing over there?”
There’s nothing but darkness in that direction, so what’s he talking about? But his guide turns left and Sean follows. The rest of us continue straight until we come to another fork. To my surprise, I catch a whiff of a familiar scent.
“Geraniums,” I whisper. Here? The smell comes from the right. I squint, but there’s no sign of any flowers.
“Our turn,” Sara says,
She takes my hand and leads me down a narrow corridor that somehow doesn’t seem so dark anymore. The scent gets stronger with every step we take. I love geraniums. People in Chimeroan must know that, the same way they knew how much I want to fly. Still, the palms of my hands get sweaty. When I spot a dim, oval-shaped beam of light in front of us, I stop.
“Do you see that, Sara?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Where’s it coming from?”
She shrugs.
“It looks like someone is there with a flashlight, don’t you think?”
She shrugs again.
I pull my hand away from hers and stalk ahead. Why didn’t I get a guide who knows stuff? The light appears a bit eerie the closer I approach, but even though I’m nervous, I refuse to wait for Sara. Instead, I fill my mind with images of flying. With my very own set of wings. The corridor curves slightly to the right and leads into a brightly-lit room. I come to a complete halt, too surprised to move another inch.
Geraniums, an entire garden of them, are spread out in front of me. Their scent is thick in the air. Back home, geraniums never smell this amazing. The grass beneath my feet feels as soft and smooth as carpet. Standing lamps illuminate thick vines on the walls and ceiling. But there’s no sign of the one thing I came for.
“We’re here.” Sara’s voice startles me.
I spin around. “Where are my wings? I bet they’re blue.”
“You don’t get to choose,” she says.
“Why?” Not that it really matters, but it would be great to get a choice.
“I have to go now,” Sara says without answering my question. “What happens next is between you and your wings. Good luck.” With a wave goodbye, she backtracks the way we came.
“Wait! I don’t know what to do.” I dash after her but she vanishes into the darkness. I stop, my mind in turmoil. “I don’t need you,” I mutter. Then louder: “I don’t need anyone.”
My breath comes quick and shallow as I retrace my steps. There’s nothing in this garden but geraniums, vines, and a few lamps. There’s nowhere to hide a pair of wings. I clench my fists, fighting for calm. What if this is some sort of sick joke?
>
A cool breeze tickles my cheeks. Where is it coming from? I follow the draft and have almost reached the back of the garden when I notice a door that’s slightly ajar. I push it open.
Sunlight blinds me and I’m forced to cover my eyes until I adjust to the brightness. Then I lower my arms.
Mere feet away are wings. There are at least a dozen, all different shapes and sizes and colors. They’re mixes of purple, yellow, green, brown, red, black, orange and yellow, maroon, white, and green. One is completely red; another pure white.
“Wow.” Tears roll down my cheeks. It’s a little hard to breathe.
Until this moment, I hadn’t believed a hundred percent about the wings. But there they are. And they’re flapping all by themselves; which means they’re definitely battery-powered.
I walk toward them very, very slowly, and as I do so, I realize I’m on top of a building. I reach the edge of the flat, rectangular roof and look down. A long way down. In my dreams, roofs are never this high up. Other buildings surround mine, but none as tall.
A yellow pair of wings whizzes past. They’re triangular in shape, with slim, loose feathers. I reach for them, but they dance out of reach.
“This is sooooooooo cool.” My voice sounds much higher than normal.
Wings dart back and forth, maneuvering around each other, never touching. None is blue and I try not to feel disappointed. Blue is my favorite color. Dad’s too.
A swishing sound catches my attention, different from the rustling of the wings parading before me. I look up. Way above is a dark blue pair with white streaks and slender feathers. They’re so magnificent my breath catches in my throat. As I watch, they dip forward with one majestic stroke.
Catch me if you can, they seem to be saying.
“Come closer,” I yell. “You’re too high.”
The feathers flutter in response.
Sara said my wings would choose me, but the blue ones are perfect. Those are the ones I want. No matter what she says. But there are no ladders or rope here. How am I going to get them? Leap and fly?
In my very last dream, I was on a roof almost like this one. When I leaped off, wings made of roses appeared on my back and I zoomed toward the clouds.
This is Chimeroan, where dreams come true. I have to jump.
I don’t remember feeling nervous in my dreams, but I’m nervous now. It would be so easy to pick the red wings. Or have them choose me. They are the closest and flapping the hardest. The blue wings still haven’t moved. They seem patient and self-assured. Like Dad, even after the accident.
My mouth floods with saliva and I gulp it down. If I want them, there’s only one thing to do. I step forward and curl my toes over the very edge of the roof, spread my arms to the sides, and . . .
Jump.
I drop, face down, as if a ton of bricks are strapped to my back. My insides heave, on the verge of sliding up my throat. This is nothing like in my dreams. I’ve made a huge mistake. No matter how I try to kick and lash out, I don’t fly. My hair whips about my face, my cheeks sting, eyes water.
Help!
I open my mouth but no sound comes out, and for the first time since the accident, I wish I can scream. I didn’t when I saw Dad pinned by the air bag, face covered in blood. Or when Mom told me he would never walk again. Or when the doctors patted me on the cheek, saying I was a lucky girl.
The pavement rushes toward me. I’ll crash, and die, my body spattered all over the ground. Those tiny dots below are people. They’d better get out of the way before I fall on them. They’re waving their arms. I can hear faint words now: “Rooooolllllllllll ooooooverrrrr! Rollll overrrr!”
Roll over? What good would that do? I try though, and push down with my arms the way I do when swimming. No use. What do I do in my dreams when I want to turn? It doesn’t matter. In my dreams there’s no gravity. But gravity has followed me all the way to Chimeroan.
I’ll die without telling Dad I’m sorry.
My chest constricts. Hopefully, I’ll faint before I hit the ground. I try to scream again, but end up coughing instead. Soon, I’ll be dead and—
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Rasping, gagging breaths squeeze through my lungs. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
I scream and scream and scream until my throat is sore, and even then I don’t want to stop. It’s like I’m making up for all those years I wasn’t able to. And it feels so, so good.
A burst of cool air flips me over onto my back, but not before I see the people below clapping, cheering, smiling. Wind buffers me on all sides, cushioning me from below, and finally my screams die down.
Though I’ve stopped falling, my heart hasn’t slowed a beat. Now, what am I supposed to do?
The wings are miles above. I reach for them with arms of jelly. Wind whirls about me, and I start to rise. Higher. Higher. Wings brush past. At this point, any pair will do. I reach for the closest pair, the red ones. These must be mine. They’re trying to choose me. I fell when I jumped because I didn’t intend to pick them. My fingertips brush their feathers, fluffy and warm and secure. Then I look up.
My eyes latch on to the blue wings, still so far away. They’re looking at me. At least, that’s how it feels; like those wings have eyes. I close my hands into fists so as not to accidentally grab the red ones. I want the blue pair and I don’t care if it’s wrong.
The yellow set flutters above me. “Sorry,” I whisper through stiff, numb lips. They fan me and drift away.
Soon, I’m level with the building. Then I’m above the building.
The blue wings move. In seconds, I’m eye to eye with them. They’re even larger from close up; even more powerful looking, more confident. Too good for me. I stifle the fear, awed by their beauty. We remain like this for a while, staring at each other. I put my hands out to touch them. They’re as soft as I imagined, but I can also feel their strength.
They glide to the side and I break out in a sweat. “Pl-please wa-want me too.” I’m afraid they’ve seen the truth in my eyes about Dad’s accident and hate me.
The wings brush against my body then settle on my back, a light weight that shifts and snuggles against me.
They didn’t leave!
My shirt rips. What feels like a knife cuts into my shoulder blades. Pain! Along my arms. Down my back. Sara said the wings wouldn’t grow out of my back but this is just as bad.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaah!” I yell. “Stoooooooooopp!”
Maybe they’re hurting me because I’m not obeying the rules. I reach back to grab and fling them away. My hands close over the feathers, and—I. Can’t. Do. It. Even if these wings kill me, I won’t rip them off.
“Stop,” I yell. “Please.”
But the pain gets worse, like the wing tips are drilling into my bones.
Brakes screeching. Daddy shouting. Broken glass everywhere.
The smell of roses all around. Flowers in the air? The wing feathers rustle and the rose smell intensifies. The scent of roses is coming from the wings. My wings.
Despite the throbbing in my bones, all I can think is wow!
A memory surfaces. Of me, cuddled in Mommy’s arms, confessing I’d taken her lipstick and hidden it. Except, it’s no longer Mommy I’m sitting on, but Sara. I get this strong urge to tell my guide about the accident. I feel that she’ll understand; that she won’t hate me.
“No,” I mutter. I can’t do that. I can never tell anyone!
Brakes screeching. Daddy shouting. Rain pounding.
I clamp down hard on my teeth and picture a black hole. Then I make it bigger, bigger until it gobbles up the memories.
How foolish to even consider telling Sara about Dad. I’m tired, that’s all. Plus I almost crashed to my death. I reach over and touch my wings. Oh, my gosh. I can feel my fingers stroking the feathers. And the breeze tickles when it passes through them. Despite how huge they are, they feel light, weightless almost. My shoulder blades no longer hurt.
I have my very own pair of wings!
; Laughing, I arch my back and my wings furl, sending me into a dive. I shrug and they fan out. With a slight decline of one shoulder, I dip into a loop and make a full circle. This is way more fun than I imagined.
Until a blast of wind sends me tumbling.
6
Flying Paraphernalia
The sun shifts in and out of sight as I plummet through the air, flailing like an octopus with my hair whipping across my face. The wind tugging at my wing feathers stings more than I can bear.
I shrug my shoulders every way I can, but my wings refuse to obey. They dangle off my back, a dead weight. Minutes ago they seemed so confident, as if nothing could upset them.
Something whizzes past me, and I catch a glimpse of silver wings. It’s Sara. I wave for help. She waves back. The wind tosses me her way, but she shifts to the side. My stomach heaves even more when I catch sight of the expression on her face; it’s as impassive as when we watched the falling flier earlier.
“What kind of guide are you?” I shout.
A gust of wind flips me over and I get a full view of the ground. The crowd that had encouraged me earlier is gone. Except for Sara and me, the place is deserted.
I’m too scared to feel more than a sputter of rage.
“Fly,” I tell my wings. My shoulders and back ache so much. “Fly. Please.”
The strong scent of daffodils overpowers me and cuts through my panic. My body goes limp. My wings are giving off another flower smell. Why? I think of the daffodils Mom loves to place on the kitchen table. More memories flash through my mind.
Me yelling at Mom for eating my chocolate. Dad taking me aside, begging me to be patient with her. Explaining what he does to remain calm when all he wants to do is rant at how unfair life is: count backwards from a hundred as many times as needed.
I’ve got to calm down and figure a way out of this mess, or else I’m doomed.
I start the countdown, screaming the numbers in my head. By the count of eighty, my heartbeat slows. So does my momentum. When I reach sixty, my wings spread out in a powerful upstroke. They no longer weigh me down.
Up in the Air Page 3