Higher, Further, Faster

by Liza Palmer

  Then, out of nowhere, one of the solo planes is looping around in the far horizon. His job, the announcer tells us, is to catch up to the diamond formation. The plane is now going upwards of ten miles a minute and his task is to catch the other four planes right in front of the crowd. The entire audience is quiet. The solo plane screams past the diamond formation right at the show center, and the crowd goes wild. He overtakes the formation, who then climb high into the sky wingtip to wingtip.

  “This is the move they’re known for,” Maria says, barely able to contain herself.

  “The Bomb Burst and Crossover,” Pierre says, to no one and everyone. All five of us are rapt as the diamond formation does a rolling climb higher and higher and higher. Each plane drops away, falling like a leaf on the wind, white smoke billowing from behind them. The Bomb Burst fills up the entire sky as the four planes leave a pocket of smoke exactly at the show center.

  “If they do the Crossover again…all the smoke…” I worry.

  “They’ve got this,” Maria says.

  The smoke from the Bomb Burst fills the sky, and we can only sit by and watch as the two solo planes begin their approach for yet another Crossover. But this time they will be doing their trick in a sky completely filled with smoke. They won’t be able to see one another. I watch one plane, then the other, then back to the first. I have no idea how close they are to each other.

  “They’re going to collide!” I say, and Maria takes my hand and holds it tight.

  At a thousand miles per hour it takes mere seconds for the two planes to speed past each other with what looks like no space at all between them, only a hairbreadth apart.

  “See?” Maria says. I look from her down to my hand, where her fingers left a clear indentation. “Never doubted it for a second.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, rolling my eyes and massaging my knuckles.

  “That was incredible!” Pierre says.

  The announcer thanks the Thunderbirds and reminds us that John Glenn will be making his appearance later on this afternoon, then hypes us all up for a performance by a funk band that’ll be closing out the air show.

  “John Glenn, THEN a funk band? What kind of dream day is this?” Bianchi says as we are herded out of the bleachers along with the thousands of other spectators.

  “I’m still going to touch one of those planes,” I say, noticing that the Thunderbirds have not only climbed down from their F-16s, but now they’re walking out into the crowds and shaking hands and signing pictures. I scan the crowds behind them and notice they’re allowing people to walk back and look at the F-16s.

  This is my shot. I look over at Maria. She’s thinking the same thing.

  “We’re going to go stand in line to meet Senator Glenn, so we’ll meet you over there after you…touch a plane,” Bianchi says skeptically, trying to humor me but looking at me like I’m a crazy person.

  “Maria wants to touch the plane too now,” I say. All eyes turn to Maria.

  “Fine. I, too, am a plane-toucher,” Maria says.

  “Plane-toucher,” Pierre says, and he can’t keep from giggling.

  “You go touch your plane, then, ladies, and I’ll meet an American hero,” Del Orbe says.

  “Oh no, wait a minute. We’re meeting Senator Glenn. Just—”

  “After you touch a plane, we know,” Bianchi says with a laugh, waving good-bye as we go our separate ways.

  Maria and I snake through the crowd toward the airfield. We can barely contain ourselves. Today has been magical. Truly magical. A reminder about what all this is about: not Jenks. Not trying to prove myself. Not any of that.

  It’s about the love of flying.

  Period.

  I smile and, oh man, it feels so good. Maria and I pick up our pace, and by the end of our trek, we’re almost running in anticipation.

  The crowd around the Thunderbirds has lessened somewhat, so it doesn’t take us very long to get to the head of the group. There, at the front of our sector, is one of the Thunderbirds. He’s tall, imposing, and just like Jenks said, he looks nothing like me. Maria and I finally reach him.

  “Well, hey there,” he says, signing a picture of the planes in one of their formations.

  “We’re fourth-class cadets, sir,” I say, trying not to pick apart how young I sound.

  “Your families must be so proud of you,” he says, handing us each a photo.

  “They are, sir,” Maria says.

  “I wish my daughter was here to meet you two,” he says, taking off his sunglasses. His hooded brown eyes are…kind. Maybe he doesn’t look like Jenks as much as I thought when I’d first seen the Thunderbirds striding across the field.

  “Sir?” I ask.

  “She’s still little, but she’s always dreamed of flying.” It sounds like he’s about to say more, but just then he’s mobbed by an entire classroom of hopped-up kindergartners. Maria and I stand there for a second, not sure if we heard him right.

  “Did he say what I think he said?” I ask.

  “He did,” Maria says solemnly. We stand there for a few seconds in a daze.

  “We’ve got a plane to touch,” I finally say, beelining for the one F-16 they’ve offered up to the air show spectators. Maria and I circle the plane in a sort of haze of admiration and respect. We lose sight of each other, both in our own worlds.

  Up close the plane is exquisite. Sleek and powerful. Elegant and deceptively simple. I crane my neck, and my eyes fixate on the cockpit.

  I step forward and right there, right below the cockpit, I reach out my hand and lay it on the body of the plane. The metal is smooth, and the feel of it beneath my hand pulls me in.

  “Someday,” I say to the plane, my hand lingering.

  “YOU’RE PULLING UP TOO EARLY, DANVERS. DO it again. Let’s see if the sixth time is the charm,” Jack says through the radio.

  I groan audibly. Today is our final flying lesson, and true to what he promised back when we took our first hop together, Jack is insisting that we spend it teaching me how to crash. Or as he likes to call it, power-off stall. Maria, by the way, spent her last hop doing a series of slow barrel rolls, just like Bonnie had promised. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

  The first time we try this fun little power-off stall, I nervously (and quite rightfully) blow the horn twice because we are in fact, crashing. I wait for Jack to do something. Jump to my aid? Save the day? Instead, all I hear crackling through the radio is his dry, smoky voice utter one word: “Nope.” I level the plane out and he just tells me to do it again.

  “Let’s start over. Reduce the throttle,” Jack says, and I follow his instructions to the letter. I can’t stop my hands from shaking. Deep breath. Okay…focus. I blink my eyes and try to pull my shoulders back. Another deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Let the nose fall. Let it fall, Danvers. To the horizon, not below it. Let him drop. Reduce the power to idle. All the way, Danvers. Keep pulling the stick back. What happens if these movements aren’t coordinated?”

  “I’d go into a spin,” I yell, more for myself than Jack, as I know he can’t hear me, and I also know he knows I’m terrifyingly aware that the consequence for doing this wrong is spinning out or just flat-out falling from the sky. No pressure, though.

  “Hold the nose, Danvers. Hold the nose—” And that’s when the stall horn starts blaring. One might argue that this blaring siren is telling me to stop what I’m doing and try to fix things. That even Mr. Goodnight thinks this is a bad idea. But apparently not. We’re to the point where I’ve pulled up Mr. Goodnight on my last five attempts. One millisecond after that stall horn sounds and I’m taking the plane back to full power. But not this time.

  Hold the nose, Danvers. At the horizon, not below it. Hold the nose. The plane is losing power. Mr. Goodnight is going night-night. We’re falling. We’re falling. And then the plane just…stops.

  We are crashing.

  The nose of the plane dips. It’s too quiet, save for the blaring stall horn and the muffled screams
inside my own head.

  “Wait for the break, Danvers,” comes the voice over the radio. “Wait for it.”

  Every sensation in my body is telling me to pull this plane up. To save myself. To fix this. To be right. Fight it, Danvers. Fight it. I can do this. Wait for the break. Trust myself. Come on. I got this. My hand grips the throttle. My breathing steadies. My eyes focus.

  Feel it. Wait…wait…hold it…just—

  There. THERE! The break. I can feel it. I CAN FEEL IT.

  And I give Mr. Goodnight full power, pull the nose back to the horizon, right the rudder, bring the flaps up, and recover the plane to cruise altitude.

  “Now, there you go, Danvers! There you go!” Jack says through the radio, his voice radiating pride. It’s the first time he’s ever sounded this excited about something other than his wife’s cherry pie.

  “I DID IT! Woo-hoo!” I grab the air horn and honk it and honk it and honk it and honk it. Apparently four honks means I conquered my fears and trusted myself.

  “Now, let’s do it again,” Jack says.

  And I can’t wait to try.

  After I do another three power-off stalls—and I officially pass the forty-hour threshold required to take my private pilot’s license exam, Jack’s voice breaks through the radio.

  “Take this plane home and land it,” Jack says. My heart soars.

  This is the first time Jack has let me land Mr. Goodnight all on my own.

  I can barely contain myself. I sweep Mr. Goodnight around and head back to hangar thirty-nine.

  “Land on your own terms, Danvers. Not theirs,” Jack counsels as I descend from the clouds. He spends the whole time talking to me, directing, guiding. About having to splash the plane and putting Mr. Goodnight in the drink if need be. Talking to the tower, checking the sky, lining the plane up with the runway, keeping my head, less power and more power, and then the ground speeds closer and closer, and I’ve never felt more alive than when I feel all three of Mr. Goodnight’s tires hit the runway…with maybe only a couple* of bounces.

  “Wooo-hooooo!” I yell, thrusting a fist into the air.

  “No bounce would have been better, Danvers, but nicely done,” Jack says as we slow down and taxi off the runway and over to hangar thirty-nine.

  I hop down from Mr. Goodnight and wait as Jack navigates his way down from the rear cockpit.

  “How do you feel?” he asks as we walk back to the hangar.

  “Super ready for the test. Maria and I made flash cards, and we’ve been studying every night. We know we’re going to nail the written and the practical; it’s the oral that’s—”

  “Danvers.” Jack stops me.

  “You okay? Everything okay?” I ask. “What? Did I…Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, kiddo,” he says.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Are you proud of yourself, Carol?” He asks.

  “What?” His question has taken me completely off guard.

  “Are you. Proud of. Yourself?” he asks again, cutting the simple sentence into even smaller chunks so I can follow.

  My mind is a riot of different excuses and ways to water down my emotions, the impulse to say that sure, I’m proud but Jack is such a good teacher and maybe it was easy and I still haven’t passed the test yet and I still haven’t made the Flying Falcons yet and is there anything really to be proud of if all this was for nothing?

  Jack waits. I look away from him. Cross and uncross and recross my arms over my chest. Sigh. Shake my head. Fighting it. Just like I fought pulling up Mr. Goodnight until I felt the break.

  Feel the break, Danvers.

  It starts with a warmth in my middle. Scary and intensifying. I feel like laughing and crying at the same time. I breathe through it. Don’t fight. Trust myself. I can do this. I finally allow that warmth to swell and radiate throughout my whole body. And when I look back up at Jack, my eyes are welling with tears.

  “Yes, sir. I am so proud of myself,” I say, my voice choked and hoarse. He smiles that crooked smile of his, gives me an efficient nod, and continues toward the hangar. But, just as he passes me, he stops.

  “You’re a good pilot, Danvers,” Jack says. I nod, acknowledging that I heard and won’t try to talk him out of it this time.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say. A quick wink and Jack disappears into the hangar.

  Maria and I are still buzzing as we drive back to campus later that afternoon.

  “The first time we tried the slow roll, I pulled through and didn’t go right into the roll. I just froze right there, right when I was upside down, of course. The whole world was…down there, and I was here, and I was positive that my belts were going to give way.” Maria is talking a million miles an hour and using her hands so emphatically that she hits one on the passenger’s-side window at one point. She absently massages her knuckle where it made contact. “Bonnie jumped in and had to finish the roll. Did you know her family were farmers and that she flew their crop duster? That’s how she got started. And she would just…start rolling the plane FOR FUN. No one even taught her. Can you imagine? Being like fifteen and just…rolling a plane over?” Maria sits back in her seat, takes a deep breath, shoots her arms straight forward, and whoops. “That was the coolest!” I look over, and Maria has tucked all our paperwork tight under her leg. Jack and Bonnie gave us everything we needed so we can go in next Sunday and take our test.

  I hum along in agreement, but now that the sheer elation of the moment has begun to wear off, I’m overcome by a feeling beyond pure excitement. The truth is, I get more nervous every step we take closer to our goal.

  I almost crashed a plane today. But what scared me far more was allowing that feeling of pride to finally spread through me untethered.

  I am a good pilot.

  Why is that so hard for me to own? It’s not bragging, it’s just accurate.

  “You’re such a good pilot, Maria,” I say, as we finally pull into the campus.

  “What?” She looks like I just slapped her. I park the Mustang and we climb out.

  “You’re a good pilot. That slow roll was…It was beautiful. And that was just the brilliant thing you did today,” I say. Maria smiles and looks away from me. I watch as she fights the compliment. Just as I did.

  “Thank you.” It’s two simple words that come at last, but it took an internal war in order for her to say them.

  The cold settles around us as we hurry through campus back to our dorm room, and I wonder why I don’t feel as good as I should, knowing how far I’ve come this year. I know I’m stubborn. I know that my drive can be a bit laser-focused. I’ve known for some time that I see showing vulnerability in any way as a weakness. I’ve known that my need to be right often supersedes my need to be happy. And I know, more than anything else in the world, that in order for me to feel any kind of pride in myself I needed it cosigned by someone really important,* like I acknowledged earlier in the situation with Jenks.

  So why don’t I feel better now that I’ve faced these issues through every day spent on this campus, through every session with Jack and Bonnie? Instead, I just feel like I’ve missed something. And that the other shoe is about to drop, taking with it all of my best-laid plans.

  “You okay?” Maria asks as we get ready for bed later that night. “You’ve been kinda quiet.”

  “I think I’m just nervous,” I say, crawling under my covers. Maria closes her journal, turns out the light, and gets into her bed.

  “Nervous about what?” Her voice fills the dark room.

  “Everything,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  “Me too,” she says. I whip over onto my side.

  “Really?”

  “Uh, yeah. This whole plan thing was, I don’t know, kind of far off for a long time, and now that it’s here and…” Maria trails off.

  “You realize how much you want it,” I finish.

  “That and…I realize how much maybe I don’t deserve it,” Maria says.

  “I so
get that,” I say, flipping onto my back and staring up at the dark ceiling.

  “And I hate it, right? It’s not fair,” she continues. “If my accomplishments were a scientific study or some math problem I’d have to solve, it’d be super obvious that whoever did this stuff equals someone who deserves to be in those top slots. But, it’s like I add up all the numbers, study all the data, come up with my conclusions, and then at the bottom of the column I see my name, and then somehow it erases all the data and the facts and the proof and just leaves this giant shrug of an answer. Like, because it’s me, it doesn’t count, for some reason.”

  “Being the best was much easier when I thought it was just about coming in first,” I say.

  “Right? Who could argue that?”

  “But now—I don’t know—it feels like way more than that.” I remember my conversation with Bianchi at Acceptance. “I thought integrity was just about how I treated other people.”

  “No, I know. We have to have it for ourselves, too.”

  “Ugh, it sounds so cheesy, though.”

  “Right? I wanted to find a way that I didn’t sound like some after-school special.”

  I hear Maria shift in her bed, and when she next speaks, her voice is dripping with saccharine and has taken on a strange accent. “You’ve got to love yourself before anyone else will, dear!”

  “How do you not roll your eyes at that?” I ask, laughing.

  We are quiet.

  “I am a good pilot.” Maria’s voice resonates through the room. Strong and proud. A wide smile breaks across my face. I know how hard that was for her to say, because I had to say it too, in one way or another, to Jack earlier today.

  “I am a good pilot,” I echo.

  It’s quiet for a long time. Until…

  “We’re so cheesy,” Maria says, and I can feel her smile in the darkness.

  “So cheesy,” I repeat, laughing.

  MARIA AND I TAKE OUR PRIVATE PILOT’S LICENSE tests.

  When we asked how long it’d take to get our results, the woman shrugged her shoulders and estimated a month or two. If it takes one month, everything is fine. If it takes two, all this was for nothing.* Cue: one air horn honk.