by Liza Palmer
The truth is, my attempts at inducing calm and reassuring myself that I’ve done everything I can to succeed here are not working, because I’ve only done all those things just to say that I’ve done them, I tried, I gave it my all doing it another way, and carry on along the path as planned.
Maria’s words firework inside my head: You need to decide how long, and just what you’re willing to sacrifice, in order to keep believing that his way is the only way.
I truly believed that Jenks’s way was the only way that I’d be granted access to the fantasy VIP room where no one feels like a fraud. Where everyone gets along and each member is just as important, respected, and beloved as the next.
But that’s not the whole truth.
The whole truth is that I thought if Jenks finally opened that door and welcomed me in—letting me onto the Flying Falcons and then allowing me to be one of the first female fighter pilots—then that would mean I was important, whether I believed it about myself or not. I was putting it all on him—my self-validation, my sense of self-worth—even while telling myself my time here so far has been all what I made it to be, that I’ve been the one in control. I said it, but I didn’t believe it.
Jenks’s path, even with all of its obstacles and misery, is just flat-out easier. Because as long as I’m on his path, everything is his fault or to his credit. I can blame him for all my pain and frustration and thank him for all my successes, safe in the knowledge that my fate is out of my hands. He’ll tell me how to feel and what to do next, and I’ll never, ever find myself perched on a stupid rock behind Mitchell Hall completely in the dark about why I’m feeling sad and scared ever again.
On Jenks’s path, the answers are like a math problem—I show my work, there’s one right answer, and it’s so simple I can put a box around it so someone else can tell me if it’s right or wrong.
But on my own path, the answer is this rambling mess of half-formed ideas and momentary flashes of insight that can never be corralled into a box—and even if they could, I wouldn’t know if they were actually right.
I thought letting myself learn meant knowing enough to pass their tests. Learn stuff to prove them wrong. Learn so I can (50 percent) rub their noses in it.
But for this to work—for this to really work—I’ve got to be willing—no, I have to be brave enough—to retrace my steps all the way back to that first day when we repeated the Oath of Enlistment, the first day I let Jenks have power over me and the first day my responses told him he mattered—and start over.
My own way.
I sit perched on that rock a little while longer. The music sounds so good and the cold night air feels kind of wonderful. I don’t know what I’m going to say to Maria, but I guess that’s kind of the point on this new path. Whatever it is, it’s going to be honest and come from my heart, and holy smokes, that’s far more terrifying than anything Jenks could say or do to me.
At last I wander back to our sleeping quarters. It’s still early enough in the night where I open the door to our room thinking Maria will still be in McDermott with Bianchi, Del Orbe, and Pierre. Instead, I find her sitting at her desk surrounded by books and papers. She looks up when I walk in.
I start rambling.
“Hey, so…um, I—” This is exactly why people plan what they’re going to say, just an FYI. “I thought you’d still be in McDermott.”
She shakes her head. “No, I—I wanted to be here for when you came back. I was worried about you,” Maria says. And the bursting emotion is back, but this time I know it’s the good kind of emotion—even though it feels kinda bad and super uncomfortable.
And I start there.
“I don’t know.” I take a deep breath. Buy myself some time to form one clear thought in my head. Then I know. I know what I have to say next.
“I love you, too.”
“Danvers—” Maria starts.
“That was really hard and I feel super dumb, and I’m not really good at”—I bring my hand to my chest and wave it around limply—“all this.”
“Danvers—”
“Please. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and I know I totally messed things up by popping off to Jenks, and you tried to warn me. You tried to tell me the whole time that I was cruising for a bruising, but—”
“Danvers!” Maria yells, closing her textbook. I stop talking, plop down on my bed, and slide back against the wall. Maria turns around in her chair to face me. “I need…Well, first off I need you to never say ‘cruising for a bruising’ ever again.”
A laugh explodes out of me, the relief and joy catches me totally off guard. “Roger that,” I say.
“People mess up. That’s not why I was upset with you,” Maria says.
“Then why?” I ask.
“It was actually something that Jenks said, which…I know—he’s the worst—but he was actually repeating Wolff, if that helps at all.”
“The ‘can I be taught’ thing.”
“Which sounds a lot like—”
“Let yourself learn,” I finish.
“Yep.”
“I don’t know what it is about those two ideas that scare me. I really don’t.”
“They scare me too.”
“Really?”
“Oh, absolutely. But I think I found a clue.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“We’re going to go someplace super cheesy, so buckle up,” Maria says. I mime strapping into a cockpit and Maria laughs. “I knew you were going to actually buckle up.” I pull on the imaginary shoulder harness and give Maria a quick nod and a breezy hang loose.
“Ready,” I say.
“What is it that you ultimately want from Jenks?” she asks.
I think back to the unwelcome, but super-enlightening realizations I had sitting on that stupid rock out behind Mitchell Hall. “If he believes I’m good then maybe I can believe I’m good,” I say slowly.
Maria nods. “And what happens then?”
“I’ll be happy. And finally feel like I belong somewhere. That I’m important. That I matter.”
“And what do you feel around me?”
The burning tears are immediate. Maria walks over and sits down next to me. I can’t look at her. The tears fall.
“I’m happy. I feel like I belong somewhere. That I’m important. That I matter.”
Maria takes my hand. “And do you want to know what I feel around you?”
“Yes,” I squeak out through ugly, beautiful tears.
“I’m happy. I finally feel like I belong somewhere. That I’m important. That I matter.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
I bark out a laugh and Maria pulls me in for a hug. “So stubborn, Danvers.” We sit on my bed and ugly cry for what feels like hours,* but what is actually just a few minutes. When we finally break apart, I feel…lighter. Something inside me has shifted, if only by the tiniest of inches.
“We’re never going to belong in Jenks’s world,” I say ruefully.
“No, we’re not,” Maria agrees good-naturedly, wiping away her tears.
And then smiles break across both of our faces.
“Good,” I say.
Maria takes my hand. “He can have it.”
THE ENVELOPES CONTAINING THE RESULTS OF our private pilot’s tests are still just sitting there in a tiny pile on top of Maria’s otherwise spotless desk.
Without uttering a word, Maria and I have both gone about our days, careful not to disturb or even acknowledge the envelopes in any way. But the sign-ups to try out for the Flying Falcons close at the end of today. It’s time. We need to face this.
“Let’s just take them with us down to the track and open them there,” I say. Maria’s eyes flick over to the envelopes and then back to me. I finish lacing up my shoes and stand. With each step I take toward the envelopes, Maria’s eyes get wider.
“Okay, but—” Whatever she is going to say next is cut off by a small yelp as she hops on one foot, the other half
-stuck in one shoe, and she nearly trips as she bolts over to where the envelopes are. Seeing Maria’s compromised position, I dart forward in one swift motion and beat her to the envelopes, scooping them into my hand and holding them aloft. I laugh at Maria’s scowling face.
“Come on. No more thinking. Sign-ups close today. We need to know,” I say with the best fake bravado I can muster. Maria drops her arms to her sides and takes a long, resigned deep breath.
We pull on our layers to face the sharp cold outside, and I slide the envelopes into the front pocket of my hoodie while Maria balances on one foot, tying the laces on her other shoe. She’s muttering the word okay over and over again under her breath.
I flip up my hood and look over at Maria, amused and mildly concerned. “You ready?”
“No.”
“Do you honestly think you didn’t pass? Like really, honestly?” I ask.
“Do you honestly think you didn’t pass? Like really, honestly?” she throws back at me.
“Hmph” is all I can manage in reply.
We both stand there in some kind of game of trust-and-believe-in-yourself chicken. Finally, Maria opens the door and sweeps her arm as if to say, After you. I stomp begrudgingly out of our dorm room and we both walk down to the track in silence.
Bianchi, Del Orbe, and Pierre are already stretching when we arrive.
“What’s wrong?” Del Orbe asks.
“Are you fighting again? I can’t take you two fighting again,” Bianchi says.
“No, we’re not fighting again,” Maria says. Their relief is instantaneous.
“Phew,” Pierre says, exaggeratedly wiping his brow.
“These came in the mail,” I say, producing the two envelopes with a flourish.
“Funny thing about the US Postal Service—envelopes do tend to be delivered,” Bianchi says.
I roll my eyes. “They’re our test results, smarty-pants.” I blow out a puff of air in frustration at the guys’ blank faces. “For our private pilot’s licenses!”
“Say that ten times fast,” Del Orbe says.
“Prilate pibutts lichent, priveck prabat libben,” Pierre attempts, before crumbling into giggles.
“Pibutts!” Del Orbe barks, clapping Pierre on the shoulder.
“You guys about done?” Maria asks, raising one eyebrow at me. They aren’t done. But within seconds we’re all laughing and trying to say private pilot’s license ten times fast—a feat which is apparently impossible. As our laughter dies down, all eyes return to the two sealed envelopes.
“I say just rip ’em open at the same time,” Del Orbe says.
“What if one of us passed and the other didn’t?” I ask.
“I’d never even thought of that,” Maria says, her entire face crumbling.
“That’s it. This is ridiculous,” Bianchi says, striding over and deftly removing both envelopes from my hands.
Maria and I shout in unison, reaching out to him. As we look on in horror, Bianchi rips open one envelope and then the other. Without a second of drama or making us wait or dragging out this moment to torture us, Bianchi flips both letters around. My entire stomach drops. Time stands still. Everyone is silent.
“You both passed,” he says.
Maria and I dive into each other, screaming and hugging and hugging and jumping.
“This is way too much excitement for so early in the morning,” Bianchi says, folding up the papers and carefully sliding them back into their respective envelopes.
“Hey, if it gets us out of running…” Pierre trails off. “Celebratory cheat day?”
“For real, though,” Del Orbe says, raising his hand for a high five. Pierre obliges, and the crack of their hands ripples through the empty track.
Maria and I break apart, and then everyone is hugging and jumping and laughing. Del Orbe pulls me toward him, mussing my hair and telling me how happy he is for me. Pierre throws me into a headlock before telling me in such a serious tone that he’s so proud and we worked so hard that his voice cracks, and when I look at him he’s taking off his clunky black glasses to wipe away his tears, and now I’m hugging him to comfort him through this emotional time.
And then the whirlpool of hugging spits me out right in front of Bianchi. There’s this millisecond of awkwardness and then I lunge into him, lacing my arms around his waist, resting my head on his chest. He pulls me in, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. I don’t feel self-conscious or weird. I just feel like I belong. When we break apart, I look up at him and notice something is…off.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. He shakes his head and I can see him looking over at Del Orbe, Pierre, and Maria, taking a breath to rally the others and move this morning along or try somehow to push past whatever is bothering him. Takes one to know one.
“We’re going to go get a drink of water, you guys go on ahead,” I yell, cutting him off. Pierre and Del Orbe groan, having convinced themselves we were all taking the morning off, but Maria corrals them over to the track.
Once the others are out of earshot, I look up at Bianchi, raise my eyebrows. “Shall we?”
“The fact that I’m not thirsty—is that going to stop this little field trip from happening?”
“Nope,” I say.
“Fine.” He starts toward the water fountain. His pace is fast and unrelenting. In my currently charitable spirit, I let him run-walk in silence, but once we get to the fountain all bets are off. Bianchi bends over and takes a long drink. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.
When I lower my own mouth to the fountain, the water is cold and tastes so good, maybe a hundred times better than it did yesterday or the day before. The sky looks clearer than ever, the grass beneath our feet is a brighter color, the birds overhead are chirping louder and in concert.
I laugh at my ridiculousness. I’m so relieved that we passed our private pilot’s license tests, it’s making me downright giddy. I’m always amazed at my ability to compartmentalize stuff that I’m worrying about. I don’t even know I’m doing it until the burden lifts and I feel this lightness I didn’t even realize I’d been missing. I stand up and face Bianchi.
“Spill,” I say. Bianchi shakes his head as if he’s fighting back the words. Pressing his mouth into a single tight line, he puts his hands on his hips and starts to pace. “I don’t think I need to remind you how stubborn I am, Danvers.”
“No, you definitely do not.” I watch Bianchi wrestle whatever is bothering him to the ground. And when he looks up, he finally lets me see his sheer anguish.
“I need you to let me say this whole thing without interrupting.”
I nod encouragingly.
Bianchi is quiet for a long time. I take his hand, which for a moment I worry might make him feel weird, but it seems to comfort him. He curls his fingers around mine and finally starts to speak. “You and Maria are our two best fliers. I’m a distant third. I thought it would be way harder to say that out loud, but it actually feels kind of nice to admit it.” He squeezes my hand, and the tiniest of tired smiles ekes out. “But I’m still going to make the team, Carol.” His face darkens. “And you two aren’t.”
“We know.” My voice is calm and my eyes are locked on his.
“What? But—”
“Maria and I are never going to belong in Jenks’s world. She helped me realize that, actually. I’ve already wasted too much time trying to prove to him that I’m the best. To make him see that I’m valuable and show him that I’m important. We need to find another way. Our own way.”
“Then why even try out? Why give him the satisfaction of turning you down?” Bianchi asks, letting go of my hand. A thousand answers race through my head, including the very real possibility that Bianchi is right and we shouldn’t even bother, and it dawns on me that this is my new normal. No longer anchoring my self-worth to what Jenks thinks of me has left me sifting through the ruins of whatever I thought I knew about myself. But if I am my own true north, then all I have to do right now is tell the truth and
everything will turn out okay.
“I’m not totally sure, but it just feels like the right thing to do, if that makes any sense.”
“It does,” he says.
“It feels different in here, now,” I say, pressing my hand to my chest. Bianchi nods. “I can’t explain it.”
“You don’t have to,” he says. I smile, and this calm washes over me. I can trust myself even if I don’t have it all figured out. And I’m touched that Bianchi has found himself so tormented by a predicament that isn’t even his. The guy has character.
“We’d better get back,” I say, looking over at the track. Noble has joined Maria, Del Orbe, and Pierre, and it seems all pretense of an effective morning run has been done away with as they hoot and holler, chasing each other around the track in what looks like some elaborate game of freeze tag. I laugh. With finals closing in and our Recognition ceremony less than a month away, I don’t blame them for finding a pocket of time to blow off a little steam.
“You won’t think less of me?” I hear this and turn back around to face Bianchi. His face is still ashen.
“For what?”
“That if I do make it onto the team—”
“When you make it onto the team,” I correct. He shakes off what I’ve said and continues on as if I didn’t interrupt.
“I’ll say yes. Then I’ll be on Jenks’s side,” Bianchi says. His voice chokes.
“Hey, Tom. You listen to me.” I stare him down. Will him to meet my eyes. “I can wait literally forever, Tom Bianchi. You know I will. This feels like the exact hill I’m willing to die on.”
Bianchi laughs and looks up, finally making eye contact. His deep blue eyes are red-rimmed. “Change happens from the inside. If you get on the Flying Falcons, you can begin to…” I trail off, searching for the right word.
“You’re trying not to say infect aren’t you?”
“It really is the best word, but—”
“Influence? Is that—?”
I hold up a hand to pause him. “Disrupt. That’s the word. We need an inside man to—”