“Merriwether, darling,” June said. “Guess what I found.”
The match flared, and Merriwether held it to the cigarette clenched between her teeth. She sucked on it a few times, smoke curling out the corners of her mouth as the tip caught. She dropped the match and crushed it under her boot, then took a long drag, hand on a hip, and looked at Birdie.
“You tell her rides don’t start till 11 a.m.,” said Merriwether, squinting one eye. “I don’t care how cute she is.”
Birdie laughed awkwardly, although she wasn’t completely sure what the joke might be.
“This is her!” June said. “The girl me and Bennie saw last night? She could get us out of this pickle Darlena’s got us in.”
“She’s too young.” Merriwether put her cigarette between her teeth, chewing on it as she looked Birdie up and down. “You telling me you’ve got wingwalking experience?”
“Yes,” said Birdie. If wingwalking counted while the plane was still on the ground—then sure, she had plenty of experience.
“Find who you were looking for yesterday?” asked a voice behind Birdie. It was tattoo-girl, dressed just the same as yesterday, the rose decorating her hair starting to wilt.
Birdie ignored her, and the prickle of irritation that rose along Birdie’s spine. “Darlena’s a great performer, but I’m a better dancer. I’m quite strong, and I’ve got experience—”
“With what show?” asked Merriwether.
“Just, um, privately,” Birdie said, stumbling over her words. “My dad had a plane.”
“Oh, please,” said tattoo-girl. “Everybody’s dad had a plane.”
“I’d rather do the show with no wingwalker, than a half-baked one,” said Merriwether dismissively.
“Come on!” June bounced on the balls of her feet. “What’s the harm in giving her a shot?”
Merriwether took a long drag of her cigarette. Birdie tried to look breezy and confident, like someone who walked out on the wing of a plane all the time.
“We’ll see what you can do today,” said Merriwether finally. “You kill yourself, girl, it’s your own damn fault.”
“Today?” asked Birdie, with a flutter of nerves. “I thought Darlena—might still? Today?”
“I gotta know you got what it takes before we take you on. You’re petite, you can squeeze into the cockpit with Darlena. You’ll take turns and she can give us her opinion.” Merriwether’s expression darkened as she looked around. “Wonder when she’s gonna grace us with her presence.”
Birdie felt a surge of panic. She’d just joined the circus, as a wingwalker. But she was almost as thrilled as she was terrified. She wished she could tell Izzy.
“Oh, she’ll show up!” June pshawed. “I don’t care what kinda words you two had last night, she’s never missed a show.” June pumped her fist. “All right! It’s almost eleven—I gotta take some rubes on a ride. Excited to see what you do!” She squeezed Birdie’s shoulder and headed back to the red plane, where Bennie was turning the propeller slowly, squinting down the length of the blades.
“So.” Tattoo-girl eyed her. “I’m in charge of costuming.”
Birdie nodded, swallowing skepticism. This strangely dressed girl was in charge of her outfit?
Tattoo-girl sighed as she turned away. A flight of wrens took off from one of her shoulders, across her back. A tiger on the other shoulder swallowed them. “Come on.” She lifted a hand and Birdie followed her. “Hazel’s got an outfit she barely wore—Merriwether never did get that girl out of the cockpit and onto the wing, but it didn’t stop her from trying. I think it might suit you.”
“Who’s Hazel?” asked Birdie, following tattoo-girl toward the boardwalk, but the girl didn’t answer.
“Who are you?” Birdie tried instead.
“Colette.”
Birdie gave up, annoyed that she’d even asked, since the girl didn’t seem the least bit interested in finding anything out about her.
Colette fished a scrap of sequined material out of a beat-up forest-green Studebaker that was parked on the street on the far side of the boardwalk, then left Birdie in Dad’s Jenny to try it on. It was hard to manage, slithered down in the cockpit so no one could see her. Birdie wriggled out of her dress—which was a relief, since she’d sweat so much yesterday—and into the tight leotard. It was a pale pink, ballet-inspired thing that showed plenty of leg and shoulder, with a diaphanous skirt that floated in the breeze. It was a bit big, but she tied the two straps together behind her neck and then it seemed to fit all right.
She thought of Dad reading a poster: BARNSTORMING BIRDIE TAKES FLIGHT!, with a picture of her smiling in this outfit, on his plane. He would come find her, if he saw a bill like that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DARLENA NEVER SHOWED.
It was after three o’clock and the crowd was thick on the boardwalk above Birdie’s head, roaring as Charlie spelled out “Welcome!” in the air, and Birdie was staring up, picturing losing herself in the crowd. The sand was scorchingly hot between her toes, but Colette had strongly advised against wearing her heels. Birdie would have to make do with bare feet since her ballet flats were back home on her bedroom floor, and the pair Colette offered her were too big and slipped right off.
She could grab her shoes and coat with the money in its pocket and head for the train station. She didn’t have to do this.
A young man in a well-tailored leather flight jacket approached, eyes bright blue against his suntanned skin. He smiled hello, his teeth like a horse’s, square and handsome. “Hey there! I’m—I was Darlena’s pilot, so I guess that means I’m yours now.” He thrust out his hand. “Oscar.”
At any other time she would have been able to smile back at such a keen fellow, but all she could think about was what she was about to do, which made it impossible to unclench her jaw. She shook his hand stiffly. “Birdie Williams.”
“So you’ve really done this before?”
Birdie’s stomach did a terrified somersault. “I—well—yes—”
“Hey, hey,” he said, putting a hand to her shoulder. “I’ll take you up nice and easy, do a couple of level passes in front of the crowd. June said you had some swell moves. You just make sure you keep a good handhold, and you’ll be fine.” He squeezed, and the steadiness of his grip was reassuring.
She’d rather take the risk that the plane would drop right out from under her than go home to a life that already had. All she had to do was go up the plane and do what she was best at.
Oscar led her to Dad’s Jenny and gave her a hand up. She swung her legs into the front cockpit while he hopped into the rear.
“You ready?” called Oscar, all encouragement. Birdie turned over her shoulder and gave him a shaky wave. Oscar pulled his goggles down and gave a thumbs-up, and a boy ran up. It was either John or Henry, one of Merriwether’s gangly twins whom Birdie had been introduced to in passing. Birdie couldn’t tell the difference between them—they both wore plus fours and suspenders, and both had thick, close-cropped brown hair and dense freckles. They were as tall as she was, but couldn’t have been older than fourteen. The boy grabbed the propeller blade, jumped up and dropped all his weight down, pushing the propeller as hard as he could—and the engine caught. The propeller whoomped around—then around again—then settled into its rhythm, rattling like a loud sewing machine. Tickticktickticktickticktick—
Birdie made her mind go blank and focused on the warm sun, the cool spring breeze, the propeller blades flickering. The people crowding the boardwalk, the smell of fried dough. Colette, Bennie, and Milosh, the boy in the striped socks, rattling their revenue boxes—she could almost make it all fade into the background. She’d always wanted to do this when Dad took her flying. She’d gotten the idea in her head once, when she was still very young, to hop out on the wing, spread her arms out, and pretend she was flying all by herself, like a bird—but she’d barely gotten a leg over the edge of the cockpit before Dad lunged forward and pushed her down, yelling. He had landed
the plane right away and swore he’d never take her flying again. She’d never seen him so angry with her, not even a bit of admiration for her spunk, and she hadn’t tried it since.
The plane lurched forward and Birdie stifled a gasp. The shouting of the crowd swarmed into her head, and the smell of fried dough coated her throat. Birdie’s hands gripped the edges of her seat as the Jenny began to bump down the beach. Merriwether roared over the megaphone. “Birdie’s first flight, ladies and gentlemen! When she’s famous, you can tell everyone you were here for it!”
Birdie’s stomach bottomed out as the plane nosed up, the boardwalk on her left suddenly dropping away. She had braided her hair tight to her head to make sure it didn’t get in the way, but a few stray strands whipped her cheeks.
She closed her eyes.
Dad is down there on that boardwalk. He’s proud of you, and he’s sorry. He wants to come back home.
Birdie opened her eyes. She remembered her goggles and pulled them down. The wind up here was just like she remembered it—like a strong wind would be on the ground, noticeable, something to lean into, but not something that felt like it would knock you down. It muffled the sounds of the audience, and Merriwether shouting into the megaphone.
Up until this point, she’d done all this before.
Izzy is down there, her mouth hanging open. She’s wishing she’d answered the phone, that she’d come to your house and hugged you and told you it didn’t matter what Dad had done, that you were still best friends.
Oscar looped around and leveled out. When Birdie looked over her shoulder, he nodded. Time to climb out. She would be on the wing when he dipped low and buzzed the beach in front of the crowd, so everyone could see her.
She stood up. The wind whipped her skirt, tossing the tulle around her thighs. She leaned back and grabbed the short strut that connected the upper wing to the body of the plane, just behind the front cockpit. Once she was on the wing, she’d have something solid between her and thin air. All she had to do was get her legs over the side of the plane and out into nothing first.
Merriwether and Colette and June are applauding. Merriwether announces that you are amazing. They make you the star of the show.
She took a shuddering breath. The ground teetered beneath her as the plane shifted. The ocean spread out into the distance on one side, churning against the beach.
It didn’t make sense that air would hold up a whole plane, but it did. Close to the ground, gravity was a sure thing. But way up here it didn’t work the same. They were flying, after all. Anything was possible.
All she had to do was step out of the cockpit and onto the wing.
She stuck one leg over the lip of the cockpit and swung it around. The edge of the cockpit dug into her crotch, and she was sure Oscar got an eyeful. Both hands gripped the strut ferociously. Her right foot wasn’t that far from the lower wing—how many times had she gotten in and out of this cockpit? She stretched down, then slid a little further, reaching with her whole body, praying.
Her bare toes met something solid. She put her weight on what felt like a wing support, and let the rest of her body slowly detach from the body of the plane. She eased her other foot onto the rough surface.
She was on the wing.
She was up in the air, on the wing of a plane.
The plane gently banked around as she straightened herself. She tried to remember everything her dance teacher taught her. It was all about posture, what made dancing beautiful. Shoulders back, head high, toes pointed. It was all about how you owned the space. Birdie knew how to own it, when the space was a stage. But this was the sky.
The boys are mesmerized. They elbow each other, whisper about how gorgeous you look. They whistle and hoot but you are way up here, inaccessible.
The boardwalk came into view over her right shoulder. She took a deep breath and tried to convince herself to uncurl her fingers from around the strut.
She heard Merriwether roaring over the megaphone, nothing discernible—the crowd roared louder. The plane and the wind roared loudest of all.
It was hard to dance, when there was no music.
She could fail at this.
She could fall.
Birdie jerked a foot, the motion stiff and awkward, hands still glued to the strut.
When she looked back at Oscar, he gave her a thumbs-up, and she knew she was about to disappoint him so terribly.
She looked down at the beach and saw Bennie staring up. She swore she saw his mouth moving.
DUN dun-da-dun, DUN dun-da-dun—Bennie’s voice popped into her head, scatting the Charleston like he had last night. Birdie hummed a few shaky bars and felt her heartbeat level out. Her own humming was louder in her head than the rattle of the engine or the shouts of the crowd. It wasn’t music, exactly, but it was something.
She let go with one hand and reached for the strut across from her. She ducked through the wires to the back edge of the wing. She crisscrossed her feet as she went. She kicked up a heel. It was clumsy, but it was something. She hummed louder. She lifted both hands from the struts and wires, feet solid on the wing, and waved them. She was dancing. She was doing it. She just had to make it to the end of the wing.
Step.
By.
Step.
Along the wing’s thin wooden ribs.
You are perfect. You will never fall, never crash and burn—
Hands skimmed from one strut to the next.
“DUN dun-da-dun, DUN dun-da-dun—buh BAH, buh BAH—”
Her singing was awful and off-key, but by the time she couldn’t stand it any longer she was there, at the end of the wing, and the crowd was zipping by, so close below her that she could see every gasp and grin. She pasted a smile on her face as she squeezed the last strut. She blew kisses. She waved.
The crowd believed her smile that said everything was fine. They cheered and whistled and smiled and waved right back. She remembered her posture. She pointed her toes and threw her shoulders back.
She made them believe that she owned the whole sky.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“YOU!” OSCAR WAS IN ECSTASY, EYES ROLLING AS HE SHOOK BIRDIE BY the shoulders. “You were amaaaaaazing!”
“You didn’t see it,” she said, grinning as she pulled her coat on over her leotard. She was trying to act smooth, but inside she was giddy with adrenaline. “At least I hope not! You were supposed to be busy with a little thing called flying the airplane?”
Merriwether was loud on the megaphone, introducing Charlie as June took him up in the bright-red Moth for his double-parachute drop.
“Come on! Did you hear Merriwether?” Oscar was gratifyingly impressed, though he seemed like the excitable type. “‘Ladies and gentlemen—the next Gladys Ingles!’ She was going on about how she hadn’t seen moves like that outside the movies! I managed a gander or two—and, sweetheart, you looked fantastic!”
“Cool it, Oscar.” Colette approached, eyes rolling. “She’s barely got her feet on the ground and here you are, trying to sweep her right back off them.”
Birdie swallowed her grin and pulled her coat closed over her dress.
“Costume work out all right?” Colette asked.
“It’ll do.” Birdie’s gaze skimmed across Colette’s collarbones—a twisting snake glared at her with red eyes. “I’m sure I’ll get used to being half naked in public eventually.”
“Good, because you’ve got a place in the show and the dress is yours. I know for sure the Incredible Hazel won’t want it back.”
THE INCREDIBLE HAZEL. Birdie remembered now—that was one of the names on the flyer with Dad’s plane on it. Birdie wasn’t sure she’d done well enough to get her name on a flyer, but she’d gotten a place in the show!
Oscar chuckled. “Hazel hated that outfit from the start. Pity. She looked amazing in it … but you move better than she ever did.”
Colette made a noise somewhere between laughing and gagging, but Birdie appreciated Oscar’s constant onslaught of
praise. She’d walked out on the wing of a plane, for heaven’s sake. She’d defied death! Birdie felt like she’d changed the whole world; it was disappointing to come down and find the world—besides Oscar—so unaffected.
“Careful, Oscar,” said Colette, pulling a cigarette out from behind her ear. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were sweet on our little Birdie.”
“Come on!” said Oscar. “You know better. This is just me. Just normal, friendly Oscar.”
He winked at Birdie and offered his arm. She felt her cheeks warm as she took it.
“Yeah,” said Colette, striking a match. “I was afraid of that.”
Birdie pulled back from Oscar and gave him a coy look. “Should I be worried about you?”
“Oh, don’t mind her.” Oscar scoffed as he turned her toward the show. “She thinks anyone that isn’t being actively antagonistic has ulterior motives.”
Maybe Colette was just being protective of her friend. “I bet Hazel is a lovely dancer,” Birdie said, loud enough for Colette to hear. “She got her name on the poster, after all.”
Oscar laughed. “Oh, that girl’s got two left feet—and she gets too nervous out on the wing. Doesn’t like someone else being in control—that’s my theory, anyway.” Oscar squinted into the sky, following the red plane’s movements. A speck separated and began to grow—Charlie, doing his double-parachute drop. “But Hazel’s the best fly girl we have. That’s why her name’s on the poster. That girl’s got nerves of steel.”
Another lady pilot, then. Birdie hadn’t known it was so commonplace.
The sound of the crowd swelled, and a few people screamed. Charlie’s first parachute was collapsing—Birdie remembered the response from the crowd the day before. Charlie was plummeting, his parachute trailing behind him. Oscar’s fingers tightened on her forearm. Birdie bit her lip, waiting for the second parachute to open. Of course it would.
Charlie—hands fumbling with his second parachute—so close—the ground—
“No—” Birdie choked out as Charlie’s body slammed into the sand.
An Impossible Distance to Fall Page 4
