“You ever been a stuntman?” Birdie asked.
“Not my thing.”
“Have you ever flown a plane?”
“What country do you think we’re in?” Bennie asked, giving her an incredulous look. “You gotta get a license to fly a plane, and there’s no flying school in the country that’ll accept me. Believe me, there was a time when I tried.”
Birdie hadn’t considered that. She’d thought Bessie Coleman had to go to France to learn how to fly because she was dark-skinned and a woman, but it must have been her skin color that excluded her. Turns out, there were plenty of white women pilots. “Merriwether lets John fly around some, and he doesn’t have a license,” she mused. “Can’t you just fly on the sly?”
“Even if someone caught him at it, nobody’s gonna throw a white boy in jail for flying without a license. But they wouldn’t hesitate to throw the book at me. It’s not worth it. It’s bad enough—” Bennie stopped, and Birdie saw a muscle jump in his jaw as he checked the rearview mirror again. “It’s better, I mean, not to attract unnecessary attention,” he finished.
She knew what he’d been about to say: bad enough that I’m traveling with a white woman and her kids. Birdie knew why Bennie and Merriwether slept in separate rooms, as well as she knew why Merriwether left the room late at night when Bennie tapped on the doorframe and asked if she wanted to share a cigarette. Birdie may have been naïve, but there were some things she knew weren’t safe. A black man and a white woman in love was one of them.
A girl in love with another girl was another.
Charlie’s Jenny appeared, a whining speck on the horizon.
“Time to go!” Bennie shifted into gear and floored the pedal. Birdie held on as the car jounced down the road, accelerating quickly.
“I’m glad you were able to fix the Studebaker,” Birdie shouted over the wind and the engine. “It’s driving just fine!”
“It was just a plugged exhaust! We’ll see how it goes.”
Birdie kept an eye out for cars coming from either direction, but none appeared as they whipped down the road, the plane gradually gaining on them. A rope dropped from the Jenny, swinging backward in the slipstream. Merriwether appeared, crouched on the landing gear. The plane dipped low, only a few yards above the road. It was almost on top of the Studebaker, the wind and engines a deafening roar. Merriwether grabbed the rope and swung out on it, climbing quickly down. As she got closer the rope dropped straighter, until Birdie could stand and grab the end of it as she braced herself on the front seat. She held tight as Merriwether climbed to the end.
The Studebaker engine coughed, suddenly dropping in speed. The rope dragged Birdie forward until she was hanging over the back of the front seat, her heart pounding in her ears. Merri’s boots dangled over the front seat, then the windshield. “Bennie!” Birdie screamed, pulling back as hard as she could on the rope. Bennie’s jaw was tight as he stomped his foot down on the accelerator, to no avail. Merri’s feet hit the windshield, and she managed to hook them over and slide down the rope until her knees caught the edge. She let go of one hand, then the other. The rope whipped free and snaked over their heads as Merriwether pushed off the windshield and dropped into the front seat with a whoop. Bennie took his foot off the accelerator and their speed dropped dramatically.
“Woo-hoo!” Merri crowed. “Jesus, I forgot what a rush that is!”
Bennie honked the horn to signal to June that the transfer was complete. He didn’t look happy. “It wasn’t the exhaust. Dang. I’ll give it another look.”
“You’ve got this.” Merri slapped his arm. “You always figure it out.”
“You sure you can climb back up that rope if you need to?” asked Bennie, a worry line deep between his brows. “That really gave me a turn.”
“I’ll practice in the barn.” Merri leaned into his shoulder. “Tie a rope to the rafters and practice climbing it. Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
Birdie approached Dad’s Jenny slowly. The words Pretty Bird scrolled across its yellow flank greeted her as cheerily as ever. She set down the bucket of emerald paint that Oscar had picked up at the hardware store after their big planning session yesterday afternoon. She had instructions to paint the whole plane Peter-Pan green for the tryout, and Colette would go back and add details later, if they got the contract. Birdie hadn’t been thinking of Dad as much, caught up in the drama of the show, but now the memory of him calling her pretty bird, so affectionately—it was the breath she sucked in, and then it was in her chest, aching.
She must’ve been seven or eight when Dad bought the Jenny. It had a dull factory paint job. He’d it repainted as a surprise for her. When he showed her the gold and blue paint, the flourishing script meant just for her, she’d been so thrilled.
It was impossible that a father that could do something so sweet could abandon her like this.
There were lots of bankers who killed themselves. Everyone whispered about it. At first it was the Wall Street bankers and investors. She heard stories of them shooting their brains out, or jumping out of their office windows twenty stories up, or hanging themselves by their silk ties. Mom said the tales were nonsense. But there were stories in the newspapers a few times, and then one close to home: only a few towns east, they found the body of the owner of a bank that failed. He’d taken a Model T and driven it out on a country road until it ran out of gas, then shot himself in the head.
It was easy for people to imagine that guilt had destroyed Dad when the bank failed—but Birdie knew better. He was smiling and easy. He ignored what felt bad. He pretended things were all right when they weren’t. He would never kill himself.
He would just run away.
The sad ache in her chest turned hard and hot. She dug the paintbrush into the paint, and it came out dripping. He’d promised her everything she wanted, told her all her dreams would come true. He’d said she was the most important thing in his life.
And then he’d run out on her.
She slapped the paintbrush across the pretty script—WHAP—spattering herself with paint. She slapped it across again, and again, eyes stinging. Paint struck her arms and misted her face. WHAP! WHAP! She dipped the brush again and kept going until Pretty Bird was obliterated by angry swipes of green.
She stopped, breathing hard. There. Now it could be any Jenny. There were literally thousands of them out there, all basically the same.
Not one of them was special.
“Say yes,” said June.
The sun blinded Birdie as she turned. “What?” she snapped.
June took in the scene. “You sure are getting into that paint job, aren’t you?” she joked, but when she registered Birdie’s expression her smile melted to concern. “You okay?”
“What do you want?” asked Birdie, her tone more even, though anger still bubbled in her stomach.
June stepped to one side so Birdie wouldn’t have to squint into the sun, and said cautiously, “Well, I couldn’t believe you’ve never flown a plane before, so I thought maybe you’d want to take a stab at it?” She held up her hand, goggles dangling, expression hopeful. “We could take the Moth. They’re the easiest thing in the world to fly.”
Birdie’s stomach twisted. She’d never convinced Dad to let her pilot the plane, and he usually gave in to her every request. “We’ve got a lot of work to do before Saturday.”
“You can’t paint in this heat. I can tell the fumes are getting to you.”
Birdie almost cracked a smile. It was so hot. “I need a license.”
“Oh, come on! Nobody’s gonna fine you for flying the Moth around an empty field.”
“I don’t know …”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” June wheedled. “That rush you get, walking out on the wing—imagine you’re not just along for the ride. Imagine you could go anywhere you wanted, fly so fast and high that no one could catch to you.”
Birdie swallowed, mesmerized. “I’m not sure I’d li
ke it,” she protested unconvincingly.
“You gotta try it to see if you like it,” June urged, stepping closer. “I think you aren’t gonna be able to get enough.” Birdie’s eyes fixed on June’s mouth, curled in a lopsided smile—stop staring—then she locked into June’s gaze. In the sun her eyes were so green, lashes dark and short. At rest her brows curved up, so Birdie always felt like June was asking a question she wasn’t voicing.
“No,” said Birdie, too loudly, and June flinched. Birdie turned fast and jabbed the brush into the bucket. Her breath came short as fumes constricted her throat. “Not interested.”
June let the goggles drop against her thigh. “Guess I was wrong.” She shrugged. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
She turned and was gone, strolling through the tall grass toward the house. She whistled a tune, and Birdie recognized it. Five foot two, eyes of blue—but oh, what those five foot could do …
Birdie resumed painting the plane in a hot fury. Sweat dripped into her eyes, her thoughts a tangled mess. She didn’t know why her stomach dropped and her skin tingled when June touched her hand, or said funny things, or even looked at her.
June was a girl.
June was a girl who had kissed another girl, no games or drinking to excuse it.
Birdie paused and looked over her shoulder. June was a few yards off, bent down, picking a small, white clover. She straightened and lifted the flower to her nose.
Birdie turned away, but in her mind June’s lips grazed the flower’s slender petals as she inhaled its subtle scent.
What if? Birdie’s question hung in the air as Izzy’s eyes widened. Birdie held her gaze and leaned forward over the bottle, daring her. Izzy shook her head and looked away, biting back a smile, then suddenly came up on her knees and tipped forward—
Izzy’s lips touched Birdie’s, soft as Birdie imagined, full and sweet and spiked with champagne. Birdie’s hand came up to Izzy’s neck and touched the smoothest skin, and Birdie felt heat coiling in her belly, rising through her chest. She tugged Izzy closer and pressed into the kiss, mouth opening, breath against breath.
Monty whistled. David swore softly. Izzy’s kiss turned into a laugh and she pulled away. “Oh Lord,” she said, putting her forehead in her hands as she sat back down. “I must be drunk.” She looked up, perfect bangs askew. “I’m so drunk. Aren’t you so drunk, Birdie?”
Birdie’s mind was a steamed-up mirror. “Yeah,” she said, breathless, pushing hair off her face. What had just happened? “I must be.”
“Enough to do it again?” Monty asked hopefully.
Birdie looked at Izzy, but Izzy pushed the bottle aside and crawled toward Monty. She pulled him in, arms twisting around his neck.
The heat Birdie felt, Izzy was putting into a kiss that counted.
David’s arm snaked around her waist, and Birdie turned and followed Izzy’s lead. She wasn’t drunk. She wished she hadn’t kissed Izzy because it made Izzy want to kiss Monty and Monty was an ass, and it made Birdie want to keep kissing Izzy all night. Forever.
Necking with David was fine. It felt good. Birdie liked David. He was the boy everybody in school wanted to go steady with. Handsome, that curl falling down on his forehead. She always felt pleased when he caught her hand.
What if?
Now she knew the answer, and wished with all her might she could forget it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A HORN HONKED IN THE DISTANCE AS BIRDIE STEPPED BACK FROM DAD’S Jenny. It was Friday and she’d finally finished painting it, in between being measured for her costume, having her photo taken for the poster, practicing aerial “sword-fighting,” and fine-tuning her acts—she’d done the free-flying stunt over and over, until she was sure she could pull herself up without a hitch. The sun was low in the sky, and its light glowed through the Jenny’s canvas skin. It was strange to see the plane’s delicate bones illuminated, revealing how the huge machine was really nothing but a wooden skeleton with fabric stretched over it.
June’s Moth, Hazel’s Waco, and the two Jennys surrounded her in the field like a herd of pastured beasts. Pink hearts decorated the wings of Wendy’s plane (despite June’s impassioned protests), Tiger Lily’s was striped in tribal designs, and Captain Hook’s Jenny sported a brown hull and white wings. They weren’t as detailed as they would be for the real show, if they got the contract, but the fresh paint helped tell the story. The costumes weren’t completely ready either, but Colette had drummed up a few key items—a green leotard for Birdie, a pirate hat for Merriwether, a paper-mache crocodile mask for Bennie. They were ready enough for the audition tomorrow. Birdie’s scalp tingled. Tomorrow.
The horn blared again, insistent. Birdie wiped her hands on her skirt and looked up, shading her eyes against the sun. The Studebaker’s top was rolled back, its green-and-brown alligator paint job almost camouflaging it. June leaned out the back door, waving her hand at Birdie and hollering. It looked like Merriwether and Bennie were in the front seats. Oscar sprinted out of the house wearing plus fours and a V-neck sweater, pulling on his flatcap, the door slamming behind him. Birdie jumped. Tonight! They were going into the city and she’d almost forgotten! She ran toward the house.
The car was fuller than she’d thought. Hazel, Colette, and Milosh were tucked in the back seat. Milosh looked adorable, his black hair slicked back to reveal his big brown eyes, wearing a fitted Fair Isle sweater with a tie and button-up shirt under it. Colette wore a white A-line dress with a few strands of her signature sequins adorning the neckline and straps. Oscar was squeezing in next to Bennie up front, and June stood beside the car, one scuffed oxford up on the remaining back seat. “Come on, girl!” said June. “Time for some big city fun!”
“There’s room for all of us?” Birdie asked doubtfully.
“The Studebaker Big Six officially sits seven,” said Oscar confidently, “but we got at least nine of us in here back in New York one night, when we gave a lift to a couple of birds we met at a club!”
“A couple of birds?” said Hazel, mock offended, and leaned forward to slap his shoulder. “A lift better be all you gave them!” She laughed and kissed Oscar’s cheek when he protested.
Birdie looked down and was instantly mortified. “Oh my gosh, I’m a fright!” She’d ruined the cornflower blue dress days ago with splatters of green paint. Strands of hair scraggled across her sweaty shoulders, and her knees were dirty from where she’d kneeled to paint the Jenny’s underside. She could kick herself for not giving herself time to get ready to go out.
“Run inside and splash off,” Merriwether told her. “Hurry up!”
Birdie ran up the steps and tore into the guest bedroom. She fumbled out of the old blue dress and worn, oversized boots that Henrieta had loaned her, and splashed her face and armpits hastily in the washstand. She pulled the dress that she’d worn from home—the lavender one with the cap sleeves and swinging skirt that hit just above her knees—out of the wardrobe. Henrieta had cleaned it sometime in the past few days. As she pulled it on, her reflection in the mirror startled her—the dress clean and pressed but her lips chapped, hair matted and wild, knees still dirty. She dampened her unruly locks and pulled them into braids, hoping it would dry in pretty waves before they got to town, and quickly scrubbed most of the dirt off her knees.
She grabbed a few dollars from her coat pocket, tucked her feet into her kitten heels, and ran outside, half afraid they would have left without her—but there they were. Colette shifted onto Milosh’s lap, Hazel scooted over, and June tipped up on one hip, putting her arm over the back of the seat as Birdie squeezed in beside her. June smelled good, like licorice and spice. Birdie slammed the door shut. “Where are the boys?” she asked.
“Henrieta took them to see a movie.” Merriwether shifted into gear and pulled out onto the gravel road.
“Oh!” said Hazel excitedly. “Dawn Patrol?”
“Lord no, I would’ve made them wait to see that with me—I’m gonna have too much fun critiquing
all the stunts,” said Merriwether. “It’s just some jailhouse flick.”
“How’s she driving?” asked Bennie. “I replaced the throttle cable and think that did the trick. Feels better?”
“Good as new.” Merri’s stunt had gone off without a hitch that day. “I’m sure everything’s gonna go smoothly tomorrow.”
“Tonight I’m gonna take you where me and my pals used to go. It’s a sweet little speakeasy.” Oscar reached over the seat to put a hand on Hazel’s knee. “A black-and-tan. You’ll all like it.” He said the last part self-consciously.
Bennie smiled. “I’m not worried.” He looked dapper in a crisp white shirt and red tie, his head freshly shaven. “I been around this town before.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it outside Chicago.” Oscar raised his voice as the car picked up speed and wind whipped around their heads. “There’s all these clubs on the South Side that cater to anyone, no matter what your color.”
At any party or club Birdie had been to before, only white people ate and drank and danced. Anyone who wasn’t white was working. They had to squeeze in their dancing later, while they cleaned up everyone’s mess. They had to humor the boss’s daughter and teach her the moves she demanded, when their work still wasn’t done.
“We won’t go anywhere you’re not wanted.” Hazel reached forward to squeeze Bennie’s shoulder. “Or you, bunny,” she added, patting Milosh’s thigh. Birdie had never met anyone with silky black hair and brown skin like him in Glen Cove, but she had a feeling that if he had been at one of those parties, he’d have been working instead of partying, too.
“I’m not worried,” repeated Bennie. “I never feel more comfortable than I do here, besides home in Nawlins.”
They drove for a while, until farmland turned to neighborhoods, and neighborhoods to city. Birdie was quiet while the others chatted. She’d never thought twice about how everything was separated along color lines, but the more she noticed it, the less it made sense. Why shouldn’t Bennie be able to get a pilot’s license? Why shouldn’t he and Merriwether be able to get married? It might not have been illegal in New York, but it was in most of the country, and even in New York there were plenty of people who thought it should be—Birdie had overheard many express that opinion.
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