The Trouble with Flying

by Rachel Morgan

  Sarah: It does not.

  Aiden: Want to make a bet on that?

  Sarah: Uh … no?

  I quickly open another window and navigate to my online dictionary of choice. I type in the word ‘biltong’ and wait for the result. Hmm. Well, what do you know. Aiden’s actually right. When I get back to the Facebook page, his next message is already there.

  Aiden: You’re looking it up, aren’t you.

  Sarah: I just did.

  Aiden: So now you know I’m right :D <— this is my ‘I told you so’ face.

  Sarah: What a weird meaning for a snack so awesome.

  Aiden: As weird as eating it.

  Sarah: Maybe, but I’m still gonna eat it!

  Aiden: I should probably tell you that I tried some today.

  Sarah: What?! Where did you find it? I was craving biltong the whole time I was in England.

  Aiden: A South African specialist store.

  Sarah: Cool. So what did you think of it?

  Aiden: …

  Sarah: Well?

  Aiden: I was having a salt craving. So … it was pretty good.

  Sarah: TOLD YOU SO!!

  WEDNESDAY 22 JAN

  Aiden: I used to try and talk to God.

  Whoa. Okay, that came out of nowhere. Especially from someone who made it pretty clear he doesn’t believe in God. I press the ‘Mute’ button on the TV remote and lie down across the couch. Dad’s in his study doing school stuff, Mom’s on her bed reading through the corrections she received on a paper she recently submitted to a journal—which I’m certain is the most boring type of reading EVER—and Sophie’s in her room, probably drawing something on her computer and enjoying having no homework yet. Bottom line: There’s no one here to ask why I’m now finding my phone more absorbing than I’ve ever found it before.

  Sarah: And?

  Aiden: He never answered me.

  Sarah: Is that why you decided he isn’t real?

  Aiden: Yes.

  Sarah: Were you waiting for an audible voice?

  Aiden: I think I was.

  Sarah: Hmm. I think God talks more in other ways. Like signs. Coincidences (which, if they really are from God, aren’t coincidences at all).

  Aiden: Why?

  Sarah: I don’t know. Maybe to make sure people are really listening. Or, you know, ‘listening.’

  Aiden: Do you want to know what I was thinking after you pulled me to the edge of that cliff and made me look out at those mountains?

  Sarah: Yes.

  Aiden: I’d never looked down at the world from such a height before. I’d never seen so much of its beauty in one moment. I remembered what you said on the plane about life not always being about things you can see or hear or touch. Sometimes it’s more than that. And I stood there and thought … Could all of this really have happened by chance? Could it really exist without meaning anything?

  Sarah: That’s quite deep from someone who thinks the idea of a creator is ludicrous.

  Aiden: I have my moments ;-)

  Sarah: :-)

  Aiden: And then we huddled under a tree in the rain, and you started telling me you didn’t believe in coincidences. That things don’t just happen by chance, and that everything means something. And I wondered if the fact that you were talking about the very thing I’d just been contemplating was a coincidence in itself, or if that, too, meant something. And now you’re telling me you think God speaks to people through coincidences, which aren’t coincidences at all. So I’m thinking … that means …

  Sarah: Maybe He is talking to you after all.

  Aiden: Maybe …

  THURSDAY 23 JAN

  Aiden: We never had our secret rendezvous on Christmas eve :-(

  Sarah: I know. I was going to give you a dictionary. And inside the Christmas card I was going to write, ‘Look up the word intriguing.’

  Aiden: I was going to give you a T-shirt with the words ZOO BISCUIT FREAK on it.

  Sarah: I want that!

  Aiden: It was an imaginary Christmas present. It can never exist in real life.

  Sarah: Nonsense. Of course it can. And it should. You should make one.

  Aiden: Maybe I should. I’ll become a T-shirt-making scientist.

  Sarah: As opposed to … ?

  Aiden: A biltong-making scientist?

  Sarah: No, silly. I mean what kind of scientist are you now, in real life?

  Aiden: Oh. I’m a trying-to-figure-out-what-to-do-with-my-life scientist.

  Sarah: Hey, me too!

  Aiden: Officially, though, I pretend to know a lot about genetics.

  Sarah: Pretend?

  Aiden: After five years of study, I feel like I should know more than I do.

  Sarah: I think I might be pretending too if I go back to the same degree this year … No way do I want to end up at year five thinking, ‘I don’t have a clue why I’m still doing this.’

  Aiden: Fortunately, it’s not that bad for me. I actually enjoy what I do. I just don’t know where it’s taking me next. I was hoping my solitary journey around Europe might help me figure it out, but …

  Sarah: No light bulb moment?

  Aiden: Not yet. What about you?

  Sarah: Well …

  Aiden: ??

  Sarah: I have an idea. But I’m afraid my parents will say no.

  Aiden: Only one way to find out.

  Sarah: I know, I know.

  Aiden: Can they really stop you from doing what you want to do, though?

  Sarah: Well, I don’t exactly want to do a Julia and skip the country! It would be nice to have their support in whatever I choose to do. (Also, I barely have any savings, so I kinda need their financial support too!)

  Aiden: So what is this idea?

  Sarah: If they say yes, I’ll tell you all about it ;-)

  Aiden: Oh, the suspense!

  Sarah: You won’t have to wait long. Mom’s going to be home in about

  Sarah: Strike that. She just got home. Wish me luck!

  I rush into the kitchen just as Mom dumps her bag on the table. Dad walks through from his study—he got home about twenty minutes ago—and gives her a quick kiss before opening the fridge.

  “Hi, Mom. Dad. Um, can I talk to you?” I stand in the kitchen doorway twisting my hands together.

  Mom looks up from where she just plugged her cell phone in to charge. “Yes, of course.” She presses a few buttons on her phone, then leaves it on the counter and turns to me. “What’s going on?”

  “Maybe, uh, we should all sit down.”

  Mom and Dad exchange a glance, then each take a seat at the table. I slide into a chair opposite them.

  “This sounds serious,” Dad says.

  “It is.” They took my choice of tertiary education very seriously after Julia abandoned her medical school plans and ran away from home. They wanted to make sure I was choosing what I wanted to do and not what they wanted me to do so that I wouldn’t end up wasting time on the wrong degree. Which is exactly what I’ve ended up doing.

  “Well, what it is?” Mom asks, worry lines creasing her forehead.

  “Uh … well …”

  Mom’s hand grips the edge of the table. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “WHAT?”

  “Well, it’s not entirely impossible—”

  “Oh my GOODNESS, Mom!”

  “We raised her better than that,” Dad says to Mom, rubbing her arm.

  “Thank you, Dad.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but you said Matt was very controlling, so it’s possible he could have pressured you into—”

  “No. Mom. Stop.” Flames engulf my face. “This has nothing to do with Matt.”

  “Oh. That’s good.” A relieved smile crosses her face.

  Dad clears his throat. “So this is about …”

  “I wrote a book.”

  “A book?” Mom says, as if I’m speaking an alien language.

  “Yes. A novel. That’s what I was doing in Pietermaritzburg. I wasn’t vis
iting friends. I was writing.”

  “Well, that’s quite impressive,” Dad says.

  “You did always enjoy writing in those many notebooks of yours,” Mom adds.

  “And, so, this is also about the fact that I hate what I’m currently studying.”

  “Oh.” Mom looks less impressed now.

  “Yeah, um … so the truth is that I really didn’t know what to pick when I left school. So I went for a BSc because I’d always kind of enjoyed Physics and Chem and Bio, and you guys are both in the science field and love what you do, so I figured … I’d end up loving it too. But I don’t. It’s getting worse with each month that passes. I sit in class wishing I was doing something else—and then my brain starts making up stories to, you know, pass the time or entertain myself or whatever, and then I realised that that’s what I should be doing. Stories. Books. Writing.”

  “So … you want to switch to a BA?” Mom asks. “Major in English?”

  “Well, no. I don’t want to go back to university.”

  All eyebrows in the room except mine shoot up. I knew this was going to be the difficult part. Mom and Dad have always made it pretty clear they want us to get a degree or qualification of some kind after school so that we’ll have, as they always say, ‘something to fall back on.’ Julia, of course, rejected that route and proved she could make a living doing what she loves. I need Mom and Dad to see that I can do the same thing.

  “I don’t mean that I’ll just hang out at home for years writing books and living off my parents,” I say. “I have a plan. There are courses, you see.” I lift the pages I printed earlier from where they’ve been hiding on my lap. “They’re not, like, whole degrees, but that’s because they’ll teach me exactly what I want to know without all the extra stuff a degree would have that I’m not interested in.” I spread the pages out on the table. “There are lots of different creative writing courses, many of them distance learning. So, um, I thought for this next year I could live at home and do some courses to improve my writing, and I’ll work and write at the same time. Obviously not a major job, since I don’t have a qualification, but, like, at a bookstore or a library—” Surrounded by books all day! “—and when I’ve polished my writing, I’ll look into all the various publication routes, and … at the end of it all I’ll be a published author.”

  Mom and Dad look a little alarmed at my outburst. I don’t generally say so many words at one time. After a shared glance, Mom looks back at me. “Well, we obviously don’t want to stop you from doing what you really love—”

  “Of course not,” Dad chimes in.

  “—but you understand that this is a risky choice, don’t you? There’s no guarantee that you’ll be able to make enough to support yourself as a writer. You never know if a book will publish or not, and if it does, you can’t predict whether it’ll be successful.”

  “Well, there’s no guarantee that I’ll find a job when I’ve finished my BSc either. In fact, I probably won’t. I’ll have to continue into Honours and Masters, and even then, who knows if I’d get a job or not?”

  Mom considers that. “Yes, I suppose that’s also true. Not many people get decent jobs with only a BSc these days.”

  “There’s always teaching,” Dad says.

  “Come on, Dad.” I give him an are-you-serious look. “You know there’s no way I’m ever going to be a teacher. I’ll be too scared of my students to be able to teach them anything.”

  Dad chuckles. “We all have to start somewhere.”

  “No. Teaching is one thing I know for certain I’ll never do.”

  “Okay, okay.” Dad holds his hands up in surrender, then looks at Mom. “We already have one daughter who took a leap and followed her dream. We can’t exactly stop Sarah from doing the same thing.”

  Mom looks at me. “As long as you know the risks and you’re determined to work as hard as you can, then of course we’ll support you in this.”

  “Really?” I clasp my hands together as excitement explodes in my chest. “Thank you, thank you!”

  “Well, of course,” Mom says with a laugh. “Did you really think we’d force you to continue studying something you hate?”

  I get up and run around the table to hug her. “Thank you,” I repeat.

  “The only other thing I have to say,” she adds, “is thank goodness you figured this out after first year instead waiting until the end of your degree.”

  I wrap my arms around Dad next to make sure he doesn’t feel left out. “I never would have lasted that long.”

  ***

  I run back into my room and land in my desk chair with such force I almost knock it over. I open the lid of my laptop and wait for the screen to blink on so I can tell Aiden what just happened. Then I’ll have to tell Livi and Adam. And Julia, of course. She’ll be so excited for me.

  Motion in my doorway makes me look up, and I see Sophie leaning into my room. “Congratulations,” she says with a smile.

  I swivel my chair so I’m facing her. “You were listening?”

  She nods. “You didn’t really expect me not to listen after I walked past the kitchen and heard Mom ask if you’re pregnant, did you?”

  I start laughing. “I have no idea where she came up with that one.”

  Sophie shakes her head. “So I guess you’re going to be living at home full-time this year.”

  “Yes. Why? Were you enjoying being an only child during the week?”

  “Are you kidding? I hated it! Mom and Dad pay way too much attention to me when I’m the only one around.”

  “Well, don’t worry, they’ll be paying attention to me now. They’ll want to make sure I’m not just taking an easy year off.”

  “Good.” We share a smile. “Anyway,’ she continues, “it’s probably a weird coincidence that this happened at the same time, but I got an email from artSPACE just now. I’ve been on their mailing list since I went to that exhibition. But this event isn’t about art art. They’re hosting a live poetry and short story reading at the end of the month, and—” she twirls a strand of hair around her finger “—I thought you might be interested.”

  “In going?”

  “In taking part. I forwarded you the email. Anyway, I gotta get back to my desk. First homework for the year.” She mimes puking, then disappears from my doorway, leaving me with nerves suddenly jumping up and down in my stomach. Me? Take part in a short story reading? Standing in front of a bunch of strangers and reading my work out loud? Sophie is insane. There’s no way I can do that.

  But I open up my email anyway and stare at her message sitting right at the top. artSPACE Live Poetry and Short Story Reading. Just read it, I tell myself. Reading it doesn’t mean you’ve agreed to anything yet. I click on the email and got through the details. The event is happening next Thursday night. People are invited to come along and listen, and, since the programme isn’t yet full, anyone interested in taking part is asked to contact the event organiser by Monday.

  I don’t have to do this. No one’s forcing me to. I could ignore the email and relax next Thursday night like I do every other night. No need to panic and stress myself out. But there’s a tiny yet persistent voice at the back of my mind that keeps whispering something. Fly. Be brave. Take a chance.

  I think of Aiden facing his fear head-on and stepping up to the edge of the mountain. I think of him daring me to talk to those two strangers at the restaurant. I think of how I failed. But … I can’t believe I’m actually thinking these words … if he can conquer his fear, so can I. I click the ‘Contact Sandy using this form’ link. I fill in all the requested information and hit ‘Send’ at the bottom of the form before I can come to my senses and back out of this. Then I return to Facebook and type another message to Aiden.

  Sarah: I’m going to try and fly. Will you catch me if I fall?

  I’m standing frozen in front of my mirror with my printed-out story in my hands when my phone interrupts my terrifying visions of tomorrow night. I peer over my shoulder at
my desk and see a Facebook message from Aiden on my phone’s screen.

  Aiden: So … I could probably introduce any topic beneath the sun for us to discuss this evening and you’d bring it right back to how you’re panicking about tomorrow night.

  I grab the phone and throw myself onto my bed, which turns out to be a horrible idea, because hitting the mattress with my stomach makes me feel even closer to throwing up. I take some slow, deep breaths before replying.

  Sarah: Who says I’m panicking?

  Aiden: You’re not? That’s great!

  Sarah: I. Am. Freaking. INSANE. I am BEYOND panicking. What on earth possessed me to think I could actually do this? I’m freezing up in front of MYSELF for goodness sake. What am I going to do in front of a whole room full of people?

  Aiden: Um … imagine them naked?

  Sarah: That is the stupidest thing ever. I don’t know who came up with that advice for banishing public-speaking phobia, but whoever it was clearly did NOT know what it’s like to experience REAL fear when a whole crowd’s attention is on you. I tried that during orals at school, and it did NOT work.