Flight Risk

by Jennifer Fenn

  He flipped back to the first page. He didn’t realize he was grinding his teeth until his jaw began to ache. He read the manual straight through, underlining, tattooing the pages with his scrappy printing, and he didn’t remember a word of it.

  He threw down the manual. He watched a sitcom for a few minutes but couldn’t tell why the audience was laughing. Then he checked out a basketball game where he didn’t recognize any of the players. Then local news. A bank robbery. A car accident. A local forecast coming right up!

  No reports of a boot camp escapee.

  Was anybody looking for him? Sure didn’t seem like it. In the movies, squads of searchers would be deployed, scouring the beach with flashlights, distributing flyers, driving red-tipped pushpins into a map of the coast. His mom would have been on TV, pleading for his safe return. Robert pictured Holt in a war room, a walkie-talkie pressed to his ear, pointing platoons of officers into the woods. But during the off season, summer towns grew desolate, and Robert could easily pretend he was the last person on Earth.

  He was just the tiniest bit disappointed.

  He’d face a heavy punishment at Sea Brook, he was sure. Goodbye, lounge. Catch ya later, foosball. They’d lock him up in Redwood, without a roommate. Those guys only left their floors for classes and therapy and had to slowly earn the privileges Robert had already enjoyed, like the ropes course and archery practice. Knowing that Dalton and the others were outside while he was trapped in his room would make his sentence that much worse.

  Or maybe they’d kick him out, ship him back over the bridge to Yannatok. And then where would he go? If he didn’t complete the terms of his diversion agreement, would they send him somewhere else? He imagined diminishing rooms, one fitting inside the next, his room at Sea Brook nestled inside the trailer, tucked into the high school, each place he got booted from smaller and smaller.

  He couldn’t go back to Sea Brook and he didn’t want to go back to Yannatok, so he stayed put all day, TV and manuals, manuals and TV, until the allure of the airstrip pulled him back for a third visit. This time he didn’t skulk along the edges of the building, didn’t feel a jolt of adrenaline at the fence’s rattle, didn’t ease the door closed. His footsteps thudded and echoed around the hangar as he strode toward the desk and its tackle box, luring him in with its key-stuffed compartments.

  Robert grabbed the keys and tested out the pilot’s seat of N97681. He put himself through the paces of an entire imaginary flight, takeoff through landing, maneuvering through some thick cloud cover. The blue-gray sky, the cottony cloud swaths could have been painted on the hangar’s wall, Robert saw them so clearly.

  An hour raced by, and his concentration never wavered. Something about those controls, those gauges, washed out the tide of distractions.

  He was returning the keys, jangling them against his thigh, strutting through the hangar, congratulating himself on a successful flight, when the hangar door swung up and open.

  Heavy footsteps.

  Flashlights swept over the room.

  Robert ducked behind the desk. He closed his eyes, afraid their animal shine would give him away. He should have waited until three or four a.m., like he had for his other visits. Being here at eleven o’clock was obviously a mistake.

  “Who’s there?”

  The loudest silence Robert had ever heard. His blood roared, his veins throbbed, his heart hammered.

  Footsteps again. More than one guy, he could tell now.

  He would burst from behind the desk, rush them, knock them over, push them down, and run for the woods.

  “I know I heard something.”

  “Gotta be an animal.”

  “Tomorrow let’s check for nests upstairs,” the second man said. “Which locker did you need to get into?”

  Robert sat frozen, tense, ready to spring, until their footsteps faded and the door slammed shut behind them. He waited an hour, his legs cramping, his neck stiff, before he slipped from the hangar and ran back to the house. Later, as he was trying to get to sleep, he couldn’t remember if he’d returned the keys to the right spot, or simply left them flung under the desk. The kind of mistake that could cost him his freedom.

  From the Yannatok Tide: “Teen Reported Missing,” February 7, 2010

  NORTH COUNTY—A 17-year-old Yannatok teen has been reported missing from the Sea Brook Youth Home. Robert Jackson Kelley was last seen wearing a white T-shirt, khaki pants, and sneakers. Kelley is 5 feet 10 inches tall and weighs 165 pounds. His mother reports he loves dogs.

  North County police are asking for help in finding Kelley. Anyone with information about the case should call the North County Sheriff’s Department.

  FEBRUARY 7, 2010

  After three days, Robert’s food supply was dwindling. He ate the last DiGiorno with a side of cereal and washed it down with tap water. Tonight he’d have to go forage.

  Beneath a densely cloudy sky he walked past empty house after empty house, but was hesitant to go so far as to break a window or bust down a door. He was hungry, but he wasn’t a burglar. At two a.m., on the next street over, Ocean Avenue, he found a garage door cracked open, hovering just a few inches off the cold cement. Robert peeked beneath it, into a dark cavern, silent except for a freezer’s hum. He eased the door up just enough that he could slink under it. A chest freezer hunched against the wall, but first he knelt and checked out the motorcycle parked a few feet away. Red chrome. Robert paced around it. He thought of the posters in Barry Lancaster’s office, back at his old school.

  He opened the freezer. Chicken patties. Sheets of those cheap popsicles, the red and blue and purple flavors in plastic tubes. Steak-umms. Robert took a package of chicken patties. Six sandwiches would hold him for a couple days at least.

  Back to the motorcycle. Robert ran his hand over the smooth seat. Was it gassed up? Where were the keys? Could he take it for a spin? Just zip down the street and bring it back?

  He should go in the house. Who knew what else these people had?

  Robert turned the knob, waiting for the lock’s catch, but it spun easily.

  Did beach house decorations come in a kit or something? Same big, pearly conch shells, same sunset paintings, same wicker furniture. Robert’s eyes adjusted to the dark and he took in the open floor plan. Kitchen morphing into living room, tile meeting carpet.

  Robert headed toward the kitchen cabinets, then stopped short. In the living room, a guy and a girl were snuggled on the couch, nestled under an afghan, her head cozied against his arm. The guy snored, mouth open. The girl’s hair was a blond tangle, hanging like soft, beckoning seaweed. Her big toe stuck out from the blanket’s edge, revealing chipped red polish.

  Robert froze and wondered at his own stupidity. The door was unlocked because the owners were here. Of course. He crept backward, hands up like he had already been caught.

  If these people were to open their eyes right now, who would they think he was? A prowler? A murderer? Robert wasn’t going to wait around to find out.

  He tiptoed backward out of the room. The man shifted his legs and the girl sighed, nuzzling closer. Robert held his breath, mannequin-still. When the couple seemed settled again, he hustled for the garage door.

  The only traces he left were wet footprints stomped across the garage and the missing chicken patties. That night, he would make sure he locked his doors.

  FEBRUARY 8, 2010

  Robert woke up on the summer house’s floor. He counted forward from the last time he had been sure of the date and realized that today was his eighteenth birthday and no one on earth knew where he was.

  He told himself that he’d forgotten about his own birthday, that birthdays were for kids, and that it was a sign of his maturity how little his mattered to him. But really the milestone had been nagging at him, a splinter at the back of his brain.

  He was too old now for juvie. Too old for his mother to be held responsible for him.

  His loot from the previous night was stacked on the kitchen table and in the
fridge. After the first near-disaster, he’d gotten lucky at two more houses, one with a key under a rock and another with an unlocked garage. Cans of soda, chicken nuggets, cheese curls. If only he’d been able to carry more. Stuffing his haul in his hoodie’s pockets had slowed him down, and he had been afraid someone would hear him clinking down the street.

  He rummaged around in the kitchen drawers and found some stubby birthday candles, streaked with ash and hardened icing flecks. A book of matches from the Pine Tavern. He bet his dad, wherever he was, had a book just like it getting flattened in his pocket, or in his truck’s glove compartment.

  Robert microwaved a plate of chicken patties and mashed all twelve candles into the biggest one. The patty split, its breaded coating crumbling. Robert quickly lit the candles, burning his fingertips and throwing the spent matches in the sink. He hummed one verse of “Happy Birthday to Me,” waving his hands like a conductor over the flames. Wax puddled on the counter. He puffed and blew, but the candles wouldn’t go out. He tossed the whole mess into the sink and ran the tap over it, then wolfed down three more patties. Dinner finished, he inventoried his food again, proud of his spoils.

  Whatever he didn’t eat, he’d leave as a gift for his hosts.

  * * *

  He knew it couldn’t last forever, but what the hell? Robert would visit the hangar one last time, creeping in around midnight, when it would be deserted. He’d have his fun, and then he’d get out of town while he still could. That couple in the house had been a warning shot; he needed to make like a goose and take off. Maybe he’d borrow a surfboard and go down into California, try out some real waves. He’d hitch, or he’d sneak onto a bus.

  He shoved the remains of his candy stash into his pocket and headed for the airstrip. He crunched on a sour apple Dum Dum while he walked. He’d also brought the manual, glad he’d remembered to return it.

  At the hanger, Robert slid behind the yoke of his favorite, N2008SC. Yellow stripes streaked across the plane’s nose, lit up the wings. The tail dipped in citrus paint. Just like his surfboard. He drummed on the steering wheel. He tried to imagine another takeoff scenario, but tonight he was bored with just imagining.

  Wouldn’t it be awesome to put this beast in motion?

  All he would do was drive the plane down the runway, just to see what it was like.

  He would never have another chance.

  If his final destination ended up being a lockdown somewhere, at least he would have this.

  Robert jumped from the plane, sprinted around to the front of the hangar, rolled up the door, and then hopped back in.

  He turned the key and taxied onto the airstrip. Slowly, tentatively, nudging into the darkness. The engine hummed. His seat back vibrated. He cruised down once, then back, slowly at first, then a little faster on the return. Taking the turns wide, pumping the rudder pedals. Faced with the hangar’s open door for the second time, he spun into a U-turn, and this time he floored it. The plane leaped forward, like a cheetah springing toward its prey. Dashboard needles shot skyward. The white runway lights blurred. Robert’s hands quivered. His jaw clenched painfully.

  Then, without exactly deciding to, Robert yanked on the throttle.

  Happy birthday to me.

  Accelerating. Ripping down the short runway. The tarmac was covered in hieroglyphic lines, circles, Xs. Sweat ran down his forehead, his neck, puddled beneath him on the seat. His legs thrummed like just-strummed guitar strings. A hoarse growl rose over the engine’s roar, and only his raw throat hours later let him know that the noise had come from him, yelling. He bit his lip and tasted blood. Flat fields blurred by him, whizzing past on each side. The runway shortened, disintegrated beneath the plane’s wheels.

  Three warning-shot-accustomed geese flapped and scattered. Their shadows stretched in the runway lights.

  He pulled up, sharp, the yoke so much weightier than a joystick. He didn’t think to look at the manual, at the pages he’d marked. At the takeoff basics. At all the checklists, the inspections, the navigational charts with the earth split into halves like an orange. He didn’t think. Air pressure glued him to the seat. The hangar’s single open door winked behind him.

  And then Robert Jackson Kelley was flying.

  Interview with Mira Wohl, Willamette University cafeteria, October 2, 2010

  From Flight Risk: The Robert Jackson Kelley Story

  “So here’s the truth. My older brother actually worked at the hangar sometimes, on their computers, and he heard it all from his boss, the very next morning.

  “First time Robert took off, the owner was hot on his heels. Guy gets a call in the middle of the night. Somebody’s poking around the hangar. He gets up out of bed, throws on some clothes, and grabs a flashlight, goes to check it out. Takes a lap around outside, doesn’t see or hear anything, until suddenly there’s a plane barreling down on him. He ducks, he rolls, the wind’s blowing his hair back. The heat from the engine leaves blisters on the guy’s stumpy neck. He’s, like, an inch away from getting decapitated!

  “The owner runs inside, grabs a shotgun, and starts shooting it off at the sky, shaking his fist, cursing the moon. But Robert’s already gone, winging it, looking down and laughing from twenty thousand feet.”

  FEBRUARY 9, 2010

  At first Robert simply moved through the simulated operations he’d completed a thousand times. He lowered the plane’s nose and flaps, checked his alignment. He oriented himself via the GPS. He didn’t select a destination; he was too busy concentrating on merely keeping the plane aloft. Fifteen minutes ticked by before he seemed to take a breath.

  As long as he stayed in motion, in the air, checking gauges, adjusting the yoke, watching the GPS, he didn’t have to think about what’d he really done.

  A hundred and thirty miles an hour. Alone.

  His world had shrunk to the black sky, the engine’s buzz, the lights flickering below him, the GPS screen’s blue-and-green collage.

  Calm washed over him. He had never felt so focused.

  Like surfing, only better. The cockpit a cocoon, the sky a thick blanket settling over him.

  Robert followed the coast, attempting to keep the waves lapping down the middle of the windshield. Flat beach house roofs dotted his right; the blue-black ocean stretched out to his left. Eventually the houses grew farther and farther apart and the forest thickened. The boundary between sea and forest blurred as the beach sharpened into the crags.

  His knee, still.

  Winds bumped the plane along. He pulled on the elevator control to the keep the plane’s nose up. Inside the aircraft it was surprisingly quiet, the engine reduced to a hum like the ocean’s lull. His eyes flicked between his hypnotic digitized progress on the Garmin and the black night outside.

  Ten more minutes rushed by, but Robert wouldn’t have known if he’d been piloting for minutes or hours. He’d become so engrossed in the silvery clouds, the blinking stars, that the next time he checked the GPS he was disoriented. A blob of land was coming up on his left, and he didn’t know what it could be. Could he already be approaching Vancouver?

  The yellow balloon moon hovered, so close Robert felt like he could point the plane’s nose at it and touch down. He tried to arrange the twinkling stars into the constellations he knew were there: a bear, a hunter. He chewed a grape Now and Later to relieve the pressure in his ears.

  And then Robert began to consider how he’d get out of the sky.

  He wondered at first if he could simply turn around and land back at the airstrip. Cruise back into the hangar and return the keys. Walk away with a story, though who he’d tell it to he didn’t know. He’d certainly one-upped Dalton.

  The aircraft’s gauges spread before him, numbers and lines and measurements he didn’t fully grasp. The Garmin was easy enough, similar to the piloting he’d done in front of his computer. But he hadn’t thought to check how much fuel he’d had when he’d taken off. He didn’t know how much he’d need to get back. He was afraid to take his hands
off the controls to flip through the manual.

  Plan B would be to ditch the plane on the beach. The shore was just as open as the runway, bumpier, but coasting to a stop there might be less risky than trying to execute a turn he’d only ever completed on a simulator.

  And what if the two guys who’d dropped by the hangar a few nights ago were waiting for him if he tried to return? He had a head start miles long; backtracking would be stupid.

  He congratulated himself on his planning.

  He wished that he could glide by his old school before he had to land. The trailer park. He wished he were trailing a banner, like those planes that skimmed the beach all summer long, advertising the Pine Tavern and Nino’s Pizza. Robert Kelley Is Flying This Plane!

  He extended the flaps and began powering down. He had flown far enough that he was coming to the end of the sandy stretch. Needles, bark, and crags on the horizon.

  He’d fly up and down the whole coast, the whole continent, if his dad could see him. I did it, Dad! I did get away. They couldn’t catch me.

  Suddenly the spindly tops of the spruces and the firs loomed larger, and he was still approaching too quickly.

  He’d closed the throttle too soon.

  He was going to overshoot the shore. The last yards of beach unspooled beneath him, fraying as sand trickled into rocks and trees.