Flying Solo

by Ralph Fletcher

  Sean O’Day

  He was walking with a dog. They were walking through a huge mansion with many large and beautiful rooms, but the house was the forest and the rooms were made by trees. The trunks grew close together to form walls, and he found he could walk through the walls and enter clearings lit from above by soft light that flickered as it sifted through the leafy branches. He entered one forest room where the light was so green and pure he sat down for a moment and closed his eyes. The dog came and sat close by him. It was quiet. He sat with his hunting rifle, holding it loosely with the safety on and the chamber empty.

  “Hey!”

  A hand roughly shook his shoulder.

  “Hey, wake up!”

  Sean blinked open his eyes and saw Darlene. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. He hated getting bumped out of a dream, especially a sweet dream like that.

  “C’mon, Bud. It’s almost quarter past! You better get a move on or you’ll miss the bus.”

  He glanced at the clock—barely twenty minutes before the school bus came. He waited until Darlene left the room before he got out of bed. From the top drawer he dug out a clean pair of socks but he couldn’t find any clean T-shirts. And not a single pair of clean underwear, either. He went to the pile of clothes on the floor and dug through them until he found a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that didn’t look too bad.

  In the kitchen Darlene was sipping a cup of coffee and staring out the window. Behind her, on the counter, Sean made a quick count of the empty green beer bottles. Eleven.

  “Top of the morning to you,” she said.

  “Hi.” He didn’t have to ask where Dad was. Passed out in the bedroom. Sleeping it off.

  “You’ve got quite a pile of dirty clothes in your room,” Darlene said. “Smells like a locker room in there. Would you do me a favor, Sean? Pick up those clothes and throw them into the washing machine? I’ll run it through.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll do it after school.”

  Darlene sometimes reminded Sean of Dad’s last girlfriend, Carla. Carla had been ten years younger than Dad, and Darlene was even younger than that. She was twenty-two, barely ten years older than Sean.

  He opened the fridge.

  “We got any bagels?” he asked.

  “We’re out,” Darlene said. “I’ll get some when I go shopping today. You want some scrambled eggs?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you better eat something,” she said.

  “Don’t got time,” he answered, even though his stomach was growling something fierce. He yanked a can of soda from a six-pack and tucked it into his knapsack. Then he went back to his room, grabbed a candy bar from the top of his bureau, and slipped out of the house.

  7:19 A.M.

  Mrs. Muchmore

  Wendy Muchmore woke with a throbbing headache. Every bone in her body ached; every joint was on fire. She wanted to go back to sleep, but she couldn’t. Today she was subbing in Mr. Fabiano’s sixth-grade class at the Paulson Elementary School. She had to be there by 8:12 A.M. sharp.

  She tried to sit up, but lifting her head brought on such a fit of dizziness she felt like throwing up. She groaned. There was no choice but to call in and take a sick day. They would have to find a substitute for the substitute. With some effort, she lifted the heavy phone book and found the number of the school.

  “Paulson Elementary School.”

  “Yes, good morning, this is Mrs. Muchmore.” Her voice sounded shaky. “I’m scheduled to substitute for Mr. Fabiano today, sixth grade. Unfortunately I’m sick today so I can’t come in. I’m so—”

  “You’re supposed to call the Registry when you’re sick.” It was Mrs. Pierce, the school secretary, and she sounded annoyed. “That’s district policy. Didn’t they tell you that?”

  “Yes, well, I forgot—”

  “I’ll make a note of it,” Mrs. Pierce said, “but next time please phone the Registry.” She hung up. Wendy sighed and put down the phone.

  7:56 A.M.

  The Principal’s Office

  Irwin Peacock sat in his office listening to Peggy Ransom. He had the door closed and a rubber band wrapped tight around his thumbs. Peggy was the mother of a student, Christopher, in Mr. Fabiano’s sixth-grade class. More important, she was president of the P.T.A.

  “I’ll tell you this—a lot of parents in this district are concerned about that sixth-grade team of yours,” Mrs. Ransom said. “Deeply concerned. Pat Kiefer is one teacher who never should have been hired. Sally Walker is in that class, her mother is a close friend of mine, and according to her, Pat Kiefer does not teach. Every day after school she asks Sally ‘What did you learn today?’ and Sally just stares at her. Learned? Huh?”

  Mr. Peacock leaned forward and rubbed his temples. As a principal he listened to lots of difficult parents, but there was nobody worse than Peggy Ransom. He dreaded his weekly chats with this woman with her Jaguar, her five-hundred-dollar leather jackets, the rings that sported enormous diamonds on both hands.

  He closed his eyes. Ninety-eight percent of the parents in the district were wonderful, but the other two percent made him wish he worked as a farmer. Or a forest ranger.

  “Dana Friedman is supposed to be your superstar, but she’s gone to conferences half the time,” Mrs. Ransom was saying. “I mean, what good is she if she’s always out of the classroom? Myrna Reilly has her kids brainwashed into following every liberal cause she can get her hands on. And then you’ve got that cutie pie, Sal Fabiano. There’s something very strange going on in that class. As far as I can see, he doesn’t do any skill work at all. Kids like him, sure, because he doesn’t make them work. What’s not to like? From what my son tells me, all the kids do is read and write. What ever happened to teaching spelling? Or grammar?”

  Irwin Peacock tried to make it look as if he were listening hard. The woman’s voice was about as pleasant as a chainsaw—he could feel it cutting into him.

  “Okay, Peggy, I hear you,” Mr. Peacock said, breaking the rubber band wrapped around his thumbs. “But my hands are tied. There’s no way I can make any changes in that sixth-grade team. Especially not now at the end of the year. You must—”

  “I think it’s disgraceful!” Peggy Ransom said, storming out of his office. She swept past Mrs. Pierce’s desk and knocked a stack of phone messages onto the floor. One of the phone messages fell against the radiator where it got caught, out of sight.

  “I’ve got a good mind to pull my son out of this place and put him into a decent private school,” Peggy said loudly. “Where teachers understand the three Rs and aren’t afraid to teach them!”

  Mr. Peacock called after her: “I hope you don’t, but you do have that right.” And thinking: I should only be so lucky.

  8:12 A.M.

  First Bell

  Rachel stood with Missy on the playground. At exactly 8:10 A.M. she gave Missy a see-ya-in-a-minute look and slipped in through the door. She had almost reached her classroom when the first bell rang.

  Rachel loved coming to class early because it gave her a few quiet moments alone with Mr. Fabiano. He would stand by her desk talking to her, never pressuring her to talk back, and it was a pleasure simply to be near him and feel his words wash over her. Now she entered Room 238 and looked around, but the room was empty. Where was Mr. Fabiano? Rachel wondered. Then she spied the large block letters on the blackboard:

  CLASS 6-238,

  GOOD MORNING! YOU WILL HAVE A SUBSTITUTE TEACHER TODAY. I KNOW YOU WILL GIVE TO MRS. MUCHMORE THE SAME RESPECT AND ATTENTION YOU WOULD GIVE TO ME. YOU ALL KNOW THE ROUTINE FOR FRIDAY. SEE YOU ON MONDAY.

  MR. FABIANO

  Rachel stamped her foot and the sharp sound echoed in the deserted classroom. Substitute! As if anyone could substitute for Mr. Fabiano. It was the worst, most depressing way to start the day. And it was a Friday, which meant three whole days without Mr. Fabiano. The weekend was ruined.

  She drifted over to where Tommy Feathers used to sit. A photograph of Tommy hung on the wall, but R
achel turned away from the grinning face and glanced at his old desk. She reached down and quickly touched the surface, running her thumb over the place where a heart had been carved into the wood and the letters T.F. + R.W. crudely cut inside the heart.

  Missy came into the room and stared at the blackboard.

  “Oh, no, a sub,” Missy said, reading. “What a bummer.”

  Rachel and Missy had been best friends since second grade. Before Rachel stopped talking, they’d get on the phone and lose track of time in deep talks about boys, music, religion, God, ghosts, ESP, telepathy. They agreed that it was possible to read another person’s thoughts, if you were close enough.

  Missy was fat. Rachel often wondered if Missy’s own problems helped her to understand Rachel’s. Missy knew what it was like to have kids point fingers, make nasty comments, whisper behind her back. She knew what it was like to have something eating at you from the inside.

  More than anybody else Missy accepted Rachel’s silence. Other kids got all nervous and chatty around Rachel: Not Missy. When they were together Missy didn’t try to fill the dead space with lots of empty chitchat the way most kids did. The silence always felt light and easy between them.

  Loud laughter outside the door. Karen and Jasmine raced into the room.

  “I won!” Karen said, laughing and breathing hard.

  “They won,” Jasmine said, pointing. “Hi, Missy. Hey, Rachel.”

  Last fall when Rachel stopped talking she stopped smiling, too. Now she gave the girls a small wave as a gesture intended to mean “Hello.” At the beginning of the year Rachel considered Karen and Jasmine close friends. After Rachel stopped talking, the other two girls still acted friendly toward her, but things were somehow different now.

  “Anyway,” Jasmine was saying, “I would’ve beat you if you hadn’t tripped me.”

  “Tripped you?” The girls took seats next to each other on the other side of the room. “You tripped yourself.”

  Christopher Ransom lumbered into the room.

  “I’m ready to go home now!” he announced, flopping down onto his desk and stretching out two big feet. Christopher’s mother was president of the P.T.A. His father was a heart surgeon-Christopher liked to brag that his father “cut people up.” He was rich, loud, and obnoxious.

  Jessica and Vicki came in next. Rachel thought they looked a little funny together since Vicki was so short and Jessica was the tallest kid in the class.

  “Oh, a sub,” Jessica groaned, seeing the note on the blackboard.

  “Fact.” Christopher smirked. He rubbed his hands gleefully. “And what better way to end the week than tormenting some brain-damaged sub?”

  Christopher’s voice put Rachel on edge; the kid was annoying beyond belief. To help tune him out, she watched the rest of the class enter the room. Tim and Jordan ran in, laughing, with Robert and Corey right behind. Robert and Corey were part of a set of triplets; the third triplet, Josh, was in Mrs. Reilly’s class. Then Rhonda came in and plopped down next to Missy.

  “My last day!” Bastian shouted as he entered the room.

  “I thought you said Monday was your last day,” Karen said.

  “My dad changed plans,” Bastian said. “Farewell, peons! I am leaving you for the beaches of Hawaii!”

  “You’ll look great in a hula hula skirt,” Jessica told him.

  “You should talk, String Bean!” Bastian retorted. “Remember that time you wore a dress? I laughed so hard I almost peed in my pants!”

  “Shut up, Bastian,” Rhonda said.

  Bastian had a mean streak, and Rachel didn’t trust him. He had moved into town just before the beginning of sixth grade and immediately made his presence felt by teasing kids in class. He invented nasty little nicknames for just about everybody. Missy: Thunder Thighs. Vicki: The Shrimp. Jessica: String Bean. He called Tommy Feathers The Professor or, sometimes, Doctor Drool.

  Sean O’Day walked into the room and quietly took his seat at the back of the room. He was slender with a pale, sleepy complexion. Rachel noticed that he was wearing the same Chicago Bulls T-shirt he’d worn the day before. Now he glanced at her shyly and busied himself digging into his backpack.

  “You are my Sean-shine, my only Seanshine,” Christopher sang loudly. “You make me hap-peee . . . when skies are grayyyyy.”

  “Leave him alone,” Bastian told him. “Not funny.”

  “Opinion.” Christopher grinned.

  Sean and Bastian had one thing in common: Sean’s father, like Bastian’s, had served in the Air Force. Sean’s father had left the military years ago, but Bastian said that didn’t matter. Air Force is Air Force, once and forever.

  Sean was the one kid Bastian never picked on. And he wouldn’t let anybody else pick on him, either.

  The newest kid in class, Sky Reed, came in last. He had moved from southern California in January. Tall and lanky, Sky had an earring and wore his blond hair in a long braid. Bastian teased him about the earring; he and Sky got into a fight on the playground. Nobody won the fight, but Bastian’s lip got cut, and after that nobody teased Sky about the earring or anything else.

  “Where’s the sub?” Tim asked, drumming on his desk. He was another boy who always made Rachel edgy. “You watch the high school baseball game? They kicked South Side’s butt. Anybody watch Star Trek last night? That was pretty freaky. Hey, so where’s the sub?”

  “Sub is short for subhuman,” Bastian said. “Looks like she ditched us.”

  Christopher started to sing: “We got ditched by a ditzy sub-marine, a ditzy sub-marine . . .”

  “Not funny,” Vicki said. “Not even close.”

  “Opinion,” Christopher replied smugly.

  Mr. Peacock came over the loudspeaker to make the morning announcements.

  “GOOD MORNING,” he said. “TODAY IS FRIDAY, APRIL TWENTY-EIGHTH.”

  “Fact,” Christopher said.

  “IT’S A BEAUTIFUL SPRING DAY,” Mr. Peacock said.

  “Opinion.” Christopher smirked.

  “Shut up!” Rhonda told him.

  Mr. Peacock proceeded to run through the day’s business. Sign-ups for Jazz Band. No cheerleading practice. Track meet next Thursday. Bring in cans for the food drive. Important reminder: No hats allowed in school.

  “PLEASE STAND FOR THE PLEDGE,” Mr. Peacock said.

  Kids looked around, unsure of what to do. Bastian got up first. That was one thing his father had taught him—you stand for the flag. Always. When Bastian stood up the other boys started getting out of their seats. Soon the whole class was pledging in ragged unison: “. . . one nation . . . under God . . . with liberty . . . and justice . . . for all.”

  They sat down. Still no sub.

  “This lady must be totally clueless,” Bastian said, loudly cracking his knuckles.

  “Opinion,” Christopher said.

  “It could be a man,” Jessica said.

  “Fact,” Christopher put in.

  “I’m begging you,” Rhonda told Christopher. “Shut up!”

  “Attendance,” Karen said from the front of the room. “Who’s absent?”

  “I am,” Christopher said.

  “I wish,” Rhonda retorted.

  “John’s out,” Bastian said. “Really.”

  “David’s not coming in,” Robert said. “He got an asthma attack yesterday.”

  “Melinda’s sick, too,” Vicki said.

  Rachel watched Karen fill out the attendance, checking off present or absent. Her eyes lit on Tommy Feathers’s empty desk. There was no place on any attendance form to check off dead.

  “How many hot lunches?” Karen said.

  “Who elected you teacher?” Bastian demanded.

  “She’s class president,” Jessica pointed out. “That’s her job.”

  “Hot lunch?” Karen asked again, ignoring Bastian.

  “What are they having?” Corey asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” Rhonda said. “Greaseball pizza. Guaranteed ninety percent soake
d in grease!”

  Karen counted eight hot lunches, five chocolate milks, and three whites.

  “Okay, who wants to bring it to the office?” Karen asked.

  “Me! Me!”

  Rachel thought it was funny the way everybody raised their hands, by habit, even without a teacher. It made her want to smile, but she didn’t. Rachel watched Karen standing there, deciding whom to pick. She really admired Karen. The girl was a born leader. Her neat black bangs and dark eyes gave her a no-nonsense look. People took her seriously.

  “Come to think of it,” Karen said, “I’ll go myself.”

  “No fair!” Tim moaned.

  “Hey,” Jessica said. “Don’t forget to tell them about the sub.”

  “Don’t worry,” Karen said, bouncing out of the room.

  “I will give a lecture while she’s gone,” Christopher announced.

  “No you won’t,” Rhonda told him.

  “Why not?” Tim shot back. “Ever hear of the First Amendment? He has the right to free speech.”

  “He has the right to be quiet,” Rhonda retorted.

  Rachel folded her hands. It was more than that, much more. Not just the right to be silent but the right to remain silent. It was a right protected by federal law.

  8:45 A.M.

  Main Office

  Helen Pierce had been the school secretary for nearly thirty years but had never gotten used to the frantic pace of the mornings. She took a sip of coffee and closed her eyes, trying to think. There was a nagging splinter in her mind, someone she was supposed to call, something she had to do, but what? Who?

  “My mind is a sieve,” she said to Shelley Fields, a parent who often helped out in the office.

  “I can’t imagine why.” Shelley laughed. “I mean, it’s so peaceful around here!”

  Helen grunted and got up to pour herself another cup of coffee. Already it had been ONE OF THOSE MORNINGS full of crises—Peggy Ransom’s tirade, a boy who swore at a bus driver, two kids who had to be sent home because of head lice, a leaky pipe in the gym. On top of that, an iguana had escaped from its cage in one of the science rooms. And it was barely 9 A.M. On mornings like this she pictured her mind as a glass that has broken and shattered into countless tiny transparent pieces so small you can’t find them until you step on one. And get cut.