Higher, Further, Faster

by Liza Palmer

  “I don’t think I can either,” I say, unable to keep from laughing as I’m continually surprised by the vacillation of my own emotions.

  “What do they have you flying?” Bianchi asks, trying to lighten the mood.

  “A 1942 Stearman PT-Seventeen,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Named Mr. Goodnight.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “It’s what Jack trained on, so it’s what he’s training us on,” I say.

  “I can’t believe you’ve kept this to yourself,” he says.

  “If I told you about the flying lessons, then I’d have to tell you why we were taking them, and if I told you why we were taking them, then I would have to tell you the plan, and after I told you the plan, I’d have to stand here and watch as you chose not to tell me that the plan might not work because you didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”

  “And what exactly is the plan?”

  “Maria and I earn our private pilot’s licenses and are able to try out for the Flying Falcons. We nail the tryout and maybe Jenks is brought to tears by our brilliance, I don’t know, I haven’t worked that part out yet. Maybe there’s a tight-lipped handshake and through gritted teeth he grudgingly says, ‘I was wrong about you, Danvers.’ Maybe he says I’m the best flier he’s ever seen and presents me with a trophy out of nowhere. I don’t know—that part of the plan has become rather elaborate over the past few months.” Bianchi laughs. “But then Maria and I make the Flying Falcons!” I shrug. “And they’ll have to see. They’ll have to see all that we’ve achieved this year—the Warhawk, the Honor Graduate, the Honor Squadron—and change their minds, and Maria and I will be the first female fighter pilots in the United States Air Force.” I look up at him. “We’re the best, Tom.”

  “I know you are,” he says.

  “Then it has to work,” I say, my voice full of false bravado.

  Bianchi takes a deep breath. “Just because you’re the best, Carol, doesn’t mean—”

  “Don’t say it,” I say, grabbing his wrist. I don’t know why I did that. It’s like I have to hold him, make him stop, even as he’s speaking a truth that my own mind reminds me of twenty times a day. Bianchi looks at me. “I know, okay? I know.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  I nod my thanks. In the silence that follows, I peel my fingers from around his arm.

  “I still can’t believe you can fly a Stearman PT-Seventeen,” Bianchi says, shaking his head with a smile.

  “You told him?” Maria asks, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere, flushed and sweaty from the field. Pierre and Del Orbe follow closely behind her, still unable to keep up. Our seventh period is over, and it’s finally time for dinner.

  “Told him what?” Pierre asks.

  “Rambeau and Danvers are taking flying lessons. That’s where they’ve been going,” Bianchi says.

  “I told you guys,” Del Orbe says.

  “No, you didn’t. You said that they were going to the airport to watch planes, not to fly planes,” Pierre says.

  “Were you at the airport?” Del Orbe asks us, building his case.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Were you watching planes?” Del Orbe is now pacing in front of us as if we’re on the stand.

  “Yes,” Maria says.

  “Overruled!” Del Orbe says, pounding his hand into the air in front of Pierre.

  “What are you even doing?” Bianchi asks, laughing.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor! I win the bet,” Del Orbe says, striding toward Mitchell Hall, his arm raised high in victory.

  “And you wonder why we didn’t tell you sooner,” I say. We follow behind Del Orbe.

  “Oh, I didn’t wonder why you never told us,” Bianchi says.

  “You owe me a soda,” Del Orbe yells over his shoulder.

  “We don’t owe you nothing,” Pierre mumbles, running to catch up.

  “Did he ever tell you why he named the plane Mr. Goodnight?” Bianchi asks.

  I shake my head. “He said he would after we flew him, but he never did.”

  “I mean, it’s nothing good, right? You don’t name a plane Mr. Goodnight because things were going well,” Bianchi says.

  “I think things always went well for Mr. Goodnight,” I say.

  “Just not anyone else,” Maria says, laughing.

  As we walk into dinner, I’m uneasy at how much I need my and Maria’s plan to work. I’m haunted by the vastness of my now-realized dream of flying and the fear that resounding, life-changing click could easily be taken from me if all these pieces don’t fall into place.

  I know that’s not how it works. Even if we don’t get to where we want to be, the experience won’t have been for nothing. The knowing, though, seems to be stuck at the topmost layer of my brain, along with what year the Gettysburg Address was given and the different parts of an atom.

  I know it academically. Intellectually. Logically.

  Just like Jack said: Even if you’re the best pilot in the world, sometimes things go wrong.

  But how am I supposed to come to terms with this? How am I supposed to be okay with not being allowed to do something I was born to do, not because I’m not good enough or because I didn’t earn it, but simply because I’m a woman?

  I’m never going to be okay with that.

  “Attention!” Maria says, calling our group to order as Captain Jenks approaches. All of us face him and salute. We remain at attention as Jenks looks us over, covered in sweat and grass stains. Bianchi and I are at the end of the line because we were lagging behind the group on our way to Mitchell. I’m hoping this one time Jenks won’t single me out and humiliate me. I look straight ahead, feeling Bianchi, solid and unmoving, next to me. I swear I can feel the atmospheric pressure around our group change as Jenks comes to a stop in front of me. I stand firm, unblinking. Shoulders pushed back. Chin up. Back strong.

  “Airman Danvers, I’m thrilled you’ll be joining us at the air show tomorrow,” Jenks says.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, my voice clipped and efficient.

  “I’ve given much thought to Cadet Instructor Pilot Wolff’s words regarding the ability of…well, certain people, to be taught, and I believe you will find tomorrow’s excursion highly educational,” Jenks says.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, his words bringing me underwater.

  “I’d like you to be especially mindful as you take stock of the pilots. I’m curious, Airman Danvers, if you will be able to see the difference between them and you.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, drowning.

  “You do want to prove Cadet Instructor Pilot Wolff right, don’t you?” Jenks leans in, voice lowered. “That you can be taught?” His voice is muffled and far away. As close as I’ve become to my friends, I’ve never felt more alone.

  “Yes, sir.” I am shutting down. Disappearing.

  “So, let us see if tomorrow is when you finally learn just exactly how fundamentally you do not fit in amongst the ranks of those esteemed pilots. A cursory glance should be all it takes”—Jenks circles behind me—“to illuminate your shortcomings.”

  BLACK.

  “Yes, sir.” My own voice is elsewhere. Outside of myself.

  As our interaction ends, the group salutes Jenks, and without another word, he continues on with a contented sigh. It’s Maria I see first. Appearing in front of me, as if from nowhere.

  “—okay? Danvers? Are you okay?” Her face is blurry and her voice is somewhere far off. Bianchi’s hand is tight around my upper arm, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that he is, in fact, holding me up. Del Orbe and Pierre pace and loom behind, worried and frustrated that they’re unable to help.

  “Why does he hate me?” I ask. I can feel the sadness and the rage and the defeat and the pain and the hopelessness and the confusion sitting on my chest, ripping at the sides of my throat as they claw their way up.

  “Because you’re the best,” Del Orbe says. I can hear the frustration in his voice. We a
ll turn around. He’s shaking his head and pacing.

  “But doesn’t he want us to be the best?” I ask, hating how much Jenks continues to get to me.

  “Yeah, he’ll let us be great as long as we act exactly like him,” Pierre says bitterly.

  “Jenks was a Thunderbird. He flew combat. He was the you of his class. So how is he supposed to still experience the pride that comes with being a member of a super-exclusive club if he feels like they’re just starting to let anyone in?” Maria reasons.

  “In some sick way, I bet he believes he’s protecting the sanctity of his post,” Bianchi says.

  “And that’s when they start saying things like…” Del Orbe thinks. “‘You’ve got such natural talent.’”

  “‘You’re lucky,’” Maria says.

  “‘You’re too much of a showoff,’” Pierre says.

  “See, you forgot to ask permission, Danvers,” Del Orbe says.

  “You forgot to be grateful,” Maria says.

  As they stand around me, I don’t know what to say. No, that’s not quite right. I don’t want to say anything. I want to scream. Roar. Run over to Jenks, pin him down, and make him listen to me as I outline all the ways that he’s wrong.

  He is wrong.

  Right?

  “I GOT EVERYONE THE SAME THING. I COULDN’T remember—just, take ’em,” Bianchi says, handing us each a soda.

  “You panicked,” I say, taking Pierre’s and mine from him.

  “I did not panic. I made an executive decision,” Bianchi says, passing the last two sodas down to Maria and Del Orbe.

  “He panicked,” Del Orbe seconds, right before everyone else echoes him.

  “You’re welcome, strangers who used to be my friends,” Bianchi says, sitting down next to me.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” The voice booms through the loudspeaker and all five of us immediately sit up straight and look to the skies. “We want to welcome you to today’s air show!”

  A B-52 bomber streaks across the sky, its high-pitched scream of an engine forcing some in the audience to cover their ears as it roars overhead. The bomber’s almost birdlike cry belies the plane’s absolute gigantic wingspan. All of us lean into the sound.

  “Okay, that was cool.” Maria sounds like she’s a kid again. I look over at her beaming face, finally beginning to let go of the lingering stench of yesterday’s run-in with Jenks.

  The announcer comes back on and introduces a helicopter aerobatics team out of Houston.

  “I saw the Silver Eagles back when I was a kid. They’re disbanded now but, man, they were cool,” Pierre shouts over the rumble and din of the air show.

  “What a shock! Pierre talking about helicopters,” Del Orbe says. We watch as the helicopters zoom and whip around, smoke spilling from behind them. By their fourth trick, what we’re watching doesn’t even feel real.

  “They made me want to fly. Made me want to join up,” Pierre says.

  “Please tell me you’re aware you’ve told us this literally a thousand times,” Bianchi says to Pierre.

  “Which is a mere sliver of the times you’ve talked about wanting to fly combat, so…” Pierre trails off. Bianchi feigns as if he’s been truly shattered.

  “Not to change the subject, but—” Del Orbe cuts in.

  “Totally doing it anyway,” Maria finishes.

  Del Orbe barks out a laugh and continues. “I want to make sure we get over to see Senator John Glenn. He’s got a meet-and-greet over by the stage. I’ve got a list of questions, and I plan on following each and every piece of advice he gives me to a tee,” he says.

  “What a shock! Del Orbe talking about becoming an astronaut,” Pierre says. Del Orbe shoves Pierre and they dissolve into laughter.

  “We’re going. And that’s that,” Del Orbe says.

  “No. No way. I’d just make a fool of myself,” Bianchi says, his face flushing.

  “Oh, you should go talk to him. I mean, why not, right?” I ask, nudging him.

  “Why not? Did you not hear when I said that I would just make a fool out of myself?” he asks.

  I clap my hands together. “It’s decided. We’re going. When is it?” I ask Maria.

  “Three p.m.,” Maria says.

  “Done,” I say. And everyone just moves on as Bianchi seems to slowly descend into panic about the upcoming event.

  The helicopters finish up and the unmistakable growl and purr of an engine begins rumbling closer and closer to the show center.

  “No,” I say in disbelief. “No way. It can’t be.”

  “Why wouldn’t they mention it?” Maria asks.

  “What are you two talking about?” Bianchi asks.

  The 1942 Stearman PT-17 roars across the sky, and Maria and I hoot and holler as the announcer introduces Jack and Bonnie.

  “Gentlemen, meet Mr. Goodnight,” Maria says, jerking her thumb toward the sky.

  “Are you kidding me?” Bianchi asks. Mr. Goodnight climbs into the horizon, rolling and dropping like a leaf once it reaches its maximum altitude.

  “How is that the same plane we fly every Sunday?” Maria asks, watching as it moves through the scattered clouds like it’s a metal toy in a child’s hand, impossibly curving and dipping across the field in ways that seem to defy physics or logic. The plane climbs again, banking left and then falling into a spiral, looking like it’s lost power. Maria and I lean forward, not knowing whether or not the plane is actually dropping from above, and suddenly fearful for the pilots we know are within its clutches. I grab Maria’s hand, terrified that I’m about to watch—

  And then Mr. Goodnight roars to life and the crowd goes wild.

  “Good night,” I say, finally exhaling. Maria and I look at one another.

  “Is that…? Do you…? That can’t be why they named him that, can it?” Maria asks.

  “That’s definitely not why they named him that,” Bianchi says, watching as the plane rolls across the sky once more. The crowd is on their feet applauding the performance, and we join them.

  We see an F-14 Tomcat demonstration and watch in amazement as a tiny woman walks on the wings of on old-timey biplane. There are parachute teams and even a 1929 Tri-Motor plane that looks sleek and modern in all its silver-and-blue glory. There’s even a sky-diving clown at one point.

  And then.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Your United States Air Force Thunderbirds are extremely pleased to be with you here today.” The crowd gets to their feet once more. This is what we all came for. The announcer continues, “If you look to the show center, you’ll see the Thunderbird maintenance crews and Thunderbird pilots beginning their march out to their aircraft.” All eyes turn to the columns of men walking toward the six beautiful F-16 planes on the other side of the airfield.

  “Those F-Sixteens,” Maria breathes out as she trails off.

  Six F-16 Fighting Falcons sit in the middle of the airfield. Painted white with red and blue accents, they’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

  “By the end of the day, I’m going to touch one of those planes,” I announce.

  “I know what you mean? But, that sounded super weird,” Maria says, laughing.

  “You should have seen the hand gesture I held back for your sake,” I say.

  “Let’s see it, Danvers,” she says. I reach out the palm of my hand and reverently close my eyes as if I’m feeling the warm heat from a crackling fire. I pop open my eyes, pull back my arm, and can’t keep from laughing.

  We turn our attention back to the field as one by one, the Thunderbirds climb into their planes. It is not lost on any of us that every single Thunderbird looks exactly like Jenks.

  I can actually feel the heaviness settle around all five of us as Jenks’s words return to each one of us and remind us who we are, and more importantly, who we aren’t.

  “Fig Newton,” Pierre blurts.

  “What?” Maria asks.

  “Lloyd ‘Fig’ Newton. I can’t believe I forgot,” Pierre says. On the airfi
eld the Thunderbirds begin their ground checks.

  “What are you talking about?” Del Orbe asks.

  “An African American flyer who was a Thunderbird back in the seventies, and—just to be clear, because I know we’re all thinking it—no, he looked nothing like Jenks,” Pierre says. All five of us look out to the airfield. “If he can do it…”

  “So can we,” I finish. Pierre looks over and nods.

  “So can we,” he repeats.

  The F-16s boom to life.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s begin today’s flying demonstration!”

  Four of the F-16s roar across the sky in an arrowhead formation.

  “Look at that,” Del Orbe calls out, pointing to the underside of the planes, where a giant blue Native American–style Thunderbird is painted.

  “Why only four?” I ask.

  “The other two are solos,” Pierre says.

  The F-16s go from an arrowhead formation into arrowhead rolls. The planes are so close together it’s like someone has hung them on a wall using a level and ruler. They’re so perfectly measured that it’s easy to forget that each one is probably going about a thousand miles per hour at any given time.

  The two solo pilots do opposing four-point rolls right at the show center. From the left, the other four planes zoom toward us in a diamond formation. The arrangement transitions seamlessly into a diamond roll, and before our goose pimples have dissipated from the last trick, we’re told to look out onto the horizon for the two solo planes approaching getting ready to do a crossover break—which just looks like the scariest game of chicken in the entire world.

  I can’t catch my breath when the two solo planes scream past each other, and next our attention is directed toward the other four planes, who are now approaching in a trail formation. We’re told that Thunderbird One (the leader) will call for a change back into the diamond formation. It’s like we’re watching the intricate dials and cogs inside a clock as the wingman and slot pilot move into their diamond positions.