by Liza Palmer
Chen and Resendiz come around to each one of us, yelling inspirationally in our faces. They’re trying to get us ready for this last day, which feels so perfect it almost makes me cry. When Chen finally comes around to me, I don’t know whether to be emotional or terrified.
“Airman Danvers!” Chen yells.
“Yes, ma’am!”
“You have shown us you are capable of great things!” Chen yells.
“Thank you, ma’am!”
“Do you know what’s more important than showing us you are capable of great things?” Chen asks. My mind is a dizzying montage of everything that’s happened over the last year. Unable to pinpoint one.
“No, ma’am!” I yell.
“That you showed yourself you’re capable of great things!” Chen yells back.
“Yes, ma’am!” I yell.
“Do you know how capable you are, Airman Danvers?” Chen yells.
“Yes, ma’am!” The words pour out of me without hesitation.
“You’ve made me proud, Airman Danvers,” Chen says, her voice dipping slightly. My eyes flick to hers and there’s a millisecond of recognition between us. We’ve both weathered Jenks’s oozing dismissiveness and yet here we are—thriving.
“Thank you, ma’am!” I yell back. And she gives me the coolest, most under-the-radar wink before she moves on to the next cadet.
Heartfelt motivational eruptions explode all around. I let them wash over me. Resendiz yells at Maria about her unflagging integrity. Chen yells at Del Orbe about his resilient determination. Chen yells at Pierre about his courageous kindness. Resendiz yells at Bianchi about his steady leadership.
By the end of our final formation as fourth-class cadets, we’re all stock-still emotional wrecks. Except Bianchi, of course.
And then one by one, we’re given the all clear to start making our way, as a squadron, up to Cathedral Rock. The pace is slow, and with each step the lingering soreness in my body seems to disappear and be replaced by this effervescent pride. I am being propelled to the top of this mountain by unadulterated joy.
I did it.
No.
We did it.
I look around at our squadron. And then I scan the hill in front of me. So many squadrons. All these people. We did it. I am no longer on my own. I am part of a we. I am part of the Long Blue Line.
I’ve earned the right to belong in these people’s lives. Because first I was brave enough to belong solely to myself. By surrendering my need for trophies and validation, I’ve been given the greatest thing anyone could ever have: purpose.
It’s weird now to think that for so many months, the only thing I wanted from this year was to make the Flying Falcons—which reminds me how little I thought of myself. My teeny tiny goals matched my teeny tiny opinion of myself.
Maria and I once thought we’d never fit into Jenks’s world, and I thought that was some great tragedy. But now I know differently. We don’t fit into Jenks’s world because we’ve become way bigger than anything he could ever imagine.
It’s scary and messy, and there aren’t any definitive answers, but the view from up here is beyond anything we could have found if we were trapped inside Jenks’s suffocating definition of who he thought we were.
Out here—in this wild, sprawling big blue sky—we are finally free to be who we really are.
Powerful. Curious. And beautifully, recklessly human.
I’m dragged out of my reverie by the not-so-distant sounds of cheering and yelling coming from the top of the rock. It feels like my chest is going to explode as we turn the final corner. Squadron after squadron reaches the top, and one by one they dissolve into an exhausted outpouring of everything the cadets have been holding in over the last year.
Our squadron makes it to the top of the rock, and all at once Pierre, Del Orbe, and Maria mob me. Then our little mob is gulped up by our squadron’s bigger mob, and we quickly become this whirling, out-of-control squadron/blob, jumping and hugging on the top of Cathedral Rock, which looks out over Colorado Springs. We finally break apart and everyone from our squadron goes to the other squadrons searching for friends. Which is when we realize we can’t find Bianchi.
We scan the landscape. We all see him at once.
Bianchi is standing on the fringes of the celebrations, holding a small white Polaroid camera with a rainbow stripe tracing down its face in one hand as the other unsuccessfully swipes away the streaming tears that run down his cheeks. He sees us notice him and just shakes his head and laughs.
“This is all your fault,” he says, sniffling, as we lunge toward him in one unified, rolling wave. He wraps his arms around all four of us and pulls us in, his body shaking with the now-unpinned lava flow of emotions. We hold each other for what feels like hours, which for a bunch of non-huggers* is well beyond any of our comfort zones.
When we finally break apart, I notice that we’re all still kind of holding on to some part of one another. A linked arm here, a hand being held and an arm wrapped around a shoulder there.
“Where’d you get the camera?” Pierre asks.
“I’ve had it.” We collectively give Bianchi a look of incredulity. “My mom sent it to me a while back because she felt I wasn’t properly communicating with her about my USAFA experience,” he says, his face coloring.
“How did you get it up here?” Maria asks.
“Very carefully,” he answers with an arched eyebrow.
Looking out over the crowds and squadrons also taking their group photos and enjoying the (almost) end of Recognition festivities, we notice Noble sitting with a few of the people in her squadron. We call her over and ask if she’d be okay with taking a photo of all of us. Five times.
“Five times. The same photo?” She asks.
“Five photos. Five of us,” Pierre explains.
“It almost seems that what you need is something like a photocopier,” Noble says, hitting the words photo and copier with particular disdain.
“Can you do it or not?” Maria asks, impatient.
“Yes, I am physically and intellectually capable of taking a single picture five times,” she says.
“There are literally hundreds of people up here! How have we landed on Noble being our only option?” I groan to no one in particular, a smile on my face.
“Because you love me,” she says, holding out her hand for Bianchi’s camera.
“God help us, but we do,” Del Orbe says.
“Now get into whatever pose you want to hold for five totally separate pictures,” Noble says, dryly.
Maria stands in the middle of all of us, unmoving. Our moral center. Our anchor. Pierre and Del Orbe stand on one side of her, draping their arms around each other’s shoulders like long-lost brothers. Bianchi and I settle on Maria’s other side. The tallest of the group, Bianchi takes a small step just behind me. I lean back into him and he rests his hand on my shoulder. Maria holds out her hand and I squeeze it tightly inside mine.
And one by one, with a long-suffering sigh in between each, Noble takes five pictures. One for each of us.
If anyone were ever to see all five photos sequentially, what they would show would be a group of friends smiling wider and wider as we become completely overwhelmed with tears. Whoever gets that last photo will be the proud guardian of what could look like the saddest moment in all of our lives.
Or the happiest.
We decide not to say good-bye. None of us can handle it. Instead, we all tell each other we’ll see them around, catch them later, as though it’s the end to any other day.
I save Bianchi for last.
“See you in the fall,” I say. My face is smushed into his chest as he wraps his arms tightly around me.
“See you in the fall,” he says.
“I’ve never been happier to be wrong about someone than I was about you,” I say.
“Me either,” he says, hugging tighter.
The trek down the hill is a quiet one. We’re all reflective and exhausted. So comfortab
le with one another, our bodies bump and thread through each other’s all the way down.
We take our showers and get dressed for our Recognition dinner in Mitchell Hall. The roar of applause as each one of us is called up to receive our prop-and-wings pin disappears into the background as I try to soak up every last moment.
When it’s finally my turn, I walk up to Chen and Resendiz and receive the prop-and-wings pin that I’ll proudly wear on my flight cap. I hold it in the palm of my hand. It’s heavier than I thought it would be, its cold metal dense and solid. I close my hand around it and walk back to my table, floating on air.
At the end of the ceremony, Maria and I head back to the dorm. We’re going to leave tomorrow, but before we head off in our different directions, we’ve made a plan to do one last errand first thing in the morning. Just the two of us. This is a completely transparent plan to put off saying good-bye to each other until the very last minute. A completely transparent plan that we’re both totally okay with 100 percent.
“Danvers. Rambeau. A moment.” A man’s deep voice just behind us.
We turn around to see none other than the commandant of cadets, Brigadier General Whalen. I’ve never seen him this close before. White haired and distinguished, being in his presence is immediately humbling. His uniform is overrun with decorations and ribbons that tell the story of a highly esteemed career. I’m struck dumb. How does he even know our names? Maria and I snap to attention and salute. The stream of cadets happily going back to their dorms give us a wide berth, quieting briefly as they pass by this unlikely little triangle we’ve formed.
“I was lucky enough to be on hand for this year’s Flying Falcons tryouts. Haven’t seen a barrel roll like that since my days in the Thunderbirds, Rambeau.” I feel Maria’s body tighten next to me.
“Thank you, sir,” she says. Her tone is even, but knowing her as I do, I can hear how her voice is tight with disbelief and excitement.
“Where did you learn that?” He asks.
“Bonnie Thompson, sir?” It comes out like a question.
“Oh, sure. I know Bonnie. She flew me to work during Vietnam,” Whalen says.
“Yes, sir.”
He turns to me. “And was that a power-off-stall that Captain Jenks put you through up there, Danvers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It was well done, Airman.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Did Bonnie teach you as well?”
“No, sir. Jack Thompson taught me.”
“Please tell me that he didn’t take you up in that old Stearman of his,” Whalen says, laughing.
“Yes, sir. He did,” I say, allowing myself a tiny smile.
“Remind me again what he calls that old plane?”
“Mr. Goodnight, sir,” I say. And Brigadier General Whalen barks out a laugh. Maria and I sneak a quick glance at one another.
“Mr. Goodnight,” Whalen repeats with a chuckle.
“We both flew him, sir,” I add.
“You learned a slow barrel roll on that old Stearman?” he asks Maria.
“Yes, sir.” Whalen is quiet for a long time. Maria and I wait. Unmoving.
“Have you ever thought about becoming test pilots?”
“No, sir,” Maria and I answer in unison.
“Let me make a call. I’ll be in touch with you both,” Whalen says, before dismissing us and going on about his way.
Maria and I look at each other, speechless. Someone was watching.
“Test pilots,” Maria breathes.
“I didn’t even…I hadn’t even…” I stammer.
“Becoming a test pilot is a huge deal, Danvers,” Maria squeals.
“It’s beyond—” It hits me. In our all-consuming quest to become part of the Flying Falcons, we had overlooked this alternate route—different, not better or worse, just different. And something that, in this moment, appears to be entirely achievable. I shake my head in disbelief. “It’s our new there.”
“Our new there,” Maria repeats.
“Wow,” I say. It’s such a weirdly simple word, but it perfectly encompasses the gobsmacked awe I’m currently experiencing.
We start walking again. “Before we totally freak out over the test-pilot thing, can I just point something out? He said Bonnie flew him to work during Vietnam, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Whalen’s career has some super-secret stuff in it, and if she flew him to work during that time—”
“Yeah, but she told us she flew transport,” I say.
“Rumor has it—and this is just from my pop, so take it or leave it—but he says that it was the CIA who flew guys like Whalen to work during Vietnam,” Maria says. She stops walking and turns to me.
“Danvers! What if Bonnie was a spy?”
“What? That’s—” And then I think about it for one half a second. “Yeah, you know what? That makes sense.”
“Doesn’t it?!”
Maria and I laugh, and continue walking in silence.
“Bonnie Thompson was totally a spy,” Maria says to herself.
“‘Whatever happens next, you must always remember who you are. Not what they say you are,’” I say, repeating what Bonnie said to all of us the night of their barbecue.
“She never let anyone tell her who she was,” Maria says as we walk back to our dorms for the very last time.
“Ever,” I say, reverently.
Maria and I talk nonstop for what feels like hours. No silence lasts beyond a couple of seconds. I don’t know if we’re nervous or in denial or excited about this test-pilot thing, and amazed at Bonnie Thompson, and full of love and pride and friendship. Or if it’s all of the above. But as I toss and turn throughout the night, the worries and doubts start to flutter around inside my head again. I turn onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, a shaft of blue early-morning light breaking across our now-unadorned dorm room, our assorted belongings packed into duffle bags. I let out a long exhale and remember everything that I’ve learned this past year. And the worries and doubts continue to flutter around inside my head, but this time I don’t fear them.
Because it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to not know. It’s okay to let myself learn.
Because that’s how we’re going to change the world.
I flip onto my side, tuck my pillow into the crook of my arm, and finally fall asleep.
Maria and I set off down the hill early the next morning in my car. Our windows are down, the radio is loud, and we’re officially done with our first year at the United States Air Force Academy.
The world awaits. But first, our errand.
The drive is relatively painless, and Maria and I arrive at our destination way ahead of schedule. We climb out of the Mustang and I walk back to the trunk, open her up, and pull out all of today’s necessities. I walk back to the front of the car.
“Be careful. It’s old and unreliable,” I say, handing Maria the old canteen filled with the most caffeinated tea I could get my hands on. It’s warm now, so we don’t need the plaid blanket, but I hand it to her anyways. It’s tradition.
“They do still make canteens available for purchase, you know,” Maria says, scrambling up onto the hood of my old Mustang.
“Yeah, but what would be the fun in that?”
Once Maria is settled, I hand her two toast-and-jam sandwiches. She sets the canteen on the hood of the car, the toast-and-jam sandwiches on her lap. I slide onto the hood beside her.
And as we’re just about to dig into our sandwiches, we hear our first offering.
“Now close your eyes,” I say.
“Roger that,” Maria says.
“It sounds like a Volkswagen Beetle,” I say, lifting my head up to the sky.
“It’s a Cessna, that’s for sure,” Maria says.
“It’s not a one-eighty-two. They’re…I don’t know, just sadder,” I say. “It could be a Beechcraft, maybe….”
“No way. Beechcrafts are slicker. They don’t rat-a-tat—�
�� Maria says, and then I feel her body kind of shaking next to me.
“What are you doing?”
“Open your eyes real quick,” Maria says. I oblige her and turn to find her flicking and fluttering her fingers around in front of her, like a tiny little fingerman running away from something.
“Rat-a-tat-tatting,” Maria says. As if this is somehow clarifying.
“Is that what rat-a-tat looks like in your head?” I ask, laughing.
“Okay. Maybe it’s more of this?” she asks, waving her hands in front of her.
“That’s jazz hands. You’re just doing jazz hands now,” I say.
“Fine. Have it your way. Also? That plane is a one-seventy-two. I knew it before the rat-a-tat thing, by the way,” Maria says, picking up her canteen of tea.
“You’re right…That’s—” We both pop our eyes open just as the plane flies overhead. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“Kinda sounds like one of the Mescaleros,” I say, my mouth full of toast and jam.
Maria nods and risks another small sip of the piping hot tea.
A buzzing, rumbling engine clatters in the distance. Maria and I both close our eyes.
“That’s not American,” Maria says.
“No, it’s…” The plane gets closer.
“Twin engine,” Maria says.
“Italian, maybe,” I add.
“You can’t possibly know that,” Maria says, laughing.
“I know it’s Italian because that plane is a Partenavia P-Sixty-Eight, thank you very much,” I say, opening my eyes.
The Partenavia soars overhead just as I take a giant, only slightly smug, bite of my toast-and-jam sandwich.
“I need to up my game if I plan on giving you a run for your money anytime soon,” Maria says, arching an eyebrow.
“I mean, no rush, right? We’ve got…” I trail off.
“Forever,” she finishes. I nod.
“Forever,” I say. Maria gives me a nudge, and I know she’s thinking it.
