Freefall Summer

by Tracy Barrett

  Today wouldn’t be nearly as interesting. The first jumpers looked like they’d been up all night partying. They had probably gone out to fortify themselves the night before and had gotten so wired they couldn’t sleep. Cynthia rattled off what they had to sign and what pages they had to initial, and the four of them settled down with papers and clipboards. There was the usual nervous joking, and when my dad came in they stood up and crowded around him. That’s the way it always was. Cynthia is cute and little, with strawberry blonde hair and big green eyes, and although lots of male students and some female ones flirt with her, they always seem to think she won’t give them the right information. Just let them see her skydive, I thought, picturing how ferociously she swoops into a landing, always standing it up. She looks like an angel with her powder-blue canopy settling behind her. But my dad is big, and more importantly, he’s male, so jump students always act like cubs pawing at the big-maned lion for attention and reassurance.

  “Much safer than hang gliding,” he said in answer to a question I hadn’t heard. “Safer than downhill skiing. Think about it. When you’re jumping there are only two variables: the person jumping and the equipment. I only hire instructors who’ve made at least twenty tandem jumps. And our equipment exceeds all of USPA’s requirements.”

  “USPA?” asked a skinny guy wearing a Clemens T-shirt.

  “United States Parachute Association,” Dad said. “Anyway, compare skydiving to downhill skiing. When you’re skiing you have those same two variables: the person and the equipment, just like in jumping. But there are other things that can go wrong on the ski slopes. You’re surrounded by skiers who might not know what they’re doing, but when you’re doing a jump you know that the other jumpers around you are experts. Plus, there are trees and cliffs and slick spots on a ski slope. None of that in the sky.”

  He laid a hand on the guy’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. I knew that look. It was tough and warm at the same time, unlike the way he looked at me, like he was sure I was about to break. He trusted a stranger, someone he’d never seen before, someone whose name he didn’t even know, to make a good jump, but not me.

  As though echoing my thought, my dad said to the guy, “Trust me. You’ll have the time of your life.”

  And, as always, the student looked about six shades less pale and even stood up a little straighter. He picked up his pen and initialed all the paragraphs that said he understood the risk of injury or fatality, and that he wouldn’t sue anybody if he wound up paralyzed or dead.

  I loaded my coffee with extra milk powder and sugar since it would have to be my breakfast until I took a mid-morning break at the café next to the airport. I waved at Leon and Noel, who were just coming in, and squeezed past the students and out the door to the hangar. I didn’t have anything to pack yet, so I settled on my beanbag chair and opened my textbook. I always felt more comfortable if I already knew the basics of the topic before classes started.

  For some reason the art of the Cycladic islands wasn’t as appealing as I had thought it would be. My mind wandered away from a theory of what the Cycladic people’s religion might have been like, and when someone paused in the doorway of the hangar, casting a long shadow across the floor, I felt my heart lift a little with the hope that it was Denny.

  It wasn’t; just someone looking for my dad.

  There was no reason for him to be there, I told myself as I tried to concentrate on my reading. Skydive Knoxton had a higher rate of repeat business than most DZs, but it was still only around ten percent, compared with the average of five percent, and college students were rarely among the few who came back.

  And why should I care one way or the other?

  So it was almost spooky when I was leafing through an ancient book of my dad’s called United We Fall, and a quiet voice behind me said, “Hey.”

  I nearly dropped the book. Of course it was Denny. “What are you doing here?” I asked before I could stop myself from sounding rude.

  “Came back for another jump.” He looked as awkward as I felt.

  “Cynthia’s checking in a bunch of first-timers,” I said. “You’ll probably be on the load after them.”

  “Thanks. I’ll sign up when she’s done. What are you reading?”

  I looked down. “This?” I stuck some pages back in the book after they fluttered to the floor. “It’s about formation skydiving. Or RW. Relative work. You know, when jumpers in freefall make formations with each other.”

  “I meant that one actually.” He pointed to the art history book.

  “Oh, this is for a class I’m taking this summer. It’s a prerequisite for some upper-level classes.”

  “What’s your major?”

  I answered, “I’m planning to double in anthro and art history,” and then I realized he must think I was a college student.

  “I’m starting at Clemens next fall,” he said before I could correct his wrong impression. “I just got here. I’m doing an internship in Springfield this summer.”

  So that was why he’d been texting so much yesterday: a summer apart from a girlfriend back home. “What in?” I asked.

  “Psychology. Mostly I’ll be cleaning out monkey cages. Do you have any idea how bad monkey poop smells?” I shook my head. “Well, I won’t go into it, but I’m not thrilled about smelling it all summer.”

  “Do they do anything mean to the monkeys?”

  “Hope not. I don’t really know yet. I just got here on Friday, and they gave me a tour and said to come back on Monday.”

  “Are you living on campus?”

  “No, in an apartment. It’s right near the college, though. I can walk to the lab.”

  “Are you pre-med?”

  “I’m thinking psych. What about you? Why the double major?”

  “It’s for archaeology. I should probably minor in something like history or geology.”

  “Cool. Archaeology would be amazing. Don’t you have to go to school for like years before you can do it?”

  “Probably no longer than for becoming a psychologist,” I pointed out.

  “I’m not for sure going to be a psychologist. That’s why I’m doing the internship, to see if I like it. So have you gone on any digs or anything?”

  “No.” I stopped before telling him I was probably too young. It wasn’t any of his business how old I was.

  “I bet there’s a dig around here someplace,” he said. “Maybe they have internships too. You could find out whether you like being in the bottom of a trench in the middle of the summer.” That had always been the only unappealing part of archaeology to me. I figured there had to be digs in places that didn’t get as hot as Missouri. It was a school field trip to ruins of ancient Native American mounds in Charleston, Missouri, that had gotten me thinking about archaeology in the first place.

  “It would probably be really hot,” I admitted. “But just think of all the amazing things left to discover. I was thinking of underwater archaeology, actually.”

  “Cool,” Denny said again. “You scuba dive?”

  Again I had to say no. I felt like a little kid who said I wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up without having any idea what astronauts did, like you could show up at NASA one day and get put into a rocket ship. Before I could change the subject, he asked me another question.

  “And don’t archaeologists usually find just little pieces of pots and things anyway, not marble statues and gold jewelry and whole temples like in National Geographic?”

  I couldn’t help sounding exasperated that he was shooting down my Indiana Jones fantasies. “Okay, so maybe they do, but somebody has to find the statues and temples and jewelry. Why not me?”

  “Why not you?” he agreed, and he smiled. He had a great smile that crinkled up the skin around his eyes. It almost made me stop being annoyed at the way he was interrogating me. Everyone else said that archaeology was great and I’d be a terrific archaeologist. Nobody asked about the details like this, and it made me uncomfortable to be
questioned so closely by a stranger.

  Do I wish now, knowing everything that happened next, that I’d told him I was in high school and was only sixteen? Everything would have been different. Most people would say that everything would have been better.

  And maybe it would here. But even so, if I had it all to do over again, I know I’d let him go on thinking I was a college student and eighteen years old. Because even with what happened, there’s nothing that I would trade for that summer.

  “So what made you decide to make a jump this summer?” I asked Denny, to change the subject. Plus, I was being friendly to a client. My dad would approve.

  His smile disappeared. Odd—usually first jumpers are thrilled to talk about what inspired them to skydive. “It’s just…it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I was only going to do the one jump yesterday, but then I changed my mind. I’m going again.” He looked out at the landing area. “This time I want to do it without someone else doing all the work.”

  “You’re doing an AFF?” This doesn’t happen often. It’s more expensive than a tandem jump since there’s a half day of class and practice, and then the jumper has to pay for two instructors, not just one. Most AFF students are interested in more than the adrenaline rush and want to learn the sport side of it. Others want to prove something to themselves. I wondered which kind Denny was. Either way, I respected AFF students more than tandems. If you’re just going for an adrenaline rush, why not do a bungee jump instead of a skydive? It’s cheaper and quicker.

  Over the PA, Cynthia said, “Load one to the hangar,” and the first group of jump students came in through the wide door, chatting nervously. Randy—my least favorite instructor—and Noel followed them, and Randy beckoned me over to where the student rigs were laid out on the floor.

  “ ‘Scuse me,” I said to Denny.

  “Rig this one up, would you?” Randy pointed at one of the guys in the group. I recognized him from the week before, when Patsy had been training him in AFF. Randy consulted the sheet of paper in his hand. “His name’s Travis. He’s the only one not doing a tandem. Patsy’s running late but she should be here in time to take him out with Mad Jack. I’ll brief the tandem students while you’re doing that.” He winked. “And I’ll owe you one.”

  I ignored the wink and introduced myself to Travis. I told him to step into the leg straps and pull them up over his knees. “Now put on the harness like you’re putting on a jacket,” I said. He pulled the straps over his shoulders. I tightened the leg straps around his thighs, then the chest band and the belly band. I tucked the ends of the straps into their keepers. “Can you breathe okay?”

  Travis nodded. He was pale. “You’re not the one I’m going to jump with, are you?” His voice shook a little and he cleared his throat.

  “No, I’m just helping. Patsy and Jack are taking you out. Don’t worry—they’ll be here any minute and they’ll check everything before you get in the plane, and then they’ll check it again before you go out the door. And someone will check their gear too.” I’d said those words so many times that my voice sounded mechanical to me. Maybe it did to Travis too; he didn’t look any calmer.

  The group of tandem students laughed at something Randy said. I wished I could make Travis laugh to relax him some, but he was too tightly wound up. He wiped a trail of sweat off his forehead. It was warm in the hangar, but not that warm. This was obviously fear-sweat.

  Randy was flirting like crazy with one of the girls, and I could tell he had staked her out to jump with. Since the girl was pretty, he’d probably hit on her. In the adrenaline rush and the high of landing safely, she might say yes when she would otherwise say no. Randy’s pretty hot—slender and wiry, with thick brown hair and a square jaw—but it’s really his confidence that makes him so attractive. The difference between Randy and other alpha males, like my dad and Theo, is that they used their powers for good, not evil.

  I tugged everything to ensure it was snug. “All set. Have fun.” Be sure to remind them it’s fun, my dad always said. That’s something students tend to forget when it comes right down to it. But if you have to remind them it’s fun, how much fun is it, exactly? Or is it only fun once the scary part is over? Everyone says that on your first jump, the second you feel opening shock and the canopy looks good overhead, you feel so safe that you can finally relax and enjoy it.

  Travis must have been one of the people who forget that it’s fun, because he grabbed my hand. His fingers were icy and clammy. “What if I change my mind once I’m up there?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “Would they push me out?”

  “No, they can’t do that. No one can make you jump—not your instructor, not your girlfriend”—I glanced at the girl Randy was flirting with—“not anybody. You shouldn’t let anyone pressure you into it. You just have to say that you changed your mind. Patsy won’t care. Just make sure you tell her before you’re in the door of the plane. She might not be able to hear you, and it might be hard to get back in once you’re at the edge.”

  I shouldn’t have said that last part; he turned greenish. “You’ve done it lots of times, right?” he asked. “How long before you stop being scared?”

  “Don’t worry!” I sounded fake to myself, but he looked like he was grabbing a lifeline I had thrown him. “You’ll be fine once you’re out there.”

  He still looked doubtful, but then Patsy rushed in and spared me having to go on by saying, “Sorry, sorry—I got stuck in traffic. How you feeling?”

  Patsy has a magical way of making people comfortable, and Travis instantly looked better. While she was giving him last-minute instructions, I headed back to the packing table. Denny was gone; he must have headed inside to the office, becoming one of the ten percent who cash in their discount certificate.

  My dad poked his head out of the classroom in the back of the hangar. “C.C., could you come here?” I went in and looked around. My dad mustn’t have been inside the classroom for weeks—he didn’t teach much AFF—and there were piles of things all over, and dust. “Clear this stuff out,” he said.

  “To hear is to obey, my liege!”

  He made an impatient face, but he knew how much I hated it when he barked orders at me. “Please.”

  “Shouldn’t I be packing?”

  “That can wait. We have another AFF student, and this place is a mess.”

  I rolled the wheelbarrow in. I’d been itching to clean up the classroom anyway. Disorder makes me crazy. I scooped everything off the table and into the wheelbarrow while my dad tossed in things from the floor: old jumpsuits, papers, a cracked helmet—a sight not likely to add to a student’s confidence, even though it had been run over, not damaged in a jump accident—and other junk.

  The wheelbarrow screeched as I rolled it away. I did a few more loads and then left it in the corner like my dad had said. There was a lull now and then, but I was too restless to read my textbook. I checked my phone, but there was nothing from Theo.

  I should have been pleased that he was giving me some space, but it felt weird that he wasn’t checking on me.

  Putting things in order was soothing, and besides, I could look on the trash as an archaeological project. I unearthed lots of back issues of Jump! magazine, none of them old enough to be historical, just enough to be uninteresting. They had articles about new gear; photos of people getting awards for reaching a thousand jumps; and lists of records, like the most women over forty in one formation, and the largest number of amputees in a single formation.

  I tossed the cracked helmet into a big trash can, along with some pieces of ripstop nylon and three right-handed jump gloves with no corresponding left. I didn’t think we’d need them; we weren’t planning an amputee record attempt anytime soon. Next was a mouse’s nest—empty but smelly—which I held out to Ripstop, who had just strolled over. “Isn’t that what you’re here for? Killing mousies?” I tossed it out.

  I picked up a logbook, one of the standard black spiral-bound notebooks with places
to record jump altitude and maneuvers and things like that, just like the ones that my dad had used when he started sport jumping after he got back from Iraq. He still sold them from the office. This one belonged to an AFF student, Margaret Finnegan. I vaguely remembered her—she had a skydiving boyfriend who talked her into doing AFF. According to the logbook, she had done the whole sequence. Then nothing. I vaguely remembered that she’d sprained her ankle or something on her solo.

  That was about a year ago, but Cynthia probably still had her address, so I stuck the logbook on the shelf I used for my personal stuff, including the box where I kept my tips. My dad’s name was still on my bank account, and I didn’t want him to know how much I had saved up. My plans to go away to college were a touchy subject. I’d use my own money to apply to colleges out of state and wouldn’t mention it to him. If I got into a good school with a good archaeology program, and if I’d saved up enough and got a scholarship, that’s when we’d have it out. As soon as I turned eighteen, I would open up my own account.

  That shelf also held the notebook of skydiving facts and definitions that I had started in middle school after I shocked a teacher with a casual reference to a horny gorilla. She called my dad, who laughed for so long that he could hardly convince her that it was the name of a skydiving maneuver. I started the notebook after that, in self-defense. I called it “The Whuffo’s Guide to Skydiving,” and I tried to make it sound like a serious reference work. It sat on the shelf with Dad’s old skydiving books, some ancient National Geographics, my art history text, and now Margaret Finnegan’s logbook.

  The jumpers from the first load came back in. Randy was still working his magic on his tandem student. Travis looked gloomy as the girl laughed and posed for the camera with her arm around Randy’s waist, his around her shoulders. Then Travis and Patsy and Mad Jack, who was his other instructor, went out with some fun jumpers to get on the next load.