takes me by the shoulders and looks into my face. She’s stern.
“You’re recovered enough to fly back down. Now, this is important. You don’t let go of my hand, okay? We’re just going to float really slow, gentle, back down to your window. You’re not going to think of anything, you’re not going to ask any questions, you’re going to breathe slowly and imagine being safely back in your bed. Thoughts count here, Gwen. Okay?”
I nod. I feel myself start to break into a sweat again. I hold her hand, and there’s no way for me to tell you the courage it takes to step off that roof back into the air. My knees are weak. I’m breathing fast but Mrs. Forest says, “Slow down your breathing, Gwen, tell your body to calm down.”
I tell myself to calm down, and immediately I feel better. I feel a rush of gladness that my body is listening to me for once. If this is going to work at all, my body and my mind are going to have to start to work together here.
The first step is the hardest. We sink fast, me clutching Mrs. Forest’s hand, but then she buoys me up. We float, slowly, like a maple key gently spinning from the treetops. I keep my eyes closed, and I think I’m going to throw up, but I don’t. I feel the air gently moving against my skin, and in a few moments I hear the screen on my window creak open. Mrs. Forest gently pushes me through the window and I float into my room and over to my bed like an obedient balloon.
“Goodnight, Gwen. You have to sleep now. We’ll talk tomorrow. Think of lying down on your bed,” she commands quietly. I think about my soft covers, and slowly my body sinks into the bed. I pull the covers over my head. I hear her place the handbook on the floor under my bed, close the window, and shut the screen, then Mrs. Forest is gone.
My mind is a jumble of thoughts, which mostly revolve around something like: I’m a Night Flyer. I had my First Flight. Mrs. Forest can fly, too.
Just before I fall asleep I have one more thought clear as a bell: I’m never going to be able to read that big handbook from cover-to-cover.
Ever.
NINETEEN
You’d think that after a night like that, I’d lie wide awake worrying, or at least wondering about myself.
But I don’t. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I fall into the deepest sleep of my life. I don’t dream either. I just sleep, and sleep, and sleep some more.
I wake up really late, in my bed and not on the ceiling for the first time since this began. Mom must have let me sleep in. The sun is blazing into my room like a sun lamp, shining right on my face. Cassie is sitting looking at me, whining. That’s what finally wakes me up.
She needs to go out to go pee. She has that look on her face.
I roll over and listen. The house is quiet, so my mom and the twins are out. They probably let me sleep in while they went out for pancakes. It’s a regular Saturday family date, but these days I don’t go with them very often.
Or at least not as often as I used to. Sometimes Mom makes me go, and sometimes she doesn’t.
Today, she doesn’t, which is probably just as well. I have a lot to think about, and it’s pretty much impossible to think at breakfast with the twins. And besides, I’m still not sure I won’t start floating around at the Pancake House, which would be quite interesting for the Saturday morning pancake crowd, maybe, but not so great for me.
Cassie whines again, licks her nose, and wiggles. She really has to go, and I don’t want to start the day by cleaning up one of her accidents. I really don’t want to start the day by tackling the handbook either, but even if I want to I can’t. I have to get up and do my paper route.
“Okay, okay, let’s go,” I say. I am feeling pretty great, though. Once again, I wake up with tons of energy, even though I was up so late, or early, that I barely got any sleep at all. It takes some getting used to.
Cassie roars out the bedroom door ahead of me and hustles downstairs. My dog is a little overweight and getting on in dog years, so you can hear her thump on every stair she goes down.
She is waiting beside the front door when I get there. I manage to put on some shorts and a T-shirt. I don’t worry too much about my hair, since I never do. I take down her leash then grab a banana and a juice box. I know I’m way too old to be drinking from a juice box, but they are in the fridge on account of the Chrissies, and I have to admit, they do come in handy.
Then we head outside. It is without a doubt the most beautiful morning I ever remember. The sun is shining, it’s not too hot, and the fruit trees are all out in full bloom. The lilac trees are waving in the morning sunlight, and even the grass is greener than usual. The town looks clean and fresh and smells great, like it just got out of a hot bath and got scrubbed fresh all over.
But now I have a secret about my town. I can love it in the daytime, like everyone else. And I can love it at night, too, when no one else is around. I know what everyone’s front lawn looks like from the treetops, because I’ve been there. I know what gardens, and cars, and the street, and the neighbour’s rooftop looks like, because I’m the float boat and I’ve seen it all from a fresh new point of view, like a bird sees it. I’ll never look at crows the same way.
I go to the bottom of the driveway and pull open my bag of papers to deliver. It’s the local newspaper, filled with stories about the high-school hockey team or retiring police officers. That kind of stuff. I roll and stack them in my old wagon, then I tie Cassie’s leash to the handle and we go along the street to deliver papers. Every Saturday morning I remember that I’m a little old to be pulling a wagon, and I should really save up for a buggy like everybody else.
I toss a paper to the first house: Mrs. Alpen. (She’s old and likes to rock in her armchair on the front porch. She’s there now. I wave, but she doesn’t. She never does. I always wave, anyway, hoping one day she’ll surprise me and wave back.)
I flew last night.
I toss the second paper to the next house: Mr. and Mrs. Peter Shanly. (He’s the local dentist, she’s got a load of kids to look after, five and counting.)
I flew last night, because I am a Night Flyer, or a skylark, or whatever you want to call me.
I toss the third paper: Mal Pete. (He is really Malcolm Pete and hates being called “Mal” but the label on the newspaper was typed in wrong and they never fixed it. Mal means “sick” in French.)
I can fly.
I keep tossing papers all morning and keep talking to myself about what happened to me.
What’s happening to me. The more I say it to myself, the easier it is to say. And the easier it is to say, the truer it seems.
I’m a Night Flyer. A skylark. I can fly.
After I deliver all the papers, I take my wagon back to my street, and I see Mr. McGillies coming toward me pushing his crazy bottle cart. He’s humming to himself. When he gets close enough I say, “Hey, Mr. McGillies!” but he just keeps on walking like he doesn’t hear me.
I try again, louder this time. “Hey, Mr. McGillies, over here. It’s me, Gwennie!” I really want to add, “You know, the skylark,” but I don’t. He knows. It would be kind of nice to say out loud, though.
But again, it’s like he doesn’t
