the skylark,” I say, quietly.
But he just looks at me and blinks. “Gwennie? Gwennie? Not sure who you are, ma’am, but you’re in my way!” He pushes past me with his shopping cart rattling.
Now, that’s odd. That’s very odd. Mr. McGillies has always said hello to me before, every day of my life, if I say hello to him first.
So I run up to him again, and say, “Hey. What’s wrong with you? It’s me. Gwennie Golden! The girl from this street!”
I’m a little mad and suddenly a bit scared. Why is he pretending he doesn’t know who I am?
He stops and looks at me. Then he says really slow, “I don’t see any girl named Gwennie. I just see a whole new grown-up person named Gwendolyn. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He looks at me steadily and I must look like I’m going to cry, because I see him wink.
It takes just a second, but it’s enough to remind me that I haven’t changed so much.
I’m a Night Flyer who had her first flight, and I’m Gwendolyn. But I’m still Gwennie. I’m not changed so much from yesterday.
His wink tells me that. I’m growing up. Grown up. But not so much. Not yet.
Not so you wouldn’t recognize me.
TWENTY
I put my wagon in the hut at the back of the house, and I take Cassie and me in for some lunch.
Now this is not like a big deal or anything, and I don’t want to make too much of it, but when I go to the bathroom, I get my period.
It isn’t the first time, but it’s still new enough that I’m surprised at first. Mom got me some pads the last time, so I know what to do. I get cleaned up and go and watch TV, eating tinned chicken soup. Cassie joins me on the couch and falls asleep snoring against my leg.
My head is spinning a little. I want to talk more to Mrs. Forest, but I also don’t want to go outside. It’s hot out there now, and I’m starting to feel a little headachy.
I want to ask Mrs. Forest a lot more questions: Do I have to fly every night? When am I going to get some sleep? Does anyone else in the neighbourhood fly around too? The police chief? The librarian? Any of my teachers? The thought of Mr. Marcus floating around at night along with me gives me the creeps.
Do I have any say in this at all?
I think about the giant handbook upstairs under my bed. I know I should go and start reading it, but I’m too comfortable curled up on the couch with Cassie to move. Truth is, I’m a little worried about that handbook. What if it tells me something I don’t want to know? It looks so out-of-date too, how can it really be about me? I put it off.
And honestly, I’m not exactly the world’s strongest reader, even with skinny books. The sheer size of that book just worries me.
My mom and the twins come home around two o’clock in the afternoon. I’m sort of dozing on the couch and jump up when they come in.
The Chrissies roar past me with huge ice cream cones dripping down their arms, without saying hello.
My mom comes in and kisses my head then looks worried. She runs her hand over my forehead like she did whenever I had a fever when I was little.
“Gwen, are you feeling okay?” she asks. “You’re pale as a ghost.” She hands me a huge cup of chocolate chip ice cream as she says this, which does a lot to improve my mood.
“I’m okay. I’m a little tired,” I say as I take the wooden spoon that comes with the ice cream and shovel a spoonful into my mouth. The ice cream is good and cool and sweet. I lower my voice. “I just got my period.” It’s kind of a new thing for me to say to my mom, and it still feels a little weird.
She nods and says, “Oh,” like it makes a lot of sense. “Well, come help me unload the groceries, then you can go out with Jez if you want,” she adds.
She hugs me and doesn’t say anything more. I want to say, “Mom, I need to tell you something else,” but I just don’t know how.
How do you tell your mother you can fly?
It’s probably going to come up, but I just don’t know how to start that conversation.
So I don’t.
TWENTY-ONE
I call Jez, but she’s going to a family barbecue. Jez comes from a huge family. Not at home — there it’s just her and her mom. But her mom has eight brothers and sisters, and Jez has twenty-nine first cousins or something. Enough people that someone is always having a barbecue or a family picnic or some get-together, every Saturday.
“Do you want to come?” she asks me, but I say no, I’ll see her later. Sometimes I go along, but I just don’t feel like it today. I just don’t feel like being with a lot of people who don’t know I’m a Night Flyer.
I really just want to talk to Mrs. Forest. And then there’s the handbook, which is beginning to nag at me, like a chore I have to do.
So after I help Mom with the groceries, and I put everything on the shelf, and I wash up the Chrissies (who are sticky and completely covered in ice cream), I ask my mom if I can go out. I tell her I want to go to the library and maybe the Float Boat.
“The library? Okay, sure. But you just had a big ice cream, so no candy at the Float Boat.”
My mom helps me find my library card (which is hidden behind the Chrissies’ book shelf, since they were playing “let’s go to the library” with it some time ago). I go into my room and stick my head under my bed: there’s a Hershey’s Kiss sitting on top of the handbook. Nice touch, Mrs. Forest, but candy-coating isn’t going to help me digest this gigantic book any easier. Or faster.
I unwrap the Kiss and pop it in my mouth, then shove the handbook into my backpack. It’s surprisingly light. Mom tells me to be home in time for dinner and I leave.
She’s right to be surprised about the library.
I’m not exactly the most academic person in the world. But I do go to the library sometimes. We don’t have a computer, so if I need one, I use one at the library. I have to admit, that’s usually the only reason I go there. But this time I want to go to the library because if I’m caught reading a book in my bedroom, everyone will be so ecstatic that I’ll have to show them what I’m reading. I really don’t want my mom to catch me reading Your First Flight: A Night Flyer’s Handbook.
The library just seems safer.
It’s late in the afternoon, and I walk slowly along the quiet streets. There’s no one around, probably because it’s suddenly so hot and people aren’t used to it yet. I walk by the Float Boat and stick my head in the front door, but there’s no sign of Mrs. Forest, just Mr. Forest. And he’s busy with a huge mass of kids who all want floats.
“Hi, Mr. Forest!” I call out.
“Hi, Gwen!” he calls back over the kids’ heads.
“Is
