But what about at night? Last night wasn’t exactly a great start to this whole Night Flying thing.
I know two things for sure, though.
One: I am not going to miss out on Martin’s party.
Two: I really am not sure what’s going to happen tonight, or if I am ready to fly solo, if it comes to that.
TWENTY-TWO
I walk home in the golden late afternoon. I’m just skimming along, although my feet are very firmly planted on the ground with every step. I have this floaty feeling, but it has nothing to do with my body.
No, this time the floaty feeling is all inside my stomach, which feels like it might actually be inhabited by about a million little butterflies.
I’m not sure how to tell my mom I’m invited to a party. It just isn’t something that happens a lot in my town, not to kids my age. It’s the first time I’ve been invited to a party that didn’t come with a little paper invitation with balloons or puppies on it. Knowing my mom, she’ll want to know the time and place and who’s going, and she’ll call Martin’s mom and maybe be mortifying and drop me off at the front door. That wouldn’t be good.
What if she calls it a “play date”?
I gulp. A certain kind of panic starts to take hold of me.
I open the front door, and it’s cool and quiet inside. I tiptoe into the kitchen and just about jump out of my skin when my mom is sitting quietly at the kitchen table reading a magazine. I actually clutch my chest.
“Mom, jeesh, you almost gave me a heart attack! You’re so quiet! Where’s C2?” I ask. I grab an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter, shine it up, and take a bite. Usually my mom would say something about the C2 remark, something gentle but firm like, “You know their names, Gwendolyn, please use them,” but this time she doesn’t.
Instead she says, “They’re at a friend’s house for a few hours. I thought I’d take a minute to myself. Do you want a cup of tea?” My mom smiles at me. She’s pretty. I like the way she looks. I have green eyes and long dark hair, just like her.
I chew big chomps of my apple but realize that I must look and sound exactly like a horse, so I stop. I’m going to have to start working on being a little more ladylike.
“Mom, I got invited to a party, at Martin Evells’ place. Tonight.” I say this as casually as I can. Please don’t let her look all excited and proud like she does when I get a phone call from someone other than Jez. Please don’t let her jump up and grab the phone and call Martin’s mom for details like when me and Martin were little.
But she doesn’t do anything. She just closes her magazine and put her hands on her knees, really still. She smiles.
“That’s nice. You were really good friends with Martin once. Best friends, when you were little. Are you going to go?”
I think my mouth might be open a little, so I close it. I swallow some apple remnants. She’s asking me. I’m being given a choice here.
I pause and shrug. “I want to go … he’s always been nice to me … we were really good friends once ….” I start to say, then I get all loopy and my eyes well up with tears and suddenly I really don’t know why, but I’m crying all over the place and my mom is hugging me and telling me it’s fine and that I don’t have to go, but it will probably be really fun and maybe I should go, even for just a little bit. She says that maybe it’s time for Martin and me to be friends again.
And maybe I should just take a bowl of ice cream up to my room and think about it.
My mom gives me a ton of tissue and a huge bowl of chocolate ice cream. But as soon as she hands me the ice cream my tears stop, honestly just like a little kid.
Weird. Very weird. I haven’t cried in ages, I think I said that. I haven’t cried in so long, I can’t really remember the last time.
And then, boom, I do a little night flying, I get my period, an old friend from when I was a kid shows me some kindness and invites me to a party, and I’m crying all over the place.
I couldn’t say exactly why, but that cry in the kitchen with my mom hugging me made me feel better. My mom dries my eyes and says mom stuff like I’m a great kid, and it’s hard changing into a teenager, and everybody feels uncomfortable and weird and different at this time in their life.
If she only knew how truly weird and different I am.
I take my backpack, my ice cream, and the tissue box and go up to my room. I take the handbook out and stow it safely under my bed, under some clothes so no one can see it. Then I open my cupboard and start to think about what I’m going to wear.
Which poses a whole new set of problems and makes me want to cry again, but for a different reason. My wardrobe isn’t exactly brimming with this year’s latest looks, if you know what I mean.
But more importantly, just what, exactly, does a Night Flyer wear to a party?
I need help, fast.
TWENTY-THREE
I need Jez. But I forgot: she’s at a family barbecue.
Rats. What am I going to do? I’m on my own.
I stand in front of my open closet. Lots of brown corduroys and black leggings. My shirts are all purple and dark brown. There are some horrifying cutesy dresses that I stopped wearing a few years ago but haven’t gotten around to moving into Christine’s closet.
My wardrobe looks like a giant bruise. When was the last time I went shopping for clothes? I do a mental memory check, and it doesn’t really compute. It must have been over a year ago. Apart from a few essentials, lately I’ve been mostly borrowing Mom’s stuff.
I’m just about to go down to the kitchen to see if Mom can help when she knocks on the door. She’s been doing that a lot more lately, knocking instead of just walking in.
“Come in,” I say.
She walks in with a box with a ribbon on it. Ribbons don’t figure particularly large in our lives, not even at Christmas, so I’m suddenly a little edgy and worried.
She laughs. “Don’t panic, Gwennie. It’s not a pink satin dress or anything. I bought this for your birthday next month, but you might want to try it out tonight.”
My mom takes the lid off the box, and there inside is the most beautiful long swishy shirt I’ve ever seen. It’s dark green with white pearl buttons up the front, and I think it’s made of silk or something really soft.
I instantly love it and pick it up and rub it against my face.
Night Flyer or not, my mom does know me a little, I guess.
“Thanks, Mom,” is all I can say. She nods and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
“You can borrow my leather sandals, too, if you like,” are her parting words as she turns and vanishes through the door.
Her
