to keep me from floating off into space. What am I going to do if I start to lift off on Main Street, or in the park, or on the driveway, or in the millions of other places that I could use as a launching pad? Will I float along just off the ground or will I keep going, like a lost weather balloon, higher and higher and higher until I freeze, or pop?
For the first time, I start to feel truly scared.
I’m too young to float away into space. My family will miss me. I have to graduate from middle school in a few weeks. I want to go to high school! I want to learn to drive a car, and kiss somebody other than my mom, and watch a high school football game and cheer for a boy I secretly have a crush on.
It starts to rain and I stand outside the school under the front door overhang pondering the problem. There is no one around, so I decide to do a little test. I’ll take a quick jog out into the rain and back under the overhang to see if I have any floating tendencies.
So I dash out into the raindrops, dance around a little, then run back to safety. My feet are very much planted on the ground. They are so planted on the ground that my shoes are wet and my socks are soaked through.
Okay, so no floating so far.
I do it again a few more times, dashing into the rain and out from the safety of the overhang, a little farther each time. Nothing happens. So I decide it’s safe to try walking home.
As an added precaution, I find a large rock, which I put in my backpack. It’s pretty heavy. I’m not sure if it will help to weigh me down if I start floating again, but I figure it can’t hurt.
I step out from the overhang just as it starts to pour. I take the main street and the park and walk close to buildings and trees in case I have to grab on to anything to keep me from floating away.
But it’s raining so hard that there isn’t any chance of anything floating away in the downpour. Even birds hide in the trees. I scurry along the deserted main street, past the library and the local candy store, although the rock in my backpack does slow me down a little. I run across the park, keeping close to things to grab on to, but there isn’t any reason to. I don’t float.
I just get really soaked. When I finally run into my house and slam the door behind me, a huge puddle forms at my feet in about ten seconds. Water drips off me hard. I walk to the top of the laundry room stairs and peel off my wet clothes, which land with a heavy slosh on the floor. Cassie waddles into the front hall, wagging her tail.
“Hi, Cass, don’t ask me to take you out for a walk, because I’m not going out in that again!”
After a hot shower I get into dry pyjamas and spend the rest of the afternoon curled up on the couch with Cassie, watching kiddie cartoons. Mom and the Chrissies come home around six o’clock after the twins’ piano lesson, and we have a boring night doing homework and getting dinner and arguing about what to watch on TV. I almost forget about floating.
Until the next morning, when I wake up on the ceiling again.
FIVE
This time, I wake up with my feet dangling down toward the carpet as my body slowly circles the room. Cassie is sitting underneath me, quietly watchful. She doesn’t seem as freaked out as she did yesterday. Which is good, I guess.
I must have been up here a long time. My head is lolling to one side and a little drool is sliding down my cheek, which I wipe off with my sleeve. It’s odd, but floating is actually kind of a comfortable way to sleep. There aren’t any tired spots on my body, nothing that fell asleep from lying on it. I stretch a little and wiggle my toes, which makes me look like I’m running in mid-air. I actually start to move around the room a little. So I try again. I move my legs like I’m on a bicycle, and I make a little progress in a straight line across the room. Like I’m walking.
Interesting. Circling my arms around like I’m swimming doesn’t really work very well. But taking a few air-steps works.
Noted. I air-walk a few times around the room, almost getting the hang of it. I’m still a little unsteady, and I don’t always go exactly in the direction I want, but it’s better. Just then, I hear my mom coming up the hallway stairs. I have to get down, fast!
Yesterday I fell to the floor like a rock when I touched the bedpost. This time I’ll be more careful. I put both hands out and get ready to hold on tight. I touch the bedpost and nothing happens.
Uh-oh.
So it worked yesterday, but it isn’t going to work today? How am I going to get down off the ceiling? I try forcing my way down the bedpost and get stuck halfway … when Mom walks into the room. I look like a monkey, like a little kid climbing up and down the bedpost. I used to do that a lot when I was little, so I pretend I’m doing that now.
“Hi, Mom!” I say, as I hang on with one arm, my legs clamped around the bedpost for all I’m worth. Then I tickle under my other arm like a monkey. “OOH-OOH. Got any bananas?” I ask innocently. My heart is pounding in my chest, though, so don’t think I’m not scared.
She looks at me like I’m crazy, then laughs. “You don’t need any more bananas, Gwen! I think you are bananas!” she says, but comes over to ruffle my hair. As soon as she touches me, I can feel the weight re-enter my body, and my feet slowly slide down the bedpost to the floor. Touchdown. Phew. Feet firmly on the floor once again, I hug my mother.
She hugs me back, surprised. It seems like our first hug in ages.
SIX
I walk to school. Mom drives the twins, but I really feel like walking by myself, so she lets me. It’s Friday morning and a beautiful spring day. All the rain from yesterday makes everything smell great, and the trees are starting to turn green. The grass is greener too, and flowers are coming up fast, those first ones, the little ones that look like bells, and the tall yellow ones.
I feel like skipping, I really do, just like a little kid. But I don’t skip. I make myself walk along in the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other regular way. It’s a struggle not to skip, but I’m kind of worried that skipping might lead to bouncing, which might give my body ideas about being weightless. And floaty.
That I don’t need. I walk, but I keep a close eye on nearby trees and fences in case I have to grab on to anything to keep me earthbound.
But nothing remotely floaty happens.
So I walk. And as I walk, I bump into old Mr. McGillies, wearing his filthy long coat over his raggedy clothes. I’ve never seen him wear anything else, and I’ve known him my whole life. He’s pushing a cart along, which is rattling because it’s filled with empty bottles. Mr. McGillies grew up when milkmen dropped full bottles of milk off at your front door every morning, then collected the empty bottles every night. Now that he’s old, people think he’s pretending to be a milkman with all those empty bottles. But I think he just likes bottles. Some bottles he collects, and some he returns to the recycling depot for nickels. People think he’s crazy, but Mom says he’s just old, not crazy. I’ve always kind of liked him.
“Hi, Mr. McGillies. How are you today?”
He stops and looks up at me (he’s really short). He pushes his thick glasses up his nose.
“Well, young Gwen. How’s flyin’?” he says. I blink. Flyin’?
“Er.
