hear Mr. McGillies say, “Relax, missy. Tell your body to act casual. Just think free and easy.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m trying to relax. I’m trying to remain calm. But can you please just tell me why are you waiting outside my window?”
“I’m watching for a skylark.”
“What’s a … what’s a skylark?” I ask.
“Oh, I guess that’s my special name for a Night Flyer.”
Night Flyer?
I shout, desperate: “What’s that? What’s a Night Flyer, Mr. McGillies?”
But there’s no answer.
I begin to wonder if I’m actually asleep and this is some weird, very strange dream. I pinch myself. Nope, not sleeping.
Then I start to wonder if I’m just really crazy.
I call out the window, “Mr. McGillies? Am I crazy?”
But again it’s all quiet out there.
This really worries me, now. A moment before I was speaking to Mr. McGillies the old bottle man outside my window. He was talking about Night Flyers. And now he’s not there ...
… not good.
I try to think rationally. I’m definitely floating in my bedroom and my head is bulging against the screen. I’m “night flying” right now. It may seem crazy, but I was with Jez and it happened at school today, too, which I guess technically would be “day flying,” and Jez is not crazy. These things are true. I’m not asleep.
And if I am crazy, why would I imagine an old man I’ve known forever outside my window? Wouldn’t I pick George Washington, or the Queen, or Luke Skywalker or somebody?
Skywalker. Skylark. Sky. Sky. Sky.
I don’t know how long I hang here, thinking about Night Flyers, and why Mr. McGillies vanished and whether my mind is just not quite what it should be. I may even fall asleep with these thoughts as my head bumps gently against the window screen.
However long I hang in space drifting in and out of consciousness, in my half-wakeful moments I slowly notice something in front of my nose, something that I’ve been staring at practically all night ...
… my window screen has a tiny brass hook on it. It’s on hinges.
My heart skips a beat. Who put a hook on the inside of my window screen? Only someone who wanted to get out of my room!
Before I can stop myself, my hand floats down to the hook and starts playing with it. All I have to do is slip the hook out of the little circle, and the screen will swing open.
My body and I will be free.
I hesitate. My body wants out of this room in the worst way. My head says maybe that isn’t such a great idea, but my body is just shaking all over. I’m just trembling with excitement from top to bottom. Now I know that I can get out of my room, I’m feeling a kind of full-body desire that I can’t say is all that great. My palms are sweaty. My arms and legs are on fire. My heart is pounding. Every ounce of my body wants out. My old head is very concerned, though.
Will I be safe out there?
It’s a little like when you stand on the edge of a cliff, and a tiny, crazy voice in your head whispers, “What would happen if you jump?” You really don’t want to jump, and some louder, saner voice says, “Don’t be stupid, not a great idea.” But because that little voice went and spoke up, you’re stuck listening to it, and it gets louder.
I think for a few more moments. Then what do I do?
I jump.
Before I can stop myself, I unlatch the hook and the screen squeaks open gently. The next moment, my body takes off.
It just takes off. That’s the pure truth. My body just zooms out that window, and I can’t stop it even if I want to.
But I don’t want to.
I’m soaring, and there is nothing but midnight sky, beautiful sky, between me and the stars.
SEVENTEEN
My body just flies me as high and far as it can, as fast as it can. It’s like when you let the air out of a balloon, and it just flies all over the place with no particular plan. For a moment I’m so high up I can see our whole town, and the melting place between the edge of town and the dark empty fields ready for sowing corn, all below me. Way off in the distance I see a bright glow on the horizon. It’s the city, a place I’ve never been.
My body stops long enough for me to notice how huge the world is, how dark and how much is waiting for me, too.
It’s powerful but terrifying.
The second thing my body does is take me over to the trees, where I whiz and spin and fly through them. Somehow I don’t hit any branches or leaves, but they are touching my feet, my hands, as I whiz by. I can smell the trees, the smell they make in the night. It’s like secrets, and green.
I’m whirring all over those trees. I see stars, then sky, then the moon, then stars again. I’m flashing all over the place, like a butterfly or a hummingbird.
Or a bat.
Then my body takes me low, really low, so I buzz over the grass and I can smell dirt and lawn and flowers. I buzz over the neighbours’ flowerbeds and make their bushes and tall yellow flowers swirl and dance with the air I stir as I blow by.
Before I know it, I whiz three lawns over and I get the fright of my life: a giant snarling dog leaps out of his dog house and up into my face. I almost get my face bitten off. Flecks of dog spit actually hit me in the mouth. I know this killer dog lives in this yard, but in the excitement of the moment, I just forgot about him. He misses me but leaps up again and again, snapping at my heels as I try to escape. My heart is pounding. For a terrible second I feel myself slowly sinking, as I stare down at my toes getting closer and closer to that stupid, snarling, snapping dog.
This is not the moment to stop flying, body! Move IT! I shriek to myself. I can feel his heat and his rage, and it scares me. That scare gets my heart pumping, and my legs start kicking and my arms start flailing, and I zoom over his head. Luckily no one in the house wakes up, and I escape.
I fly away as fast as I can without any real direction in mind. That was just too close. That dog is known to kill things, cats and rabbits, mostly. Cassie refuses to go anywhere near the house whenever I take her for a walk.
How could I be so forgetful? I feel like dumb luck just helped me escape a great harm. I have to pay more attention here.
I fly to my roof, hovering near the chimney, when suddenly I feel dizzy and sick.
I hang on to the chimney, because I think I’m going to throw up, for real. Stupid dog. I suddenly want down. I hang on to the chimney for all I’m worth. I peek between my toes to the grass below me: I’m a long way up and I’m sweaty and panicky, and I can’t fly and my body feels like a lead weight. I think I’m just about to die ...
