Flying Solo Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Friday, April 28

  Rachel White

  Bastian Fauvell

  Jessica Cooke

  Sean O’Day

  Mrs. Muchmore

  The Principal’s Office

  First Bell

  Main Office

  KIDS RULE!!!

  Flashdrafts

  Music

  Snack

  Visitors

  Connections

  Lunch

  Early Dismissal

  Recess

  Blood

  Enrichment

  D.E.A.R.

  Exploration

  Rock Ritual

  Tommy Feathers

  School Assembly

  Sunday, April 30

  Karen Ballard’s House

  Monday, May 1

  Room 238

  About the Author

  Clarion Books

  215 Park Avenue South

  New York, New York 10003

  Text copyright © 1998 by Ralph Fletcher

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Fletcher, Ralph.

  Flying solo / Ralph Fletcher.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Rachel, having chosen to be mute following the sudden death of a classmate, shares responsibility with the other sixth-graders who decide not to report that the substitute teacher failed to show up.

  ISBN 0-395-87323-1

  [1. Schools—Fiction. 2. Teachers—Fiction. 3. Mutism, Elective—Fiction. 4. Death—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.F632115F1 1998

  [Fic]—dc21 98-10775

  CIP

  AC

  eISBN 978-0-547-50175-8

  v2.0114

  For my boys–Joseph, Robert, Adam, and Taylor

  Friday, April 28

  7:03 A.M.

  Rachel White

  Rachel lay in bed, reading, waiting until the last possible minute when she absolutely had to put down her book and get out of bed.

  Many people believe that it is the air passing under the wings that supports the plane as it flies, she read. In fact, it is the air passing over the wings that provides the lift that keeps the airplane in the air.

  “Rachel!” Mom yelled. “C’mon, gal, shake a leg!”

  Rachel sighed and looked up from her book at the posters around her bedroom. Amelia Earhart. Charles Lindbergh. Sally Ride. John Glenn. It was hard to believe that they all had to go to school, too.

  Rachel swung her legs out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. She didn’t look forward to school much these last six months. There wasn’t much to enjoy, except for Mr. Fabiano. He was by far the greatest teacher she had ever had. Smart and funny. And simply gorgeous, with black-black eyes that could always find a place deep inside her. She had a crush on him, all right, not that she was alone. Most of the other sixth-grade girls had crushes on “Mr. Fab.”

  She would never call him that nickname. No way. It made her think of Fab laundry detergent. She would always think of him as Mr. Fabiano.

  Rachel leaned forward to wash her face with cold water. She brushed her teeth, rinsed her mouth, and cleared her throat.

  The guttural sound startled her. There was a hint of her voice in that sound and she had not heard her voice in the past six months.

  She remembered the day it happened. Tommy Feathers, a kid in her sixth-grade class, had brought to class some raspberry pies he’d made at his parents’ bakery. Tommy had brought a wedge of pie for everyone, but he put the biggest piece of pie on her desk.

  Tommy smiled at her. He had a rather big head, and an annoying habit of humming loudly in class. He was a little slow—already he had been kept back twice, so he was two years older than anybody else in sixth grade. It was no secret that he was in love with her. Every day he tried to give her cards, stories, seashells, and now this huge chunk of raspberry pie. She tried not to be mean, but sometimes he really got on her nerves.

  “I don’t like sweets,” she said, pushing the pie back toward him.

  After school Tommy showed up at her house, something he had never done before.

  “I made you a whole pie,” he said, grinning and holding it out to her. “A whole pie made from yellow raspberries. They’re like gold. Gold is my favorite color.”

  “Golden raspberries?” Mom exclaimed. “Really? How marvelous! I never heard of such a thing.”

  “We picked them in New Hampshire,” Tommy explained, still flashing that foolish grin. “In New Hampshire.”

  “I told you I don’t like pie,” Rachel told Tommy. “I don’t eat sweets. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  Tommy lowered his eyes and bit his lower lip.

  “Well, I certainly do,” Mom said, taking the pie from him. “Thank you, Tommy. I’m going to enjoy every bite.”

  That was on October 28. Next morning her best friend Missy phoned to tell her the news. Tommy Feathers was dead.

  “He died in his sleep,” Missy said.

  “Oh my God,” Rachel whispered into the telephone.

  She stared at the TV, a stupid cop show. A detective had just handcuffed a suspect, and the man looked guilty: scruffy beard, haunted eyes, wild hair. The detective started to read the man his rights.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” he began.

  “What does that mean?” the suspect interrupted.

  “It means you have the right to be quiet,” the detective snapped. “Now shut up and listen.”

  Rachel was half-aware of Missy’s voice in her ear, talking over the telephone, but she couldn’t get beyond those five words. The right to remain silent. She could see them in her head:

  The right to remain silent.

  “What happened?” Mom asked when Rachel put down the phone, and Rachel tried to answer. She tried to say it—Tommy Feathers is dead— she reached deep down inside herself to find those words, but they were cold when she touched them. Frozen. She knew those words could never fly.

  Things got pretty crazy after that. Mom talked to her. Pleaded. Begged. Cried. That night, and for many nights after, Mom held Rachel in her arms. Mom wept and talked and begged some more.

  “Why won’t you talk to your mother?” Mom asked.

  “I can’t,” Rachel wrote on a small pad of paper.

  Oh my God. Her last word: God.

  Her father telephoned all the way from his cattle ranch in New Mexico. Rachel held the phone against her cheek and tried to picture him, the hat and expensive boots, while she listened to his voice.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “A boy in your class dies and you stop talking. It makes no sense. What’s the connection?”

  Rachel breathed into the phone.

  Mom set up appointments with counselors, psychologists, therapists. A specialist named Dr. Bang-Jansen diagnosed her as a selective mute: a person who chooses not to speak. She explained to Rachel and her mother that often this kind of reaction is caused by some kind of profound emotional trauma.

  “The condition is temporary,” Dr. Bang-Jansen said. “Usually.”

  Sometimes Mom wrote notes, too. They’d make a pot of tea and sit at the kitchen table, both of them silent, writing back and forth.

  I’m so worried about you.

  I’m okay, Mom.

  Your father said it is as if your voice died along wit
h that poor boy. I told him: Her voice isn’t dead—it’s only sleeping.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe it’s just frozen. There must be some way to thaw it out.

  Writing notes back and forth helped to reassure Mom a tiny bit. But now there was a panicky light in her eyes.

  The doorbell rang. It was Missy, come to walk her to school.

  “Hi, Missy,” Mom said.

  “Hi, Mrs. White,” Missy said.

  Mom turned back to look at Rachel.

  “You look terrific,” she said. “You always look smashing in that skirt.”

  Rachel leaned into Mom’s hug.

  “Keep your eyes peeled on the way to school,” Mom whispered. “Okay, honey? And if you happen to spot that voice of yours lying on the ground, well, just pick it up and bring it home.”

  Rachel closed her eyes and nodded. Mom said the same thing, word for word, every morning.

  7:05 A.M.

  Bastian Fauvell

  The instant Bastian opened his eyes he saw Barkley, curled up at the edge of his bed, staring up with eyes the color of gold coins.

  “C’mon, boy!” he whispered. Barkley bounded forward and began eagerly licking his face.

  “Hey, take it easy!” Bastian looked down at the puppy. Part German shepherd and part retriever, Barkley had fur and eyes the same golden color.

  “You’re going on a big trip today,” he told the puppy. “You won’t see me for a couple days. But you’ll be okay. Really. You’ll do great Here, go get it!”

  He took a little Nerf football and threw it. This sent the puppy scampering madly across the room. Barkley grabbed the football and brought it back to Bastian.

  “C’mon, Bastian!” Mom yelled. “You don’t want to be late! It’s your last day of school!”

  “Good boy!” Bastian said, taking the football. He got out of bed. Last day of school. He repeated it over and over. By now moving was no big deal. He had moved before and he’d move again. For Air Force brats that’s how it would always be. Twelve years old and this would be his eighth move. He could rattle off the eight different bases for anyone who cared to listen:

  1) Kadena Air Force Base in Okinawa

  2) Langley Air Force Base in Virginia

  3) Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada

  4) Eglin Air Force Base in Florida

  5) Luke Air Force Base in Arizona

  6) Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama

  7) Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in North Carolina

  8) Shaw Air Force Base in South Carolina

  He couldn’t remember Okinawa—he’d been just a baby then—but he could remember all the other places, every military base or town, every cramped apartment and officers’ barracks, the PXs and commissaries. And all his best friends: Chad, Drew, Troy, Connor, John. Their pictures were taped into his scrapbook.

  Now his father was being transferred to Hickham Air Force Base in Honolulu, Hawaii. Bastian didn’t mind that. Hawaii was a place he’d always wanted to see. Moving again would be a cinch if it wasn’t for Barkley. And the Quarantine.

  When Dad first explained about the Quarantine, Bastian couldn’t believe it. The military authorities wanted to prevent contagious germs from contaminating Hawaiian animals. They were worried that any animal coming into Hawaii might have a disease it could give to other animals. That’s why they had the Quarantine. They had strict rules: Any dog coming into Hawaii had to be quarantined, kept away by itself, until they were sure the dog didn’t have any contagious disease. Barkley would be quarantined for four months.

  That’s crazy! Barkley doesn’t have any disease! he told his dad.

  I know. But the military makes the rules, and we have to follow them. They can’t take any chances. There’s no exceptions.

  Well, that’s the stupidest rule I’ve ever heard!

  I know it will be hard on you, Dad said. But it’s going to be even harder on Barkley. Do you really want to put a puppy through all that? It’s something to think about, Bastian. I know you love him, but maybe you should consider leaving Barkley here.

  Leave him here? Are you kidding?

  I’m sure we could find a family who could take care of him.

  No way! I want my dog.

  All right, then.

  Can’t I visit him when he’s quarantined?

  Yes. But I’m warning you: It’s still going to be hard.

  In the kitchen his mother was standing on a stepladder, taking plates from a cabinet. There were boxes everywhere.

  “Got anything to eat, Ma?”

  “There’s cereal,” she said. “Shredded wheat.”

  “Shredded wheat,” he groaned. “Why don’t they just call it shredded newspaper? That’s how it tastes.”

  “This isn’t a restaurant,” she retorted. “And I can’t stop to fix you anything else because I’ve got to pack this kitchen.”

  Whistling, Dad walked into the kitchen. He was wearing a crisply ironed uniform, hair neatly combed and gleaming.

  “Is your room all packed?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You need to do that first thing after school,” he said. “We’ve got to be completely packed tonight. We’re leaving tomorrow morning at 0-dark-thirty.”

  “Okay.” Bastian poured a bowl of shredded wheat. Barkley sat on the floor watching Bastian shovel the cereal into his mouth. The Nerf football was resting between the puppy’s paws.

  “What time does Barkley’s flight leave tonight?” he asked Dad.

  “Six o’clock sharp,” he said.

  “I’m coming to the airport,” Bastian said, picking Barkley up. “You’ll get to Hawaii first, you lucky dog.”

  At the airport they would give Barkley a shot to make him sleep for the long flight to Hawaii. Bastian pictured the puppy, scared and alone on the plane. Then the Quarantine. Four months. A hundred and twenty-two days of solitary confinement in a cage. Or maybe there would be other dogs. He didn’t know.

  “I’m gonna visit you every day,” Bastian promised. “And twice on Saturdays. Okay?”

  Barkley looked up hopefully. The phone rang.

  “Yo, Bastian?” It was John LeClerc, his best friend at school.

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  “Not much,” John said. “I’m staying home today. Very bad stomachache. I was thinking you might have one, too. Do you?”

  “I can’t,” Bastian said, grinning. “It’s my last day.”

  “I thought your last day was Monday.”

  “Dad changed his mind. We’re leaving tomorrow. I gotta pack my stuff right after school.”

  “Okay, it’s your funeral,” John said. “Just don’t blame me if you die of boredom today.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “Hey, I guess I won’t see you before you move. Have a nice life.”

  Bastian threw Barkley the Nerf football, and the dog caught it in his mouth. The puppy looked up, eyes full of golden light and perfect trust.

  “Yeah, you too.”

  7:08 A.M.

  Jessica Cooke

  She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Amazing how skinny she had grown. And tall. She was the tallest kid in the whole sixth grade. Which suited her fine. Jessica didn’t mind being different.

  “Breakfast!” Mom called.

  “Okay!” Jessica yelled. She gave her hair three more brushes—forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty—wheeled out of the bathroom, and ran down to the kitchen. Monica, Jessica’s three-year-old sister, was sitting on the floor. “Hi, Monica. Hi, Mom. Boy, am I hungry.”

  “You could use some meat on your bones,” Mom said. “You want a waffle? Scrambled eggs? Fruit salad? Cereal?”

  “All of the above,” Jessica replied, nodding. “I’m starving.”

  “Morning, ladies!” Dad said, walking into the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table.

  “Hi, Dad. Nice suit.”

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling at her. “What’s going on in school, Jessi
ca? How’s Mr. Fabiano?”

  “Mr. Fab is fabulous.” She poured herself a large bowl of cereal. “Next week we’re going to start a research project.”

  “On . . . ?”

  “My Future Profession,” Jessica said. “Like, what we want to be when we grow up.”

  “And you want to be a lawyer, right?” He smiled at her. “Like father, like daughter.”

  “Nope,” she said. “I want to be the chief justice of the Supreme Court.”

  “Nice,” he said, nodding. “But most Supreme Court justices are judges first. And most judges are lawyers first.”

  “You’d make a fine lawyer,” Mom said, putting a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her. “You’ve got the mind for it.”

  “Yes, and the law is important,” Dad said. “Without the law there would be total anarchy.”

  Monica ran over and took the seat next to Jessica.

  “What are you going to be when you grow up?” Jessica asked her.

  “A horsey rider,” Monica said, dead serious. “Can you teach me? Please?”

  “I’ve got to go to school,” Jessica told her.

  “I thought today was a home day,” Monica said sadly.

  “Nope, it’s Friday. Tomorrow’s a home day.”

  “Here’s your waffle,” Mom said to Monica.

  “Let me help you cut it,” Jessica offered.

  “No, I do it mySELF!” Monica said. She stabbed her fork into the waffle, but it slid off the plate and knocked over her cup. Orange juice spilled onto the table and all over Dad’s suit.

  “She can’t do it herself!” Dad yelled, jumping up. “What were you thinking? For heaven’s sake, she’s only three years old!”

  “Sorry, Dad,” Jessica said.

  “Now I’ve got to go change!” Dad stormed out of the kitchen.

  7:13 A.M.