Flying Solo Read online

  Back at her desk she went over the phone messages, one by one. There were six messages, and she’d taken care of them all. Irwin Peacock opened his door a crack and stuck out his head.

  “Have a minute?” he asked her. “We need to plan for the assembly this afternoon. The storyteller. There’s going to be local press.”

  “All right,” Helen said. She turned to Shelley. “Can you cover the phones for ten minutes?”

  “Sure thing,” Shelley replied.

  Helen disappeared inside Mr. Peacock’s office. A minute later Karen Ballard appeared in the doorway. Shelley knew Karen—everyone did. Karen was one of the brightest, most confident students in the entire school, although today she looked a little unsure of herself.

  “Hello there, Karen,” Shelley said. “What can I do for you?”

  Karen hesitated a moment, then put a piece of paper on the desk. “Lunch count and attendance sheet for 6-238.”

  “Thank you. Anything else?”

  “No, that’s all,” Karen said. She smiled and hurried out of the room.

  9:00 A.M.

  KIDS RULE!!!

  Rachel’s silence had changed her in unexpected ways. Without her voice she had learned how to watch, how to tune in to a million little things she had never before noticed. She saw the little gifts Rhonda and Jasmine gave Karen to compete for her friendship. A few days ago Rachel spied a secret glance and shy smile between Sky and Vicki (of all people!) during math. Today she noticed Bastian chewing his nails—something he never did.

  She glanced over at Sean. He had his head down on the desk; she wondered if he was asleep. She took out her book, A Beginner’s Flight Manual, and began to read.

  The bones of birds are hollow but strong. This hollowness helps them to fly. It is interesting to note that airplane wings are mostly empty, filled with nothing but air.

  Rachel liked this passage so much she read it again. The words described exactly how she felt this morning. Strong and hollow. Filled with air and silence. Just itching to fly.

  “Okay,” Karen said, flitting into the room. Her eyes were bright, cheeks slightly flushed as if she’d run all the way back. “Still no sub, huh?”

  “The Case of the Missing Sub,” Robert said.

  “Yeah, we’re, like, orphans!” Tim cried plaintively.

  “Speak for yourself,” Bastian said. “I know who my mother is!”

  Karen went to Mr. Fabiano’s desk and picked up a folder.

  “Must be the lesson plans Mr. Fab left for the sub,” she said. “Here’s the spelling test. Might as well get that over with, right?”

  “Better do something before we die of boredom,” Tim muttered.

  “I’ll give the spelling words,” Jessica said.

  “Why you?” Christopher demanded.

  “Because I always get a hundred on spelling tests,” Jessica retorted.

  It was no different from any other spelling test, Rachel thought, as kids groaned and muttered and snapped open binders and pulled out blank sheets of lined paper. Jessica stood in the center of the three tables, slowly reading the words twice and using them in a sentence just as Mr. Fabiano always did.

  “Perceive . . . perceive . . . Many people perceive professional athletes as rich, spoiled, selfish individuals.”

  “Not!” Bastian yelled.

  “Quiet!” Jessica said. “The next word is souvenir . . . souvenir . . . When Christopher went to Disney World, his father bought him a stuffed Mickey Mouse as a souvenir of the trip.”

  “Hardy har har,” Christopher said.

  It was 9:30 by the time they had finished the test, handed out the answer key, corrected their answers, compared scores, and written their misspelled words in the back of their writing folders.

  “So what do we do now?” Robert asked, slumping in his seat.

  “I’m taking a nap,” Bastian announced, lying down on the floor. “Wake me when somebody shows up. If somebody shows up.”

  “Show-off,” Rhonda said. “You wouldn’t do this if Mr. Fab was here.”

  “This is getting a little freaky,” Tim said.

  “Welcome to the Twilight Zone,” Christopher put in.

  “Yeah, what’s the deal?” Vicki asked. She turned to look at Karen. “What did they say about the sub when you went to the office?”

  “Nothing,” Karen said.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope,” Karen said, shrugging. “They didn’t say a thing. Because I didn’t tell them.”

  Bastian sat up. Everyone looked at Karen.

  “Didn’t tell them?” Rhonda asked. “Why not?”

  “Don’t you guys get it?” Karen asked. She leaned forward and snapped her fingers, eyes bright with excitement. “There’s obviously been some kind of major mix-up. They forgot about us.”

  “So . . .” Rhonda said.

  “So I started thinking: Why tell anybody?” Karen said. “I figured: Let’s run the class ourselves.”

  “Yesss!” Christopher said, making a fist. He jumped up and started goose-stepping across the floor.

  “We can do it!” Karen said. “I know we can!”

  Kids looked around at one another, smiling, giggling nervously. Missy looked over at Rachel; they raised their eyebrows at the exact same time.

  “Very true,” Jasmine agreed. “I mean, if we can’t run this class for one day, we’re a total bunch of losers.”

  “I’m with you,” Jordan said.

  “Me, too,” said Robert and Corey.

  “Count me in,” Bastian said. “KIDS RULE! KIDS RULE! KIDS RULE!”

  “Sure, why not?” Vicki asked.

  “Why not?” Jessica asked. “Are you kidding? It’s illegal, that’s why not!”

  Everybody stared at her.

  “Opinion,” Christopher said.

  “Yeah, are you sure?” Karen asked.

  “It’s wrong, it’s dangerous, somebody could get hurt,” Jessica said, glaring at Karen. “Mr. Fab would want us to go down to the office and tell them right now. I can’t believe you didn’t tell them!”

  Rachel wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Missy.

  “Wait a sec,” Missy said. “Rachel wants to say something.”

  “Ah,” Bastian said. “The Silent Pilot speaks!”

  “Be quiet!” Missy told him. She took Rachel’s note and read it aloud: “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  “Oh, sure,” Jessica said, making a face at Rachel. “Sure, Mr. Fab would just love the idea of us being totally unsupervised all day while he’s gone. Give me a break! This is the dumbest, stupidest, most asinine idea I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Opinion.” Christopher smirked.

  Missy picked up another note from Rachel and read it aloud: “I think Mr. Fabiano would want us to think and talk about it and then decide. He’s always talking about moral decisions.”

  “I don’t believe this.” Jessica shook her head.

  “Look, Mr. Fab isn’t here,” Jasmine pointed out. “We have to do what we think is right. Right?”

  “I’m for it,” Sky said quietly.

  “KIDS RULE!” Bastian and Tim chanted. “KIDS RULE! KIDS RULE! KIDS RULE!”

  “Shush!” Missy said. “We should vote.”

  “We should not vote!” Jessica said, banging her desk. “It’s the most demented idea I’ve heard since my sister tried to put the cat in the dryer!”

  “What are you worried about?” Bastian asked. “What could possibly happen? This school is crawling with teachers.”

  “Fact,” Christopher said.

  “Let’s vote and get on with it,” Karen said. “Who votes we should run the class ourselves today?”

  An instant crop of raised hands.

  “Who votes no?”

  Jessica stuck her long arm straight up into the air.

  “Fourteen to one,” Karen said.

  “Fact!” Christopher grinned and crossed his arms.

  They all looked at Jessica.
/>   “Sorry, String Bean, looks like you lose,” Bastian said. “You gonna go squeal?”

  “Shut your face!” Jessica hissed at him. “What I do, and when I do it, is none of your business!”

  “Hey, let’s all chill,” Jasmine said.

  For a moment no one did anything but breathe.

  “Okay, so what next?” Vicki asked quietly.

  “Party time!” Tim cried.

  “Flashdrafts,” Missy said, pointing at the schedule printed on the blackboard. “Writing.”

  “Oh, come on,” Bastian moaned.

  Vicki went over to the tape player. Soon a mellow jazz began to fill the classroom. Mr. Fab believed in a daily schedule with as few surprises as possible: spelling, Flashdrafts, music/computer lab (one every other day), math, Connections (more writing), lunch, D.E.A.R., Exploration, science. To keep things predictable he had certain rituals, like playing music during writing time. Rachel hadn’t liked the music at first. But with time she found that it got her in the mood to write and actually helped her concentration.

  “This is stupid,” Bastian said. “I don’t feel like writing. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Morning time is writing time,” Vicki said, repeating one of Mr. Fabiano’s favorite lines.

  “Shut up, Shrimp,” Bastian muttered. Vicki was the shortest girl in the sixth grade.

  “Hey, that’s a put-down,” Jasmine said, glaring at him.

  “Oooh,” Bastian mocked, raising his hands. “A put-down! Gee whiz! That’s bad!”

  “I don’t know about you guys,” Karen said, “but I’m going to write.”

  “I can’t believe this!” Bastian sighed.

  Jessica sat at her desk, arms folded. After a minute she snapped open her binder and pulled out a blank piece of paper.

  The minute Rachel closed her eyes she got a picture of Tommy Feathers, the way he used to grin at her whenever she glanced his way. She didn’t have to wonder how Tommy would have voted. He would have voted with the majority because Tommy wanted people to like him.

  Tommy wasn’t a very good writer, but he liked to write. At the beginning of writing time he would often lean over to Rachel and whisper: I’m gonna write a story for you. He hummed loudly while he worked, and after about ten minutes he’d pass his paper over to her. That’s for you, Rachel. He gave her dozens of stories like this.

  Every day she threw them away. She hadn’t kept a single one.

  She tried not to think about that now. She tried hard to put Tommy’s face and voice out of her mind.

  Around her Rachel could see other kids stretching and fidgeting as they started to write. She took out her favorite pen, opened to a blank piece of notebook paper, and tried to clear her head.

  Writing words is like flying, Rachel thought. Words aren’t solid. Words are lighter than air. But even so, they can sometimes give you a lift.

  9:50 A.M.

  Flashdrafts

  Rachel

  Dear Mr. Fabiano,

  Mom is so worried about me. She says: “Pick up your voice if you happen to find it on the way to school.” Last month she gave me a card and told me to open it on the bus.

  “You are like a magic caterpillar,” she wrote. “You surprised everyone by spinning a strange and beautiful cocoon, a chrysalis of silence. Soon you will emerge with new wings. And we’ll be here when you do. We’ll be here to watch you fly.”

  What Mom doesn’t understand is that my voice isn’t lost. I’ve learned that I can find it whenever I want as soon as I pick up my pen. The moment I start writing words I can hear the sound of my voice on the paper.

  In so many ways it was you who helped to make that happen. You never pushed me to talk like lots of other people did. You said: “Writers cultivate silence.” You said: “You’ll speak when you’re ready.” You said: “Your writing is full of voice.”

  Sean

  Once my father took me hunting and it was exciting. At the beginning of the year Rachel told me she hates hunting. But I would never shoot a animal except if a bear charged because bears look friendly but they can be real nasty.

  I don’t want to go home after school, not today. My father might be there still sleeping it off so I can’t watch TV unless I turn it down way low. Sometimes he’s up and that can be worse. Or if he’s gone Darlene is there and sometimes she bothers me while I’m watching TV. Most times she’s okay but sometimes she says dumb things and then I just ignore her and go outside into the woods. I do that a lot. I go out into the woods. Way back into the deepest woods.

  I doubt most people would dare go that far deep as I go. I pretend I’m hunting. Sometimes I wish I had a dog that would come with me. But I’m not afraid to go out there alone. There are beautiful places in the woods, like rooms with high high ceilings. You walk into a clearing and it feels like being in a room with trees all around and light coming through the windows. And it’s quiet.

  Sometimes I take a nap back there. I think it would be a place I’d like to show Rachel sometimes, those rooms in the trees. We could walk around together, maybe sit down and eat a snack. I don’t care how quiet she’d be. Who cares if she never says one word?

  Jasmine

  Karen thinks I should be a doctor when I grow up so we could have a practice together—Dad thinks I should be an engineer. Freddy Labo says I’m pretty enough to be a model—but he’s in eleventh grade and I can’t tell if he’s serious, or kidding, or just being fresh.

  What I really want to do is be a wife and mother and stay home with my kids. Some kids say that’s a waste of time—but, believe me, it’s not.

  I love children—and I believe it’s important to raise them right—especially in a world like ours. Being a good mother is a full-time job. I might even want to teach them myself—at home.

  Bastian

  Dear Mr. Fab,

  Today’s my last day at school. I know I told you I’d be here on Monday but Dad changed his mind so we’re going to Hawaii tomorrow morning.

  My puppy is getting shipped to Hawaii on the plane tonight. They have a special cage for him, and Mom has to give him special medicine so he’ll sleep most of the flight. They are putting him in Quarantine for four months. The military does that for all dogs who come to Hawaii from the rest of the U.S. It’s a stupid rule but Dad says there are no exceptions. At least I’ll get to visit him every day when he’s in Quarantine.

  Since you’re out today I probably won’t get to see you again. I know I wasn’t exactly an angel in class, but I want to say that you’ve been a good teacher. You never made me feel like an “Air Force Brat” like some other teachers did.

  Missy

  Tim said: “We’re like orphans.” He was just kidding but that made me think about a movie, about how they started Boys’ Town, for runaway kids. There was one part that made me cry, when this boy was carrying his little brother on his back, and a man asked: Isn’t he heavy? And the boy (who was carrying the little boy) answered: He’s not heavy, he’s my brother.

  I think, today, we are like orphans, not all ways, but some. We have to help each other, since we don’t have any teacher to watch over us. Or even a sub. We’re on our own.

  There’s still some writing time left, so I think I’ll just copy the story list on the wall:

  STORIES . . .

  1) are unique as snowflakes. No two are exactly alike.

  2) contain small details that often turn out to be important.

  3) involve limits: particular characters in a particular place and time.

  4) put characters in difficult situations.

  5) force characters to make moral choices.

  6) contain a problem or conflict that often gets worse before it gets better.

  7) connect the ordinary with the extraordinary.

  8) usually contain a surprise. (Or two.)

  9) sometimes turn on a “moment of silence.”

  10) rarely turn out the way you expect.

  10:30 A.M.

  Music

&n
bsp; “Are we going to do a share?” Vicki asked.

  “Can’t!” Jordan said, pointing at the clock. “Computer lab!”

  “No, we did computer lab yesterday,” Karen said. “Music.”

  “Fact,” Christopher said. “We’d better go before they come hunting for us.”

  “Just go?” Jasmine asked. “With no teacher? You don’t think that’s sort of . . . obvious?”

  “Not if we’re super quiet in the halls,” Karen said.

  “Yes, Miss Ballard, Sir!” Christopher said. He saluted her smartly.

  “Very funny,” Karen retorted. “Hey, I mean it. We’ve got to make zero noise or somebody’s going to notice. We’ve got to be invisible.”

  “Better suck in your gut,” Bastian said, nudging Missy.

  “Leave her alone!” Rhonda said, smacking him on the arm.

  “I was just kidding,” Bastian said. “Can’t you take a joke?”

  “It’s not funny, you idiot!”

  “Quiet!” Karen said.

  The kids filed out of the classroom. Rachel walked along the hallway of polished linoleum, long and perfectly smooth. For a miniature airplane, this hall would make a perfect runway for taking off or landing.

  She watched the line of students ahead of her. They all kept their eyes facing straight ahead as they filed down the hall. Even their footsteps seemed strangely muted as they moved over the linoleum, past the other three sixth-grade classrooms, and down the stairs. The column made a smooth right onto the central corridor, and then another right into the All-Purpose Room that was used for music.