Stealing Air (5 page)

Brian nodded and walked back to his seat.

“And Brian?”

He froze just as he was about to sit down.

“Students are not allowed to bring any sort of bag to my classroom, and they are certainly not to bring skateboards. Today, you may keep your bag and skateboard on the counter. You should have been assigned a locker at registration. Tomorrow you will report to the office for your locker number and combination.”

Brian felt like a bobble-head doll for nodding so much. He took his seat, grateful to be out of the spotlight, at least for now.

They spent the first hour in Ms. Gilbert's room being lectured about the rules and getting their language arts textbooks. Then they moved on to other subjects, rotating to the classroom of the other sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Brown, as well as the rooms of the fifth grade teachers. All morning they heard more rules. By the time they returned to Ms. Gilbert's classroom, Brian was so tired of rules that he was almost hoping for homework. He killed time by flipping through his language arts textbook, looking for at least one good story.

It was almost noon. The loud noise of the little kids echoed down the hall from the cafeteria. Brian's stomach rumbled, and others kept shifting in their seats around him. Ms. Gilbert stood up at her desk. “When the bell rings for lunch, you will wait in your seats until I dismiss you. You will not stampede down to the cafeteria like animals.” She stared at them all for a long quiet moment. The bell rang. Nobody moved. “Good,” she said. “You may go to lunch.”

Red stood up from his desk. “Alex, where you sitting?”

David slapped Alex on the back. “Hey, let's sit where the sixth grade guys sat last year, farthest away from the cooks and the lunch monitor's desk.” The three of them headed down the aisle toward the front of the room.

The cool table
, Brian thought. That's where all the action was. All the best jokes and the most fun. At least that was how it had been back in Seattle — for some people, anyway. If you sat at the wrong table with the wrong people, you could end up being made fun of a lot. Brian stood up. He figured he better hurry to catch up with Alex and the guys.

“I believe crispitos are featured on today's menu,” Max said from behind him. “They are a sort of crispy beef burrito. They're usually tasty enough, but I don't think they accurately reflect the culture that first —”

“Mad Max!” Red stopped in the doorway on his way out. “Who cares about all that culture stuff? It's crispito day! I'm eating four of those suckers.”

“Gross,” Heather said.

“Brian,” said Max quietly. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor. “I was wondering if you would be interested in sitting with —”

Brian thought fast. “Shoot. You know what?” he said right as they reached the door. “I, um, have to talk to Ms. Gilbert about something.”

“Oh. Well, I certainly don't mind waiting for you.”

“Oh no.” Brian made a motion with his hand as if he was trying to sweep Max into the hallway. “Go on ahead. I don't want to take up your lunchtime.”

The wide-eyed, hopeful look in Max's face fell almost as if it were melting. Brian clenched his fists, hoping that Max would just go. “No, seriously,” he said. “I think this is going to take a really long time.”

“Oh. Well … okay.” Max left the room and headed down the now empty hallway toward the cafeteria.

Brian waited until Max was out of sight. Max was a good guy, and it was terrible to lie to him, especially since he was one of only two people here in Iowa he could count as a friend. Still, being friends with a bunch of the fun people in the class or friends with just one guy … what would anyone choose?

“Brian?”

Brian jumped and spun around. Ms. Gilbert had switched off the lights in the room and sat reading at her desk by the light of a small lamp. Spooky. “Oh. Um. Ms. Gilbert.”

“You're supposed to be at lunch,” she said.

He nodded. “I, um, had a question.”

She stared at him for a moment. “And what
is
your question?”

His hands were sweaty. “Well, the … I was looking through the textbook.”

“Is there a question coming sometime?”

“I was wondering, you know … if there are any good stories in it.” His cheeks felt hot now. He knew he must have been flaring red.

“There's a story from Greek mythology about Daedalus and his son Icarus, who escape a terrible maze by building wings and flying away. Icarus is a fast and daring flyer, and so —”

“That sounds cool.” Brian was only half listening. Max should have had time to get through the lunch line and sit down by now. How could he get out of here?

The corner of Ms. Gilbert's mouth curled up into something almost like a smile. “Yes, it most certainly is … cool.” There was more quiet. “Now, I think you need to get to lunch. I know I'd certainly like to be left alone to read my book.”

She turned her attention back to what she'd been reading, and Brian left for the lunchroom.

A few other kids must have been held up by teachers or had business in the office, because he ended up third from last in line. He got his crispito thing, pears, and milk and went to face the sea of strangers in the crowded cafeteria. He quickly scanned the tables, looking for Alex and Red. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Max sitting by himself, trying to wave him down, but Brian pretended he didn't see him.

There was one last empty spot at the table where Alex and the guys sat. Maybe Brian hadn't been invited, but Dad would have said that this was one of those times to take a risk. He picked up his pace toward the other end of the lunchroom. Alex looked up from his tray and tilted his head back in one of those cool sort of reverse nods.

Then something crashed right into Brian and sent his tray flying. His crispito hit the tiles and split open. Pears slid along the floor. People at tables all around him burst out laughing. And Frankie Heller was right there, laughing loudest of all.

“Frankie Heller, what are you doing?” Mrs. Brown stood up from her little table at the far end of the room, back by the lunch counter. She put her hands on her hips and frowned.

“Oh gosh, I'm so sorry.” Frankie put a scared look on his face. “I didn't see you there, Brian. Can I get you another tray?” He didn't wait for Brian's answer but leaned closer. “What?” He cupped his hand to his ear. “I can't hear you!” he shouted.

“Why can't you just leave me alone?” Brian said.

Frankie stepped away. “Oh, okay. If you're sure you want to get your own tray.” He looked at the teacher. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Brown.” He shrugged and went to the guys' table, sitting down in the last seat with a big grin on his face.

Brian looked to Alex, hoping he'd make some room for Brian to join him. Alex caught his gaze for an instant, but then he looked down at his tray. He wasn't going to say or do anything.

Mrs. Brown was beside him. “Don't worry about that mess now,” she said. “We're going to run out of time. Just hurry and get another tray.”

Brian went back to the lunch counter. He could hear people laughing at him, talking about him — Frankie most of all, with his loud thunder voice, sitting in Brian's seat. Brian picked up a new tray of soggy pears and a cold crispito and went to the empty table right by the lunch counter. He sat down to eat, trying to ignore the fact that he had just been branded a total loser in the eyes of everyone at his new school. That everything was going wrong. That here in Iowa, like here in this cafeteria, he was completely alone.

The afternoon was mostly time for schoolwork. Since they hadn't been assigned much yet, Ms. Gilbert had them read a story out of the language arts textbook, something about a boy who lived in South America and was having trouble getting his fruit to market. Brian found it hard to pay attention.

When the final bell rang for the day, he figured it was best to grab his things and hurry out of the building ahead of the crowd. But instead of going out the front, where everybody could make fun of him about the cafeteria incident and Frankie might pull another stunt, he bolted for the back door. Soon everybody would be gone and he could head home.

After Brian had waited out back for at least ten minutes, Max came out the back door too. He checked his digital calculator watch. “I believe Frankie has left for the day. However, sometimes he lingers in front. If you'd like, I could show you a different way home.”

How pathetic was this? Brian wasn't fooling anyone. “Sure. I mean … whatever you want.”

Max led the way out to the playground behind the school. They went through the pea-gravel pit, past the plastic slides and climbing equipment, on across the baseball field. Brian kept looking out for Alex and the guys, and Frankie. A large oak stood in the corner of the schoolyard, right next to the big wood fence.

“Um, Max, where are we going?”

Max stopped by the tree. “Sometimes when I have experienced a tough day at school and want to get home quickly, I take this shortcut.” He went between the thick trunk and the fence, then climbed up to a large branch that reached out over the top of the fence.

“It's like a sort of bridge,” Brian said. “A back way out of here.”

“Precisely.” Max scooted out onto the limb. When he passed over the top of the fence, he dropped down out of sight.

Brian handed his backpack and skateboard over the fence and then climbed up into the tree. He went across and found the branch reached pretty low on the other side. It was an easy jump to the ground, a grass strip near a cornfield.

Max handed Brian his things. “Follow me,” he said. He walked off into the field, holding his hands up so that his forearms blocked his face.

Brian followed but didn't protect himself — at least not at first. After the second long cornstalk leaf nailed him in the eye, he held his skateboard up like a shield. They rustled their way through the rows. “How long are we going to have to cut through here?”

“We're almost to the turn.”

What turn? Every way Brian looked, all he saw was more corn, six feet high all around him. He kept walking until he bumped right into Max.

“We change direction here.” Max started off to the right.

Brian followed. “Wait. How do you know?”

“We're twenty-seven rows in.”

“You've been counting?”

Max didn't reply. He had said he took this shortcut home when he'd had a bad day. How many bad days did it take to memorize a secret route through the corn?

When they finally emerged from the field, they had reached the dead end of a street Brian didn't recognize.

“This is Tilford Street.” Max took off his glasses and blew dust off the lenses. “You know, your grandfather lives on this street on the other edge of town. We could go to the Eagle's Nest and put in some final checks on the flying machine.”

After a rotten mess of a school day, checking out the flyer sounded pretty great. “Sure, let's see what we can get done.”

In the Eagle's Nest, Max went to the side of the flyer opposite the tunnel. Brian pulled the cover off it.

“I returned last night after we all left the Eagle's Nest —”

“Whoa, wait a minute. How late were you here? Didn't your parents mind?”

Max tilted his head. “My parents often work late at the university. Even when they're home, they are sometimes so absorbed in their work that they don't notice I've slipped out. It's how I found the time to build the flyer in the first place. Anyway, last night, I didn't need much time because I merely checked to make sure all the controls are working correctly. What do you think?”

The light from the bright bulb hanging over the table gleamed on the flyer's white Plastisteel wings. “She's a beautiful machine, Max.”

Max sighed. “You know, in modern practice, vehicles are generally not called by personal pronouns. That is, boats and airplanes are usually ‘it' and ‘its' rather than ‘she' or ‘her.'”

“I don't know what you're talking about, but it sounds
so boring
!” Alex emerged from the tunnel holding a bag of Doritos and a pack of cookies in one hand along with a case of Mountain Dew in the other. “Please tell me this isn't a homework party.”

“Preflight checks,” said Brian.

Max nodded. “We should be ready to fly tonight after dark.”

“That's what I'm talking about!” Alex shook his treats above his head. “You guys got to help me with this stuff, though.”

“I'm afraid I have no means to keep the soda cold,” Max said.

“Have to drink them fast, then.” Alex took three sodas out of the box, setting his on the table and giving one to Brian and another to Max before putting the rest on the tool bench. “So what's the plan?”

“I have prepared a detailed presentation about the takeoff procedure.” Max pulled a big rolled piece of paper out of the drawer beneath the computer, unwound it, and taped it to the wall. It was a giant map of Riverside. He fired his
Star Trek
phaser pointer at the map. “We are here. We will wait until nightfall to move under the cover of darkness.” He moved the red dot to the doors. “We'll carry the flyer out the main doors, across the street, around the back of Alex's house, and north up into the fields.” The red dot moved up the map and hooked around across a light dotted line for a gravel road. It reached a heavy dotted line. “This is the abandoned railroad.” He moved the laser down the rail line. “We'll have to carry the flyer all the way down the tracks across the highway and over the Runaway Bridge.”

The laser left the tracks. “Then we carry it off the rails through the woods to the grain elevators. There's a new paved driveway there that should be long and smooth enough for a good takeoff. Additionally, it's secluded, so we should remain unnoticed.”

He looked at Brian. “Once you're airborne, you'll need to gain altitude to clear the trees down by the river, then adjust the heading to starboard and fly south to stay out of town. The grain elevators are visible for miles and the American flag is always lighted on top, so you should be able to find your way back to the runway. A streetlight provides illumination on the driveway itself.”

“Starboard?” Alex asked.

Max sighed. “The starboard side is the right side.”

“‘Port' means ‘left,'” said Brian.

“Well, why not just
say
‘right' or ‘left,' then?”

Brian shrugged. “‘Starboard' and ‘port' sound way cooler.”

“Moreover, the noise of the engine and the wind will be significant, even despite the windshield,” Max said. “The monosyllabic words ‘right' and ‘left' might get mixed up, but ‘port' and ‘starboard' sound diff —”

“Okay, okay, ‘starboard' right, ‘port' left. I got it!” Alex took a long drink of his Mountain Dew. “So that's the plan? What else do we need?”

“Just some gasoline,” Max said.

“Gas?” Alex asked.

“Yes, Alex,” said Max. “This modern internal combustion engine actually runs on gasoline.”

Alex shot Max a look that seemed to ask if he was serious. Brian couldn't tell. Finally, Max's neutral expression cracked and he laughed.

Alex tried to act like Max's joke had insulted him, but he couldn't hide his smile. “Well, I don't know what this thing runs on, Mr. Scientist!” With a bob of his head, he let out a deep, long, vibrating belch, blowing it in Max's face. Max turned away with his T-shirt pulled up over his mouth.

Brian reached out and high-fived Alex. “That was huge,” he spoke through his own belch. “But we still have to run preflight checks.”

“I checked over the controls last night,” said Max.

“Dad never took his Cardinal up without running his own checks,” Brian said.

“Are you sure you know how to do all that stuff?” Alex stuffed a handful of Doritos in his mouth.

“You're worried about me doing preflight, but you're just fine with me piloting the flyer?”

Alex spoke the best he could with his mouth full of chips. “Everybody is on my case today!” A few crumbs fell out of his mouth. Max held up the package of cookies and looked questioningly at Alex. “Dude, go ahead,” said Alex. “I brought them for you guys.”

Brian bent down and saw that Max had wedged pieces of wood in front of and behind the skateboard wheels to keep the flyer from rolling on the table. He climbed up into the pilot's seat, letting his feet rest on the decks of the skateboards.

The small control panel behind the engine had only two levers. On the left was the throttle. He would push it up to increase speed, and pull it down to reduce power. In the center was the control stick, which looked like it had been salvaged from an old video game. He saw that Alex was watching.

“If I pull the yoke back,” Brian said, “the horizontal stabilizer flap in the tail goes up, so the tail goes down and the nose rises.” He pushed the yoke to the right. The flap at the back of the right-side wing went up, while the flap on the other wing went down. “With the yoke to the right, the starboard aileron goes up while the port side goes down, so the plane rolls to starboard.” He watched again to make sure everything was working right. Max had done a great job rigging all the interior cables and pulleys within the wings. “Yoke to the left, the ailerons go the opposite way and the flyer rolls to port.”

Brian put his feet on the pedals. He pushed the right one. “Right pedal down moves the tail rudder to the right, turning the aircraft to starboard.” It was all working fine. He tested the rudder to port as well. “She checks out, just like a real plane.”

“That's because it
is
a real plane,” said Max. He pointed to a Plastisteel bar across the span between the skateboards in the back. Attached to the bar were two levers that operated two small, rubber-tipped pieces of metal. “This is the brake system. Upon landing, Alex will have to lower both levers simultaneously to lock the brakes to the ground.”

“Those look like little door stoppers.”

“That's because they are door stoppers.”

Alex held his hands up. “Dude. Seriously.”

“If you have a better way of bringing eight skateboard wheels to a stop, please let me know.”

Alex made gun hands and dropped his thumbs to shoot Brian and Max. “Okay, you know your stuff. Both of you, actually.” He blew on the tips of his fingers like they were smoking.

“She's ready to fly!” Brian stood up on the table, careful not to knock down any of the model planes. “Give me another Mountain Dew!”

Alex tossed him a soda. When Brian opened it, fizz shot out. He put his mouth on it and drank as fast as he could, trying not to laugh like the other two. When the fizz finally stopped, he put his hand to his throat. “Burns from chugging.”

“That is your punishment for standing up on top of the table,” Max said.

“Yeah,” said Alex. “If Gilbert caught you doing that at your desk, she'd revoke your … how did she say it?”

“She'd revoke your privilege of having a seat and force you to remain standing for an undetermined period of time,” Max said.

Even though Ms. Gilbert was nowhere around and the Eagle's Nest was a total secret, Brian still felt compelled to get down and take a seat at the edge of the table. “What is with that lady anyway?”

Max frowned. “She is rather strict.”

They drank more soda and ate more chips and cookies while they joked and complained about school. After a while they agreed to go home for supper, only to return after dark for their first test flight. They really would fly tonight. Brian could hardly wait.

 

Brian was hoping that supper would be a sandwich on the go so he could get back to the Eagle's Nest. But Dad had made spaghetti and meatballs, his favorite. He'd have to eat quickly, but he still planned to eat a lot.

“Slow down, Brian,” Mom said. “What's your hurry? Your father made this nice meal. Enjoy it.”

Brian swallowed a large bite of meatball. “Sorry,” he said. “It's just so good.” He shoveled another meatball into his mouth.

“I mean it, Brian. Slow. Down. How was your first day of school?”

He didn't want to tell them the truth, but he was happy not to have to lie. “Well, I made two new friends so far, these guys Alex and Max.” He spun some spaghetti around his fork and ate it quickly. “I was hoping to go hang out with them tonight.”

Dad was making notes on one of his spreadsheets. He didn't look up when he spoke. “Max a good guy?”

Brian shrugged. “I guess so. Is that okay, if I go after supper?”

Dad didn't answer. It was quiet. Was he angry? Mom put down her fork and rubbed her eyes, watching Dad writing on his paper.

“Jack? Are you all right?”

Dad shook his head. “What?” He looked up from his figures. “I'm sorry. What did you say?”

Mom sighed. “Jack, couldn't you give work a rest, at least for dinner?”

“I know. I know. I just have to get this one thing worked out before I forget. Things are going …” He pressed his lips together tightly and blew out through his nose. “Could have really used that financial help.”

“You promised,” Mom whispered.

Dad put his pen down. “Fine. I'll just stay up until two in the morning trying to figure out where we're supposed to get money to improve production methods, but that's fine.”