Page 4 of The Sun and the Moon
“I’m Henry.” His voice is a squeak, small and meek like a mouse.
“Have you flown before?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Well, I have,a lot. And my dad has, too—he used to be a pilot before he retired.” Retired early, way too early. And all because of me. I swallow the thought, forcing myself to stay focused. “I used to bescared, just like you. When he flew his planes, I worried, and whenever I went on one with him, I worried. I wished I had wings so I could do it on my own.”
“Like birds do,” he says. His eyes spark, and he hugs the parrot stuffie tighter to his chest. His chin presses to the top.
“Exactly,” I say. I reach up to the lapel of my jacket, twisting it into the overhead light. “But I’m not a bird. That’s why I wear this.” And then I point to my pilot’s wings. “And these.”
“I have Rio,” he says, lifting the bird up in my face. I chuckle.
“Perfect.” I pull out a set of plastic pilot’s wings from my pocket. “And, just in case you want a little extra birdy support.” I hold the wings out in the palm of my hand. Henry’s eyes widen, the fear leaving them as they take in the sight of the wings.
“For me?” There’s wonder in his voice. I unhook the clasp and lift the pin toward him.
“May I?” He nods, the last of his trepidation melting away. I pin the wings on the collar of his t-shirt and stand. “There you go.” I grin down, he grins up. “Now you’ve got wings.”
“Thank you so much,” the mom blurts, a relieved grin spreading her lips.
“Your safety is in my hands,” I say, giving her a quick smile. “Please hurry back to your seats. We’re about to begin our descent.” I don’t wait for her to reply before I push through the cockpit door, pressing it shut behind me.
I can do hard things. Landing this airplane isn’t hard.
I’m the youngest female pilot in my company. One of seven in regular rotation. My copilots are almost always male, and older, and grouchy to the point of being passive-aggressively sexist about my role. I sped through college and flight school, worked hard to the point of exhaustion to get to where I am, but the challenge wasnever in landing the plane. It was never the mechanics of the work—always the politics, the pressure to keep the pace up so I didn’t fall behind. To show Dad that his love of flying didn’t have to die.
I take my seat, placing my headset back over my ears.
My finger lights the intercom. “We’re beginning our descent into sunny Los Angeles, where the Santa Ana winds have blown in to welcome us with a speedy approach. I’m going to go ahead and turn on those seat belt signs, so if you’re up and about in the cabin, please make your way back to your seats as quickly and safely as possible.”
I take my finger off the intercom, as Stan, my copilot, says to me, “Turbulence over San Bernardino.”
I caress the birdie pin on my lapel.
Nothing we can’t handle.
Chapter Three
Cadence
Nika lays a fifty-dollar Visa gift card in the palm of my hand and meets my eyes.
“Did she look like she was in distress?” Nika asks. The deep brown of her eyes always feels pragmatic and prescient at the same time. Theshein that question is referring to the owl.
Devin and I returned to headquarters after I captured the picture and he grumbled about not getting to see the bird in person. Not my fault his heavy footsteps over dried leaves alerted her to our presence, scaring her away before he could get a look.
“She didn’t. But she was alone as far as I could tell.” I pocket the gift card. “If you want me to go back up there to observe, just say the word.” Nika’s lips pinch. She’s got a strong face, full cheeks, and big, bright eyes.
“How thoughtful,” she says, her tone playful but still authoritative. Devin snorts, dropping down into his swivel desk chair. She cuts him a withering look and he wilts. Her eyes shift back to me. “Can we talk in my office?”
A pit forms in my stomach.
“Of course,” I say, my throat throbbing, but my voice remains stable.
The problem with loving your life, enjoying your work, is that at any moment, that work can be taken away or changed into something you don’t love as much, that isn’t what you wanted to do when you started but is somehow what you are expected to do if you continue.
I follow Nika to her office, watching her long, thick chestnut braid swish between her shoulder blades as she moves. Inside, she’s decorated with mission-style furniture and a large painting of the Great Smoky Mountains, where she grew up. A photo of her family—wife, son and daughter, dog—sits on the shelf behind her. Nika is Greek. She comes from a huge family and is always bringing in leftovers to share with us in the break room or vegetables she grew in her garden for us to take home. She’s funny and smart but also deeply intimidating.
I admire her.
She takes a seat at the desk, motioning for me to take the spot in front of her. I would much rather stand, but I don’t think refusing to follow her instruction will garner me favor. I cross my ankles, the thick laces and rubber soles of my hiking boots scratching together with the motion.
