Don't Fail Me Now(78)

“Why didn’t you just use the one your teacher gave you?” I ask.

“There weren’t enough branches,” Denny says matter-of-factly. “I had to fix it.” He points to a new line emerging from Buck’s branch, shooting over to Karen and then to Jeff, with lines for Tim and Leah curling down like improbable grape vines grafted onto a maple.

“That’s perfect, meatball,” I say.

“Mrs. M will probably give me a check-minus, though,” he frowns. “She doesn’t like it when we don’t follow directions.”

“You know what?” I say, reaching across Tim’s lap to tussle Denny’s hair. “Who cares what she thinks?”

“Yeah,” he grins. As I sit back upright, Tim catches my hand and holds on tight.

“Listen,” he says to both of us. “Any minute now, we’re going to start to move really, really fast, and the plane will start to rattle, but that’s just because the pilot has to pick up as much speed as he can to give us momentum for takeoff. It’s normal.”

“Mmm hmmm.” I press my spine hard against my seatback and take a deep breath. I know he’s just trying to help, but I wish Tim hadn’t told me that. I had almost forgotten about the whole leaving-the-ground thing. And while I’m familiar with the physics of flight, lift and thrust and drag and all that, it’s one thing to study it on a page in a textbook and another to actually be sitting in a four-hundred-ton machine about to wage a war with gravity. When there’s such a strong force pulling you down, it’s hard to imagine there could be an even greater one lifting you up. But it happens to millions of people every single day, so why not now? Why not me?

“Flight attendants, please be seated for takeoff.”

I look over at Cass, but she’s engrossed in conversation with her new best friend, Leah. It’s just as well. I don’t want to make her nervous. I sit still and try to ignore the adrenaline flooding my veins, telling every bone in my body to get up and bolt.

“Are you okay?” Tim massages my hand with his thumb.

“Define ‘okay.’”

“Alive?”

“For now.” I concentrate on taking slow lungsful of air, in through my nose and out through my mouth. I’ve heard that keeps your heart rate in check, but judging from my skyrocketing pulse, it’s not working yet.

“Remember, once we get in the air, it’ll feel like we’re not moving,” he says.

As the plane picks up speed, the overheard bins start to sway. “Uh-huh,” I say skeptically.

“This is the worst part. It’ll be over in a minute. You’ll see.”

“This. Is. Awesome,” Denny says, pressing his face against the window.

Suddenly we really accelerate, and I feel like I’m sucked back against my seat, helpless and lightheaded.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

“I thought you could do anything,” Tim says.

“I lied!” I say, almost laughing I’m so terrified. Everything’s shaking violently now—the seats, the trays, the wings, my faith. We must be going a hundred and fifty miles an hour, hurtling through space toward an uncertain landing. I feel like I’m going to faint.

“Hey, I almost forgot, I owe you something,” Tim says. He leans over and takes my face in his hands and kisses me, long and deep, just as we lift off the ground, the g-force of the earth pulling us back as we fight, against all odds, to rise up.

“Michelle?” He pulls back. “Michelle, open your eyes. It’s over.”

Just do it, I tell myself. Don’t be scared. Just let go.

“You can see the whole world from up here,” Cass marvels.

“You’re missing it!” Denny cries.

“Just breathe,” Tim says.

And then my ears pop. The static breaks. I open my eyes.

I’m on my way.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Thank you to my wonderful editor, Jessica Almon, whose patience, humor, and creativity saved me many times throughout the writing process—and whose glasses I covet to a degree that is possibly not healthy. The entire staff at Razorbill, most especially Ben Schrank and Casey McIntyre, also earn my undying gratitude. Your enthusiasm, support, and incredible warmth mean the world to me, and unless you tell me to stop I will continue to profess my love awkwardly every time I see you in person. Anthony Elder designed a cover that surpassed my wildest dreams, so every time you look at the front of this book, you should give him an air high five.

As always, I am indebted to my crackerjack agent (and favorite coffee date) Brettne Bloom, who is my champion by every definition of the word, and who gently encourages me to occasionally pause my Broad City marathons to write words down on paper.

Additional thanks go out to everyone who made the writing of this book less lonesome and/or scary: to the Hungry Ghost Coffee Bar and Café on Flatbush and 6th Avenue, whose delicious lattes and baked goods fueled many a writing session, and whose music never sucked; to the village of sitters—Willow Westwood, Phoebe Smith, Cailin Smith, my parents, and my sister Zoe—who took care of my child while I ran off to become the cliché that is the tortured writer pounding the aforementioned lattes in the aforementioned coffee shop; to PO1 Charles Horwitz of the Montgomery County Police Department and Ilana Harwayne-Gidansky, MD, who kindly offered their professional expertise regarding police procedure and hypoglycemia, respectively (if anything is factually inaccurate, it’s due to the creative license I took with their sage and patient counsel); and to my dear friends and family, who inexplicably continue to love, encourage, and feed me regardless of how disheveled and/or cranky I appear in their presence while on a deadline.