Outrun the Moon(2)

I clutch the side of the basket, hanging on for dear life. For a moment, I consider jumping off, but the balloon rises too fast, and soon I’m high enough to see Tom and his father’s draft horse, Winter, over the trees. “Tom!”

Tom tears at his hair when he sees me. He hurries back, cupping his hands to his mouth and yelling something, but the wind blows his words away. He shakes his fist. Is he angry? There’s a panicked jerkiness to his movements that I’ve never seen before.

My stomach drops as the balloon tips to one side. I glance down at the shrinking scenery, a hundred feet below me now. Ropes hang from the ring that secures the netting, but I don’t dare tamper with them, as any mistakes this high up could be catastrophic.

Ancestors! I’m not ready to join you in the afterlife.

Good-bye, solid Earth. I hope you remember how I always tried to sweep up after myself, and how I did not dig a single unnecessary hole upon your surface. Good-bye, dear Tom. There are few girls in Chinatown, but with your quick mind and warm heart, you will have your choice of any of them—just please do not choose the dainty Ling-Ling, who has held a candle for you since the fifth grade.

A flock of seagulls squawks insults beside the basket, and a cold streak runs through me. They’ll puncture the silk. “Shoo, you flying rats!”

The Island rocks and bobs, and I can barely hang on to the contents of my stomach as the seagulls swoop around me.

I’ve never thought too hard about my convictions and wonder if it’s too late now. Ba is Catholic, but Ma prefers the traditionals—Buddhism and Taoism, sprinkled with a good dose of Confucianism, which is more of a philosophy, anyway. With Eastern religion, no one cares if you pick and choose the ingredients for your particular moral soup, as long as you have some soup, preferably one with lots of ginger and—

I remember the candied ginger in my pocket. As I unwrap the waxy package, I drop most of the candies but manage to hang onto one, and I hurl it as best I can at the seagulls. In a flurry of wings and beaks, they fly off after it.

I nearly sob in relief. That’s one bridge crossed. Now what? My eyes catch on the grappling hook that Tom called the drag rope. Maybe it’s like an anchor? I drop it over the side.

The basket jerks as the hook reaches the end of the line.

Nothing happens at first, but after a good minute, the Island finally stops swinging about. I am not descending, but neither am I ascending. The basket has leveled out about a hundred and fifty feet above the ground and is slowly drifting west. I can make out the blond blocks of St. Clare’s School for Girls in the distance. The irony that I will finally glimpse its inner courtyard just when I’m about to expire leaves a bitter note on my tongue.

A new sun has rinsed the sky pink and yellow. Ma will be stirring the juk, rice porridge, right about now, believing me to be gathering mushrooms with Tom. My brother, Jack, will be wiping condensation from the windows before leaving for the Oriental Public School.

I must get out of this alive. That chuen pooi bulb was going to be our ticket to a good life.

“I could’ve bought us out of Chinatown! I had a plan!” I’ve gone stark raving mad. I am talking to a balloon, one hot air bag to another.

A rope hits me in the head, and I grab it to steady myself. When I pull, the silk deflates a little, then the basket falls a notch, and a moment of weightlessness sends a shock through me. Was that why Tom was shaking his fist at me? He was telling me to pull.

I peer into the throat of the balloon and cautiously give the rope another tug. The basket spins, then drops several feet. I fall down in a heap, as dizzy as a fly in a whisk.

The balloon jerks, but I don’t dare peek over the side, afraid of tumbling out. Once my head stops spinning, I stare up into the throat again. There are three ropes hanging. I give one of the others the barest tug, bracing myself, and the balloon begins to rotate in the other direction.

“Mercy, keep your weight on the floor. You’re doing great.” Tom’s voice sounds distant, coming from somewhere under the basket.

I want to sob in relief. “Tom?” I cry.

Not a minute later, he swings a leg over the side and starts expertly manning the ropes inside the basket with me. I stop myself from hugging his ankles.

“You did well. Dropped it enough for me to catch the grapple. See, this pulls the main vent and helps you go straight down.”

In no time, we’re back on the ground, the silk billowing like a cream-colored ocean. Tom helps me up, and I hug him close, trembling. His solid warmth defuses all my fear, replacing it with something giddy and hopeful. If I had known my flight of terror would end in Tom’s arms, I might have volunteered for it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should’ve listened.”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you.” For a moment, his eyes look haunted and I dare to hope his concern is more than brotherly.

Then his features harden. He gently pushes me away.

My cheeks brighten at the rebuke. Keeping the injury out of my voice, I ask, “What did you have to go back for?”

He digs into his pocket and holds up an ugly wrinkled bulb.

“It looks like a man’s energy pouch,” I say when I see the chuen pooi.

The tips of his ears grow pink, and my laugh rings out like a shovel striking gold.

Our ticket to a good life just blew in.