Flying Solo {Completed}

Chapter 1 | Wendy Testaburger

FRIDAY, APRIL 28th

7:03 A.M.

Wendy Testaburger:

          Wendy lay in bed, reading, waiting until the last possible minute when she absolutely had to put down her book and get out of bed.

          Many people believe that it is the air passing under the wings that supports the plane as it flies, she read. In fact, it is the air passing over the wings that provides the lift that keeps the airplane in the air.

          "Wendy!" Mom yelled from downstairs, barely audible through her bedroom door. "C'mon, gal, shake a leg!"

          Wendy sighed and looked up from her book at the posters around her bedroom. Amelia Earhart. Charles Lindbergh. Sally Ride. John Glenn. It was hard to believe that they all had to go to school, too.

          Wendy swung her legs out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. She didn't look forward to school much these last six months. There wasn't much to enjoy.

          Wendy leaned forward to wash her face with cold water. She brushed her teeth, rinsed her mouth, and cleared her throat.

          The guttural sound startles her. There was a hint of her voice in that sound and she had not heard her voice in the past six months.

          She remembered the day it happened. Leopold "Butters" Stotch, a kid who was in her eighth grade class, had brought to class some raspberry pies he had made at his grand parent's bakery.

          Butters had brought a wedge of pie for everyone in the class, but he put the biggest piece of pie on her desk.

          Butters smiled at her. He had a rather big head, and an annoying habit of humming loudly in class. He was a little slower than everyone else. It was no secret that he was "in love" with her.

          Everyday he tried to give her cards, stories, seashells and now this huge chunk of raspberry pie. She tried not to be mean, but sometimes he really got on her nerves

          "I don't like sweets" Wendy lied, pushing the pie back towards him.

          After school, Butters showed up at her house, something he had never done before.

          "I made you a whole pie" he said, grinning and holding it out to her "A whole pit made from yellow raspberries. They're gold. Gold is my favorite color"

         "Golden raspberries" Mom exclaimed. "Really how marvelous! I never heard of such a thing!"

          "We picked them in New Hampshire" Butters explained, still flashing that foolish grin. "In New Hampshire"

          "I told you I don't like pie" Wendy told Butters "I don't eat sweets. How many times do I have to tell you"

          Butters lowered his eyes and bit his lower lip.

          "Well, I certainly do!" Mom said, taking the pie from him, "Thank you Butters. I'm going to enjoy every bite"

           That was on October 28. Next morning her best friend Bebe Stevens phoned to tell her the news. Butters Stotch was dead.

          "He died in his sleep" Bebe had cried.

          "Oh my god" Wendy whispered into the telephone.

          Wendy stared at the TV, a stupid cop show. A detective had just handcuffed a suspect, and the man looked guilty: scruffy beard, haunted eyes, wild hair. The detective started to read the man his rights.

          "You have the right to remain silent" he began.

          "What does that mean?" the suspect interrupted.

          "It means you have the right to be quiet" the detective snapped "Now shut up and listen"

          Wendy was half-aware of Bebe's voice in her ear, talking into the telephone, but she couldn't get beyond those five words: The right to remain silent. She could see them in her head.

          "What happened?" Mom asked when Wendy put down the phone, and Wendy tried to answer. She tried to say it. Butters Stotch is dead. She reached deep inside herself to find those words but they were cold when she touched them. Frozen, she knew those words could never fly.

          Things got pretty crazy after that. Mom talked to her. Pleaded. Begged. Cried. Than night and for many nights after, Mom held Wendy in her arms. Mom wept and talked and begged some more.

          "Why won't you talk to your mother?" Mom asked.

          "I can't" Wendy wrote on a small pad of paper. Oh My God. God, her last word.

           Her father telephoned all the way from his cattle ranch in New Mexico. Wendy held the hone against her cheek and tried to picture him, the hat and expensive boots, while she listened to his voice.

          Mom set up appointments with counselors, psychologists, therapists. A specialist. She explained to Wendy and her mother that often this kind of reaction is caused by some kind of emotional trauma.

          The doorbell rang. It was Bebe, come to walk her to school.

          "Hi, Bebe" Mom greeted politely.

          "Hi, Mrs. Testaburger" Bebe smiled back.

          Mom turned back to look at Wendy. "You look terrific" She said, "You always look smashing in that skirt"

            Wendy leaned into Mom's hug.

          "Keep your eyes peeled on the way to school" Mom whispered in her ear. "Okay, honey? If you happen to spot that voice of yours. lying on the ground, well, just pick it up and bring it home".

          Wendy closed her eyes and nodded. Mom said the same with everyone morning. Word for word.