Also Known as Rowan Pohi (16 page)

"I'm Bronwyn," she said, flashing me a dazzling smile.

In the old days it would have been terrifying to be talking up close and personal to a hottie like that. But now I calmly smiled back at her.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Bobby."

A week later Nardone passed back the essays we'd written on
To Kill a Mockingbird.
I got an A-minus. Bronwyn got a C-minus.

"Writing is not my thing," she whispered when she saw me glance over at her. "I plan it out, but every time my sentences get all knotted up. I wish somebody could help me untangle them."

She looked at me hopefully.

I saw the opportunity but decided to let it pass. "You should check out the writing center. They're open every day after school."

"Oh, okay," Bronwyn said.

I knew I was doing the right thing; still, I mentally sighed, seeing the disappointment in her eyes.

So all in all, my life is solid. I climbed back into my old name—
Hello, Bobby
—and I really like who I am, for the most part. I have a job, friends at two different schools, and a little brother who needs me. Throckmorton says I've got a decent chance of making varsity as a wide receiver. I'm focused. Gradewise, I intend to kick some serious butt at Whitestone. I went to the guidance department and met with Mr. Nylander. He said if I do well at Whitestone I have a great shot at getting accepted to a good college.

As for Dad and me, well, things aren't always perfect, but we know how to make it work. He's been extra busy lately. With the bad economy, people are hanging on to their old cars longer, so business has never been better at his garage. I'm trying to cut him a little slack, to stop mentally correcting him when his grammar gets messed up. He is who he is.

I think about Rowan Pohi more often than you might expect. He was kind of like an imaginary friend, but he was also more than that, much more. He will always have a special place in my heart. Some nights while I'm running or in the moments before I fall asleep, I laugh out loud when I think of the stunts he pulled, walking into Whitestone on a wing and a prayer and a fake ID. That kid had balls. I guess we both did.

I'm grateful to Rowan. I really am. I couldn't have done it without him.

Fig Pudding
Spider Boy
Flying Solo

 

Please enjoy this sample chapter of
Flying Solo.

Rachel 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.

"Rachel!" Mom yelled. "C'mon, gal, shake a leg!"

Rachel 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.

Rachel 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, except for Mr. Fabiano. He was by far the greatest teacher she had ever had. Smart and funny. And simply gorgeous, with black-black eyes that could always find a place deep inside her. She had a crush on him, all right, not that she was alone. Most of the other sixth-grade girls had crushes on "Mr. Fab."

She would never call him that nickname. No way. It made her think of Fab laundry detergent. She would always think of him as Mr. Fabiano.

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

The guttural sound startled 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. Tommy Feathers, a kid in her sixth-grade class, had brought to class some raspberry pies he'd made at his parents' bakery. Tommy had brought a wedge of pie for everyone, but he put the biggest piece of pie on her desk.

Tommy smiled at her. He had a rather big head, and an annoying habit of humming loudly in class. He was a little slow-already he had been kept back twice, so he was two years older than anybody else in sixth grade. It was no secret that he was in love with her. Every day 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," she said, pushing the pie back toward him.

After school Tommy 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 pie made from yellow raspberries. They're like 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," Tommy explained, still flashing that foolish grin. "In New Hampshire."

"I told you I don't like pie," Rachel told Tommy. "I don't eat sweets. How many times do I have to tell you?"

Tommy lowered his eyes and bit his lower lip.

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

That was on October 28. Next morning her best friend Missy phoned to tell her the news. Tommy Feathers was dead.

"He died in his sleep," Missy said.

"Oh my God," Rachel whispered into the telephone.

She 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."

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

"What happened?" Mom asked when Rachel put down the phone, and Rachel tried to answer. She tried to say it-
Tommy Feathers is dead-
she reached deep down 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. That night, and for many nights after, Mom held Rachel in her arms. Mom wept and talked and begged some more.

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

"
I can't,
" Rachel wrote on a small pad of paper.

Oh my God.
Her last word:
God.

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

"I don't get it," he said. "A boy in your class dies and you stop talking. It makes no sense. What's the connection?"

Rachel breathed into the phone.

Mom set up appointments with counselors, psychologists, therapists. A specialist named Dr. Bang-Jansen diagnosed her as a
selective mute: a
person who chooses not to speak. She explained to Rachel and her mother that often this kind of reaction is caused by some kind of profound emotional trauma.

"The condition is temporary," Dr. Bang-Jansen said. "Usually."

Sometimes Mom wrote notes, too. They'd make a pot of tea and sit at the kitchen table, both of them silent, writing back and forth.

I'm so worried about you.

I'm okay, Mom.

Your father said it is as if your voice died along with that poor boy. I told him: Her voice isn't dead-it's only sleeping.

Maybe.

Or maybe it's just frozen. There must be some way to thaw it out.

Writing notes back and forth helped to reas-sure Mom a tiny bit. But now there was a panicky light in her eyes.

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

"Hi, Missy," Mom said.

"Hi, Mrs. White," Missy said.

Mom turned back to look at Rachel.

"You look terrific," she said. "You always look smashing in that skirt."

Rachel leaned into Mom's hug.

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

Rachel closed her eyes and nodded. Mom said the same thing, word for word, every morning.

 

Visit your favorite store to purchase the book.

 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN HARCOURT