Читать книгу The Night Flyer's Handbook 2-Book Bundle - Philippa Dowding - Страница 18

But after a while, Jez’s arms get tired and she has to let me go. I bob back up to the ceiling.

It takes about half an hour for me to stop floating, so Jez and I just stay in the staff washroom chatting. It gets kind of normal having my best friend sitting on the floor of the teachers’ washroom with me up on the ceiling, talking about old times. It’s sort of like when you’re sick and miss a lot of school, and your friend comes over when you’re getting better, to talk and bring you back into the world.

We both notice that no one ever seems to use the staff washroom, because no one comes knocking. We also notice it’s a lot cleaner than the girls’ bathroom. We hear people walking around in the hallway outside, but no one seems to be looking for me. Maybe after yesterday’s experience in English, the teachers have decided to leave me alone if I start acting all crazy. Maybe they think it might be better that way, since no one wants to deal with crazy Gwennie Golden when she’s having one of her screaming fits.

No one except Jez.

I float around for a bit, then as we laugh and talk and Jez gets kind of used to me up on the ceiling, I slowly float back down to Earth.

After that little episode in gym class, though, I notice people avoid me more than usual. All afternoon, kids dart little glances at me, then look away. They all think I have anger issues, anyway. I’m not exactly the most level-headed kid in the school at the best of times. Now and then I do blow up at someone for no real reason. So even without me flying around the room, people usually say things like “It’s about her dad” when they’re talking about me.

But they’re way off on that.

It’s not about him.

It’s really about the fact that I’m flying around and I don’t know how to stop. That’s really what’s going on here.

When I am firmly on the ground again, Jez and I leave the washroom and go back to the principal’s office. We have to sign ourselves back into our next class, which is math. As we are getting our late slips, Mrs. Abernathy comes out of her office and calls to us. We walk over to her and she says, “Gwendolyn, Jez, I hear there was some excitement in gym class.”

That’s what she always calls trouble, “excitement.” We both look at her. If only she knew how truly exciting it was, or could have been if I’d broken free of Jez’s vice grip and floated to the ceiling of the gym in front of everyone.

I have a sudden image of myself bobbing against the light fixtures, way up on the gym ceiling, with all the kids down below me, laughing and pointing. The custodians would have to get the big outdoor ladder, the one they use to get soccer balls off the roof, to try to get me down. Maybe that wouldn’t be big enough, though, and they’d have to get the lifesaving extendable hooks from the pool to try to grapple me back down.

I suddenly imagine the school custodian and his assistant lassoing my arms and legs with ropes. They’d say useful things like, “Easy with her now, don’t let her head bounce too much.” Or, “Watch her legs don’t hit the window, we don’t want to break it.” And other helpful things like that.

And maybe even that wouldn’t work, and they’d finally have to call the fire department, like when a cat gets stuck in a tree. I suddenly imagine firemen in their suits with masks on, breathing loudly like Darth Vader and edging slowly toward me on their special electric ladder, gloves out, ready to pluck me from my perch.

It’s a funny image. It’s so funny that unfortunately I start to giggle. Mrs. Abernathy is kind, though, and has a motherly look on her face.

“It’s not terribly funny, Gwendolyn. If you need to leave the classroom again, please ask permission before running from the room. You may both get changed and go back to class now.”

Oh, I think it’s funny. It’s hilarious.

I’m going to grow up to be a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.