Читать книгу The Night Flyer's Handbook 2-Book Bundle - Philippa Dowding - Страница 24

You’d think that after a night like that, I’d lie wide awake worrying, or at least wondering about myself.

But I don’t. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I fall into the deepest sleep of my life. I don’t dream either. I just sleep, and sleep, and sleep some more.

I wake up really late, in my bed and not on the ceiling for the first time since this began. Mom must have let me sleep in. The sun is blazing into my room like a sun lamp, shining right on my face. Cassie is sitting looking at me, whining. That’s what finally wakes me up.

She needs to go out to go pee. She has that look on her face.

I roll over and listen. The house is quiet, so my mom and the twins are out. They probably let me sleep in while they went out for pancakes. It’s a regular Saturday family date, but these days I don’t go with them very often.

Or at least not as often as I used to. Sometimes Mom makes me go, and sometimes she doesn’t.

Today, she doesn’t, which is probably just as well. I have a lot to think about, and it’s pretty much impossible to think at breakfast with the twins. And besides, I’m still not sure I won’t start floating around at the Pancake House, which would be quite interesting for the Saturday morning pancake crowd, maybe, but not so great for me.

Cassie whines again, licks her nose, and wiggles. She really has to go, and I don’t want to start the day by cleaning up one of her accidents. I really don’t want to start the day by tackling the handbook either, but even if I want to I can’t. I have to get up and do my paper route.

“Okay, okay, let’s go,” I say. I am feeling pretty great, though. Once again, I wake up with tons of energy, even though I was up so late, or early, that I barely got any sleep at all. It takes some getting used to.

Cassie roars out the bedroom door ahead of me and hustles downstairs. My dog is a little overweight and getting on in dog years, so you can hear her thump on every stair she goes down.

She is waiting beside the front door when I get there. I manage to put on some shorts and a T-shirt. I don’t worry too much about my hair, since I never do. I take down her leash then grab a banana and a juice box. I know I’m way too old to be drinking from a juice box, but they are in the fridge on account of the Chrissies, and I have to admit, they do come in handy.

Then we head outside. It is without a doubt the most beautiful morning I ever remember. The sun is shining, it’s not too hot, and the fruit trees are all out in full bloom. The lilac trees are waving in the morning sunlight, and even the grass is greener than usual. The town looks clean and fresh and smells great, like it just got out of a hot bath and got scrubbed fresh all over.

But now I have a secret about my town. I can love it in the daytime, like everyone else. And I can love it at night, too, when no one else is around. I know what everyone’s front lawn looks like from the treetops, because I’ve been there. I know what gardens, and cars, and the street, and the neighbour’s rooftop looks like, because I’m the float boat and I’ve seen it all from a fresh new point of view, like a bird sees it. I’ll never look at crows the same way.

I go to the bottom of the driveway and pull open my bag of papers to deliver. It’s the local newspaper, filled with stories about the high-school hockey team or retiring police officers. That kind of stuff. I roll and stack them in my old wagon, then I tie Cassie’s leash to the handle and we go along the street to deliver papers. Every Saturday morning I remember that I’m a little old to be pulling a wagon, and I should really save up for a buggy like everybody else.

I toss a paper to the first house: Mrs. Alpen. (She’s old and likes to rock in her armchair on the front porch. She’s there now. I wave, but she doesn’t. She never does. I always wave, anyway, hoping one day she’ll surprise me and wave back.)

I flew last night.

I toss the second paper to the next house: Mr. and Mrs. Peter Shanly. (He’s the local dentist, she’s got a load of kids to look after, five and counting.)

I flew last night, because I am a Night Flyer, or a skylark, or whatever you want to call me.

I toss the third paper: Mal Pete. (He is really Malcolm Pete and hates being called “Mal” but the label on the newspaper was typed in wrong and they never fixed it. Mal means “sick” in French.)

I can fly.

I keep tossing papers all morning and keep talking to myself about what happened to me.

What’s happening to me. The more I say it to myself, the easier it is to say. And the easier it is to say, the truer it seems.

I’m a Night Flyer. A skylark. I can fly.

After I deliver all the papers, I take my wagon back to my street, and I see Mr. McGillies coming toward me pushing his crazy bottle cart. He’s humming to himself. When he gets close enough I say, “Hey, Mr. McGillies!” but he just keeps on walking like he doesn’t hear me.

I try again, louder this time. “Hey, Mr. McGillies, over here. It’s me, Gwennie!” I really want to add, “You know, the skylark,” but I don’t. He knows. It would be kind of nice to say out loud, though.

But again, it’s like he doesn’t hear me. So I run over to him, dragging my wagon and Cassie behind me, and stop in front of him.

“Hey, Mr. McGillies, it’s me, Gwennie, the skylark,” I say, quietly.

But he just looks at me and blinks. “Gwennie? Gwennie? Not sure who you are, ma’am, but you’re in my way!” He pushes past me with his shopping cart rattling.

Now, that’s odd. That’s very odd. Mr. McGillies has always said hello to me before, every day of my life, if I say hello to him first.

So I run up to him again, and say, “Hey. What’s wrong with you? It’s me. Gwennie Golden! The girl from this street!”

I’m a little mad and suddenly a bit scared. Why is he pretending he doesn’t know who I am?

He stops and looks at me. Then he says really slow, “I don’t see any girl named Gwennie. I just see a whole new grown-up person named Gwendolyn. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He looks at me steadily and I must look like I’m going to cry, because I see him wink.

It takes just a second, but it’s enough to remind me that I haven’t changed so much.

I’m a Night Flyer who had her first flight, and I’m Gwendolyn. But I’m still Gwennie. I’m not changed so much from yesterday.

His wink tells me that. I’m growing up. Grown up. But not so much. Not yet.

Not so you wouldn’t recognize me.