Читать книгу The Night Flyer's Handbook 2-Book Bundle - Philippa Dowding - Страница 8

I run down that hallway as fast as I can and burst into the staff supply room, the nearest room I can find with a lock on the door. It’s really odd, running without touching the ground. It feels a little like when you try to run in those bouncy inflatable castles you find at rich kids’ birthday parties, or at the town fair.

I slam the door and lock it behind me. Technically, I’m not supposed to be in the staff supply room, but this is an emergency. Gail Todd came in here last year when she had her period and didn’t want everyone to know. I figure this is at least as serious as that.

I hold on to the door handle, not sure what to do. I’m breathing fast and my heart is pounding. To make matters worse, my feet gently start to float toward the ceiling. I don’t want to let go of the handle for anything, so I float horizontally for a while, then as my feet rise toward the ceiling, I’m head down with my toes pointing skyward. It isn’t very comfortable. As the blood rushes to my head, I start to feel dizzy, so I have to let go of the door handle.

As soon as my body is free, it floats lazily toward the ceiling, where it bounces around for a few moments, then settles gently, bumping up and down against the ceiling tiles.

I realize that I’m now talking about my body like an “it,” like it’s no longer connected to the rest of me. But that’s what it feels like. As if my body is totally in charge, and I’m just going along for the ride.

Which I guess I am.

I edge away from the hot light fixture on the ceiling. No sense getting third degree burns all over me. I look around.

The supply room is where the teachers get their extra pencils and paper and their classroom supplies for arts and crafts. It’s filled with shelves of coloured paper and huge, econo-sized buckets of non-toxic paint. It’s also filled with strange classroom leftovers, like giant papier-mâché puppets that were too good to throw away, but not good enough to display in the school foyer.

This is why, as I float around on the ceiling, I come face-to-face with a huge clown puppet that the grade nines made for a play last year. The clown was creepy then. It’s even creepier now, looming out at me, grinning in the dark. A red nose, pointed eyebrows, and huge red mouth grin as I spin by in the air current.

“What’s so funny?” I demand as I float by, but I suddenly worry that the clown is going to giggle and answer me in clown-rhyme: “TEE HEE HEE! You’re a freak, Gwendolyn Golden, just like MEEEE!”

That would likely finish me off for good.

After that, I just try to avoid the stupid clown.

I float for about half an hour. I’m beginning to wonder if I will slowly deflate, like a helium balloon, before I can touch down again. It took my little brother’s Batman balloon almost three days to deflate and sink to the ground last Halloween.

I can’t wait three days. I’m starting to get a little panicky. What am I going to do?

Finally there’s a knock on the door and I hear our principal, Mrs. Abernathy, calling through the crack.

“Hello? Are you in there, Gwendolyn?” Mrs. Abernathy says.

She sounds very sympathetic and nice. I’ve always liked her. She’s really good in a crisis. Once she had to take Christopher to the hospital when he needed stitches in kindergarten, and my mom had to meet them there. But this isn’t exactly a case of stitches. A crisis, perhaps, but probably not one that can be fixed with a quick visit to the hospital. Although that would be nice.

“Uh, yes! It’s me in here,” I say. I hope she doesn’t notice that my voice is coming from the ceiling.

“Oh, is everything all right, dear?”

I can sense the worry in her voice. I reach out to steady myself, and as soon as I touch the door, I crash to the ground. It must have been loud, because I hear her gasp.

She rattles the doorknob. “Gwendolyn! Gwen! Are you okay?” she calls.

I stand up, brush off my shirt and jeans, straighten my long hair, and open the door.

Mrs. Abernathy and Mr. Marcus are both standing there.

“Are you okay, Gwen? We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Mr. Marcus says. He really sounds worried.

“Yeah, I think I’m fine now. I should go home, though.”

The truth is that I feel fantastic. I try to look like I have been throwing up (but I don’t have to lie because no one asks me if I did or didn’t), but I actually feel incredible, better than I have in ages.

I can’t explain it, but floating around on the ceiling seems to agree with me.