“Ow!” I yelp, jumping back and cradling my hand, certain I was standing too close to the plane and whacked it against the tail.
But no. There stands George, a frown on his face and his palm rubbing the center of his chest.
My god, was that rock-hard obstructionhim?
“I didn’t know you were standing there.” I sound defensive to my own ears.
He shrugs, then stares at me. “I’m a flight instructor.”
“You’re…wait, what?” My brain struggles to shift from combat mode to this new avenue of conversation. “I thought you worked for BBN.”
“I do.” He drops his hand, apparently recovered from my inadvertent attack. “Being an instructor is a side gig.”
“Okay.” I shift from foot to foot. “Good for you.”
He sighs, his jaw tensing as he stares over my shoulder. “I could beyourinstructor.”
Well don’t sound too excited, I want to snark at him.
Then his words register.
“What?”
He frowns. “Do you know the steps required to get a pilot’s license?”
“Yes.” I’ve looked them up multiple times over the years just to make sure I had them right.
Ground school, which I’d have to do in my quickly dwindling free time. I could maybe get it done in six months.
When I was younger, I remember instances of Mom taking me to the public library on her days off. I was confused when she said she had schoolwork, only understanding when I got older that she was working on a business degree through an online college. That was back when she still thought she might return to the corporate world. But plans changed.
A few times I’ve started studying for ground school, but I knew that all the information would seep out of my brain if I couldn’t apply it in a practical setting.
And that’s where I run into my main problem.
Flight time with an instructor. Most won’t take on a student until they finish ground school. Like they need proof you’re serious. And when they do take you on, it costs money.
An amount that a guy who owns three airplanes and a helicopter probably thinks is chump change but for me could mean the difference between having a house or having it foreclosed on.
“Shawn said you wanted to get your pilot’s license.”
Damn me for leaving that study book in my bag at our last book club. My brother is such a snoop.
“I do.”
“Good.” George gives one nod. “I’ll be your instructor.”
I gape at him. Then I snap my jaw shut and try not to seethe. The last time this guy saw me, I was halfway through my ten-hour diner shift. Can’t he make the minuscule mental leap that maybe I don’t have the funds to make flying an airplane my expensive hobby?
“I can’t pay for it,” I grit out. “For lessons. And all that.” Because it’s not just the instructor. It’s renting the plane and the fuel. There’s a reason the pilot demographic skews middle- to upper-class. Those are the ones who can afford it.
George, in all his rich, white maleness, tilts his head as if confused.
But before I tear into him, I remember that his assumptions may not be purely based off ignorance.
He thinks I’ll soon have a trust fund payout.
Which, yes, would make me continuing to claim I’m low on funds confusing.
