“Oh my god,” says Diana, cupping her right ear. “It’s real.”
“Are you sure the buckle doesn’t work, Fran?” asks Will.
“I’m sure,” she says.
“Maybe we can try screaming again,” you say. “And jumping around because…”
“WAIT!” yells Will. “Wait a second.”
He pauses only for a moment, and then he takes off faster than you’ve seen him move in days. It’s like one last shuttle run. Only this time, he doesn’t freeze or lose his cool. And you watch as he cautiously approaches Troy’s body. He’s saying something to Troy, but you can’t hear what it is. You only see him reach into the pocket of Troy’s pants and remove something. It takes you a minute to figure out what it is, but when he finally holds it aloft, you could almost cry.
The collapsible whisk.
The one your mother packed you. The one Troy wielded like an Arthurian sword. When it hits the sun, the light reflects off the stainless steel of its handle and lingers in your vision like a lens flare from a camera. Will reaches down and puts a hand on Troy’s chest. He holds it there and says something else. Then he runs back to you, whisking at the air around him.
“Hestillhad it?” you say.
“I knew he would,” says Will. “Dude wouldn’t let go of that thing, remember?”
“What did you say to him?” asks Fran.
Will runs a hand through his hair.
“I told him I’d bring it right back,” he says. “And that his friends wouldn’t let him down.”
You all nod. But the sound of the engine is getting closer, and if you want to give this a real try, you need to find some room to get the light through the trees. Against all instincts, you start to run north where the fire was moving. It’s the path this plane is likely to take. Will passes the whisk to Fran like a baton, and she cups it perfectly. You move through the desiccated forest like a herd of gazelles, using inexplicable energy to jump fallen trees and rocks. Until finally, you stand at the bottom of a small rocky cliff. It looms above you. The top looks treeless, and you know in your soul that it’s the perfect spot to try the signal.
“Jesus,” says Fran. “I can’t climb that.”
You look back at Diana and Will, and they both stare at the almost-sheer face. It’s not a mountain. But it’s mountainlike. And strength is running low.
“Give me the whisk,” you say. “And tell me what to do.”
Fran hands it to you faster than you thought she would, and you stuff it in your pocket. Then she breaks it down for you. She talks fast, but you catch the gist: Hold it to your eye. Try to aim it.
“How will I know if it’s aimed right?” you say.
“You won’t, really,” says Fran. “You just have to try your best.”
Before you can think carefully about any of this, you reach out and grab at the wall of the cliff. You find a foothold, and you pull yourself a few feet in the air. It’s just like climbing up on the garage, you tell yourself. But you’re already shaking. So you close your eyes, and in your head you start a conversation with the one person you knew who wasn’t afraid of heights. Maybe, youthink, he won’t want to see you. But maybe, he won’t be able to resist doing what he once did best: helping you through a tough situation.
Sean, you say.I don’t know if this is a good time, or if you even forgive me, but I need you.
You look above you, and there seems to be another hold to reach for; you just don’t know where you’re going to put your feet. The engine sound is getting closer, and you’ve barely made a start.
I have to climb this cliff. But as you might remember, I’m not so good with heights.
You close your eyes and reach for the rock. You grip it with your palm, which still has some numbness. Then you move a boot up and press it against the rock. The rubber holds.
How did you do this so many times? Jumping. Diving. You were never afraid.
The plane is not yet above you, but it’s making the fan noise again. The one that signals it’s getting closer. You can’t bring yourself to look up, afraid you’ll lose your footing. So again, you reach, and this time, you find a stray root to grab on to. When you grip it, it holds.
Do you remember that time when we were kids, running through the backyards of the neighborhood, playing Capture the Flag? You climbed this tall chain-link fence and left me below. I was too scared to climb up.
You have to look down to make sure your foot is on an edge. Somehow, you’re already ten feet in the air. Your stomach lurches. You want to let go and just drop. You wouldn’t hurt yourself too badly yet.
I was little. Maybe six. I tried not to cry. And I looked up at you balanced on the very top. You looked so brave, surveying the neighborhood like it was your kingdom.
