When I Could Fly
Most little girls dream of being Wendy; flying off to NeverLand on the wings of pixie dust. I dreamed of being Peter Pan. Maybe because of the sea green album in the bin of my Nana’s stereo console showing a picture of Mary Martin in the starring role; why settle for being Wendy when I could be the leader of the Lost Boys. Or anyone else, I suppose. Sometimes I would give it a try — flying — just in case the skill had shown up in my sleep. I would climb to the top of the jungle gym at the playground and leap off…only to thud into the dirty sand below. Slowly I realized that, although I didn’t have magic pixie dust, I could still think lovely thoughts. If I could do that, I could fly. If I could fly, I could escape.
I needed to escape because some of the kids who lived in my building made it kind of difficult for me to get home. I don’t think they meant to hurt me. After all, children are “innocent and heartless” if you believe Mr. J. M. Barrie. I don’t know why they targeted me with their pockets full of pebbles or mouths full of meanness. I was a normal kid. Not ugly or anything. Nana said I was “pleasantly plump.” That didn’t sound too bad to me. I lived with my Nana because my mother was always in the hospital and my father was, well, I didn’t know where he was. Nana and I spent all of our time together after she got home from work: drinking glasses of cold milk colored pink with a plate full of chocolate chip cookies — our specialty. We read stories after supper, sewed buttons on my sweaters or watered the plants in the window box on the fire escape. On the days I got home before Nana, I had to get into the building without getting pelted with rocks or words. It wasn’t easy, but one day I had a brilliant plan. Worthy of Peter himself, I thought.
Our apartment building was only about four blocks from school, so getting home was easy. No one knew the shortcuts through the alleys and over fences like I did. That’s where I always lost my buttons — climbing over the wire fences. It was walking up to the front door that was the hardest. One time, Mrs. George from the fourth floor yelled down from her window, “Stop tormenting that girl, you rascals!” They yelled back, “We were only playing a trick on her! We didn’t mean it! Sorry!” That’s what they told her. They never told me they were sorry. My plan was, if I went around back to the fire escape, instead of having to go in the front door, I could climb up and get into our apartment through the window. Of course, flying would make it so much easier, but if I could grab the ladder and drag it down, I could get up to the sixth floor so fast, it would be a little like flying.
I remember that day so well. I ducked around to the back of the building; I had left our window open — just a crack — so Nana wouldn’t notice. I was thinking lovely thoughts all the way home — seeing Mom when she got home from the hospital, reading the new books from the library with Nana after supper, baking chocolate chip cookies for dessert — just to give me an extra flying boost if I needed it. When I got to the fire escape — I couldn’t believe it! The ladder was already pulled down! I climbed up and up until I got to my floor. I couldn’t believe how high up I was…it was so beautiful up there. I put my book bag down and reached for the window and — Whoosh! The window swooped open and a loud noise like yelling and laughing came from inside my apartment! I screamed and lost my footing and stumbled backward. Before I could grab anything, I tipped right over the fire escape. Then, I really was flying. The sun was shining in my eyes and the air was still and quiet and there wasn’t anything scary or loud. Then it all stopped and went dark.
I don’t fly anymore. But I don’t have to escape, either. My Nana took care of me for as long as she could, but now others do. Maybe I’m too old to fly now, like Wendy. But once I flew, and it was like magic.