52 - How I Learned to Fly (9 page)

Shouts from other cars now. People pointing. Cheering. Waving. From almost
every car that drove by.

I walked faster. With my head down.

“Malibu Motors Flying Boy! Marv’s flying kid!” More shouts. “The flying
Johnson kid!”

I heard footsteps behind me.

I glanced back. A group of kids were following me. I started to jog.

“Flying Boy! Slow down!” They began chasing me. “Fly for us! Come on, take
off. Fly around the block!”

I broke into a run. I ducked behind some bushes until they passed. Then I
walked some more—keeping in the shadows.

I am going to be the most famous kid on earth, I thought, trying to cheer
myself up.

I am going to race in front of two billion people—and then my life will
never be the same again. I am going to be rich and famous.

Rich and famous.

My stomach tightened. All my muscles tensed.

Can I do it?

Can I race in front of two billion people?

And most important—
can I finally beat Wilson?

The day of the big race.

Mom, Dad, and I rode to the bottom of the Hollywood Hills. That’s where the
race would begin.

Wilson and I would take off from there. Then fly up to the HOLLYWOOD sign.
Then back down again.

Dad inched our car up to the grandstand.

Thousands of people had turned out to watch Wilson and me fly.

Thousands of people watched as our car drove up.

Their hands pressed against the car. Their staring eyes gawked at me through
the windows. A mass of bodies and faces inching along with us. So many people,
they blocked out the sunlight.

I sat in the back seat in darkness.

Staring at the faces gaping in at me.

Listening to their shouts.

That’s him! He’s here!

Are you nervous?

Can we talk to you before the race?

What did you eat for breakfast?

What are you going to do with all the money?

Will you come to our school and fly?

Are you from another planet?

“Hey!” Someone banged on the window—and I jumped. “Can I have your
autograph?” He banged again. I shrank back in my seat.

“Pretty exciting, huh?” Dad smiled in the rearview mirror.

Jack, we love you! Jack, you’re amazing! Jack—teach me how to fly!
Cries rang out all around me.

Dad parked the car.

The crowd pressed against the doors. Sealing us in. The car started to rock
under their weight.

My heart began to pound.

I grabbed onto the seat so tightly my knuckles turned white.

“Coming through. Stand aside.” A troop of policemen cleared a path to the
car.

The officers opened the door.

I didn’t move.

“Let’s go, Jack. It’s time!” Dad said.

On shaky legs, I stepped out of the car. A deafening roar rose up from the
crowd.

“Jack. Jack. Jack.” The chant thundered in my ears.

The policemen formed a barricade, holding the shouting, cheering, chanting
people back. I made my way to a big concrete platform built especially for the race.

Arms reached out—reached out to touch me. Hands grabbed at my sleeves.
Grabbed at my cape. Grabbed. Grabbed frantically. Pulled me toward them.

I struggled to walk. To pull free of the grasping hands.

The policemen tried to hold the crowd back—but people surged forward in a
heavy wave.

They broke through the policemen’s barrier.

Pressed against me.

Started to crush me.

I was drowning. Drowning in hands and legs and talking faces. A wave of panic
washed over me.

I lost Mom and Dad in the sea of bodies.

The crowd swept over me. Carried me with it.

Jack! Jack! Jack!
They shouted my name over and over.

“Mom! Dad!” I tried to cry out over the roar of the mob.

I couldn’t see.

I couldn’t breathe.

I gasped for air.

I—I’m not going to make it, I realized.

The crowd—it’s
swallowing
me. Swallowing me up…

Then I felt someone grab me under my shoulders. “This way, Jack.” Two
policemen guided me up the platform steps. Four other dark-uniformed officers
surrounded me.

When I reached the top, I took a deep breath—and gazed out at the people.
Thousands of people—stretching out for miles and miles.

“Jack!” Someone shoved a microphone in my face.

“Jack! Over here.” Another microphone.

Jack! Jack! Jack!
Hundreds of microphones suddenly appeared before me.

Cameras clicked. “Do you think you can win?” a reporter demanded.

“I—”

“When did you learn to fly?” Another reporter. “Three months—”

“What was in the secret recipe?” Another reporter.

Everyone asking questions—all at once. Cameras clicking.

JACK! JACK! JACK!
Everyone calling to me.

I broke into a heavy, cold sweat.

I tugged at the collar of my silver costume. Choking, I thought. It’s…
choking me.

The mob of people continued to call out my name.

And Wilson’s name.

I glanced over to the other side of the platform.

There he was. Wilson—in his glittering superhero outfit. Hands planted on
his hips. Chest puffed out. Laughing with the newspaper reporters. Smiling for
the magazine writers. Boasting to the TV cameras.

He LOVES this!
I realized. How could he? How could anyone like this?

“We are about to begin,” the announcer said to me as he waved Wilson over.

“This is it.” Wilson clapped me on the back. “I’m really sorry, Jackie.”

“Sorry for what?” I asked.

“Sorry to have to beat you in front of two billion people!” he hooted. “Good
luck, Jackie. You’ll need it.”

A striped-shirted referee asked us to shake hands before the race.

I shook Wilson’s hand—and tried to crush his fingers. But Wilson just grinned his horrible Wilson grin.

“The race is about to begin!” The announcer’s voice boomed over the enormous
loudspeaker.

The crowd had been roaring. But now the roar faded to a whisper of hushed
voices.

The referee lifted a starter’s pistol.

I took a deep breath—and held it.

I shut my eyes—and waited to hear the blast from the gun.

BANG!

The gunshot echoed in my ears.

I opened my eyes in time to watch Wilson take off. His cape swirled behind
him as he lifted toward the sky.

I raised my arms.

I leaped into the air.

And landed hard on my feet.

A shocked gasp rose up from the crowd.

I raised my arms again. They trembled as I pointed them to the sky.

I bent my knees. Then took a strong leap.

And landed with a loud
thud
on the concrete platform.

I could hear the gasps of the crowd. I could see their open mouths, their
wide eyes. Stunned. They were all stunned.

I tried again.

Nothing.

I glanced up to see Wilson soaring high, nearing the big HOLLYWOOD sign.

“I—I can’t fly!” I cried out. “I can’t fly anymore. I’ve lost it! It’s
gone!”

Dad jumped onto the stage. His face was frantic. “Try again! Try, Jack! Keep
trying!”

I took a long, deep breath.

I planted my feet together.

I bent my knees and with all my might—I sprang up.

And came down.

Nothing.

No use.

“I’ve lost it!” I cried. “I can’t fly anymore! I can’t fly!”

I gazed up and saw Wilson soar over the HOLLYWOOD sign, turn, and start back.

Wilson wins again, I told myself. Wilson wins again.

As the summer passed, we didn’t see much of Wilson. He was busy flying all
the time. His TV show was on every week. And he made dozens of flying
appearances all over the country.

In the fall, he had to leave Malibu Middle School because he was always
traveling. Always making flying appearances. Always working, working. On the
run.

I saw on the TV news that the army follows him wherever he goes, doing
experiments on him. Trying to figure out how to get other people to fly.

When Wilson is home, he’s too tired to see his old friends. Mia says it
doesn’t matter. She says hanging out with me is much more fun.

I’m back to my old normal life. Morty is too. He finally came out of his
doghouse. And he doesn’t float off the ground anymore—not since I tied a
two-pound dog tag to his collar.

Ethan and Ray and I are going to a Lakers game tonight. And tomorrow, Mia invited me to go to a Purple Rose concert
with her. Next weekend we’re taking tennis lessons together.

We never talk about the big race and how Wilson won.

We never talk about flying at all.

I’ve kept my secret from Mia. I’ve kept my secret from everyone.

I’ve never told
anyone
that I can still fly.

And I’ve never told anyone that I only
pretended
to lose my flying
ability that morning of the race.

Yes. You heard me. I only pretended.

I
let
Wilson win the race.

Why?

Because I knew that was the only way I could win.

That was the only way I could get all those thousands of people out of my
life. It was the only way I could get my friends back. The only way I could get
my normal life back. The only way I could be happy.

I told you. I’m not the kind of kid who likes to enter contests. I don’t like
to compete. I don’t care about winning.

So, I’m really lucky. Because even though I don’t care about winning—I won
after all.

Sometimes, very late at night, I sneak out of the house. And I fly over
Malibu, high over the ocean. I gaze down on the waves sparkling in the moonlight. I soar with the winds and sail up toward the moon, feeling the
cool ocean breezes on my face.

And I think about how lucky I am.

And how smart.

And I wish Wonder Wilson a lot of luck.

Really….

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