How I Learned to Fly Read online

  Then I staggered the rest of the way up. Hurtled to the door. And out. Out into the fresh air. Gasping. My heart pounding. Sucking in breath after breath of the salty ocean air.

  I ran all the way home. I didn’t stop until I came to my house. Panting hard, I collapsed on the front lawn.

  I stared into the living-room window. The lamps glowed through the sheer white drapes. I could see Mom and Dad inside.

  I started to go in—when I realized that I still clutched the book.

  Uh-oh. I knew that Mom and Dad would be upset if they knew I took something that didn’t belong to me. Worse than that, they’d start asking me a thousand questions:

  Where did you get the book?

  What were you doing in that abandoned house?

  Why weren’t you at the party?

  I can’t let them see it, I decided.

  My wet sneakers squeaked across the lawn as I made my way around back to the garage.

  I stepped carefully inside. We have the most cluttered garage in town. My dad likes to collect things. Lots of things. We can’t get our car inside the garage anymore. We can’t even close the door.

  I made my way around a dentist’s spit-sink and the aluminum steps to Mrs. Green’s old swimming pool. I hid the book inside a torn mattress, then went into the house.

  “Jack, is that you?” Mom called from the kitchen.

  “Uh-huh,” I answered, jogging upstairs before she saw me. I didn’t want to explain my wet, muddy shorts. Shorts that weren’t even mine!

  “How was the party?” Mom called.

  “Um. Okay,” I called back. “I left a little early.”

  * * *

  “We’ll be back tonight, Jack.” Dad met me on the front lawn. It was the next morning, and Mom and Dad were getting ready to leave on an all-day trip.

  Dad patted me on the shoulder. “This is going to be our lucky trip. The BIG one. The really BIG one. I can feel it.”

  Dad is always saying that. He’s a talent agent. But he doesn’t have any really big acts. Nobody famous. Just a few actors with small parts. One plays a train conductor on a TV show. Every week he has the same line. “All aboard.” That’s it. “All aboard.” Week after week.

  And he is Dad’s most famous client.

  So Dad spends most of his time searching for the BIG one. The act that will become famous and make Dad a lot of money.

  Today Mom and Dad were driving to Anaheim to listen to a new musical group.

  “I hope they’re normal,” I said to Dad. Last week a real wild one auditioned for Dad. She played a Beethoven symphony by banging on her head. After two notes, she knocked herself out—and Dad had to take her to the hospital.

  “No. This group sent me a tape.” Dad’s eyes lit up. “And they sound really great.”

  Mom hurried out of the house and headed toward the car. “Come on, Ted,” she called to Dad. “We don’t want to be late. I left dinner in the fridge for you, Jack. See you later!”

  Morty and I watched Mom and Dad drive off. We played catch with a Frisbee—until the phone rang.

  It was Mia.

  “I—I’m sorry I ruined your party,” I stammered.

  “No problem,” she replied cheerfully. “You didn’t ruin my party at all. We all went back inside and had a great time.”

  “Oh. Okay. So—what are you doing today?” I asked. “Want to go Rollerblading?”

  I love Rollerblading. I can speed around sharp turns on one foot. And I skate faster than everyone in the whole neighborhood—including Wilson.

  “Sure! That’s why I called!” she exclaimed. “Wilson got these new blades. With balls underneath instead of wheels. They’re much faster than the regular kind.”

  “Oh. I just remembered. I can’t go skating,” I told her. “I have to stay home and—water the plants.”

  Mia hung up.

  I peeked out through the living room window. I watched Wilson’s house across the street. Waited for Wilson to leave—with his new, stupid in-line skates.

  A few seconds later, he sped down his driveway and rolled down the block in a blur.

  I let out a long sigh and shuffled outside.

  “Come on, Morty!” I snatched the Frisbee from the lawn. “Catch, boy!”

  I tossed the Frisbee.

  Morty let it soar over his head.

  He didn’t budge.

  Great. Now what?

  “Hey! Morty—I know. Let’s go find that big book I brought home.”

  Morty followed me to the garage. I slipped my hands into the lumpy mattress and pulled it out. I lugged the book into the kitchen.

  I started to read it—and gasped in amazement.

  “Morty—I don’t believe this!”

  “Wow! Morty! I can fly!”

  Morty cocked his furry head at me.

  “I know it sounds weird, boy. But it says so right here!” I pointed to the page I was reading. “Humans can fly!”

  Wait a minute. Am I crazy? Have I totally lost it? People cannot fly.

  Morty jumped up on a kitchen chair. He stared down at the book. At a picture of a young girl. With arms stretched out to her sides, she sailed through the air—her long, blond hair flowing behind her.

  Morty glanced up at me. Peered back down at the page. Then he whimpered and bolted from the room.

  “Come back, Morty. Don’t you want to learn to fly?” I laughed. “Morty—The First and Only Flying Dog!”

  I turned back to the book and read:

  “For as long as humans have walked the earth, they have yearned to fly. To float like an angel. To glide like a bat. To soar like a mighty bird of prey.

  “All a dream. A hopeless dream—until now.

  “The ancient secret of human flight is a simple one.

  “You need only three things: the daring to try, an imagination that soars, and a good mixing bowl.”

  Hey—! I stared at the page. I had those things. Maybe I should give it a try. I had nothing better to do today.

  I read on.

  There, on the next page, the book told exactly what you needed to do to fly.

  It gave some exercises to practice. And a magical mixture you had to eat.

  Learn the Motion, Eat the Potion—that’s what it said.

  Finally it gave an ancient chant to recite.

  And that was it. The secret of flying—right there.

  Yeah, right. I rolled my eyes.

  I scanned the list of ingredients I would need to make the potion. The main ingredient was yeast—“because yeast rises.”

  Hmmm. Yeast does rise. Maybe this really would work. Maybe I really could learn to fly.

  If I could—it would be awesome. I would soar through the sky—just like my superheroes.

  I could fly, I thought dreamily as I searched the pantry for the yeast. Something Wilson couldn’t do in a million years!

  And, boy, would Mia be impressed.

  I could hear her now. “Oh, wow! Oh, wow! Oh, wow!” she would scream as I flew into the sky, leaving Wilson down on the ground—like a bug.

  I’m going to do it right now! I’m going to learn how to fly!

  Of course I knew it was crazy. But what if it worked? What if it really worked?

  I turned to the page with the exercises. “Step One,” I read out loud. “Hold your arms straight out in front of you. Bend your knees slightly. Now take fifty little hops in this position.”

  I did it. I felt like an idiot, but I did it.

  “Step Two. Sit on the floor. Place your left foot on your right shoulder. Then lift your right leg and tuck it behind your head.”

  This was harder to do. A lot harder. I tugged my left foot up until it reached my shoulder. A sharp pain shot down my side. But I wasn’t giving up.

  I lifted my right leg up, up, up to my chin—then I lost my balance and rolled onto my back!

  I tried it again. This time I rolled to the side.

  Learning to fly wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

&
nbsp; I tried one more time—and got it.

  But now I was stuck—all twisted up. My left foot perched on my right shoulder, with my toes jammed in my ears. My other foot pressed against the back of my head—shoving my face into my chest.

  I struggled to untangle myself.

  I stopped struggling when I heard someone laugh.

  And realized I wasn’t alone.

  “What … are … you … doing?”

  “Ray, is that you?” I tried to look up, but I couldn’t. My chin was slammed tight against my chest.

  “Yes, it’s me. Ethan is here, too. What are you doing?” he repeated.

  “He must be practicing for Twister,” Ethan suggested.

  They both laughed.

  “Very funny, guys,” I said. “Can you pull me apart? I think I’m stuck.”

  Ray and Ethan untangled me. “Whoa, that feels better,” I said, stretching out my arms and legs.

  “So—what were you doing?” Ethan asked the question this time.

  “Exercising,” I mumbled. “I was exercising. To … uh … improve my tennis game.”

  “Whoa. Those were pretty weird exercises.” Ethan’s eyebrows arched way up.

  “He wasn’t exercising for tennis!” Ray exclaimed. “He doesn’t even play tennis!”

  “I’m thinking of taking it up,” I said quickly.

  Ray narrowed his eyes at me. He didn’t believe me. But he didn’t ask any more questions.

  “Want to shoot some hoops in the playground?” Ethan asked.

  I didn’t want to go anywhere.

  I wanted to stay home. Alone. And see if I could fly.

  “No, I have to stay home with Morty,” I lied. “He’s not feeling well.”

  Morty heard his name and charged full speed into the kitchen. He leaped on Ray and licked his face.

  “He looks okay to me,” Ray said, narrowing his eyes at me again.

  “No problem. We can stay here,” Ethan suggested. “Toss a football around or something.”

  Ethan glanced around the kitchen. His eyes fell on the book.

  “No. Sorry. I really can’t hang out,” I said, tossing the book in the trash can. “I have to clean up the kitchen.” I turned to the counter and wiped it with a sponge. Then I began lining up the spices in the spice rack—labels facing out.

  “And I have to stay inside anyway. To wait for Mom and Dad to call. They’re away. They said to sit by the phone.”

  “Why?” Ethan asked. “What’s so important?”

  “They wouldn’t tell me. They said it’s a surprise.” I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Okay, see you later—maybe,” Ray said. Both guys were shaking their heads as they left.

  I grabbed the book out of the garbage and flipped back to the exercise page.

  I read the flapping and leaping exercises next. I did them all.

  Now it was time to say the magic words.

  I read them to myself first. To make sure I got them right. Then I recited them out loud, slowly.

  Hishram hishmar shah shahrom shorn.

  I climbed up on the kitchen chair—and jumped off. To see if I felt different. Lighter. Floaty.

  I landed with a hard thud.

  Guess I need to eat the special flying food for the full effect, I decided. I turned back to the book.

  It was time to start mixing.

  In a cabinet next to the refrigerator, I found our good mixing bowl. I dumped all the ingredients into it: 10 egg yolks, 1 tablespoon of maple syrup, 2 cups of flour, 1/2 cup of seltzer, and 4 tablespoons of yeast.

  I stirred. A lumpy yellow blob of dough started to form.

  I turned the page to read the next step.

  “You are about to embark on the most glorious adventure in the history of time,” I read out loud. “You alone will fly with the falcons. You alone will sail toward the sun. Are you ready?”

  I nodded yes.

  “You say, yes?”

  I nodded yes again.

  “You are wrong. You are not ready. Turn the page.”

  I turned the page—to the last page in the book.

  “Empty one quarter of contents of envelope into bowl. Mix well.”

  Envelope! What envelope?

  The rest of the page was blank—except for a tiny spot of dried glue.

  I ran my finger over the glue spot. That’s where the envelope had been.

  But where was it now?

  I shook the book frantically.

  Nothing fell out.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned. “No envelope … no envelope …”

  Wait! I know!

  I ran over to the trash can.

  There it was!

  A small black envelope. It must have fallen out when I tossed the book into the trash.

  I opened it up. Measured one quarter of the bright blue powder inside—and dropped it into the bowl.

  I mixed well.

  The yellow blob of dough turned green. Then it began to grow and bubble. Small bubbles at first—popping lightly on the surface. Then larger ones—growing from deep inside the dough. Rising to the surface. Bursting open with a loud PLOP.

  PLOP. PLOP. PLOP.

  Yuck!

  I stood back.

  The dough began to throb—like a beating heart.

  I watched in horror as it started to gurgle.

  I gulped.

  What was in that envelope? Maybe it was some kind of poison!

  Forget about flying. No way am I eating this gross garbage! I decided.

  No way.

  I grabbed the sides of the bowl—to dump the mixture into the trash. But I snatched my hands back when the dough flopped over, all by itself.

  It flopped again and again, each time making a sickening sucking sound.

  My stomach lurched.

  I reached out again—and the phone rang.

  “We’re on our way home, Jack.” Dad was calling from the car. He sounded disappointed.

  “So soon?” I asked. “What happened?”

  “The band members had a big fight. They called us in the car. They said don’t bother coming to Anaheim. They broke up the act.” I heard Dad sigh.

  “Wow, Dad. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Not to worry, Jack. I still feel lucky. Don’t know why. But I do. The BIG one is coming. I can feel it. We’re on the freeway. Should be home in half an hour,” he said. Then he hung up.

  Ugh. I better dump this stuff before they get back, I told myself.

  I turned to the kitchen table—and shrieked in horror. “Morty—no! NO! What have you done?”

  “Morty! DOWN!” I screamed.

  Morty stood on the kitchen chair.

  His front paws rested on the table.

  His head dipped into the mixing bowl—as he swallowed a big glob of green dough.

  “NO, Morty! DOWN!” I screamed again.

  Morty lifted his head.

  He licked his chops.

  Then dove into the bowl for another bite.

  I sprang across the room.

  I peered down into the bowl.

  “Oh, noooo!” I howled. Almost half the dough was gone!

  “Morty! What did you do!” I pulled his head out of the bowl.

  Morty stared up at me—his eyes wide with guilt. His ears drooped low.

  He whimpered softly. Then he dipped his head back into the bowl for another bite.

  I scooped him off the chair.

  Carried him into the living room—and gasped as he floated up out of my hands.

  I stared in disbelief as Morty floated through the room. Back into the kitchen.

  “Morty—you’re flying!” I cried.

  It worked! I couldn’t believe it! My cocker spaniel was FLYING!

  I followed him—in a daze.

  Followed him as he floated over the kitchen table.

  Watched in amazement as he flew out the open window.

  “Morty!” I cried, jolted back to reality. “Wait!”

  Morty let o
ut a sharp yelp—then sailed up, up into the sky.

  I ran outside—and gazed up.

  Morty soared above the house.

  Floating higher and higher.

  “Morty—no! Morty!” I screamed. “Morty—come back!”

  His legs thrashed as he floated over the treetops. He started barking, shrill, sharp yelps of terror.

  “Morty—! Morty—!”

  I watched him sail up, his body rocked by the wind, his legs scrambling as if trying to grab hold of something.

  “Oh, nooooo!” I wailed, staring helplessly.

  I’ve got to get him back! I’ve got to rescue Morty!

  But how?

  I knew how.

  I knew how to rescue my dog. And I knew I had no choice.

  I ran in to the house.

  I plunged my hand into the bowl. Grabbed up a big chunk of the disgusting mixture.

  Yuck! I can’t eat this! IT FEELS SO SLIMY!

  You have to eat it, I ordered myself. You have to save Morty. It’s the only way!

  The dough throbbed and gurgled in my palm.

  A thin mist of steam rose up from my fingers.

  “Ohhh,” I groaned as I shoved a fistful of the stuff into my mouth.

  I clutched my throat. I started to gag.

  It tasted sour and hot. It scorched my tongue.

  I choked it down.

  And grabbed up another glob.

  Shoved it into my mouth. Swallowed hard.

  My mouth and tongue swelled. Swelled with the horrible, bitter taste.

  I shoved in another handful. I had to make sure I could fly like Morty.

  I could feel the mixture throbbing as it slid down my throat.

  Gagging, I ran back outside.

  I gazed up into the sky.

  Morty flew high over the trees. His cries drifted down to the ground.

  I could see his legs still flailing wildly as he floated higher and higher.

  He looked so small up there.

  Just a dark speck in the sky now.

  “I’m coming, Morty!” I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled. “Don’t worry, boy. I’ll save you!”

  I raised my arms up to the sky.

  “I WILL FLY!” I cried out. “FLY!”

  I took a strong leap.

  Nothing happened.

  Speed.

  That’s it.