Girls Don't Fly Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - Habitat:

  Chapter 2 - Brood Parasites:

  Chapter 3 - Drift Migration:

  Chapter 4 - Torpor:

  Chapter 5 - Vocalization:

  Chapter 6 - Irruption:

  Chapter 7 - Skein:

  Chapter 8 - Molting:

  Chapter 9 - Mounted Specimen:

  Chapter 10 - Homing:

  Chapter 11 - Pecking Order:

  Chapter 12 - Echolocation:

  Chapter 13 - Epigamic Display:

  Chapter 14 - Keel:

  Chapter 15 - Buffeting:

  Chapter 16 - Down Feathers:

  Chapter 17 - Spur:

  Chapter 18 - Niche:

  Chapter 19 - Incubation:

  Chapter 20 - Cavity Nests:

  Chapter 21 - Screech:

  Chapter 22 - Flush:

  Chapter 23 - Instinct:

  Chapter 24 - Feather Picking:

  Chapter 25 - Crepuscular:

  Chapter 26 - Seee:

  Chapter 27 - Stoop:

  Chapter 28 - Suet:

  Chapter 29 - Home Range:

  Chapter 30 - Swooping:

  Chapter 31 - Striking:

  Chapter 32 - Twittering:

  Chapter 33 - Thermals:

  Chapter 34 - Sluicing:

  Chapter 35 - Winged:

  Chapter 36 - Rehabber:

  Chapter 37 - Outclimbing Escape Strategy:

  Chapter 38 - Plumage:

  Chapter 39 - Sky-pointing:

  Chapter 40 - Altricial:

  Chapter 41 - Hatchling:

  Chapter 42 - Field of View:

  Chapter 43 - Flash:

  Chapter 44 - Accommodation:

  Chapter 45 - Relict Species:

  Chapter 46 - Fledgling:

  VIKING

  Published by Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2011 by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Kristen Chandler, 2011

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Chandler, Kristen.

  Girls don’t fly / by Kristen Chandler.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Myra, a high school senior, will do almost anything to win a contest and earn money for a study trip to the Galápagos Islands, which would mean getting away from her demanding family life in Utah and ex-boyfriend Erik, but Erik is set on winning the same contest.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54792-2

  [1. Family life—Utah—Fiction. 2. Scholarships—Fiction. 3. Contests—Fiction.

  4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. Pregnancy—Fiction. 6. Galápagos Islands—Fiction.

  7. Utah—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Girls do not fly.

  PZ7.C359625Gir 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2011010563

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  To Jessie,

  who flew

  1

  Habitat:

  The place where you’re stuck.

  If I close my eyes and concentrate on the squawking gulls and the heat of the sun on my skin, it’s almost like I’m at the beach. With Erik. I breathe deeply the salty air coming off the waves. I’m toasted brown and relaxed in my swimsuit. Erik has his fingers woven into mine, but we’re not sweaty, itchy, or about to talk about our relationship. I’m not afraid of anything and nothing is ever going to change, because this moment is absolutely perfect.

  If I open my eyes, I’m still living in Landon. The pit of Utah.

  I keep my eyes shut as long as I can.

  “Myra?” yells Carson.

  I sit up fast. My six-year-old brother stands in front of me. His face is streaked with mud. “He’s dead.”

  I get to my feet. “Who?”

  “Spinosaurus. He’s disappeared.”

  I survey our beat yard. Andrew and Brett are building a fort out of a packing box and for the time being they aren’t hitting each other. I say, “Maybe he’s just growing up to be a fossil.”

  Carson drops his head. “He’s too young to be a fossil.”

  I take Carson’s muddy fingers out of his mouth and swab him with a tissue I keep in my pocket. “We’ll find him. It’s okay.”

  The gulls bellyache overhead. Carson says, “The birds got him.”

  “No. Gulls don’t like dinosaurs,” I say.

  Carson says, “I don’t like seagulls.”

  I like seagulls. These are from the Great Salt Lake, which is about ten miles from my house. Everyone thinks of them as trash birds, but not every bird would pick a field clean of crickets for starving pioneers. The Mormons say God got the birds to do it, but God or no God, seagulls have been cleaning up ever since.

  Over by the house, my parents pretend to discuss patio cement, my mother’s latest home improvement project. Their unhappy voices drift across the yard. “If you settle for something you don’t want, you live to regret it,” says Mom, shifting my youngest brother to her other hip. She’s hauled six of us around on those hips, but Danny’s way too big for her to be packing.

  Dad rubs his forehead. “Sometimes you just have to make the best of things.”

  “And sometimes you have to cut your losses,” Mom chirps.

  This conversation is actually about my previously perfect sister, Melyssa. She and Zeke are coming over to talk about their wedding plans, but she’s late. About five months late. One year into her full ride to college and my genius sister couldn’t figure out how not to get pregnant. My parents have been out of their minds since they found out two weeks ago.

  “And what do you suggest?” says Dad.

  Mom says, “As if what I suggest matters.”

  “I want to play,” says Danny.

  Mom carts Danny back into the shadow of the house. Dad stands looking around for a minute and then follows her in. I should rescue Danny, but I know my mom needs something to hold on to this afternoon.

  In a few minutes I find Carson’s missing toy dinosaur and order is restored to the universe. I go back t
o my plastic chair. It’s only the end of February and the snow’s already gone. I’m hoping for a sunburn before my date with Erik tonight. I have absolutely no idea what to wear. He said he wants to take me “someplace nice,” which could be a good thing, but what if it isn’t?

  I close my eyes again and listen to the gulls’ high-pitched cries. They always sound so much better when they’re flying than when they’re on the ground, like the wind gives them a different vocabulary. I slip off my shoes. When I close my eyes this time I still see Erik with his shirt off, but there’s no water or birds or hand-holding. It’s not perfect either.

  I open my eyes. More gulls. Not peaceful, soaring gulls, but a squadron of big white bombers headed right for our yard. Squawking like crazy. Coming in for a landing. Dive-bombing on a patch of spilled cheese crackers. Andrew and Brett pick up rocks before the first bird touches ground.

  “Leave them alone,” I call over the screeching.

  Not even the birds look up.

  I yell louder, “Don’t. Even. Think. About it.”

  I run across the dirt in my bare feet and catch Andrew’s hand.

  “Get ’em!” yells Andrew.

  The birds flutter but don’t fly. Brett takes aim and I reach for his hand too. Brett brings his arm down to get away and hits me square in the eye with his rock. It rings my bell all the way down.

  “Wow, sorry, Myra,” says Brett.

  “The rock,” I say, sucking air. The second thing I think about, after how I probably have brain damage, is that I’m going to look like a prizefighter at dinner tonight.

  Brett says, “Are you okay?”

  The birds fly. I feel dizzy. I get back to my chair and sit down. The boys follow me.

  “Sorry. But why d’ya always have to do that?” says Andrew. “They’re trash birds.”

  That’s just how it goes, I guess—if you clean up after someone they think you’re the garbage. “We don’t throw rocks at birds.”

  Carson wails, “You’re bleeding.”

  I rub my face. Even my eyelashes hurt. I have a streak of blood on my hand. It’s small, but I shiver. I don’t do blood. Too many germs. Brett stares at me, not moving. I know he’s freaked out because he’s not even trying to blame Andrew. “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s a long ways from my heart.” That’s what we always say when someone gets hurt in my family.

  “Go back and play.”

  Brett says, “I didn’t mean to.”

  A stray gull flies back into the yard and begins pecking for crumbs. The boys look at the bird and then at me. Their hands hang at their sides, fingers twitching.

  I glare at them with my bloody eye. They shrug off to the fort.

  I walk over to the bird to scare it away. I finally have to kick at it to make it fly. Some birds are just too dumb to know when it’s time to go.

  My eye is already starting to swell. I head to the house for ice. I try to think positively about tonight. Maybe someplace nice really is nice. Why am I so worried? People who care about each other cut the other person some slack, right? Right.

  Melyssa’s junker chugs into the front yard. I don’t want to go inside now, but I have to if I want to get the ice.

  I know where someplace nice is. Someplace else.

  2

  Brood Parasites:

  When a bird stows its eggs or other junk in another bird’s nest.

  “Wow,” says Dad as I walk in. He’s looking at Melyssa, who is eating a sandwich the size of her head. And believe me, for such a small person, she has a big head.

  Melyssa says, “Yeah, I’m not one bit sick.”

  “She can eat,” says Zeke.

  “Shut up, Zeke.”

  Zeke laughs. “She tried to eat the mailman yesterday. Had to hit her with a stick a few times to get his leg out of her mouth.”

  Melyssa and Zeke smile at each other. Zeke looks like the Incredible Hulk next to Mel. He’s square and stands like a wrestler, which is funny for a poet. He’s also the only guy Mel’s ever dated who’s as mean as she is, so I guess they’re perfect for each other. I mean I like Zeke, he’s funny and whatever, but I wish Melyssa wasn’t pregnant and I wish Zeke didn’t smell like old cheese. But then, I wish a lot of things.

  “What do you need?” says Mom, not looking at me. I’m not invited to this conversation. Biologically, I’m eighteen months younger than my sister, but in mom-years I’m permanently at the little kids’ table.

  “I need ice,” I say.

  “What did you do to yourself?” says Melyssa.

  Mom just shakes her head. “I’ve told you about letting those boys play so rough with you. You don’t need a doctor, do you?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  The boys follow me into the kitchen. Danny jumps out of my mother’s lap and runs for my legs. The other three start for the kitchen cupboard.

  “Could you take the mob to their rooms then?” says Mom. This whole thing with Melyssa has bankrupted her patience reserves.

  I herd the mob down the hallway.

  Andrew says, “They’re eating. Why can’t we eat?”

  “Melyssa’s going to get fat, isn’t she?” says Brett.

  Melyssa inherited my mother’s metabolism, which is to say she could give birth to an ice-cream truck and not gain weight. Danny takes my hand. He’s four, but he’s not much of a talker.

  Carson, who never stops talking, takes my other hand. “Dinosaurs are eating my stomach out.”

  “Clean off and then go wait for me in your room.”

  Brett says, “Why do they always get rid of us? It’s not like we don’t know how you make a baby.”

  “How do you make a baby?” says Carson.

  I glare at Brett. He’s eleven and trouble, but in a fight I’d want him on my side.

  Andrew, our twelve-year-old hall monitor, says, “Are they going to move here? I don’t want to sleep in the basement.”

  I sigh. “You’ll get your room.”

  “Then where will you sleep?” says Carson.

  I wonder if people still stow away on ships. I’m tall but I compress well. “You can’t put a new baby in an unfinished basement.”

  “Sucks to be you,” says Brett.

  “Don’t say ‘sucks.’” I push my brothers into the bathroom. “Soap. And hang up your towels.”

  “We’re not babies,” says Andrew.

  “No, you’re a whole lot messier.”

  I head back for the kitchen. No one talks while I slather around the peanut butter. Dad fills a washcloth with ice and hands it to me as I walk out of the kitchen. “They beat you up pretty good.”

  “Long ways from my heart,” I say, imitating him. He grimaces. I do a perfect impression of my dad.

  I walk slowly down the hall so I can eavesdrop. I put the cloth to my eye and the ice makes it stick to my skin. In the kitchen there is a brief back and forth and then I hear Dad say, “I’m sorry ... but I just can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible. How will you make this work? And what about this family? You’ve just proved to every person in this community that they were right about us. Those godless Morgans ...”

  Melyssa yells, “Half the girls I knew in high school got knocked up. And I don’t even live here anymore.”

  “Well, we do,” says Dad. “When you’re management, these kinds of things matter. Having people’s respect pays your bills, young lady.”

  Mel says, “I’m not a lady now, remember.”

  “Oh please!” Mom explodes.

  I hear another explosive sound, this time from the boys’ room. Mom’s high-pitched voice slices down the hall. “Myra!”

  I hustle to the boys’ room with the sandwiches. There is broken glass all over the floor and Carson is yelling, “911! 911!” They all have bare feet so I make everyone mount their beds and toss them their rations. If I try to evacuate there will be blood.

  I point at them individually. “Don’t move.”

  “Brett did it,” yells Carson.

  Bret
t squints at him but says nothing. He’s plotting.

  “I’m not getting on the bed,” says Andrew.

  “’Cause he’s so mature,” says Brett.

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up.”

  I leave them to torment each other while I jog down the hall and grab a broom and garbage can. The phone rings.

  I drop the broom and run for the phone. I can always tell when it’s Erik, sometimes even before the phone rings. I let out a breath before I answer. “Hello.”

  “Hey, Myra.” I can barely hear Erik’s tenor voice over the boys’ yelling. “It sounds like somebody’s getting killed over there.”

  “My brothers are mud wrestling.”

  “Really?”

  “Um ... no.”

  He pauses and then laughs. “Okay. So how are you?” He sounds happy, normal.

  “Great,” I say.

  “Good. Good. Hey, well, I have a problem with tonight.”

  “Okay ... like what?” I don’t even try to sound happy.

  “Can I meet you ... like, right now? I could come get you in about ten minutes.”

  I look around at the eight levels of chaos in my house. “Let me check.”

  I walk into the kitchen. “Can I go meet Erik for a few minutes?” No one answers.

  I say, “I’ll sweep the glass up and then put on a movie for the boys.”

  Mom points her tiny finger at me. “I don’t need you running off with a boy right now.”

  Two weeks of this. Like the world has come to an end. Like somewhere in China they’re having updates in Tianan-men Square about the Morgan Family Illegitimate Pregnancy Crisis. “I’m not running off.” It slips out.

  Melyssa shoots me a death glare.

  My mother shakes her head again and turns back to her important daughter. Okay, maybe she’s not more important, but she and Mom have always just gotten along better. Mom and I are too alike, in all the wrong ways. Dad gives me the mercy nod. It means I don’t have to listen to Mom as long as I don’t argue with her.

  I go back to the phone. The boys are jumping on the beds, into the walls, making loud thumping sounds. I take another breath. “Hey. Ten minutes is fine. And I have a funny-looking eye.”