The next morning I go straight to biology without going to my locker. Jesse is not in class because of his suspension, so I sit alone and work on an assignment.
In English class, Mr. Willoughby shows a film of The Tempest, but I can’t concentrate. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do this afternoon. Sit through my father’s presentation? Get the hell out of here? I’m so anxious, I have a hard time sitting still. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and choose the farthest one away so I can walk off some of my nervousness. It’s not far enough; I have to get out of here now. I go back to class, gather up my bag and coat and explain to Mr. Willoughby that I feel sick.
“No vomiting in the room, thank you,” he says and shoos me out. I trot down the closest stairs and burst out of the building. The cool air calms me a little, and I take a few massive breaths. It’s a gray, damp day, the light flat, the mountains totally socked in.
I decide that if I stand under the trees at the edge of the field, I might feel better, might be able to make a clear decision about this afternoon, but as I start walking across the grass, I hear someone call my name.
I turn and see Brooke walking toward me, her bag in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
“Hey, where you going?”
“Oh, just away,” I say.
“You’re skipping?”
“Sort of.” I start walking across the field.
Brooke jogs to catch up to me. “You never skip.”
“Yeah, well, my dad’s never been the guest lecturer at school either. Aren’t you going?”
She shudders. “Nah, I can’t sit through that.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“Oh.”
“So where are you going?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“We could go down to the beach…” Brooke looks thinner, as if she’s been smoking instead of eating.
For a moment, I remember the way Brooke and I used to play together on the beach. A shot of pain passes through my head, making my temples ache. “Wouldn’t you rather hang out with Kelly and Chantal?” I want to sound mean or sarcastic, but I can’t keep the hurt out of my voice.
Brooke’s expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t even wince. “They’re in class,” she says.
“Oh.”
I look at Brooke carefully, and something about her unnerves me. It’s not only the lack of response to my comment. It’s also her heavy eye makeup, her black tights, her high boots. Her hair has lost its glossy shine. Mom would have a fit if she saw her.
Brooke seems to be waiting for me to say something else, so I say, “Fine, let’s go.” We walk silently to the corner and get on a bus heading toward the university. The trees along the streets are just naked branches against the gray sky. Brooke and I sit at the back of the almost-empty bus.
“So,” I ask Brooke, “why can’t you attend a Holocaust seminar?”
“I already know about that shit. I’ve seen the movies and everything.” Brooke stares out the window.
“Oh.”
“And my family.”
“What about them?”
“Well, being German and all.”
“I thought they were English.”
“My dad’s family is, but my mom’s family is Polish and German.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter to me.”
“You’re just saying that.”
I scowl at her. “Hey, you weren’t dressed up as a Nazi.” I tug on the edge of her boots. “You’ve got your own new costume.”
Brooke laughs. “Bet you’re not so keen on that, either.”
I shrug. “The eye makeup is brutal.”
“At least you’re honest.”
I shrug. “I could be more honest.”
“Yeah?” Brooke glances at me.
“I think you were a bitch about Jesse.”
Brooke smacks a hand against her thigh. “You said you weren’t interested!”
“Only because of the Nazi thing.”
Brooke clenches her fists against her legs. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. He certainly isn’t interested in me.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.”
Brooke blushes. “Please don’t remind me. It was so humiliating.”
I hold on to that thought for a moment.
Brooke says, “It’s good you guys are together. You know, being old friends and all. It makes a good story.”
“Yeah, except for the Nazi part.”
“I think you should let that go.”
“I can’t.” I say this so fiercely, I surprise even myself.
Brooke squints at me, not understanding the determination in my voice. “The whole thing will blow over by next week.”
“Hope so,” I say. “Do you think you could arrange some other scandal to distract everyone?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Get caught smoking in the chem lab or make out with Kelly in the hall.”
Brooke makes a face. “Gross!”
She stands up and moves toward the exit, motioning for me to follow her. We get off the bus at the edge of the campus by the water, a part I don’t know well. Glimpses of the sea flash through the thick evergreen trees, like stars in a gray sky. Brooke pushes her hair out of her eyes and starts walking along the sidewalk. “I wonder who ratted the guys out.”
I shrug, looking out at the sea.
“I heard someone turned in an armband with all the guys’ names on it.”
I swallow. “Pretty shitty.”
“I keep wondering who would care enough to do that.”
I turn to her and stop. “Well, maybe it was someone gay.”
Brooke frowns. “What? Why would you say that?”
“Because the Nazis killed gay people too. Or maybe”—I arch my eyebrows—“it was someone Polish, because the Nazis killed lots of those too. No, I think it had to be someone disabled. Or a Communist, or an artist. Do you think any artistic people from our school were at the park that night?”
“I wasn’t saying it was you.”
I stare out at the sea. “I hate this whole crappy thing.”
“I wasn’t saying it was you.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
We stand on the sidewalk, cars zooming past us. Then Brooke says, “C’mon. Let’s go down to the beach and stop talking about this.” She points to a path a few meters ahead.
I follow Brooke to the path. “Is this the way to Wreck Beach?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Sometimes Kelly and Chantal and I come down here to hang out.”
The path through the trees is steep, and at the bottom there are some large boulders to climb over. Even though there isn’t much wind, it’s colder down here on the sand. Brooke and I perch on a damp log and listen to the hiss and pull of the waves slapping the shore, the seagulls screeching overhead. Brooke shivers in her thin jacket.
“Zach and I have been making lanterns,” I tell her.
“Oh yeah, what kind?”
“Planes. Zach loves planes these days.”
“Oh, that’s cool.”
“Actually, Zach has been making the lanterns. I suck at it.”
Brooke nods. “You could take him to the festival next summer.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I’m not that into it anymore.”
“How come?”
“I think I’ve had enough fire experiences.” I hold up my bandaged hand.
“How did that happen?”
I consider telling Brooke about burning the book.
“Just being careless.”
“Oh.”
The book reminds me of the armband and the fact that my father is talking about the Holocaust at my school—to Jesse and all the other kids—right now. What if Jesse’s parents make him go back to boarding school?
What if he finds out it was me who ratted him out?
“You know what I really want to burn?” I say.
“What’s that?”
“I want to burn up the Holocaust.”
“You mean at the lantern festival?”
“Yeah.”
“How would you do that?”
“I don’t know. Light a giant swastika on fire.”
Brooke laughs and shakes back her hair. “I think people might try to kill you if you did that.”
I nod. “And it wouldn’t work anyway. Burning something doesn’t make history or memory go away.”
It starts to drizzle, so we head back up to the road and sit shivering in the bus shelter. The fog has lifted a little, and I can see down to the water.
Brooke and I both play with our phones on the bus ride home. I think about how Brooke and I will never go to the lantern festival again, or play on the beach. I can see it in her eyes. We’re never going to go on an adventure together again.
When we get off the bus in front of Brooke’s townhouse, I say, “You’re still going to play basketball this year, right?” Cars are whipping past us, but I can only focus on Brooke.
“I think I might skip this year.”
I rub my hands against my jeans. “That’s crazy. You love basketball.”
Brooke shakes her head. “You’ll have fun without me.”
I pull on my hair. “Why are you doing this?”
“Giving up basketball?”
“Well, everything. Giving up Chloe, Em, me.” I feel like shaking Brooke, like waking her up from whatever alternate life she thinks she should live now.
“I told you, I’m not into praying and singing.”
“Neither am I.”
“I know, and I invited you to parties with Chantal and Kelly. I wanted you to come.”
I nod slowly. “I guess you did.” But that isn’t the answer I’m looking for. “Thanks for the adventure then, and have a nice life.”
“Hey, don’t be like that.”
“Yeah, okay.” I try to smile, but it feels fake, like my face is just pretending when really I want to cry.
Brooke walks away and I sit down at the bus stop and put my head down on my knees for a moment. Sometimes the sadness I feel is so heavy, even though I know I’m a lucky person. I’m not feeling the anguish of being poor or hungry or sick, but still.
When I get home, Dad’s car is in the driveway, and down the street I can see Jesse playing basketball. He waves and dribbles the ball toward me.
“Hey, where were you?” Jesse hugs the ball to his chest.
“I couldn’t stay.”
“Oh. Where did you go?”
“Just out with Brooke.”
“With Brooke? I thought you guys weren’t friends anymore.”
“We’re not.”
Jesse gives me a funny look.
I ignore him. “How was the lecture?”
Jesse cocks his head to the side. “Well, parts of it were depressing—the movie and the history—but your dad’s a good speaker. He was kinda uplifting at the end.”
“Uplifting?”
“Yeah, he talked about fighting prejudice, that kind of stuff.”
I nod. “Did everyone know he was my dad?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
I cringe. “Great.”
“I don’t think that’s what everyone’s talking about right now.”
“What are they talking about?”
“Oh, you know, who turned us in.”
“Right. Yeah, I don’t know. Are your parents still freaking out?”
“Nah, I think they’re under control. I promised them extra-good behavior. I mean, I didn’t fail any courses or steal anything. I’m grounded for two weeks, no parties or anything. But”—he smiles and hip-checks me—“they didn’t say anything about you not coming over.”
“Oh, good.” I nod.
“So, what are you doing now?”
“Well, my dad’s at home, and I think I should go talk to him, ’cause he’ll know I wasn’t at school.”
“Maybe you could come over later, like after dinner.”
“Maybe.” I kick at the pavement. I know I don’t sound very enthusiastic.
“Cheer up. I’m not going to boarding school, the lecture’s over, so’s my in-school suspension. It’s all done.”
“Great.”
“What’s with you?”
“Oh, just stuff with Brooke.”
“Girls, man. You guys are rough on each other.”
I nod. “See you later.”
“Have fun with your dad.” Jesse leans over to kiss me and I kiss him back, but I feel too guilty to enjoy it.
Dad is waiting for me in the front hall. He’s wearing a shirt and tie, and his hair looks like he combed it. He says, “Hey,” as I take off my jacket and boots.
“You’re home early,” I say.
“Well, I had this speaking engagement.”
“Oh, where at?”
“Your school.”
“Right.” I nod. “I heard something about that.” I start walking toward the kitchen. Dad follows me.
“While I was there, I looked for you. I’m pretty sure the letter said all grade eleven and twelve students were to attend.”
I pour myself some water. “You’re right, I wasn’t there.” I look at him squarely. “I missed Holocaust 101, right?”
Dad nods.
“Are you going to tell on me?”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “To whom?”
“I don’t know.”
Dad sits on a stool. “Did you know what was going on at school?”
“The seminar?”
“Lauren.”
“Oh, you mean the armbands?”
“Yes, the armbands.”
“I’m going to ask you a favor.”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t ask me that.”
Dad sighs and loosens his tie. He points for me to sit next to him.
“Aren’t we done yet?”
“No.”
I reluctantly sit on the stool. Dad drums his fingers on the counter. “Here’s what I’m thinking. One, you didn’t know about the armbands, but I find that hard to believe. Two, you knew and you didn’t do anything, and I find that harder to believe. Three, you knew and you did something about it, and I find that commendable and believable. And so, I’m going to say you did a good thing.”
I stare into my water glass. “So there’s no doubt now. Everyone at school knows about the Holocaust.”
“The grade elevens and twelves anyway. Except for the ones who were skipping.”
“Like Brooke.”
“We’ll invite her over for her own personal session.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. She’s, like, a quarter German.”
“And how does she feel about that?”
“Creepy.”
“Is that one of the reasons you decided not to attend your own father’s lecture?”
“One of them.”
Dad sighs. “And do you think I came to school to make you feel uncomfortable and make Brooke feel guilty?”
“I kinda do. That might not have been your goal, but that’s what happens. Now everyone knows they should treat Jews all special because people keep trying to wipe us out. It’s like we’ve cornered the market on suffering.”
Dad sighs again. “It’s difficult to explain to you now what I was talking about at your school, since you decided not to attend, but if you had been there, you would have known I was there to promote tolerance, using the Holocaust as an example. One of my colleagues from the Holocaust center gives similar presentations about bullying.”
“Well”—I sip my water—“Jesse did say the end of your talk was kinda uplifting.”
“He wasn’t skipping too?”
“No. He said you were a good speaker.”
“He’s a good kid. I think his boarding school helped straighten him out.”
I look carefully at Dad’s face to see if he knows Jesse was one of the kids playing the game. I don’t think he does.
“If you’re curious about the talk I gave, I’m giving it again at a school in Surrey next week.”
“Oh, I’ll think about it.” I get up to leave, then sit back down. “Wait. There’s something I don’t get. If it’s really about teaching tolerance, why can’t you use some other tragedy as an example?”
“You could.”
“But you don’t.”
“Well, I am a Holocaust historian. That’s my field.”
I nod. Fair enough. I start to stand up again, but Dad says, “I have a question for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you all of a sudden so squeamish about the topic?”
I knit my fingers together and squeeze. My hand still hurts, and I want to distract myself with pain. How to answer this without giving him a summary of how the Holocaust has affected me? I sigh. “I’m sick of the Holocaust being the defining element of being Jewish. It’s like there’s bagel and lox, and there’s the Holocaust, and that’s it.”
Dad sighs. “You know, it doesn’t have to be that way. There are lots of other parts to being Jewish.”
“Like?”
“Well, for me, the most important part of being Jewish is social justice. I’m not really a spiritual person, but being ethical and helping others to be ethical is what makes me Jewish.” Dad pauses a moment. “Maybe if you attended Jewish camp or youth group or Hebrew school, you wouldn’t feel that the Holocaust was the only Jewish thing in your life.”
I make a face. “I think I might convert to something else instead.”
Dad rubs his forehead. “Please don’t tell your mother that right now.”
Both of us glance out at the garage. “Is Zach still out there?” I ask.
“I haven’t checked yet.”
“You want me to go out?”
“Not yet.” Dad drums his fingers on the counter again. “You hungry?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
Dad opens the freezer. “I don’t think we have any lox, but we definitely have bagels.”
Mom comes home a few minutes later and joins us at the counter. “How’s your hand?” she asks me.
“Better.”
“Good.” She looks at Dad. “How was your lecture?”
“Fine, good.”
She looks at me, and I nod. “Dad was great.” Dad kicks me under the counter.
“Zach still out there?” She looks out the back window.
Dad says, “I haven’t checked on him yet.”
“Really? I came home early to see what was going on.”
“Lauren and I were talking about other things. Besides, I’m pretty sure Zach’s having a grand old time eating Cheezies and grapes.” Dad holds up an empty grape bag.
“Actually, I ate those,” I say.
“Oh.”
Mom starts moving toward the back door. “Wait,” I say. “Let me go out.” Mom nods, and I head out to the garage. Zach’s lying on an air mattress, in an old blue sleeping bag.
“Hey, I brought you an apple.”
Zach lifts his head up. He looks pale and tired. “No, thanks.”
I squat by his mattress. “You don’t look good.”
“It’s the hunger strike.”
“How long since you ate?”
“I scarfed a bag of chips Monday night.”
“Nothing since then?”
“No, that wouldn’t be fair.”
“Zach, that was days ago, so you’re kidding, right?”
Zach closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“I told you to cheat!” I punch the air mattress by his head.
Zach rolls over on his side. “It has to be real, so they’ll see I’m serious. And I’ve been drinking a lot, so I’m not dehydrated. According to my research, I should be okay for another two weeks.”
Zach’s surrounded himself with comic books and water bottles, but he looks too listless to move. I want to shake him, but I know that won’t work. Instead I say, “Can I talk to you for a bit?” Zach nods, and I sit next to him. The garage is damp, and I shiver. “How long are you going to go on?”
“Until they give in.”
“No bar mitzvah?”
“No monkey show.”
“It’s the people, right?”
Zach nods.
I tap my fingers on my knees. “What if there weren’t a lot of people? Would you do it then?”
“What do you mean?”
“Say there were only a few guests.”
“I guess that wouldn’t be so bad.”
I rub my fingernails against each other. “So it’s not the learning you’re against.”
Zach shrugs.
“I think I may have a plan. I’ll be right back.” I race into the house and get my Tanach—my Hebrew Bible—and crouch down next to Zach. “Okay, what if we open this at random? Could you read it?”
“Can I go over it once?”
“Sure.”
Zach rolls over on his stomach and props himself up on his elbows. I watch as he reads through the Hebrew. Even though I attended Hebrew school for eight years, I still had to study hard to learn how to chant the Hebrew. I watch Zach’s lips moving.
“Okay, I think I can do the first part,” he says.
“Go for it.” I follow along in the text as Zach chants half a page effortlessly, using the correct musical notation. “Wow.”
Zach lies back down and closes his eyes. “It’s not hard.”
“Could you do it without the notes?” When you read from a Torah scroll, there’s no musical notation for the chanting. You just have to know it.
“I already memorized it.”
“Right.” I pause for a moment.
“What are you thinking?” Zach asks.
“Mom and Dad want you to have a bar mitzvah. And you don’t mind doing the reading, but you don’t want it to be a gong show, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, so you could learn this fast and have your bar mitzvah soon to get it over and done with, right?”
“Yeah…”
“So then the next question is, how many guests do you think you could handle?”
Zach thinks for a second. “Seventeen.”
“Seventeen?”
“Yep.”
“That’s the exact number?”
“Yep. Any more and I can’t do it.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“When I had to do a speech for the speech contest, there were seventeen kids in the class, and that was fine.”
“Okay. Gotcha. What about the party?”
“No party.”
“Mom won’t buy that.”
Zach hangs his head.
“Wait. What if the party was here, and you had to say hi to people, but then when you’d had enough, you could go to your room or come out here?”
Zach presses his lips together. “That might be okay. If there were only seventeen people.”
“Do you think you could handle twenty?”
“Maybe. But only if I get to choose. And I don’t have to wear a suit.”
“Zach, you can wear a suit. And have your picture taken. And lead the whole service.”
Zach closes his eyes. For a moment I think he might be falling asleep or passing out. Then he looks at me and grimaces. “I guess I could.”
“Deal?”
“Deal.” Zach sticks out a weak hand and we shake.
In the kitchen, Mom is making pasta while Dad grates cheese.
Mom says, “Is he coming in yet?”
I sit on a stool at the counter. “Not yet. Here’s the situation. Zach hasn’t eaten in over forty-eight hours. For real.”
Mom puts down her knife. “Oh my god.”
“He’s been drinking water, so I think he’ll be okay, but we need to step up negotiations.”
Mom turns to Dad. “Leave him and he’ll be fine. Isn’t that what you said?”
Dad throws up his hands. “How was I supposed to know he wasn’t eating?”
“Hello?” I wave my hands between them. “I think I have a solution.” I wait until they both turn to me. “Zach says he’ll have a bar mitzvah, but it has to be small and soon.”
Mom frowns. “How small?”
“Seventeen people. He’s agreed to a party, but it has to be here. Also, he says he’ll wear a suit, pose for photos and lead the whole service.”
Dad whistles. “Maybe you should go into labor negotiations.”
“I’d be good.”
“You’d be excellent.”
I can see Mom calculating which seventeen family and friends to invite. She sighs. “Well, I guess that would be fine. It’s the ceremony that’s important. Did he really say seventeen people?”
“I think he might be persuaded to twenty. But it has to be soon.”
“Why’s that?” Dad asks.
“So he can get it over with. I think the anticipation’s killing him.”
Mom flails her arms in the air. “But he hasn’t even started studying. And you need time to plan these things.”
“Not if you only have seventeen people. You’ve had dinner parties bigger than that. And don’t worry about the studying. Zach has already taught himself how to read the Torah.”
“Oh?”
“Yep.”
“Well,” Dad says, “that would be Zach.” He turns to Mom. “Deal?”
She braces her hands on the counter and closes her eyes for a minute. “What about a speech?”
“I wouldn’t push it,” I say.
Mom pauses, then sighs. “Fine. I guess that’ll have to be good enough.”
Dad says, “Let’s feed him and get him back in here then.”
I quickly make Zach a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich, his favourite, and he eats it out in the garage, along with three chocolate-chip cookies and a glass of milk. When he feels a little better, I help him carry his sleeping bag and comics back into the house.
After dinner I log on to Facebook. I’m expecting more Holocaust-related comments, but Mac’s posted a stupid cartoon and Tyler’s written about a hockey game. Chloe’s status says she’s off to a youth-group sleepover this weekend. Brooke and Chantal are talking about a party in Ladner. I scroll all the way down and find Tyler’s I smell a rat comment from yesterday. There are fifty-seven posts now. I crinkle up my toes and look around me. Zach has gone to bed, Dad’s in his office, and Mom’s on the phone in the kitchen, madly rebooking Zach’s bar mitzvah. I skip the posts I read yesterday and look at the new ones. Chloe wrote, Bad idea to start with. Brooke added, Superbad taste. Even Chantal and Kelly weighed in. Serves you right, losers, Kelly said. Chantal wrote, Get a life. A girl named Cass from my English class wrote, It wasn’t a rat, it was someone who decided not to be a bystander. I click Like under Cass’s comment. Then I update my status. I’m thinking about a career in labor relations.
The chat box comes up from Alexis. How was your dad’s talk?
Didn’t go.
U skipped?
Yep.
Wow. Where did u go? Alexis has probably never skipped in her life.
To the beach with Brooke. Then I tell her about Zach’s hunger strike and his bar mitzvah, which is going to be in two weeks. Alexis writes, Glad things worked out ok, and since I can’t think of anything to else to say, I write back, Yep.
I go into the kitchen to get a snack and see how Mom’s doing. She’s sitting at the counter with the phone and her bar mitzvah planning notebook beside her. I can tell from her red eyes that she’s been crying. Also, her hair is scrunched up on one side from resting her head in her hand.
“How goes it?”
Mom sighs. “I cancelled the country club, most of the catering order, the invitations and napkins. I called the rabbi, and luckily no one wanted a date in November. We’re going to have the service in the downstairs chapel, not the main sanctuary.”
I nod my head. “Sounds good.”
Mom continues. “I called Auntie Susan and Uncle Steve and Dan and Cathy, and they’re going to come.”
I nod again.
“I lost the deposit for the country club, but I guess that doesn’t matter.”
“You could have a party for something else there. Maybe your anniversary or Dad’s birthday or something.”
Mom stops tucking papers into her notebook. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” I stop eating my cereal.
Mom squints at me over her reading glasses. “Look, you may not know this, but life can be pretty shitty.” I put down my spoon. Mom almost never swears. She continues, hands braced on the counter. “Most people in the world are poor or sick or live in countries at war. People die all the time. And my job is to try and convince girls not to starve themselves to death. I counsel them and teach them about good nutrition. And some of the time, the girls get better. And other times, the girls kill themselves. Lots of life is like that: miserable.”
I’m not sure where Mom is going with this. I’ve never heard her talk so bitterly. She continues. “And then there are some amazing times in life, like when a baby is born or people get married. Those times should be celebrated, and because we’re Jewish, we also celebrate our children with a bar or bat mitzvah.”
“Because we’re adults now?”
Mom ignores my snarky tone. “You know, I don’t think it’s about becoming an adult. I think it’s the parents’ way of celebrating the success of childhood. Your kid didn’t die of some horrible disease and learned how to read and write and, if they were lucky, how to ride a bike and swim. By twelve or thirteen, kids need to start being independent. And that’s it; a parent’s most important role is over. If you haven’t done your job up to that point, well, you’ve missed your opportunity. And this—this growing up should be celebrated. All that other crappy stuff about life—the dying and sickness—for one day you get to ignore it and celebrate your child. And that’s why I wanted to have a big bar mitzvah for Zach. To celebrate everything he’s done, because it’s been harder for him than most kids.” Mom’s voice starts to crack. “That’s all I wanted.”
I want to tell her that Zach’s bar mitzvah will still be a celebration, just smaller, but I can see she feels cheated out of her months of planning. All of her excitement and enthusiasm has been squelched to a measly few weeks and seventeen guests in the dinky chapel. “I think the party here will be nice.”
Mom looks up from shuffling her papers. “I’m sure it will be.” She picks up her notebook. “I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late.”
I nod and think about everything Mom has said, about making a party for Zach. It’s true Zach needs to be celebrated, just in a special way. I tap my fingers on the counter and think about the lantern planes Zach has been making, about how to make them part of the celebration for Zach, who dreams of flying.