IT TURNED OUT MR. Selff had been a crop duster before he retired, which means he knew how to swoop, and dive, and…

“Skywrite,” he said. “What better way to advertise your rally than to write big—big enough for everyone who isn’t online to see?”

“Who isn’t online?” asked Olive. She shot me a smug look.

I ignored her and thought about Mr. Selff’s suggestion. It was pretty good. Everyone reads skywriting. I mean, who can resist a puffy white message stretched across a clear blue sky? It’s even more of an attention grabber than Olive.

“When are you going to do it?” I asked.

“Right now,” he said, slapping his hands on the table and standing. “The sun should just about be up by the time we get to the airstrip.”

“You mean you,” I corrected him. “By the time you get to the airstrip.”

“I can’t very well fly without a copilot.” He smiled knowingly at Mrs. Roosevelt.

She smiled back.

Olive looked from one to the other. Then she burst out, “You can fly, Ellie? Wow! Are there even planes back in your time?”

“Mrs. Roosevelt,” retorted Mrs. Roosevelt. “And yes, of course there are airplanes. It is true that airline travel is in its infancy. Still, I am a stalwart advocate.” She stood too. “I am ready when you are, Mr. Selff. And the children, I believe, will enjoy the experience.”

“Um…I—I think I’ll just stay here,” I stammered, “and…uh…finish these, uh, delicious eggs.”

“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Roosevelt replied in a firm voice. “You and Olive are my responsibility while your mother is away. I will not shirk my duty by leaving you alone.” She snapped her fingers.

I went upstairs to get dressed.

As I was pulling on my shorts and T-shirt, Fala poked his head out from under my bed.

“You better stay hidden,” I warned him, “or Mrs. Roosevelt will make you go up too.”

Fala whined.

“I know. I hate heights. Seriously, standing on a step stool makes me dizzy.”

“Arrr-woof!” barked Fala, as if he agreed. He scooted back under the bed.

I dragged myself into the bathroom. Just the thought of soaring hundreds of feet above the ground was making me queasy. I opened the medicine cabinet, took out a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and downed a swig. After that, I ate two Tums and shuffled downstairs and out the door. I crawled into the backseat of Mr. Selff’s gold Buick.

“And we’re off!” cried Mr. Selff. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, he inched out onto Kenton Street, then oh-so-carefully maneuvered the car around the corner onto Harrison Road. We crawled out of town.

Olive cupped her mouth and whispered in my ear, “And I thought Great-Aunt Mildred drove slow. I sure hope he flies better than he drives.”

I burped. Eggs and Tums. Gross!

Keeping his eyes glued to the road, Mr. Selff asked, “When was the last time you were up, Mrs. Roosevelt?”

“In a private plane?” she replied. “Oh, I have not done that since I flew with Amelia.”

“Earhart?” I gasped.

“The one and only,” replied Mrs. Roosevelt.

“I’d like to hear about that,” said Mr. Selff.

“Me too,” I said.

“Me three,” added Olive.

Mrs. Roosevelt smiled. “It appears I have a story to tell.”

And as she spoke, pictures filled my mind.