Spring was coming fast and green and I was actually looking forward to spring break. It was the next week.
The Flee sent me a text: I’ll try and get by to see you. We’ll go to a concert or something.
I didn’t bother replying.
I hadn’t seen him since my awful birthday. And do you know what? I didn’t care. I wasn’t about to be a chump. Because do you know how many concerts I’ve almost attended? Too many to count. It’s depressing.
Besides, Denny and I had plans to go to the movies and hang out all spring break. Lately, we’d go sit in the kiosk of Elegant Engravings after school and help Mrs. Rosenblatt with orders or play Minecraft. The mall wasn’t a bad place to be, really. There were distractions every ten minutes. Families shopping together. Couples holding hands. Miserable girls trailing behind their fathers into the shoe store. Even more miserable boys following their mothers into the candle store. I even spotted the trio of gymnasts from West Academy. They walked past me, each with her hair pulled up in a ponytail. Each with a different-colored ribbon. Red. White. And blue.
“Hey, Wayne,” they said as they breezed past the kiosk.
“Hey,” I replied.
And Denny sprang into action with song. “Wayne, are you going to introduce me?”
I punched him in the shoulder. “Those gymnasts are out of your league.”
“Gymnasts?” He said that with a big smile on his face.
“Boys, why don’t you walk around,” Mrs. Rosenblatt suggested. “Go get a soda or something.” She shoved some cash into Denny’s palm and we left.
When we got back, we decided to play Minecraft again. Before I launched the game, I discovered a new alert in my e-mail: New Flight 56 debris found in East Texas.
“Denny, get over here.”
It was a video news report. Liz Delaney standing by the side of some road. We watched the report seventeen times.
True story.
“This is Liz Delaney, reporting live for KTSB-Three News. We’re here on Highway Forty-Three in Karnack, Texas, just on the outskirts of Caddo Lake State Park, and if I can just get our cameraman to pan upward into this thicket of cypress trees. There, do you see that flapping up there in the trees? You can really see how the color red stands out, and that’s what got the attention of local residents. We weren’t sure what this item was until late yesterday.
“Sources tell us this is a piece of debris from the crash of Flight Fifty-Six late last year. A family member called our station, alerting us to the fact that this quilt belonged to Nelda White, resident of Shreveport. Ms. White, who perished in the crash, was on her way to see relatives. Ms. White’s relatives recognized this as a Christmas tree skirt she had made for her family.
“Local officials will later bring a fire truck and cherry picker to access and then return the item to Ms. White’s relatives. A poetic reunion. Back to you, Jeb.”
A tree skirt flapping from the top of a tree? Something caught in the tops of tree branches a few miles from the existing debris field. My theory was correct! The tree skirt. The flag. They both had kite-like qualities and had sailed closer to Caddo Lake State Park. I knew it. I knew it! It was still out there, waiting to be found and precisely folded and placed into the empty display case. Returned to my grandfather and mother from a grateful nation.
So I could shout now. I could talk. I could even make a phone call to Liz Delaney of KTSB-3 News with my new, older-sounding voice and let her know that more debris was ready to be found.
I looked at Denny, and it was as if he’d read my mind. “Call her!” he shouted.
I found her number and called.
Know what the recording said?
This voice-mail box is full. Please try again later.
True story.
I couldn’t wait to get home and put a pin on my debris-collection map. Denny and I watched the video again. We had to wait for Mrs. Rosenblatt to close up her shop.
“Come home and have dinner with us, Wayne,” she said.
It was tough to pass up a delicious meal from Mrs. Rosenblatt.
“I’ve got to get home,” I told her.
And when I did get home and go into my room to check my data, I found Grandpa standing there in front of my closet door, rubbing his chin, about to pronounce me a darn Kovok.