Robert woke up on the summer house’s floor. He counted forward from the last time he had been sure of the date and realized that today was his eighteenth birthday and no one on earth knew where he was.
He told himself that he’d forgotten about his own birthday, that birthdays were for kids, and that it was a sign of his maturity how little his mattered to him. But really the milestone had been nagging at him, a splinter at the back of his brain.
He was too old now for juvie. Too old for his mother to be held responsible for him.
His loot from the previous night was stacked on the kitchen table and in the fridge. After the first near-disaster, he’d gotten lucky at two more houses, one with a key under a rock and another with an unlocked garage. Cans of soda, chicken nuggets, cheese curls. If only he’d been able to carry more. Stuffing his haul in his hoodie’s pockets had slowed him down, and he had been afraid someone would hear him clinking down the street.
He rummaged around in the kitchen drawers and found some stubby birthday candles, streaked with ash and hardened icing flecks. A book of matches from the Pine Tavern. He bet his dad, wherever he was, had a book just like it getting flattened in his pocket, or in his truck’s glove compartment.
Robert microwaved a plate of chicken patties and mashed all twelve candles into the biggest one. The patty split, its breaded coating crumbling. Robert quickly lit the candles, burning his fingertips and throwing the spent matches in the sink. He hummed one verse of “Happy Birthday to Me,” waving his hands like a conductor over the flames. Wax puddled on the counter. He puffed and blew, but the candles wouldn’t go out. He tossed the whole mess into the sink and ran the tap over it, then wolfed down three more patties. Dinner finished, he inventoried his food again, proud of his spoils.
Whatever he didn’t eat, he’d leave as a gift for his hosts.
* * *
He knew it couldn’t last forever, but what the hell? Robert would visit the hangar one last time, creeping in around midnight, when it would be deserted. He’d have his fun, and then he’d get out of town while he still could. That couple in the house had been a warning shot; he needed to make like a goose and take off. Maybe he’d borrow a surfboard and go down into California, try out some real waves. He’d hitch, or he’d sneak onto a bus.
He shoved the remains of his candy stash into his pocket and headed for the airstrip. He crunched on a sour apple Dum Dum while he walked. He’d also brought the manual, glad he’d remembered to return it.
At the hanger, Robert slid behind the yoke of his favorite, N2008SC. Yellow stripes streaked across the plane’s nose, lit up the wings. The tail dipped in citrus paint. Just like his surfboard. He drummed on the steering wheel. He tried to imagine another takeoff scenario, but tonight he was bored with just imagining.
Wouldn’t it be awesome to put this beast in motion?
All he would do was drive the plane down the runway, just to see what it was like.
He would never have another chance.
If his final destination ended up being a lockdown somewhere, at least he would have this.
Robert jumped from the plane, sprinted around to the front of the hangar, rolled up the door, and then hopped back in.
He turned the key and taxied onto the airstrip. Slowly, tentatively, nudging into the darkness. The engine hummed. His seat back vibrated. He cruised down once, then back, slowly at first, then a little faster on the return. Taking the turns wide, pumping the rudder pedals. Faced with the hangar’s open door for the second time, he spun into a U-turn, and this time he floored it. The plane leaped forward, like a cheetah springing toward its prey. Dashboard needles shot skyward. The white runway lights blurred. Robert’s hands quivered. His jaw clenched painfully.
Then, without exactly deciding to, Robert yanked on the throttle.
Happy birthday to me.
Accelerating. Ripping down the short runway. The tarmac was covered in hieroglyphic lines, circles, Xs. Sweat ran down his forehead, his neck, puddled beneath him on the seat. His legs thrummed like just-strummed guitar strings. A hoarse growl rose over the engine’s roar, and only his raw throat hours later let him know that the noise had come from him, yelling. He bit his lip and tasted blood. Flat fields blurred by him, whizzing past on each side. The runway shortened, disintegrated beneath the plane’s wheels.
Three warning-shot-accustomed geese flapped and scattered. Their shadows stretched in the runway lights.
He pulled up, sharp, the yoke so much weightier than a joystick. He didn’t think to look at the manual, at the pages he’d marked. At the takeoff basics. At all the checklists, the inspections, the navigational charts with the earth split into halves like an orange. He didn’t think. Air pressure glued him to the seat. The hangar’s single open door winked behind him.
And then Robert Jackson Kelley was flying.