Operation Yes (6 page)

Bo was speechless. He had watched the Flying Farmer with his dad every year at a base air show since he was a little kid. He remembered sitting on his dad's shoulders and nearly ripping every hair from his dad's head when the “hick from the sticks” had “accidentally” swooped off the ground in a supercharged
stunt plane. They had both turned around and around, trying to follow the “runaway” plane as it sped in crazy loops over their heads.

“LAND, MR. FARMER! LAND!” he had yelled with the crowd and laughed until he got the hiccups as the “farmer” finally bumped the plane down on the runway and staggered out to faint into the air show marshal's arms. There was nothing better than the Flying Farmer.

“Deal?” said his dad.

“Yes,” said Bo.

“Of course, Gari can meet him too. I want her to feel every bit a part of our family.”

Bo hoped Gari hated planes. He hoped she would sit in the VIP tent and stuff herself with barbecue and be too comatose to meet anyone. Or maybe she would decide to skip the air show altogether and stay home.

They were approaching the section of the flight line where the jets would park. Families crowded the edge of the runway, waiting for the jets' arrival. Little kids were running around in circles, chasing one another with American flags. Moms who normally lived in sweatsuits had donned short skirts or sleek jeans. Everyone's hair was shiny.

Bo had seconds before his dad got out of the car and became “sir” to everyone within fifty feet.

“Dad, would you not speak to me if I decided not to go to the Air Force Academy?”

“Of course not, Bo.” His dad cleared his throat with a flourish. “Now, if you went to the University of Florida …”

Bo recoiled in mock horror. The Florida Gators were the legendary enemies of his dad's alma mater, the Volunteers of the University of Tennessee.

“Go VOLS!” he yelled loudly enough to make his dad laugh.

His dad tossed him a pair of earplugs.

The maintainers preparing for the jets' arrival snapped to attention as Colonel Whaley stepped onto the flight line. If the crew had been recovering the commander's jet, they would've kept their overshirts carefully buttoned. But today, they had stripped to the black T-shirts underneath, which Bo thought made them look ultra-cool, like Trey's drawings of superheroes.

Bo recognized Trey's dad as he saluted Colonel Whaley. It felt weird, like he was saluting Bo too. He waved to show Sergeant Obermeyer that he was the same old Bo who came over to hang out with Trey.

Colonel Whaley walked over to let the families know that the jets were due in on time. Bo leaned against the command car and waited. He slipped on his dad's old sunglasses, which were bent from where Bo had sat on them in the car. He pushed the squishy yellow earplugs into his pocket and discovered the beginnings of a tiny hole in the seam of the lining. He counted cracks in the concrete barriers that separated the runway road from the planes' parking spots.

Miss Loupe was right. There were cracks everywhere. And lots of light. He hadn't been to see Mrs. Heard once this year. He was sure Miss Loupe not only tolerated him but
liked
him. He was going to get to meet the Flying Farmer with his
dad. Maybe he
wasn't
the same old Bo if you looked closely enough.

The crowd began to press toward the barriers, and Bo heard the roar of jets approaching. He rolled the earplugs into skinny tubes and put them in his ears, where they expanded to muffle the engine noise. He straightened his dad's sunglasses, which skidded down his nose every time he turned his head. Squinting through the green lenses at the sky, he watched a jet drop into the landing pattern. Eyeing the jet carefully, he took a deliberate breath and held it.

I'm underwater. I'm in a room with poison gas. I'm in outer space, looking down at the world.

The plane descended steeply in one long, controlled turn, losing altitude gracefully until it swooped, wings thrown back, above the white line that marked the center of the main runway. Bo's lungs began to demand air, but he narrowed his eyes and focused on the jet's tires.

I'm punching out of a plane. I'm floating down to earth. I'm landing in a desert with no one around for miles and miles. I'm behind enemy lines and they might hear me breathe….

Four … three … two … one … PWOOSH!
Bo timed his exhale to the two white puffs of dust that marked the instant the jet's tires met the runway and spun upon contact with the ground.

His dad had told him once that the paint alone on an F-15E weighed 500 pounds. Why didn't the whole plane crack the earth when it touched down?

There was a whoop of earplug-dampened noise before the plane slowed to a safe speed and turned toward its parking space, followed seconds later by another plane, and then another. Pilot after pilot was returning home.

 

A few days later at school, Bo added a small orange-and-white rubber football to Marc's box and inspected the tape on Miss Loupe's floor. It was a solid rectangle. If cracks were important, didn't the Taped Space need some?

When everyone left for lunch, he stayed behind. He tore away two small sections of the tape, about three feet apart from each other. He wadded up the sticky pieces, put them in his pocket, and waited to see what happened next.

Gari was sitting high on her mom's bed, on her soft white quilt stitched with interlocking circles, folding star after star and dropping them into a gallon-sized plastic bag.

Her mom was on the floor, struggling to zip up her mobility bag, which was bulging with everything she would need for a year. She finally removed a paperback book, now with a bent cover, and put it on the pile of things that wouldn't fit. She pushed the disposable camera she'd bought down against a line of rolled-up sand-colored T-shirts.

“Hold that end, please. I'm not taking anything else out!”

Gari slid slowly off the bed and knelt down. She pulled the two sides of the oblong camo bag together so her mom could stand over it and yank the zipper closed. The bag finally swallowed her uniforms, her extra pair of glasses, her rubber gas mask, and even her favorite lip balm that she refused to leave behind.

“What about you?” she said to Gari. “Are you all done with your suitcase? Did you remember your retainer? The camera? I want lots of pictures of you in North Carolina!”

“Please, Mom, tell them you aren't ready,” Gari said, still kneeling. She looked up. “Tell them I need you. Tell them to make another plan.”

Her mom had beads of sweat around the edges of her forehead from struggling with the heavy bag. “I
am
ready. So are you. We have a perfectly good plan. All you have to do is get on the plane tomorrow. Then I'll report to my unit.” She held the two cloth handles of the bag together and wrapped them with another rectangle of fabric.

But what about Improvised Explosive Devices? What about short-range missile attacks? What about everything else she had found out by searching for “Iraq” and “war” on the Internet?

Gari stood up and then plopped herself down on top of the bag. “What if I don't? You can't leave if I'm still here, can you?” She stared at her mom's feet, which were encased in the slightly shiny army socks that her mom said fought off foot infections. Her mom had been trying to break in her new light brown desert boots by wearing them a little each day, but she took them off in the house. The boots sat near the bed, their tops flopping over, completing the one uniform her mom had laid out to wear when she left. Gari wished she dared to Super Glue those stupid boots to the carpet.

Her mom reached out and curved her hand over Gari's folded arms.

“Pick your battles, baby….”

Gari shifted her shoulders, but she didn't look up or uncross her arms. She could feel the edge of the camera poking her in the clenched muscle of her left leg. She thought of stars, thousands
and thousands of them piling up in their house, making it so full that her mom couldn't leave.

Her mom finished softly, “… Or you'll lose them all.”

Gari got up and threw herself back on the bed, facedown. Her bag of stars bounced, and some of them flew out, strewing over the quilt. She lay there, focusing on the swirl of stitches that were blurring in front of her eyes.

I KNOW, Mom. I AM picking this one.

The next morning, as she was about to begin her science lesson — “Ecosystems: Closed or Open?” — Miss Loupe noticed the two gaps in the Taped Space.

She scanned her classroom. Bo looked straight ahead.

“Hmm. Is that a crack?” she said. “Or a door? Hard to tell.”

Miss Loupe posted herself, in her cardinal-red shirt, between the class and the rectangle, like a human stop sign.

“But door or no door, our Taped Space is off-limits today,” she declared. “No entry. No admittance. No exceptions.”

“You're kidding,” Bo muttered. He hadn't meant to mess up things that badly. Not today, at least. The circle on his mom's calendar said Gari would be arriving late tonight. His parents had stacked extra stuff from his dad's office along the walls of his bedroom until they could figure out where to put it. They had bought white towels with tiny flowers on them for the bathroom. They had given Indy a bath and made Bo scan the backyard several times for any overlooked poop. He had already gotten in trouble over his attitude about that.

“Why?” Allison demanded.

Miss Loupe smiled. “Why, indeed?” she said. “Why are some
systems closed and some are open? What are the boundaries that define an ecosystem or a community?”

She approached the edge of the taped line. Her toes wiggled up and down as if she were itching to jump.

“It's your job,” she instructed the class, “to stop me from going in.”

She rocked on her heels and swung back her arms.

“But ma'am, you're the teacher,” Melissa protested. “That's not fair.”

Miss Loupe was swinging her arms forward….

“Don't!” Bo yelled. “It's covered with dog poop!”

“Ohhh,” Miss Loupe said as she arrested her jump and wrinkled her nose. “Is it?” She peered into the depths of the Taped Space. “You think dog poop is dangerous?”

“And sharks,” added Bo.

“Ah. I guess I'll have to put on my shark-proof diving suit, then.” She zipped an imaginary one over her clothes.

“Land mines,” Trey called out. “Lots of them!”

“Thank you, Trey. I'll take my explosives detector.” She hoisted an imaginary backpack over her shoulder.

“It's sacred ground!” Martina yelled. “No one is allowed to set foot in there!”

“Guess I'd better not use my feet, then,” Miss Loupe said. She sat down beside the Taped Space and prepared to roll over the line.

The protests flew from the class like sparks from a sputtering fuse.

“It's electrified!”

“You'll be put in jail!”

“It's against school rules! Page fifteen of the Handbook!”

“Nachos will miss you if you never come back!”

In the middle of the game, Mrs. Heard stuck her head in the doorway.

“Miss Loupe? I heard noise and I …”

Miss Loupe scrambled up off the floor. She tucked in her shirt.

“Come in,” she said. “We were just discussing boundaries and changes to ecosystems.”

Mrs. Heard looked puzzled. She tilted her head toward the Ugly, Ugly Couch.

“I'm sorry, but that needs to be gone before the School Commission comes.” As she approached it, she sneezed three times. “There's not a cat in here, is there?” She pulled a tissue from her suit pocket and pressed it to her nose. “And I need your report for the Commission as soon as possible.”

After Mrs. Heard left, Room 208 protested.

“She can't take away the couch! We need it!”

“What's wrong with having a couch in here?”

Bo said, “Mrs. Heard is a crazy, old —”

Miss Loupe jumped into the Taped Space with both feet. The class was instantly silenced.

“‘Be kind,'” she said, “‘for everyone you know is fighting a great battle.'”

“Who said that?” Allison asked. “Some famous general?”

“Philo of Alexandria, an ancient Greek philosopher,” Miss Loupe said.

“What battle?” said Trey, looking up from the drawing he had begun of Mrs. Heard dueling with a gigantic fanged cat.

“That's the thing,” Miss Loupe said. “Everyone's fighting a different one.” She looked over at the picture on her desk. “Of course, Marc would say he's in a battle. But so would Miss Candy.”

“Miss Candy?” Zac said. “How?”

“Well, why do you think she's building a castle in her library when nobody's asked her to?” Miss Loupe said. “You don't build a castle if you're not fighting something.”

“But Mrs. Heard is in charge of everything,” Allison objected. “What's she fighting?”

“Something practically invisible,” Miss Loupe said. “An idea. A long-established idea about how much money an old school next to an Air Force base should get.”

“What about you, ma'am?” Melissa said. “Are you in a battle?”

“Of course, Melissa, of course.”

But Miss Loupe didn't say what it was. Instead, she perched on the edge of the Ugly, Ugly Couch and patted its cushions gently.

“Don't worry about the couch. I'll ask Miss Candy if we can store it behind the castle wall she's building. After the School Commission visits, I'll petition Mrs. Heard to move it back into our classroom. I think she'll let us because we'll have given her lots of ammunition to use in her funding battle, won't we?”

She hoisted the hefty packet of paper for the report.

“Everybody's going to help me finish this by Friday, right? Everybody knows where the cracks are around here.”

They did.

Then, because it was his last day and his mom was picking him up early, Miss Loupe invited Dillon up to sit on the Ugly, Ugly Couch and be interviewed. Allison volunteered to ask the questions.

“So, Dillon, before you go, would you like to tell us who your favorite person in Miss Loupe's class is?” she said, tilting an imaginary microphone close to his mouth. She smoothed her white skirt and looked sideways at him from her carefully arranged position on the edge of one dingy cushion.

“No,” he said. “I wouldn't.”

Allison giggled. “Well, how about your favorite person on this couch?”

Dillon looked frantically to Miss Loupe for help. She turned to the rest of the class.

“Anybody have an interesting question for Dillon? About where he's going? Or what he's enjoyed here at Young Oaks?”

Aimee raised her hand. “How about if you do Miss/Won't Miss? That's fun.”

“Oh, totally cool, Aimee,” said Allison, nodding her approval. “I
so
invented that game. First one, Dillon: the Young Oaks Bear. Miss or won't miss?”

“Miss,” said Dillon. “He's ugly, but at least he's huge and scary-looking. My last school had a caterpillar for a mascot!”

“The lunchroom,” Bo called out.

“Miss,” Dillon said immediately. “They're probably going to serve sauerkraut at my new school.” He made a gagging noise
deep in his throat. “But maybe the hot dogs there won't bounce if you drop them.”

“Our hot dogs
bounce
?” said Allison. She started to ask a follow-up question, but Melissa interrupted.

“Homework,” Melissa said.

“Won't miss,” Dillon said. “Duh.”

“Jet noise!” Trey yelled.

“Won't miss. 'Cause it'll still be there,” Dillon answered. “We're living on base again.”

“Your desk,” Kylie said.

Dillon wondered if the next person who sat in it would make the crack he had deepened even larger. “Won't miss.”

“The Ugly, Ugly Couch,” Rick offered.

“Miss,” Dillon said, grabbing a couch pillow and laying his cheek against it with feigned passion. Everybody laughed, and Dillon looked surprised. He added, “Yeah. I'd like to see what you guys do with this thing for the rest of the year.”

Miss Loupe stepped forward. “Would you and Allison stand up, please?” she said.

When they had moved out of the way, she stood behind the Ugly, Ugly Couch and pushed down hard on its back until the front two legs left the floor.

“Look under there,” she said.

The underside of the couch was covered with people's names. The class crowded forward to see. Miss Loupe explained that some of them were the cast members of the two plays the couch had been in after it left the movies. She also showed them where
Marc had signed it, and all his Army friends, the day they watched the Super Bowl together before deploying. Nachos had left a salsa-stained paw print. One name, Eric Browne, had a little heart beside it. Miss Loupe admitted he was an old boyfriend.

Miss Loupe handed Dillon a permanent marker. “You'll be the first one from Young Oaks. Anywhere you like.”

After Dillon had signed, and his mom had picked him up, Miss Loupe once again entered the Taped Space and addressed the class. “Before we get back to our science lesson, I have an announcement.” She flushed pink to her ears. “I … well, I'm a finalist for an arts grant to teach improvisational theater! I just found out yesterday!”

She looked so pleased that half the class broke into applause, even though they weren't quite sure what this meant for Room 208.

“What's improvisational theater?” asked Melissa.

“It's what we've been doing every afternoon,” said Miss Loupe. She grinned. “You know, when I put my weird slippers on. Some people call it ‘improv' for short. You could say it was just games, scenes, and making up things as you go along. That would be true.”

Miss Loupe stepped closer to her class. “But you could also say that it's about counting on one another. Counting on one another to say ‘Yes, and …' Counting on one another to see cracks as doors. Counting on one another to turn battles into stories.”

“I don't get it,” said Allison.

“That's okay,” said Miss Loupe. “I don't know everything yet either.” She turned and wrote another saying on the chalkboard:

“What does ‘consent' mean?” asked Aimee.

“To say yes,” said Miss Loupe. “Dillon, for example, is definitely consenting to discover new lands.” She spread out her arms as wide as on the first day of class. “When we do improv, so can we.”

Her voice and energy flooded the room. Bo wondered how he had ever thought she was tiny.

Miss Loupe's words tumbled out faster. “In order to receive the money, I have to prove that the project I'm proposing will be …” She grabbed a piece of paper off her desk and read from it. “‘… an innovative approach to youth arts education, specific to the needs of an underserved environment, and a significant contribution to the community as a whole.'” She put the paper down and took a deep breath. “What that means is: I want to start a youth improv troupe at Young Oaks and run a free theater camp here in Reform. And I need your help.”

Bo's stomach flipped in a loop the loop. Cool. Theater camp. He had a flash of himself getting a starring role. Something good that people would remember.

“I'll tell you a secret,” Miss Loupe continued. “When I was here in Reform in the sixth grade, I hated being here. I thought
there was nothing to do. I didn't know I would find theater. I didn't know I would become a teacher. I was miserable.” She looked around her class. “I want those of you who will love theater all your life to find out sooner than I did. And I want this school to succeed.

“So I'll be leading theater activities here in Room 208. I want all of you to be involved. And if that goes well, and the grant money is approved, I hope you all will discover new lands with me at theater camp next summer.”

She patted the couch. “I'd like to call our improv troupe the Ugly Couch Players. If you consent, of course.” She smiled and looked invitingly at the class.

But Bo had stopped listening.

Next summer?

Next
summer?

His dad was getting an assignment at the end of the school year. Bo was going to be
gone
next summer.

He felt himself fall into a steep, engineless dive.

His name might get written under the couch when he left, like Dillon. But no matter what Miss Loupe said, no matter what he did this year, it would all disappear. He would soon be on the outside, of Reform, of Young Oaks, of everything. He'd always known it; it was all he'd ever known, moving so much. But he saw it clearly for the first time, like a giant crack that had been forming all along: The Taped Space could be peeled right up, and so could he.