Free Flygirl by Sherri L. Smith

up to take us to Avenger Field. It’s a queer one. They call it a cattle truck, but it looks more like a long horse trailer, a big metal box with rectangles cut out for the windows, although there isn’t even any glass. And the hard seats seem like an afterthought. It makes me wonder what kind of planes they’ve given us. But I don’t care what they look like. I just want to get there.
    For the first time since leaving New Orleans, I don’t need to think about sitting in the back or the front. I’m squeezed square into the middle of all the other girls. I say girls, but some of them are women, all right. In age, they look to be anywhere from my age to a little younger than Mama. There are brunettes, blondes, redheads, and even a few people going gray early. And every single one of them is white.
    I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a folded handkerchief. I feel sick.
    â€œAre you all right, sister?” The girl across from me is looking at me with concern. She looks like Snow White, all black curls, ruby lips, and creamy skin, eyes like blue forget-me-nots. I wave her away.
    â€œI’m fine, thank you,” I say. I fight the urge to add “ma’am” or bow my head. Jolene warned me not to be a maid. I twist my fingers in the fabric of my skirt.
    The woman smiles. “The hell you are. None of us are. How could we be, with this damn heat, this damn bus, and—” She pauses. “Well, I ran out of damns. How old are you, honey?”
    â€œTwenty last month,” I tell her. I really do think I might be sick. “I need some water.”
    â€œHold on. Driver?” Snow White is up and walking down the bouncing bus aisle with perfect balance. I would have tripped over myself with all of this jouncing, but Snow White is cool as November, a real beauty queen.
    â€œHey, Mack,” she says to the driver. “We’ve got a sick girl back here. Do you have something she can drink?”
    The driver fumbles around for a canteen under his seat. I put my head down on my knees, dizzy. My hands shake and my stomach turns sour. Drinking from a “whites-only” water fountain would earn me a beating back home. Sharing this man’s canteen could be a hanging offense in Texas for all I know. But then I steel myself. You wanted to fly, Ida Mae. This is what it takes.
    A moment later, Snow White’s lifting my head up with a cool, dry hand. “Here, honey, take a sip. It’ll help.”
    I sit up and put my lips to the metal rim of the canteen. A split second before it touches my lips, I realize it’s not water. The rich, fiery smell of whiskey hits my nostrils. I push it away, eyes burning from the fumes. The liquor has splashed my mouth. I wipe it away with my handkerchief. Some of the other girls around me laugh and whisper. And all I wanted to do was lie low.
    â€œBetter?” Snow White asks.
    â€œThat’s not water,” I say hoarsely.
    â€œOh, I know, honey. But this rotgut is almost as good as smelling salts. You’ll be all right now, at least until we get to the base.”
    I sit up straight and stare at Snow White. My cheeks get hot, but I don’t say anything. I don’t feel anywhere near “all right.” My hands are still trembling, but now it’s as much from embarrassment as it is from fear.
    Snow White smiles. “Oh, honey, I’m not messing with you. I was trying to help, really. I was afraid you’d pass out before we got to the base, and then they’d send you right back home.”
    I can feel my face go from red to gray. “Of course. Thank you.” I cover my eyes with my hand and sigh. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Snow White says. “We’ll get through it somehow.” I give her a wry smile. I hope she’s right.
    Snow White sticks out her hand. “The name’s Patsy, Patsy Kake. You can call me